"slushy" poems
an incredible incite (the ruthless volatility of words)
~for L.B.~
the only place of solitaire solitude in the city accompanies me
like a faithful country dog that doesn’t know better to be afraid,
of moving cars, sleepless night terrors and unscripted “dreams”
where image and words say come “follow me” with ruthlessness and no cloying come hither looks and
see and take and recall with perfect midnight blue sky clarity for
the incredible incite of credible insight
surfacing unexpectedly in a intemperate pool of slushy snow,
that will be an ice storm of painful confrontations with naked
inner truths standing outside in sunny sub zero playground
there is great risk. volatility gone wild. when the speed
governor is removed and you live at 100 mph on local streets,
when the merest slight of an accidental incidental touch
transforms into an incite incident and hell is the threat
that you will not die today and your own words will ruthless
pull from the nerve places where sensible and sensual cannot
coexist and this write this script is a poetical insight inside, an
incredible incite and what your spilling is spaghetti sauce blood
when you left your brain on broil, instead of the faking daily of
slow simmering ineffectual intellectual words that just don’t
cut the crap. your addiction complete, you cannot live without
the incredible incite, the ruthless volatility of words,
otherwise why rough write what you see
in the blind
beyond the blind
1/6/18 5:03am
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 5:17 AM UTC
Megan
my partner in crime
my bumble bee twin
my best friend
Best friends since second grade
that's.... what 15 years now? 16?
Sleepovers at eachothers homes
Pixie stick highs and slushy brain freezes
Trips to my grandmother's,
for a Harry Potter Marathon
Rocking out to Halestorm
Daughters of Darkness through and through
Foil art doodling and reading through the night
Did I mention the trip to Walmart?
ten at night just for a loaf of bread?
Screaming at eachother, throwing punches
Calling names so bad tears start to form
Saying we're through we're done mo more friendship
two minutes later laughing stupidly together
Our favorite place, Weedamo woods,
High Rock, queens of the world
I visit those memories in my dreams
I miss my soul sister my best friend for life
I miss being able to call you up and yell
*"YO ***** come get me I need to talk."*
You're still my bestie and you always will b
This separation don't forget is only temporary.
I'll move down there soon
and together we can rec havoc once more
until then please don't forget me
I know I haven't forgotten you.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC
She is a succulent bunch,let me be helpful,
if you don't get the complex chemical scent,
I call her ,"a girl of unpredictable
meeting places"inotropic, is her effect,
She sends heartbeats way up.
Delectable too, she was, every time
I tasted certain parts of her.
Her avatars are numerous, like Hindu Gods
With specific intention for each incarnation
Onee will be pushed in to neurosis,
if doesn't completely relish her infinite variety.
She is a cryptic mystic,
for a while from signals
I discerned and firmly believed
Or is she just a creature mysterious
Doubt raises it's head, like a lotus
From slushy pond
My eyes met her at the level of her eyes first,
the rest in a haze to me was invisible,
Then my heart sends a message
"Right now, I missed a beat here"
Heart then recites a poem,
tells me, it is all her making
"Don't fall in love" heart's advice,
"Go, dissolve in her completely"
Even my own heart has crossed sides,
or is it truly an advice for my sake?
Love is a hallucinogen, get it?
she whistles like wind at bamboo groves
from within sings like a thrush,
she is a magpie, or is she a koel?
Nocturnal animal, in need of mating,
making calls, frantic SMS, incessant.
She is wind and water, elements
that make one burn and drown
She spreads her yoga mat on the floor,
asks me to sit cross legged Indian style,
I am already for that in my mind,
So I spread eagle in corpse pose, indicating, "All through my life", mother earth gives me warmth.
