"slurps" poems
the witches
they don't take no ****
feminists with a wand
made from a femur
wrapped in ***** hair,
fingernails, and spit
no
not good little passive girls
although amused by a good spanking
for laughs that titillate
from a red wicked dicked old man
with slippery fireballs
like a spicy cherry pepper
that slurps filths coves
through a black tongue
and open-mawed bite
Femdom's queens
oiled torsos and bond fires
drenched ornaments for laughing snakes
that spread like spider webs
while the whips flash licks
hells tender blood kiss
insatiable prayers
and
************ rituals
mixed like bones in broth
with intricate sigils and saliva red
menstruum her holy sacrament
that shapeshift crones into young girls prancing
and bind water to stones
her spell can crack your skull
like a mules kick
and melt your eyes
like nuclear skies
no
the witches
they don't take no ****
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 2:15 PM UTC
His fur catches twinkling light
spots motifs hypnotize.
He paces the cage, restless.
The black claw wants
to tear open raw flesh.
Pulsing dense warmth
flows in the heavy air.
To get closer—
just for a while,
to look into gold-red, cold eyes
To touch the mystery,
to ask what it feels
when it rips apart the skull
and slurps the fading beingness…
Is curiosity worth it?
Nature is no accident,
Nothing is left to mere chance.
Stare too long into his eyes,
the barriers come down…
Is that you, or is that I?
An ominous gaze is a gift
that unveils the fated future.
If they open the door
He reacts without control.
His instincts unerringly
detect unspoken warnings.
Run away,
Turn to stone,
Scream or Faint if you want.
The shrinking, narrow space
puts everyone to the test
in a world of large and small cages.
Feb 20, 2025
Feb 20, 2025 at 6:35 AM UTC
Orange peel Thursdays and the Velcro shoes
Of children hordes
Who spider up Alice on toadstools in Central Park
Dusted psilocybin shoots my eyes through
With the clarity of ice and sliced mushroom
Steeping in stomach acid before finding blood
The kids are tripping like madmen or halloween candy
Like its time to release and give up to the nonsense
And let your young self congeal to a saccharine sludge
I don’t stroll in the park to keep my mind sharp
I’m here because it’s a riot
My head can throb to the jittery birds
And the blasts of carsong
It’s the right kind of rhythm to walk to
** ** **
Ketamine days and the lolling slums
To make sure the insane stay insane
And the hobos are washed with spit from the clouds
And the subway exhaust always hangs in our hair
And the old Coney Island burns again and twice more
We don’t pretend to understand what we see
In subway grates thirty feet wide
Like the earth punching out of work for a bit
Opening to you her *** belly
So you can check out the strips of metal inside
Before she slurps you down and with an esophageal squeeze
Shoots you through the turnstiles
The train squeals and grinds down our eyes
With thoughts as slow as ketamine
Makes room for schizophrenia in a conversation
We’re listening to ‘til sundown
** ** **
Years full of Brooklyn and the assorted pills
Makes offal fit for punks in name brand shoes
Squared off with police in the park
Being beaten for the fun of being beaten
Peacoat locals pass the days in supermarkets
And you grow up to the loony mumble
Of the woman who knows the boat
Moored at the end of the street
Mansion of the stray cat colony
You help her with her daily chore to feed them
Tabbies popping the pills of the homeless
And puking in tandem all over their house
Living off generous dying folk
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 4:02 PM UTC
***** feet
***** of them ache
they're dry
all dried out, moisture to face and digestive tract make little difference
but comfort a little sort of; maybe
subdue to replenishing
skip the pain with a drink fucken, fucken drink fucken
dust lingers in the brain, it swirls
a cloud of ground envelops the shape of u
u become covered
u have a layer,
salty,
and dry
and 'organic'
(surely bio (though im not sure what is or why are))
full city boy, suburban boy, not particularly gritty boy
along side hippies
and volunteers all tripppy
and unwashed, and un plastic
yet forcefully hemped
drunk of micro beer
and burnt brown and blotchy red
and wire-y
and dry
and matted
as if nothing really matters except for principles
misguided and randomly enforced
feel like a husk; peanut shell
insides swallowed by the mouth of the party embodied
a monsterous sweaty man tanned and thickly bearded
and beered
fat dreads fall around and surround u; a forest of hair
a circle encroaching of fuzzy pillars in fibres
entrapped inside them; feel their lingering time matted hold
a wealth of effort to become unkempt; they are bars
they are walls
and the FACE!
