"smacks" poems
through the streets and column cracks
culture weaves and summer smacks
sacred figures, holy shrine
monastery in grand design
cathedrals, convents, heaven’s stars
god of neptune, god of mars
doge’s palace, alley ways
gondolier on full display
winged lions on pastel breeze
cicada singing from the trees
pillar walk of saint mark's square
basilica in all its flare
crosses shade the carousel
a bridge of sigh that leads to hell
golden stairs on placid ridge
arches of rialto bridge
torcello! murano! grigio!
the countess rides the river poe!
sins of seven, fiery hides
poplars bank the levee side
black plague, attila the ***
eden formed before the sun
paradise above the marsh
high alter, gothic arch
middle age, religious wars
celestial fountains, marble floors
sculpted peacock, catholic faith
all is true the great god saith
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 9:24 AM UTC
beautiful round ***
a firm smack
it smacks back
fast pace
you looking back
moans morph to screams,
I could get use to that
begging for more
and I reach back
some deep strokes
I love that
Jan 11, 2023
Jan 11, 2023 at 8:59 AM UTC
Some days are like that, you don't stop,
Too bad there are no time management cops,
But are we not, to police that ourselves.
From the degrees of the compass we find our,
interests, which give energy and power,
to our lives, or stay on those dusty shelves.
Catalog and label with modern library code, move over,
Or scan, a bar code on any book, judged by the dust on the cover,
Are you like a book not opened, imagine, delve...
Deeper, kick out the chafe that holds you down, holds you back,
Look and ask why are there strings, to your head, heart, smacks,
of a conspiracy, we know, your joy, your love will not be squelched.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
bluebells
.
bluebells tower
over
the ants
.
drip tiny
drops
drop
s
of water
.
the swingset creaks
the bluebells sway
sky so cloudy
perfect day
.
my face
smacks the dirt
.
my knees start to bleed
.
the bluebells sway
and
observe
.
my tears
.
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
I saw... I saw how you broke the strongest person I know. How you made her fall to her knees. You'll never know how her cries haunt me to this day. "Never trust...keep them away...walls" these thoughts ran and still run through my head. Over and over like a broken record that's beginning to shred my sanity. Look at what you've done.
I can't understand how you can walk in here like you've done nothing wrong. Do you feel no guilt? Does the fact that you crushed her mean anything to you?
But no, you're right, you always are. Your excuses will always defy logic while you manipulate all your wants to seem right, proving us wrong. Your hypocrisy shreds all other insanities.
Will you ever know how when you broke her you shattered me? These scars I have, the scars I hide, they came from you always reminding me what happens when I trust someone.
Own this, take responsibility. You boast about your accomplishments already, so why not this? Because it might ruin your image, show the rest that your not all they perceive you to be. Or will it hurt your ego to know that you've done wrong.
Because of you I play it safe. Not trusting those around me with my thoughts, emotions, heart... But thats how you wanted it, isn't it. For me to not trust.
You know, I find it funny that you wonder why I try pulling away harder every time you tighten my leash. Yeah its ironic how I don't want to come to you when all I get are the verbal smacks of what a terrible person i am, of all I do wrong, of how disappointed you are that I'm not better.
But I'm done, I'm not a dog and I refuse to let you dictate this part of my life. I'm human. I'm allowed flaws, opinions, and imperfections. These scars, they make me beautiful. They're battle I've fought, that I've won. So i refuse not to trust, because not everyone judges me the way you do. I refuse... I refuse to be refused my rights as a human being and I refuse to deny everything that makes me, me.
So here, take it back. Take it all back. All the lies, false promises, persecution,denial,hate...take it back, all the blows you gave me. All the cracks to my body while I cried for you to stop, but prayed you wouldn't so that you would not see the little boy I was hiding in the corner.
You know, I'm standing here right now broken, busted but I am not defeated. I will never let you hold me down. Because...because I'm worth it. I'm worth all the dreams I have, all the hopes I carry and all the love given to me. And for all those people like me, so are you.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 12:21 PM UTC
I wake up to let the dog out
And am greeted by your collective clutter--this family!--
***** cups and plates, cushions on the floor, old socks tucked into the couch, cracked pistachio shells intermingling with dried berry blood, ear plugs!
