"sloshy" poems
An ****** haircut,
she does give,
that only a lover can;
sweetly amatory
are the cuts and nicks,
that heighten
my sensual pleasure.
click of scissors -
the sound her lips make,
when we hesitantly unlock,
after a long, squiggly, sloshy kiss.
*now, her scissors
get busy, giving the
tips of my hair
sweet pain of love bites,
my ***** are on fire,
goosebumps sow desire,
my eyes, wink and shut,
if I swoon, no wonder,
this sweet torment,
brings me to the limits.*
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 10:30 AM UTC
at the end of the day, i stared at the teabag
that i scooped out from the ***
wet and sloshy, its scent faded and sweetened;
it wasn't itself anymore.
without its lingering bitterness
without its verdant hues,
or its unique aromas that they fancied,
it could never be who it was.
the used teabag, now that its purpose was served,
is no longer wanted.
was it fulfilled by the amount of tea it gives,
or was it emptied?
Nov 8, 2022
Nov 8, 2022 at 3:34 PM UTC
The last time I saw you, you were standing there at the gate, watching me walk away
I was trying to look cool, like nostalgia in motion
That’s a difficult thing to pull off when you’re constantly looking back
You were smiling and waving, like it was all gonna be alright
I secretly hated you for that
Everything in my being screamed at me to turn around, to run back to you
I wanted to take your hand in mine and pull you out of there like Wayne did to Cassandra…
Only I didn’t
I did my duty
I turned around one last time at the end of the longest hallway in the world and stole one last look
Blinking back the burning sensation in my eyeballs and the tightness in my throat
And then I plodded on
Just like I was supposed to
I had a stabbing pain in my gut like things would never be the same again
Like the WE we were was dying and going away forever
At the time I dismissed that sharp unbearable thought as sentimental weakness
The sloshy musings of an admittedly overdramatic youth
Never would’ve guessed my gut knew so much more than my thirsty brain
With its linear logic and high powered deductive reasoning
I told myself we’d be together again soon
I told myself to focus on the task at hand, and you’d be the reward waiting for me at the end of it all
The bright white light at the end of my long dark tunnel
I told myself you’d be the sunshine on the other side of the mountain
Knowing somewhere deep down it wasn’t true
Knowing somewhere deep down, that the WE we were
Now existed only in my fondest memories
Only in the dark moments I would occasionally indulge on the cool side of my pillow
I turned around
And walked out of your life
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
We drink. We love. We drink to pretend we have love. We fake love to feel loved. We know very well what we are doing. We have no idea what we are doing. We gather in groups. We push outsiders out. We know very well what we are doing. We can’t get a hold of what we are doing. We hate each other. We hate ourselves. We hate outsiders. We love our lives. We very well might hate our lives. Stockholm. We drink. We love. We **** ourselves.
We slosh through days. We get sloshed through days. We could be certain that we love the way we slosh through sloshy days and pretend that we have it under control. We have it under control. Do we have it under control? In thirty years there will be a phenomenon. We will all drop dead. We will all drop dead and we will think back to this time when we hated how much we loved our lives because we loved the very lives that allowed us to hate each other and wish we were the outsiders. We push away the outsiders. We are killing ourselves.
Then there are those who are unaware. There are those who might be naïve enough to think this is how the rest of our lives will play out. There are those who believe that the rest of their lives will consist of sloshing through sloshy days and pretending they aren’t killing themselves. And then there are those who very well might have the lives that allow them to slosh through, living and dying because we are killing ourselves. Peter Pans. They will not make it to thirty years before dropping dead. It won’t be a phenomenon at all. They will **** themselves. The outsiders will live on.
We do not know what love is because love is sloshy. Love is sloshy because our minds are sloshed. We pretend that what we feel is love. We pretend that these people are our friends and our lovers and they watch us **** ourselves and they **** themselves and we are all dying together. We are dying for love. We are dying to live. So we slosh through our sloshy days seriously not giving a **** that we are dying. Seriously giving too many ***** about what others think. Seriously ******* around. ******* around is serious business. ******* each other. ******* up. ******* ******* ******* We are killing our plans. We are killing ourselves.
We know very well what we are doing. Except the few that have no idea what they are doing. We live in the moment and pretend not to notice that in thirty years we will all drop dead and the outsiders will live on and love because we kept them out. We kept them out and saved their lives. They resented us because we ***** up and ***** around and ***** each other but we never ***** them and it saved their lives. We resent them because they live. We pretend we do not resent them because we think they don’t live. They don’t live like we do.
We pretend to love our lives. We love our lives. We think we love our lives. We do not know what love is because we are ******* We do not know what love is because all we do is ***** We do not know what love is because we are dying and we know very well that we aren’t well, so we hurt each other and pretend that it is the outsiders we hate. Pretend that we don’t envy them because they aren’t dying.
