"slops" poems
God knows how our neighbor managed to breed
His great sow:
Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid
In the same way
He kept the sow--impounded from public stare,
Prize ribbon and pig show.
But one dusk our questions commended us to a tour
Through his lantern-lit
Maze of barns to the lintel of the sunk sty door
To gape at it:
This was no rose-and-larkspurred china suckling
With a penny slot
For thrift children, nor dolt pig ripe for heckling,
About to be
Glorified for prime flesh and golden crackling
In a parsley halo;
Nor even one of the common barnyard sows,
Mire-smirched, blowzy,
Maunching thistle and knotweed on her snout-
cruise--
Bloat tun of milk
On the move, hedged by a litter of feat-foot ninnies
Shrilling her hulk
To halt for a swig at the pink teats. No. This vast
Brobdingnag bulk
Of a sow lounged belly-bedded on that black
compost,
Fat-rutted eyes
Dream-filmed. What a vision of ancient hoghood
must
Thus wholly engross
The great grandam!--our marvel blazoned a knight,
Helmed, in cuirass,
Unhorsed and shredded in the grove of combat
By a grisly-bristled
Boar, fabulous enough to straddle that sow's heat.
But our farmer whistled,
Then, with a jocular fist thwacked the barrel nape,
And the green-copse-castled
Pig hove, letting legend like dried mud drop,
Slowly, grunt
On grunt, up in the flickering light to shape
A monument
Prodigious in gluttonies as that hog whose want
Made lean Lent
Of kitchen slops and, stomaching no constraint,
Proceeded to swill
The seven troughed seas and every earthquaking
continent.
6.5k
Do you see the way she looks at me
As she asks what I'd like to eat
I'm not sure of what to say to her
But was that just a wink?
I'm not the only one standing here
That m'lady wines and dines
Yet another school year
In the Cafeteria line
You know she had me with the hair net
Matching the color of her eyes
The **** way she slops spaghetti
On the plate next to my fries
There's really not a lot
A young school boy can do
As I dream about her from breakfast to lunch
In one continuous drool
She's the Cafeteria lady
Not to keen on her collard greens
But she does serve up a mess of mean
Nachos and young school boy dreams
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 7:06 AM UTC
In retrospect, I found
Something profound
"I want I will; I don't I won't"
WILL is the mother of all actions
That's infallible, abide or shun
But then,
What shudders the WILL train
Reason is common and plain
When hurt, I stop
My follow WILL slops
So,
WILL needs fuel incessant
If there's no support
Goose self-motivation
Bharti
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 4:38 AM UTC
The rain
slops upon
the concrete,
washing.
It washes
away what we
cannot see
and sloshes
the ground
in merriment.
I hear it
drench
the toughened
soul and
soften the
pine.
The drumming
hum of rain
on the sill
sends
slumber
to even
the restless.
And the soft
lustre
after a fall
in which
the world
sparkles,
causes
even the hardest
hearts to glow
gold.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 3:16 PM UTC
Art is good
medication so you'll
deal with this creatively.
You've careened into this so
make the wreck,
the chaos
bloom on a page.
It might even help.
You're going to be a comic book artist
because in the face of such things
words fail and lips
falter, and you
want to knock your head comedically.
You want
to conjure silly star-loops for
smashing into this
feeling.
Knocked-out.
Reeling.
Draw, draw out
and ink in your malady.
Crash!
The worst is when
your heart is the caricature.
A full-page feature,
a splash,
of high-strung colours
begging to be neatened.
Splash!
Your
cartoon heart. An
image of a fat, crimson
apple
like a clip-art pic, got
a little worm poking through
it.
Eating, eating away
to leave a love
or loss-sized hole.
Fat white bubbles announcing
hurt!
so graphically.
Go on and
draw it more lurid. If
the feeling is here, you might as well
feel it.
Let the slops of gaudy red
and green
bleed and
bleed
out of the panel.
Stain it, stain
the gutter
where time happens.
At least it gives the comic
a heartbreaking!
twist.