Shanti, Shanti, shanti
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 7:45 AM UTC
unsuccessful potatoes & you found a tree in the ocean
i spent the afternoon digging, digging
my fingernails into my own fear of commitment
the fear of my own reputation
now the cat's in heat & richard nixon (the dog)
is teasing her with his trump card
she takes it
& squeezes it
very gently
then rips it open madly & snarls
& it oozes and drips out of her mouth
we all pick up a thousand pieces of a minute
i cremated my sister this morning & new spirits
arrived at my doorstep before noon
they sang to me of instinct,
whinnying about the antique zenith
up in cheyenne
"gimmie some secrets" she said
so i carved them
into my arm
into a minotaur's chest
into a giant looking glass
into a wooden boat
& i set sail for the sundial,
"there is no truth"
my eyes are wax & the ocean
means nasty filth
but everything is useless now
frogs carry high powered harmonicas
& walk into the spells of Poe
& into the hexagrams of Hamlet
i do not want to carry a pitchfork across
some godforsaken desert
i do not want to feel my own evaporation
while the real artists brood in the meantime
i want to waste away on a slushy evening
i will live in my armpit
& hate you
& never wear deodorant
"your mind is small--it is limited--why must you understand?"
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 9:11 PM UTC
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
3.1k
1
**My dad suddenly walks in,
as if nothing has happened,
and he hasn't gone anywhere, leaving
six of us behind, notwithstanding-
all these years of absence and
pain unimaginable that changed us all
to see life in a new light that gets dim
without the lamp he held in front of us.
A shadow transparent gets in to the room,
he stands near mom sitting inside her cocoon,
lost in an ancient evening, pensive, forlorn
as if she feels an absence, tangible right there.
Dad's absence stands silent, perhaps
curiously looking at her with loving eyes
that's how he was, after a period of absence.
The pantomime, tears my sense of reality
in to shreds, I sit upright,
with my hands pressed against my palpitating heart.
Do I see it really or hallucinate him looking,
wistfully at the coconut groves dancing
beyond the extending rice paddy billowing,
in front of our farm yard, sleepy these days,
for a moment I think time has
taken liberty to flow back
and everything is right there
where we'd love it to be.
2
The absence was a hollow,
in the middle of everything,
breaking the mirror of reality
in to smithereens, the dark space,
in between sprang-
opening its mouth to swallow,
wherever one turned,
it stood in front defiantly,
posing a challenge at times,
it came behind hollering noiselessly,
bringing unbearable memories,
from moments hard to forget
spent in his company,
in my palmy days of yore.
3
Absence was fire within,
that needs no fuel to burn,
flood waters without a source,
that can wash away,
till one becomes nothing;
then little by little,
one comes in to terms with the absence
and at last it too is laid to rest,
and that eats a part of the soul,
causing bleeding in slushy green,
transparent white and blobs of sad black.**
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 8:11 AM UTC
"I got kissed once," she mumbles,
sitting outside the local Sonic,
between her fingers a corndog fumbles,
mixing her slushy with beer and tonic.
The not-so-neon sign of the dive
flickers like a flashlight there;
the activity isn't alive,
its fundamental force impaired.
"I remember it vaguely," she groans,
the seat of her car squeaking,
"The times were full of gasps and moans,
my memories are fleeting."
Many things happen at night
while others are asleep.
Under the not-so-neon light,
the stillness made her weep.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 1:36 PM UTC
Other worlds have hopes,
for plants, for trees and
dogs walking by, panting
soaking in humidity like carp
above water.
Not ours.
Dead ends, parked cars supplanting
serenity with passion, desire
crammed into
row upon row of heartless
dwellings expunging sunglass-wearing
**** suckers
blocking their emptiness from the world
with reverse blindfolds.
I know their eyes still glare at me, scoffing at
them. Walking, I
walk past
their barricaded kennels, under-
construction housing
impersonating natural climes
with sushi and slushy shops.
People like them have admiss-
able drives, hankering after
freedom; they're indoctrinated
to believe admission is
monthly cable bills
wired in beneath concrete slabs
maintained compliance
through lines painted on grass
where overlords can tell livestock
what to do.