Some will get by. Some have plans and money and parents to put their screws back where they belong, so that their bookshelf can hold up the book of their life that was written for them. They will live on and slosh through their lives and make money and make babies and make fake substance. They will get married and get jobs and get divorced and get depressed. But they will be rich. Their lives will not be rich. They will be rich but they will lack richness. These people will have everything. These people will have nothing. I will have nothing. But I will have everything. If I do not **** myself the way that we are killing ourselves.
Why does time ***** us over? Everything is changing. Everything is staying the same. People are sloshing by with their sloshy minds. It will remain this way. The way it has remained this way for as long as we can remember it remaining this way. We have terrible memories. We have wonderful memories. We have these memories and then we have some memories that we cannot remember. We will get by. We will get out. We do not want to get out. We do not have a choice. Do we have a choice? I need to get out.
We do not want to leave the lives we hate but love because we are sloshing through and pretending we are rich. We are not rich. We are salty. We are salty and messy but we are happy. Are we happy? I am happy. Sometimes I am happy. Sometimes I slosh through my sloshy life and wish it were over. I never want it to end. I am the some that are naïve enough to have hoped this would last forever. We are the Peter Pans. If we never grow old we can never drop dead and blame it on the time when we hated that we loved this sloshy exclusive mayhem that we call life. I survived my youth, I will get out. I do not want to get out. I hate the love I pretend to love because I hate that I love it so much. Stockholm.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
A kiss from a firefly can cure a cynic of their cynicism, make the nonbelievers believe, help the hopeless grasp the illusions of hope, and even reveal the marvelous maps of the mind; because a kiss from a firefly (and what a brilliant buss it is!) steers one into a sloshy slumber that smears the line between deepest desires and fanciful fairytales:
The feisty fairy fights nymphs, trolls, goblins, terrible ogres, nasty pirates, talking elephants, one gypsy (mainly because she stole some pixie dust in attempt to fly away to her next destination), and two silver cats, who could read her mind and she did not like that; but the plucky pixie never did steer clear from the twinkling glitter-bugs who held the key to Wonderland:
She drifted off into a slumber and she dreamt of owning all the knowledge that could possibly be held and she dreamt about flying on the back of a dragon and she dreamt about walking on water and tumbling down the rabbit hole and she dreamt of sincere sorcerers and mischievous mermaids and pink penguins who could speak perfect Portuguese and she dreamt about falling in love and being a child again and she dreamt that her father could walk her down the aisle.
Oh, the wonderful whimsical kiss of fireflies killing the beliefs of nonbelievers who dare not dream of dreams, it’s a slippery slope for those who can’t dilute delusions—a glorious path of the glowing!—leaving them to wake with hopeless hope.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 3:20 AM UTC
A troll sits open-mouthed, awaiting the spoon
that stirred the porridge; this ritual has been
ingrained in its brain – a sloshy, lifeless fossil
that stores villas of pain and ineptitude.
There is no water under its bridge, and all wrongs become
manifest as an attention-seeking wart on his soiled skin;
he wishes he could shed it, as this losing game of
snakes and ladders is beginning to wear thin.
Day by day he rolls the dice, but can’t take his move,
confined by an undying dread of slipping and sliding
on the loose gravely ground that he dreams of climbing;
and whispers of chiding.
Neither a sanctuary nor a prison, his home is a waiting room
on the Styx; from it he hears the echo and call of spring lambs
as they cross to taste the apples on the other side,
which a child impetuously picks.
Searching aimlessly for his reflection in the stone wall –
grey and every type of cold - proves futile;
he turns to his shadow asking his name,
shoulders slouched and mouth wide open all the while.
Seeing only darkness in the silence, control is lost -
he pictures tearing down that wall, but is unsure;
Self-muttering eases the certain fragility, and calming down
he tries counting to five - he can only count to four.
Nov 10, 2010
Nov 10, 2010 at 2:47 PM UTC
I've grown blind to sensation
and deaf to the hums of my walk
its all the same yet again
one great big pile of gray sloshy snow
suspended under an equally flavorless sky
whose clouds pour drips of cool touch onto me
and as they land and stream along the contours and creases of my face
they soak up with my hurt
and that feeling is the only thing that keeps me thinking im still here,
still alive
so please sky, let it rain
let it shower away all of my pain
let it pump my blood to sizzle against the icicles that hang beneath the gutters of my veins
to melt away the current solid stream of red
so i can defrost back into my old self
as steam rises from my now beating heart
revealing gears that rotate freely again once their bolts are no longer consumed in deep frost
the color rushes back into my skin
and the flushed pale face suddenly evolves into crimson cheeks which hold an obnoxiously wide smile
with a voice that speaks loud like a lion with purpose
and sings harmonious with the songs of my youth
...
the day i am resurrected
is the day i will love you like i intend
so tell me, please reveal your secret
where can I melt?