……………………… ………………………………… oh
looming down, wafts of armpit vapour cloud; a looming puft that surrounds
engorged by the scent as it circles u, the mouth that lowered onto u
chews u and spills bits of u
chomp chomp
protein for vegetarians; u; ur rigour ur vigour ur guts
eaten in a flurry of chomps and slurps and it crunches
and it grates
like the rocks on the ***** of ur feet it grates
u are digested
and reused
as they would like
but for them; for a collective u dived into
for fun
2 days to peddle ur wares
to progress ( admittedly through some days of regression…)
for all humans, and Humans; for fun
on monday we will repent
for the damages waged on the inside of the body
and the outsides too
for some gain
i guess on this which we settle
for always for display for fun
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 2:10 AM UTC
rolling in the rosy dish of my tongue
it returns in my mouth to
its most basic elements
a primordial alabaster foam
of corn syrup and gelatin
and unpronounceable would-rather-not-knows
i think: marshmallows
are the juxtaposition to my quaker pallet
microwave tap water&Fry;'s Cocoa
awash and dissolve
my saccharine oral fixation
in jealous slurps of heat
that radiate down
down down
heat, you see-
(as a sakura flush
blossoms 'cross the
pale of my throat)
-has always been the key
here's a secret:
in solitude i
i'm a homunculous girl
all lips and all hands
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 7:46 PM UTC
There is a lot I love
About spring and summer,
The warmth, the freedom
From scarves and coats.
The flowers in bloom,
The outdoor pools,
The hot days with ice cream
And cold coffee and slurps.
But most of I all I love the trees in my city,
that sway in the summer wind.
And I can stare at them forever
As my car passes by.
And they are colored not only green
But of many more hues pleasant to my eye.
There are orange, and purple (my favourite ones), and pink.
So when the ground I walk upon
Is littered with these colored petals,
I feel like nature has a lot of beauty to show
But all we do is step on it.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
By seeing this Show of Nature's Great Players
You muse at their Songs and lay your Best Arm
First around her Neck, then towards the Breakers
Praising her Legs for your own Private Art
Best indeed, was your Snickering Advance,
Thinking such Act would be overlooked in-Call
One Classic Method, Man! This Begging Romance
Elders as such know when your Heart takes the Fall
Goodness, Lover-Boy! Wrap those Curtains around
If you both need to perform your own Script
Some of us are Touchy when hearing those Sounds
Of Slips and Slurps which pump your Nerves one Bit.