Bus chutes form
hillsides, beside lines of
trees which perfume these
feedlots
we call
cities.
**** oozes below streets
walked on, they stared at me
like cows, watching a ranch-hand
suspicion toward anything
beyond bistro fences.
"What the **** are you looking at,
you filthy animal?
Have you no idea which species your greed
feeds?
Do you know where this ends
for you?
Who's tazing your ***
who's making you sit there?"
Moo, mooo.
Mooooooooooooooooooo.
Receipts, a cudgel on each table,
more cudgels ring
from pockets
telling them what time it is,
where they're to be.
Sunday's almost over,
back to blocks of houses!
Graze on painted grass,
then die,
but not before you stare at me
with empty eyes,
you pathetic, miserable
creatures.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC
words in a blender
too slushy
pain behind the eyes
frozen thoughts
lime green
exorcised projectiles
turning heads
with demon smiles
and whispered snarls
in a dead language.
r ~ 8/1/14
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 10:17 AM UTC
Consumed by mutation our species struggles
Dying out from exaggerated consumerism
(soft drums) When will we learn
Monsantoland economics adopted
Three headed grasshopper
A malformed genetic **** you
Other intelligence, for we are known, must be confused
Amused
At our inherent stupidity
It cannot be called ignorance, see through lies
Great hulking vats of toxic slushy
Pouring into our very veins
Pollute the pipes, it all goes to hell
Handbaskets filled with frankenfruit
Our deformed future draws quickly near
I know where my tomato's been
Do you?
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 1:50 PM UTC
The peach was soft and fuzzy, bruise less and juicy, waiting to be tasted.
Yet no one would touch it.
Maybe it was because it was the last peach left in the ceramic fruit bowl.
Or maybe no one craved peaches anymore.
It sat in the sun for weeks, getting softer and changing it's pale peach colour to a sandy burnt orange.
No one ate it or threw it away.
It just became part of the bowl, hidden by new, plumper fruit.
Kiwis, oranges, lemons.
Yet no one touched the peach.
Eventually it was noticed, decaying next to a pear.
It was tossed into the compost where it decayed even further, becoming a slushy brown slime.
The peach was forgotten so easily and noticed too late.
It could have been the best peach anyone had ever tasted.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
My belly, a pimpled basketball,
puffed with pasta,
and my chest, just a hoop and a net, swishing wine through.
Spent my last ***
on cookies and cakes
stuffing my cheeks in backwards
with gushing gobs and slushy slimes.
I go mad like a fat queen.
my hot mouth,
now a thick, cocoa-creamy swirl,
as it turns into a custard-filled pastry of its own.
I do what I can to feel bliss among ****
Try to ignore the flies fizzing like seltzer.
The candy wrappers scattered wherever
like broken-into envelopes.
I feel a large thumb press, press, press
my skull to my ankles.
Tossing chocolate chunks square into
my throat like bozo buckets.
After a while
It stops being "eating"
and turns into a factory of into me and out of me.
In the end, the delicious part always gets too salty and
salt over salt is trash
and nothing stays
an ****** for more than a couple
pinches of this or that.
my body yells at me, because it wants nothing more but to
**** devil-face with those teeny-tiny, delicious
throbbing minutes.