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
i need a girl who doesnt do drugs or any of that dumb ****
not always talking **** or doing ******** **** or running her mouth and ****
none of that ******** that cheatin **** that lyin ****
none of that manipulative oh poor me that cryin ****
that's all the same ****
to a person who sees real ****
no fake ****
no i love u no i dont none of that mixed ****
no hot no cold none of that wishy wash ****** sloshy
********
**** that ****
i dont want to hear any of that ****
or see that ****
i just want some real ****
someone who loves me
no ********
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
Mad at myself
Mad at myself
Why am I always
so mad at myself?
Cut clients short
time is but a construct but
this is my second or third complainant this week or last week and it’s like I’m impatient and cut their time short always middle-aged blond women maybe I’m projecting maybe I’m not so bad, maybe I’m just tired and lazy and being catty
I’m mad at myself
I’m mad at my actions
Waiting until last minute to register for classes got a way in but it’s becoming a disaster
I’m mad at my actions
I’m mad at myself
I’m no longer a child
on the fucken shelf
that needs to be helped
that needs her hand held
while doing every grown-up step
I’m mad at myself
I’m mad at myself
Mad at myself
At myself
Myself
Self
Elf
Am I an elf?
Why did I **** up?
Why did I **** it up?
Why am I stuck?
Why do I ****
I can salvage it all
I can stop my fucken fall
So ****** I feel
It almost feels unreal
Work and School
I’m stacking
and slacking
I’m procrastinating
and waiting
I’m ******* up
and ******* it up
So mad at myself
So mad at my elf
So mad to be a self on the shelf
of childhood fighting adulthood fighting endless deadlines ending early making my clients ****** and not want to come back because they feel like they don’t matter because I’m cutting their sessions short or running late or taking my sweet **** time, acting like a shorty clown and in grad school I sent all those emails out but then go awol and have so many doubts that I’m making mistakes and failing just a little bit and I don’t get it
Why am I doing this?
Why are they so ******
Why can’t I shake off my fears and fully fucken get into gear
until I work this work this out
until I forge my life with sound
until this mountain of mourning or sorrow splits like the hilt of a samurai blade splitting grain becoming fits of bulbous rage and it feels like I’ve gotten a bad grade in life not a C or a D but a big fat F
Full of strife
I can’t eat
I can’t sleep
I ****** up
I’m in heat
I’m in love
in my head
and my heart’s
full of dread
I’m upset
I’m aloof
I’m unaware
and a goof
I ****** up
I’m alright
I’ll make it all right
I’ll make it all better
I’ll stop straying off the beaten path
I’ll get wetter
and wetter
so soaked and sloshy I’ll
be okay and forgive myself
I’m no longer mad at myself
No longer mad at myself
I forgive myself
Forgive myself
Myself
Self
Elf
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 4:53 PM UTC
You are sun
I am rain
If we stand each all alone
You'd be cursed by people
Of you glisten too much heat
Trouble people with much sweat
If we exist in each separation
I'd be the one whom people scold
Of wet and cold, 'cause of no coat
Muddy sloshy flood at the moat
You sun, I rain
Together, we shall forever
To bear a shade of rainbow
(May 2016)
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 5:27 AM UTC
I don’t care if I’m thrown into the sea
It’ll be less rough on my aching feet
Running in all directions amongst claw shaped branches
Hooking into my flesh whenever I make a wrong turn
This forest isn’t peaceful
No,
It’ll sabotage you with every step you take
Barbaric
Agonizing
Clutter
Fearless creatures lurking around every corner
Constant target
The wolves hunched over
Hungry eyes
White teeth glowing like a knife underneath a sliver of light
That I’m always drawn too
In that eerie kitchen
Where those hands
Veiny
Pulsating with agonizing temptation
Rip my guts apart
And lay me to bleed all over my stupidity
I’ll always wake up alive
In the blackest part of the forest
Where the owls dare not fly
Where I always end up
I’ll look straight into the moon
It’s distant luminescence
Straight into those glazed eyes
Those shining stars
Looking upon me
I’ll protest
“I always try to stay on the path!”
Path
Right path
What path?
I’ll always hear them tell me
What I’m supposed to do!
What I need to do!
What you’ve told me to do!
Bee in my eye
Branch up my back
Thistles amongst my feet
Yeah,
What path?