Check your Programme. There is Something you missed
Those Thespians above also deserve a Kiss.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
Pelican
Slurps on
What its
Belly can
Put stay
Whole day
In the sun
On the run
Just wish
Big fish
One stuff
Big enough
It can pick
With its beak
That can hold
Manifold
Bigger than
Its belly can
Wonderful Pelican
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 6:17 AM UTC
She is the cold fire that snaps at my skin
Making me long for the heartburning
That scalds and scars the flesh within
Dark hair dark desirous eyes
Dark nights of passion till I realize
That she has drained me
Supped the juices from my lust
Drunk from all the fury my love gives
And suddenly she lives
Like a vampire
Mesmerizing
One blood drop at a time
She slurps me up like I am some cheap wine
And I swoon under her power
Consumed by her hunger
As she completely devours me
Till I beg for more
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
Thatcher vacuum seals nicotine
Slurps cigarette like mosquito
Ravenous lungs gnaw and grind for the slow pander,
Thatcher’s just another name for the labeling
We plaster and pine for an out,
Stitch that finite lie beneath squeamish child skin,
Thatcher’s the black lung paradise,
******* infancy coddling cigarette stifle,
The caloric crack of his canines fletching out lust and sickly groove
As he’s scopes out fiend and vexed vandals,
Clutches the sick theistic **********
Cuddle those bruise licked hips
Give God the gross percent,
Cause heaven’s in those greenbacks
and God’s in the ******* kick,
Suckling bout the American tip
The Christian capitol,
Seething on shadow puppet ****** and American dream,
Gods got nothing to do with the slickened crinkle of gain and glamour,
Thatcher’s just the candy man give and cult,
Cough the crutch of contagion greed
And clutch the cuff of your porcelain sleeve,
Thatcher gleans your blackest suite tight,
Struts raven blade shoulders perched on American made spine,
Thatcher does as Thatcher please,
Thatcher thinks as Thatcher bleeds,
And Thatcher bleeds venereal blend,
Gout with the American veneer of broken girl and scabbed moral traumatic,
Trauma tastes as the hollow pixies give out the get out,
Bandaged baby girls,
The teenage horror show,
Just another blazoned hit of one two take the hand me down generic give away,
Desensitize the humanize,
Girls got to get the days glossy puff and sniff,
Thatcher’s content to satisfy,
Callous coroner a spectator suckling Marlboro lick,
Lodging thick smoke and toxin between spittle slick lips,
Albino plumes clotting and unfolding,
Thatcher clicks back the cartridge
Filter and cigarette,
Thatcher gulps back the need because brain’s got a favoring kink for the buzz,
Thatcher sings with the screaming in his straggling lungs,
Hums the western creed
Laughs fickle with God at his need,
Thatcher’s the true American dream
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
To be knelt in a shower
Watching crimson mix with water
Some good ol’ fashioned
Pain drain
Bloodletting
How delicious
What is it about a cleansing ritual
That brings
Soot to surface
It’s scar tissue
Meets fresh wounds
Amidst the carnage
A kernel of truth
Cartography
How scrumptious
What is it about toweling off
That removes
Less than we thought
It’s whispered words
Meets silent screams
All this chaos
What does it mean
Decryption
How cathartic
What is it about slipping into jeans
That tucks away the secrets
Folds up the mental maps
Slurps the blood from the floor
And masks us up
For the world to adore
///
“How was your weekend?”
(wait, what’s my line?)
Plasma
A flushed cheek
“Oh…it was fine”
smiles
Merely existing
How divine
///
Aug 25, 2022
Aug 25, 2022 at 11:10 AM UTC
He is like a virus I wish I never encountered
snuggling under my skin
digging his nails inside my veins
clamping on to my insides
the longer i allow it, the harder it is to remove
i try to scrape out all the residue
but he always grow back
Building a cement house inside my soul
leaving me swollen
congested with anticipation
I can't escape this sickness
The more I regress the more illuminated it gets
It feeds off my sorrow
Slurps up my happiness
And leaves me with nothing
Just a body with cold blood inside
I like it better this way
I rather feel nothing instead of this
You love me?
I am tortured by you.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
This morning breakfast was two coconut macaroons
and a novelty- sized pecan pie.
All from the cafeteria.
When you’re going it alone, it’s the small things.
I can still hear the echoes of sleep as it recedes,
8AM, throaty yelps - panic -
and it slurps down the drain.
**** I’d give anything for a drain snake.
**** I’d give anything for black coffee
and a hood on this ******* coat.
Just above the below and below the upper,
I’m hovering somewhere in midfield.
But we didn’t cover this coordinate system in geography,
or what to do when you’re drowning
in waves of self-righteousness and the desire to be hip.
I need that hood. And probably new shoes.
When your roommate is an egg-shaped vampire
optimism can be hard to come by.
Her munching marks the stroke of midnight,
and I reach for the sleeping pills.
Oh for the perfumed winds of personal space.
Oh for the prairies of carpet and private bathrooms.
Oh to have hot water at 9PM.
Sing sweetly of home ye golden-thighed youths.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
Here is an exercise
to help you learn a little bit
more about where we are
and what acts on us:
Pour yourself a bath,
as luxurious as can be.