And then you turn the page.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
I ask if you want to
escape
when maybe we're only
synthetic
bound together by the
wire
slipped between our
skins
filching at each other
inside
these metamorphosis
cocoons,
waiting for one to come
outside
of our shelled carbons
nearing
the brilliance of the city
lights
as though slops of rain
dancing
off of tall windows was
like
the sky setting itself on
fire.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
I'm a poet ******
That digs through the thrash
There's cans and slops
and graffiti
A pig rolling around happy in mud
I am
Who cares about vanity
Or inhibitions
When your eyes are big
The smiles wide
The teeth brown
The other side of midnight
On a empty bed
It is what it is
A leaf
Once green
Now fallen
Tumbles along
Sentences to death
Garbage here
Garbage there
Signatures on walls
Rhymes and reasons
Wee
We take this ride
I sequel
I squeal
Another can
A bottlecap
Should I a say a toothbrush
On a good day
My hooves take to the lawn
Pigs heaven one might say
Running in circles with words
An oink here
An oink there
A pig in a blanket
I really care
What's inside a hotdog
Logan Robertson
12/29/2018
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 4:29 AM UTC
under a new dispensation
G. O. D.
is now a conglomerate
corporate organization
L. O. V. E.
is "the price paid"
for another day
under the new dispensation
------------
AND TO THINK I THOUGHT
YOU'D MIGHT GET ANGRY!!!
-------------
survival
L. I. F. E.
slaves with a view
under the new dispensation
---------------
eating away all UNION
all human conversation
stealing all dignity
like pigs in a sty
eating the slops
thrown to us
genetically altered
inhuman beings
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 12:07 PM UTC
In my dreams is where you dwell
Huddled in the dank corner of my coveted place
Swaddled in blue velvet
Misty grin hovering
Cheshire Cat illumination
Waiting, dusty pawn shop grit
Gathering...bunching like your favorite memory
At the back of your spine
The musty splintered closet door
Cigarette filtered light
Slops its way through
Don't hide! Don't hide
I cover your eyes
Found
You
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 11:52 PM UTC
Good morning Muppet.
I saw you staggering out of bed.
After stretching over to turn off the alarm.
****** thing.
Left it snoozing and off it went again.
You're in the kitchen, cooking your coffee and porridge.
A mighty morning brew.
The alarm hangs out on the face of your phone.
You need to use it today.
So you dash upstairs to turn it off.
Tripping over the dog, who's dashing around your feet.
Porridge flies and coffee slops.
All over the carpet and one hot dog.
Morning's, don't you just love 'em.
P.s.the dog's okay.
Just the start of another fractious day.
(C) Livvi
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
Quite.
The mischievous talents of the voice
It’s delicate bombs ripping through
Each footstep to the cool desert air
Where before the sunrise I break from
My two slops of oatmeal to have a cigarette
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 8:48 AM UTC
IF PARADISE IS HALF AS NICE
Yawns
into my morning
wearing only my
Edvard Munch’s THE SCREAM
Tee-shirt
(so that’s where it’s gone)
which is a mere
miniskirt on her
scratching a well tanned
behind.
All smeared mascara
all Cleopatra eyes
all mad crazy hair
mad as a bag of spiders
dancing
(sleepily to)
Amen Corner
on the summer radio.
Takes my toast
from my poised hand
takes a bite
crunchily...noisily
then puts it back
in exactly the same position.
Pats me
on my head
“Mmmmmm.... thanks Dad! ”
“Stolen toast is always
twice as nice! ”
Sings softly
swaying to herself
“If Paradise is half
as nice
“As the Heaven that you take me
to...”
(Ooops...slops
spills her orange juice)
“...who needs Paradise? ”
“I’d rather...have you! ”
Then suddenly excitedly
talking to boyfriend No.22
on her little pink
glitzy mobile.
Guess my little girl
has(gulp) grown up!
Jul 16, 2019
Jul 16, 2019 at 11:05 AM UTC
Sugar is so sweet;
Oh, It's such a treat,
When it comes with wood;
Your diet pop's no good.
Chorus:
Constant ever craving,
That sugar never stops
People misbehaving;
Because of sugar slops.