I long to be amongst the waters soothing caress
Drifting
Waiting for the seas salty waters to heal me
The sloshy monotony
Back and forth through an infinite roller-coaster where every wave is just as the next
I fold my hands and let my tomb’s silence speak everything that manic forest chose to swallow
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 1:04 PM UTC
Ball my fists
And hunch my shoulders
Swinging wildly
Til knuckle meets boulder
Does the earth merit my blood?
Do my bones merit the mud?
My voice becomes a vessel for words reserved for sailors and such
And my belly a sloshy sloppy pocket of ***
Writhing is my skin
At the thought of him within
Alone with no means of defense
Where defense means offense
And offense brings a means to an end
But I'd rather not think on the end
As I'm only about to begin
So I make a fist
And swing
Until nerves breach the bone
And veins burst within
I've known splinters and flint
And broken glass on skin
I know what it is to go without breath
And drown in the sink
This is just another week
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC
A watched *** never boils
A star shoots when you least expect it
Keep stirring.
Soon, that milky, sloshy liquid
will seep in
into the thick, earthen goop
One can only hope...
And it did, this time.
those eggs
[not vegan, sorry.]
that molasses-soaked sugar
the pulverized & the beaten
all amalgamated
in a matter of minutes
and it even sopped up
the flour lining
How pleasant. No. How scrumptious.
The hardened cream, mixed
with a little bit of salt, I admit,
but you know I
was never one
to make a cake
without tears
shedding some.
But I always remember
to lick the spoon
every once in a while.
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
can't keep coffee
in my cup
it drips down the sides and sloshes over on yr shoes
and you look back at me,
biting yr tongue, i know
can't keep cigarettes
in my pack
i know i've quit but i buy another
how else can i feel proud
with no temptation to resist?
can't keep pace
with anyone
you tell me to stop comparing
"it'll come, give it time"
and i know, but even so
i can't keep you
not that i'd want to
my cells regenerate too fast
though i've stole the smallest part that i could manage
so i might keep a bit in tact
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 3:04 PM UTC
My sock's become wet
Now my shoes are all sloshy
I curse you, puddle
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
if the wind blows just right
i can hear voices coming
from the bar down the street
drunken giggles that make me smile
alcohol soaked singing
making me laugh out loud
i think i'll join them
clinking sloshy mugs of beer
telling off color jokes
and sharing in the camaraderie
amongst the people
in a small corner bar.
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 8:54 PM UTC
I think things like~
what if every raindrop was
encapsulated in a wax casing?
and what of all that rain
and all those wax casings?
would the wax coagulate
in some weird way
while coolness of clouds cover?
or when heat of sunshine
broke through, would they what?
turn into sloshy slicks of slippery drippings?
would the water molecules
find their way to each other
to form rivers?
and would the wax bank itself
in coagulated forces of gravity
and magnetism yet to be understood?
what if all the wax was spectrum sensitive?
and its rainbow reflective
properties sponged twisting
of tentacled wonder from
every imaginable surface
what then?
would all dullness slip away?
or would we all be burdened
by a way of life unknown
at this juncture of elemental uncertainty?
I stare into the filmy rainbow swirls
of gasoline floating on puddles
and wonder
when will crude discovery of
what a waxy mess we've made
of petrol dependence finally
plop upon us?
when and why?
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 6:00 AM UTC
As depression sets in the tide becomes brutally honest
by churning the minutes into hours and hours into days,
Days into weeks,months & years.
I am submerged by my own filth
The grit and grime is put there
By unsaid life events over time.
With past passions lost along the way
Seems like I try to just survive each
Ever changing day, Clinging to
Lifelines to keep me afloat to
throw me a life changing boat.
My life is being wife with kids,
Being everything I can be all except for me!
I often wonder who and where she is ?
And who she'd be if she had been there the
version of me who is healthy in every way
with goals achieved and nutritious habits.
My brain is mushy kind of sloshy rainy days use to be a bother!
Now almost prefer it over the sun since it is less pressure
to go out and be a false outgoing human.
when all I want is to stay in gloom in my darkened room with
depression at bay this is the reality it is here to stay day after day.
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 2:14 AM UTC
I hear dead silence
in this empty room of mine
& I'm craving those sloshy sounds.
They're the finest sounds I know
next to her heavy breathing,
skin slapping mine
& tender screaming.
Whoops,
I must be dreaming
about her again,
what a mess.
She's so fine.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC
i spill thoughts
like sloshy truck drivers
alchol-tinged tears burning the lips
of mothers that lost their everything
fathers, their legacy -
He was driving on the wrong side of the road.
i hear my voice
but my mouth doesn't budge
i wonder if all this
is worth fixing
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 12:32 PM UTC