Put in the salts, the oils,
the fragrances, the bubbles…
Make sure you pour
it hot, as hot as you can
handle when you dip in that
first cautious toe…
Slide in up to your chin and
soak in quietude while
your muscles untie their knots
and you lose yourself to that dreary
form of half-awake relaxation.
After a time, your tranquil state
will become a quiet form
of discomfort. The body
will begin to simulate a rising fever
as your temperature moves upward
towards equilibrium with the water,
the stomach will start to feel
unsettled and you
will have had enough.
Now, here comes the test:
Remove the drain plug and
remain motionless, unresponsive,
as the water slurps down
around you.
Your body will fall
as the water drains,
folding and bending
gravity packing you down
molding you into cast of the
tub you are laying in.
When the water is fully
drained and your rubbery,
warm muscles are stripped
of their recent buoyant freedoms,
you will feel with full awareness
the immensity of that Universal force
that acts on us without rest.
It’s amazing that we aren’t
all in exceptional shape.
Oct 9, 2022
Oct 9, 2022 at 5:41 PM UTC
looped layers linger on
terraces as terror takes
form in bandaged brains
chock full of deranged
discernment
****
climb into the cabinet
find fear washed away
in dead eyes that
shrivel and shrink with
each passing moment
squirm, squirm, squirm
stomach walls suction cup
one another as sludgy
slime slurps between
cracked crevices
bile belches amidst
odd laughter, an onslaught
of imagery, insecurity,
and imagination
not a sound in the world,
but every sound in the world
slip slowly through
diversions from truth
mad man or master?
monster or magician?
a circus of dark circles
comes rolling into town-
come one, come all!
certain death lurks
around every corner,
shrouded in shadows
between daylight
and dreaming,
daring you to look
away as it steals
whatever it is that's left
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
Four seated around a table, four proper place settings.
Napkins on laps, forks in hands jabbing pasta and grayish meat,
unused spoons and knives on the right.
Casual conversation, metal clinking porcelain.
Occasional slurps and crunches, paper wiping skin.
The household cat mews in the background.
Father.
*Bills are late, mortgage is due next week.
Is there even enough in the checking to pay them?*
Mother.
Tuna helper for the third night in a row.
Daughter.
*I’ll just say I’m just sick of eating this stuff.
Maybe that, or…*
Son.
*I’ve seen her journal.
Do I say something? But…*
Father.
$89.45.
Mother.
Tomorrow will make it four.
Daughter.
*… I’ll “get sick” again.
It seems to be working.*
Son.
*…she’d **** me if I told.
I guess I’ll keep quiet.*
Four plates form a circle, their propriety slowly weakened.
Food blotches have tinted the once pure white napkins,
forks, spoons and knives are laid lazily on tuna scraps.
Meaningless words have turned to awkward glances,
throat clearing and thumb twiddling signals another meal over.
The cat patiently waits in the kitchen, still whining.
He wants the leftover tuna.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 10:11 PM UTC
By God, when the rain
in summer nights
spat into jam jars,
I could hear the pots
swallow the slurps of
pitter-patter raindrops
tumbling down in slips
on small panes, as though
starlets plunged like
pitted pips torn out
of blackberry skies;
the morning jars
left with shining tears
waiting to rise as
darkening blossoms
of the night again.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
Climbing the stairs,
Til the water reaches me,
To the attic I retreat,
Til the water reaches me,
clinging tightly to prized possessions,
Til the water reaches me,
unheeded warnings,
Til the water reaches me,
following the surge,
Til the water reaches me,
listening but not hearing,
Til the water reaches me,
Holding tight until the end,
Til the water reaches me,
gulping loud slurps,
When the water reaches me.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 7:25 AM UTC
Playing by all the rules,
or so it seems,
the out-law fears
nothing and no one
as she
places her backwards cap
atop her
full head of fine hair,
sunshades
hiding her wide
toffee-colored
eyes.