If your kids misbehave;
Their health you need to save;
Try cutting out the cereal,
The situation is criterial.
(optional) Bridge:
Bad monster mood trouble;
Is your sugar intake double?
Chorus:
Constant ever craving;
That sugar never stops
People missbehaving;
Because of sugar slops.
Well, my mood is better now;
I changed my intake; Ka-Pow!
Fresh fruit tastes so much better;
Less sugar; More less than ever.
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 8:06 PM UTC
Tommy
I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.
I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.
Yes, **makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;**
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.
We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.
**You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!**
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
At the park,
I sat beside an old man
A crone, a fogey
A father.
His nostrils flared
As he drew all the cool air;
The twitch and the twang
Of his ****** features
Have locked my attention
His neck cracked towards me,
And his gibberish enthralled me
To think that such a man
Can still sound so young.
Can he still be so young?
With his brittle bones
And his nasally nostrils
And his waxy wisdom
That slops off his mouth?
I went back home
And ate a bran muffin
I didn't bother to
Dab it with frosting.
-Juan Carlos Gomez
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 2:31 AM UTC
A bird is a bustle with the nest,
Time growing ripe,
Vintage is coming.
Grapes almost boil in the baskets
Noon, glow,
Sun in the Zenith.
Congeal air waving in the grain,
On the slops grass is almost redden,
And plum-tree is giving the bow.
Who filthy conscience has today?
Leonard Gorski Copyright © 2008
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:56 AM UTC
Forced into action
False starts of recognition
Badly ascribed motives
And motivational speakers dying by the boat load
Trying to make a quick buck
From the wisdom of the cosmos
As if it wasn't freely available to anyone who will listen
Blistering lips and burnt fingers
**** bliss and listerine
Coughing up your anatomy
In a cacophany of coffee drops and cheap plonk
Like the company of even cheaper politicians
Civil servants serving their civil selves
While Santa's elves run the workshop
For pig slops and platitudes
It's so easy to short change people with no change
But big hearts and some semblance of social conscience
Who want to see their fellow man succeed
While greed drives more powerful men to darker ends
The soul corrupted green and crispy
Neatly pressed and folded in a money clip
While the trip of a lifetime waits in a little black bag
But who's keeping score
How can you when the game is so confusing
Quietly excusing themselves from the sidelines are the ones making the money on the whole **** thing
It's rigged, you should know this
Quit while you're ahead
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
The flare of pain at the base of my spine
distracts me from the sharper pain
Of losing you.
Each evening I numb myself with wine,
It slops into the glass
And makes me think of angry tears.
Social butterfly, I whirl into the city
Wearing my fake face,
And ready for excess.
I need to be gentled
Away from these destructive interventions,
Does someone have a cure for the cure?
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 4:52 AM UTC
You want this
swelling rise of swollen self
that drowns my thoughts
in blood that throbs
the slickest steps always
slip the best
when pressed
hydrant-pressure pulses
In that slow build
You wind around me
tight
as we settle into that fractured time
when I am yours and you are mine
connected
I growl,
a bear in heat
you squirm and entreat me
to make love to you
treat you like my princess
your ******* scream at you to be
as they graze the cotton sheets
Melded
lubricated to stop the high tension
smoking burn of friction
the slap of your *** as you writhe back
consuming me
***** deep
in your centre
My fingers clasp into your hips
holding the depth
my eyes closed
you smell of lilacs and berries
if they had been slathered in sin
and served up in piping hot lust
you sound like heaven
echoing through my blood stream
the thud of my heart screaming your name
breathe
I command myself to stay with you
as my hands let you ease off of
my ****
you take full advantage
there on your knees and I am vulnerable
to your slick
to your wet...
(Too right, I'm just a man)
all you needed was an inch of freedom
to rock forwad then slam your cheeky control
back onto me
that slick sound that
unmistakable ***** ******* sound
slops against my thighs
the invite to drive
me into a frenzy
the want
the need to please
be pleased
freed from thought and reason
Shower me in your lust
soak the sheets
moments before I shower you with mine
the hot splash
on your back
as we lose control together
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 1:27 AM UTC
He's not really good with words,
but every sentence spills out of his lips
like a ballad waiting to be sung.