I can't feel my life
and so I have to eat dinner on the floor.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
there’s something unsettling about convenience stores. the fluorescent lights resemble some planet far away from here. neon signs with a letter broken, now flashing “be r,” beckoning the broken, the damaged, the lost boys. the home of those who don’t fit in. they buy the greasy pizza, rubbery hot dogs, and chemically nacho cheese which imitate something edible but scream danger on the tongue. haunted by the souls of the the pimply teenagers working the register, lips stained blue from blue raspberry slushy, slaving through the evening for the nocturnal souls buying milk and bread in the wee hours of the night. hushed arguments on the phone about forgetting to buy toilet paper and why don’t you ever pay attention to me. the pungent smell of hair dye boxes, the stink of attempting to be someone you’re not. skeleton children with messy hair, ***** fingernails as well as thoughts, up to no good back for more cherry cough syrup and furniture polish. soon after 3 candy bars will be found missing from inventory. detergent bottle caps, once neon, now faded with gathering dust, residing next to a dented can of campbell’s chicken soup. an organized chaos. the land of misfit toys.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
There is love in the world
Overflowing like a slushy held by hands that can't seem to find the off switch
Everything that these hands touch are now sticky
But you still taste the sweetness
It fills you mouth with a taste unlike any other
And whatever you come in contact with
A residue is left, lingering behind
That tells others
I was here
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
Hazards on
He stepped into
That slushy sheet of snow.
It fell from heav'n
Pelting face
Onto the earth below.
The silence
Creeped in his ears,
His headlights were dull beams,
That lit the snow
Like a lamp
And shone upon the scene.
Damp pavement -
The body laid
Resting upon the street.
He could hardly
Stand the sight
It crushed there at his feet.
He stepped close
To examine
That mangled body there
To see if it
Was his cat
Or simply just a hare.
Difficult
The task it was
To recognize the dead.
The hair was wet,
Hue had changed,
A car had crushed its head.
Studying
The corpse with care -
The skin had been peeled back.
Torso-Muscle
Was revealed
The leg twitched - he gasped.
He jumped back,
Filled with terror
At what he had just spied,
But in that breath
He re'lized
The creature that had died.
Oh it was
A rabbit there,
Dead upon the cold lane.
Yes, he was sad -
Yet relieved -
From a heart filled with pain.
But, a part
Of him was crushed,
Shivering in the snow.
Like that creature
On the street,
He was there all alone.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 12:57 AM UTC
Any time, he is the sun
resplendent, charm unlimited,
every flower go crazy when he smiles,
desire makes them even shameless
like animals in heat, they adore him
as the jewel of their heart.
But I alone was the lucky one,
his eyes gleamed in desire,
when falling first on me
I knew, I alone was his lotus,
the only flower he kissed with fervor,
all others were just shadows that chased him,
and he may have relented.
Though born in the depth of this slushy pond,
I am pure, having a single pointed mind,
It's not only my ruddy petals, that made him fall in love,
he felt my warm heart, many a love lorn beetle
tried to pry open, in vein.
But who would think this dark cloud,
pretending to be a class apart,
hovering above, haughty and proud,
would invade his intimate space,
would eclipse our love so easily
by obstructing our love exchanges.
How long, a moving cloud,
that dissolves every minute
could hold sun her prisoner,
against his wishes(I am sure)
Winds of change are gathering
with such devastating force ,
they would sweep her away, so far.
Then, lashing rain would dissolve
her pride, making the sky clearer than ever.
I would again look at his eager face
so worried not seeing me so long.
"The dark days of anguish
that kept our love in the dark is over" I would tell,
"we are together, see how your passion flares
none could separate us, till the day I wither,
what if it would happen even in a day or two?"
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 9:30 AM UTC
.
Even after visits to apartments in self-named cities to see soccer stars swathed in orange tuxes,
Swerving off country roads in berating fits of tenderness,
Sputtering 'i love yous' in ditches and river canals;
Even after chais with Ye Ye Elders,
Messenger powwows with ancestors, and
holding the hands of comforting Harmonies, I
Never got it right.
.
It was a pathetic attempt to join a traveling circus; a passive means for an escape. Who were the Elephant Man, the sword swallower, or the contorting twins?
****** if I know.
Buddy had his hands wrapped around my neck in a nihilist noose so tight that it bubbled up amaurotic visions within my retina.
I couldn't see or feel a ******* thing.
Lost consciousness on his cold bathroom tiles, sprinkled with ***** confetti, **** all up on my cheek.idonthavetimeforthis!sleeponthecouch!