Chewing hard on a piece of
wintergreen gum
like a first baseman
and some chaw,
she grips the steering wheel
as a heavy clap of
bass
emits a thundering chorus
out her rolled-down windows
into the half-empty street.
Brow furrowed,
the out-law ponders her next move,
bobbing and weaving through
one-way roads;
the destination she knows,
but the route is more
a riddle
yet to be solved.
The light air
and brilliant rays of sun
that sneak behind
puffy white clouds,
the out-law senses
some promise
from the
universe.
Lungs still filled
with
smoky wisdom,
she reflects intricately
on the life
lived by she
in the past few months,
gaining insight
into her own
optimistically
curious
soul.
She slurps
her Diet Coke
thirstily
as her cottony mouth
forms words and phrases
she one day
wishes to utter.
Time and space,
they are dear friends of the
out-law,
so drive she does
down that
long
windy
road,
twisting and turning
on the beacon of self-discovery
and hope.
And
love.
The out-law
watches the sky,
fascinated
by the rich colors
the sun paints
as it falls into a state
of serenity,
and
the out-law feels so serene.
Leaving comfortability
and safety behind,
the out-law relishes
in the excitement of the unknown,
getting high off
the fumes
of the uncertainty
that looms.
On she drives.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
Tania slurps her cheap beer and uncrosses her legs,
exposing fresh bruises from the soup factory.
She outlines them in marker and draws
a smiley face on one located on her right thigh.
*These bruises tell me that my life is composed
almost entirely of bad decisions*, she says,
replacing the cap on the marker. I ask how
a decision could form such a perfect,
purple circle. Between swallowing
beer and peering into the rain,
she burps. *I can't say, but--
I mean, do you want
to have *** Later on
I drive her to the
hospital and I visit
a therapist. For
a few months.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
A complete stranger
Through these rows
In the dimming light of terror
Cat Walks all way and sits with me
I gave her my popcorn and Pepsi
As she crunches my heart pops
As she slurps my brain slumps
At the end she left wearing a smile
A smile that pens up a love story
The cinema sits down to watch me
I am in the screen no one could touch me
As I Sit in Disney world and lost in dreamland
Until a little girl shouted in her top voice
The end Mr. Bean
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
It's so hard to compete
with well shaped human form.
My lines are all bulky,
uneven, and lumpy.
I've no ******* to caress,
no hips and no rear.
That is, I do have them,
but you'll not find them here.
It's so hard to compete
sipping long slurps of mead,
somewhat sweet, something biting,
when shots come much quicker,
they get you there
down the line
move along
spending time
wisely. I
have to take mine.
I can't rush this.
You must understand.
I'm a poet. I hold these words
tight in my hands.
I release them, but slowly,
like time's grains of sand.
There's no **** here,
just titles.
No models, just writers.
Our words are our craft.
We drink, we expire.
If photos are worth just one thousand words each,
then I am the camera
with the film out of reach.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 11:04 PM UTC
I've always had those moments
when I seem braindead
but really I'm just overthinking
a passed or impending situation
Making two-star dramas and slasher films
I'm the silent victim
that should've saw it coming
in my soothsayer premonitions
Wish I could drop a bag of bones
and let them come up with
the mood I should be in
These small woodland animal spirits
prancing around my world
tell me what's life's deal
and sometimes make me fearful
when I'm in a badly lit room alone
It's not the dark that gnashes
but that which most wants the light
As if, life is about burning your hands
on many light bulbs, 'till some source
slurps up your essence and you're stuck
finding the portal to the next level
fighting and collecting dragons on the way
fighting and collecting dragons on the way
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
Intwined in sweat soaked
fev’rish delusion
A rav’nous serpent
coiling illusion
An ouroboros
slurps its slith’ring self
The prism lies fissured
’neath a cracked ice shelf
where flaws like veins branch
blood of dark gods flow
a heaven lost in smoke
nothing good here grows
Atlas underground
sinews straining stiff
auguries of beasts ablaze -
Spare a pity for what if
Apr 22, 2022
Apr 22, 2022 at 11:10 AM UTC