He's not really good with words,
but for every 10 apologies,
he gives out a million i love you's to make up for it.
He's not really good with words
but every letter that slops out of his ink
sounds like the playing sonnets of Beethoven.
He's not really good with words
but his touch feels like warm coffee
on a drizzling sunday afternoon.
He's not really good with words,
but if actions could speak,
every space in his entire being would scream out her name.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 2:31 AM UTC
I'm the old man who can't tell time any more
what lies ahead. Any way he tells it,
what he'll tell it is always
how he's become more or less himself,
less the more. He sits
a broken dish
down, and watches the hours run off
the end of his spoon. It's the same way,
the exact same way
his medicine slops, when he tries to
stop his palsied hand from pouring it. Oh, how
he'd like to run
off or away or on and on about it
after learning the moon doesn't turn
blue waiting for her cow. She turns her face for you
not to see her giggle
at the thought of how a cow might plummet.
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 10:24 PM UTC
i. afternoon. coffee slops over the edge of your cup as you set it down. we stare at the wreckage. i won’t clean it up.
ii. i hold your head in my hands, jumper paws swinging like empty wine skins. you lean into my touch, though i know you don’t want to. it is instinctive, this gesture; instinctive like coasters on tabletops and welcome mats at front doors. we don’t own either of these things. maybe this is why we began falling apart.
iii. the pantry is empty and darkness swallows you as you open the door. the grocery list lies untouched on the counter. i was meant to shop yesterday but i spent the day in our room. you take the list and hold it to my face, so close the letters blur. the paper shakes; your hand shakes. we are disintegrating, like so many old stars.
iv. i don’t know how to live with us anymore. you have forgotten.
v. you leave with the morning sun. i wake to a wiped clean countertop, coffee cup rinsed in the sink. the pantry is full. i don’t even know that you’re gone.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 1:24 AM UTC
I hold her arms
as she knocks the egg
against the bowl
a bump
a bit harder I say
again
a crackle
now pull it open
slowly
she gasps
as the yellow present
slops into the bowl
a lake of yolk
on flour mountain
I see it in a way
I haven’t seen before
as if I can see
and feel what she feels
a swell of pleasure
again she says
as I hand over another
from the cardboard box
excited for what comes next
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
Maybe she decides she's better off alone
Perpendicular to you, not parralel
Maybe she decides she doesn't need a man
Because Lord knows she doesn't need
But a partner does make us feel at ease
Unless they don't of course
I will do my best
To respect
My self, patience, & crime
Slippery slops in a vortex of tropes
This corn I'm chewing on feels odd
The nights bring solitude
The distilled ambience isolates a disparate exhale
As annoying as I find you
I miss you
There is an imbalance here
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
DIRECTIONS
I’m heading West
(where ever that is) .
I march off into the distance
of field & sky.
West is where
my uncle is.
I cut through
the heat haze.
My uncle’s dinner
wrapped up in a scarf on the end of a stick
as if I am
running away into forever.
Tea slops in an old milk bottle
with a piece of cloth as a stopper.
I stare into the empty air
as if suddenly I will discover there
a sign saying:
“West – this way! ”
My Auntie Nellie’s instructions
still stamped on the inside of my stupid skull.
“Go west into the field
with your Uncle Michael’s dinner.
“Tell him. . .”
Me too terrified to tell her
I don’t know
where West is?
Typical townie!
I search the farm field by field
‘till I finally find him
sprouting out of a field
with a cloud attached to his head
beside the broken rickety gate
where the tiniest ever wild strawberries grow.
So this is where West is!
Why didn’t she say so in the first place!
This I know!
Why send me like a fool on a child’s errand!
My uncle devours everything ‘cept
the scarf & the stick.
Tells me
(“Oh no! ”)
to go South to where Uncle Seanie is
and. . .
Jun 4, 2019
Jun 4, 2019 at 6:58 AM UTC