Watching 'Teach Yourself Circus!' videos at circus camp, I learned to juggle,
albeit groggy and disoriented. Only brightly coloured ***** at this point but I was up to seven tosses! While the freaks and geeks headed to carousels in the big top tent, I headed back to my dilapidated den leased on a broken Concord.
getoutbitchgetoutbitch
Back at camp ( hazy lazy crazy ) rivets affixed so I could only stare forward at the wall.
An e.ch-o-y sound in my
left ear
voice reverberating down thru
t
h
e
w
e
l
l
past
t
h
e
b u c
k e t
I turned my head,
slo-mo tracers flashed in warp speed,
glacial stares softened into slushy moss.
A buttery soft cashmere reply,
i'm sorry? what did you say?
you seem nice...
.
Infrastructure collapsed.
****
Gone.
Crumbled in a heap of rubble.
Impaled by rebar and rebar erections.
Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab.
Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab.
in a black plastic sack
And....then....
Who's to say about the linear sequence of events, anyway?
.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
Do plants have souls
whom feel and know?
Is not their appetite for existence
evident in the ways they grow?
Do they dream with warm
remembrance in this slushy snow?
Or have I let my metaphors become
some form of reality show?
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
A year ago at the North Pole
Santa STILL had a sign
That read "For Sale," posted on
His slushy, sludgy property line.
We stopped by to pay a visit
And found Santa out of sorts.
He asked if we perchance had read
Recent global warming reports.
"Things are looking worse than ever,"
He said, on the verge of crying.
"The ice caps continue to melt,
And the world's coral reefs are dying.
"We'll be seeing flooding coastlines,
Food shortages, wildfires….
And some even have the nerve
To call the prognosticators liars!
"People ask if it's too late.
I tell them that it depends
We can stop the warming, BUT
We MUST reverse emissions trends.
"If the earth's temperature rises
Two point seven degrees, they write,
Above pre-industrial levels--
That's degrees in Fahrenheit--
"We'll face dire consequences:
Mass extinctions of animals and plants,
Wobbly countries, refugees….
These are NOT just foolish rants!
"The world economy must be transformed.
Come on! You have to use your head!
Renewable sources of energy
Are vital; otherwise, we're dead."
How sad it was to see a man
Who once had been so cheerful and jolly
Now become so sad and so
Demoralized by human folly!
He showed us his dilapidated
House, and then with a sigh,
He said, "I've got work to do,"
At which point we all said good-bye.
-by Bob B (11-24-18)
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 11:01 AM UTC
"Forgive me, Father…for I have sinned"
This is how all my thoughts begin
Their ritual of villain regrets and sorrows.
They come, they lie, they spin…
Misguiding words and blinding the hallows,
While tears pray for the everyday forgiveness,
The tyrants chain my finned tomorrows
Forever consumed in acid of my illness.
Forgive me, Father…
For I have baptized my thoughts in holy water.
Their slushy sins dived into a cruel slaughter,
Leaving me senseless…hopeless…
My tongue have lost its ability
To cut the truth from raw evilness.
In this shell of madness there's no tranquility
In vengeance, burning wounds don't find stability,
In anger, blurry paths lie in selfishness
And so I lie there senseless.
The way back home
Can't be guided by crippled lights,
Redemption has got me in too many fights
Between me and my reflection,
I breathe and I bleed with no defection
While violins cry over my lost pure smiles,
Their grave shrouded me into a foolish disguise.
My lungs shout for Jordan River.
'Cause I can't go on like this…
Lies, mistakes then hinder
Every time dreams are never what is real.
Hear me, Father…
Here I stand in this place my tears used to gather.
Give me a rain drop so my eyes can heal,
Give me myself again so my skin can feel -
My thoughts are unsafe and they will ****
My insides as a sacrifice meal -
I can hear their evil whispers, late at night…
Don't leave me drowned into this tight well,
Where my pillow is creasing words of farewell.
Thoughts sing lullabies in a shallow swing
Words like "Forgive me, Father…For I have sinned."
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 1:37 PM UTC
Globalism
The winter after war was not jubilant
the snow was slushy like the beginning of spring.
A poor street, houses had not been painted
not much food and the ice was reluctant to let
go of its deadly grip.
I saw it along a wall of flaking cement
a small solitary, yellow flower the colour so bright
it blinded me it was like I had a moment of clarity
I understood and saw it all.
In the windows of old houses’ on sills
flower in pots in tins, humanities need for beauty.
I must not forget hasted home find a piece of paper and write it down.
But I didn’t get it down on paper my thoughts that were influenced
by beautiful minds.
So long ago now,
it was 1950 and people were friendly
we had suffered together and survived.
We are not the people of the world we are tribe, however modern,
it is our group's survival that counts.
Tribalism is much stronger than globalism it can never speak our language.
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 6:08 AM UTC
The clouds swell up with frozen ale
A slushy taste, all cold and stale
Falling, freezing, bittersweet
Kicking through the snow and sleet
It's raining, it's pouring, it's snowing tears
Of wasted alcoholic fears
The melted snow, a cold hangover
But springtime comes, and the sky is sober.
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC
Isabella stood alone outside.
She was in the garden chasing snow.
Her nose felt the chill, her fingertips too.
The tips of her beautiful delicate toes, were fast becoming blue.
In the corner under the trees, she'd made a snowman.
She swore she heard him sneeze.
He wore a lovely tartan hat, a purple scarf, a pair of soggy bright red gloves.
She thought, perhaps he needed a lady friend.
Next to him on his right hand side, she created a very chilled girlfriend, made from fairy snow.
She built a buxom snow mamma, with a plastic gem in the middle to play the role of mamma's nose.
Isabella found an old Alice band and popped it round her soggy head.
Between the three of them they discussed having an infant, a snow child of their own.
All three of them got ready to discuss the coming child.
Isabella started building snow person number three.
A pretty little snow girl, with strands of straw for yellow hair.
She wandered indoors and pinched some precious pebbles from real mama's plant ***
Isabella gave her snow girl bright blue shiny eyes.
Mummy let the dog out, he ran around the garden.
So happy to be out and free, crash, bang, wallop.
Knocked Mr Snowman to his knees.
Isabella built him up again.
Mr and Mrs Snowman and their daughter were her friends.
She kissed them all.
Bade a goodnight, to one and all.
Isabella went indoors.
It was nearly time for bed.
The morning sun ripped through the blinds.
She looked outside to see her friends.
They'd gone.
Perhaps they ran away.
It was a little warmer today.
In the garden just a slushy puddle.
Wearing a tartan hat purple scarf and bright red gloves.
(C) Livvi
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 4:02 AM UTC
He picked up his last check and proceeded out the building into the cold winter snow.
Each footprint shaped like the tears streaming down his rough beard. Snowflake after snowflake each touching him with a cold flame, melting away the emotional armour revealing a little boy.
Entering the 96’ camry he starts the ignition, as the car slowly chokes out the cold air…
He sits there…
staring out the windshield, as the night incarcerates him.
Entering a mental Interrogation where there is no good or bad cop, just a man asking himself
“Why me?”
“Why now?”
“How am I supposed to…?”
“What I am I supposed to…?”
He strikes the steering wheel like hammer and nail.
Mouth silent, eyes screaming…
Minutes down the slushy road he arrives at the one story home. Approaches the small black door, opens it and is tackled by four warm children.
Each building back new pieces of armour within him. Their smiles and laughter freed him from the cold dark imprisonment into the new flickering flame of faith and freedom.
If only they could see his
worried thoughts
and beneath his eyes,
eyes that only revealed a good time...
If only they could see a man's cry.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 7:04 PM UTC