I wade into the bog of filth to begin my daily duties. I can hear your voice say, "No one ever helps me around here!"
Truly I am a modern Cinderella--I think-- beaten and worn down by those who don't appreciate me. So Christlike!
It smacks me in the face.
The realization that Christ was crucified last night and is dead and buried and won't rise until tomorrow,
And the disciples have no idea that he will indeed rise!
I am no Cinderella.
I am a murderer going about her business without any remorse for her crime.
What a grim day Saturday can be.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
Alice sits
in the room
with blackboard
and easel
and small desk
and small chair
with Nanny
stern and strict
pointing at
the blackboard
with her stick
teaching her
her letters
the grammar
paragraphs
sentences
by long rote
and command
and Alice
knows now that
any cause
of Nanny's
discontent
will bring her
punishment
her father's
hard hand smacks
whack and whack
she sits still
taking note
but bored she
stares out high
windows at
tall tree tops
and blue skies
thinking of
her mother
locked away
(ill in her
head Nanny
coldly said)
then she thinks
of her new
adoptive
mother who
works below
stairs(low stairs
her father
often says)
the one with
the red raw
fingers thin
and young who
secretly
said she would
be her new
adopted
mother but
to strive to
learn to do
her best and
so she does
but thinks of
the time when
lessons are
over she
can sneak down
below stairs
and along
passageways
to where her
adoptive new
mother works
and feel her
embrace her
earthy smell
her soft cheek
against that
rough cloth of
apron the
red fingers
caressing
her long hair
whispering
words but still
the nanny
drones on the
lesson now
taking its
toll boredom
sinking in
wishing her
adoptive
mother would
come and take
her away
for a walk
to the horse
stables or
into town
holding her
hand the red
hand holding
her pink one
or dreams of
snuggling
up to her
in her bed
feeling her
motherly
tender warmth
but Nanny
still drones on
the long lesson
word on word
keeping her
from the arms
and caress
and earthy
smell of cloth
of her new
adoptive
young mother
below stairs
Alice yawns
secretly
her small hand
over mouth
knowing this
blowing soft
from her palm
to her young
adoptive
mother a
secret kiss.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:53 AM UTC
You nod towards
the mustang.
A yellow ball in your hands.
I smile and slip a bat from my softball bag.
I climb into the drivers seat,
sticking my tongue out at you.
You laugh and climb in.
I drive to the track and field combination
with the seatbelt alarm chiming the whole way.
I shift into park and climb out.
I swirl the bat around
waiting for you to set up your pitching stance.
You throw the ball and I line drive it by your face.
You dive left and up.
The ball smacks into your glove.
I round second and you start running after me.
I step off third and your arms trap me
as you spin around
bringing me down
on top of you.
We burst with laughter.
I miss these days.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
LET SLEEPING PTERODACTYLS LIE
Rusted scythe
perched on a nail
high up on a wall
a sleeping pterodactyl.
I can't stop myself touching
it to see if it is - real.
Smacks its lips
laps up my blood
from my foolish fingertip
deceived by shadows.
It's grin glinting
the smile come alive.
The ghost of a horse
whinnies in the stable
that's gone long gone
the then merging into the now.
Or maybe Mr. Death
too tired to go on
hangs up the instrument of his trade
time to retire the old bones.
“No way to make a living!”
I back slowly away
blinded by the sunlight
that screams. . ."Run!"
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
Bubble and pop
sweet baby darling
blow
blow me, *****
and bring up all the sweet candy corn you can find.
shush and shake sweet honey babe
shush me and taste the shore with the tip of your tongue
can you taste the salt, sugar?
do you feel the rush, daddy?
chew me up like a piece of pink chunky bubble gum
and store me behind your ear.
draw me some cotton candy to munch on
and paint yourself a rocking chair to sit and watch.
blow me, babe.
pin me up against the wall and down underneath you
let me be your pinup girl
pull my stockings up
and sit me down on your lap
give me smacks for bad behavior
and leave candy colored crimson smeared across my chin.
oh, sweet baby darling, don't you crave to swallow me whole?
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 4:33 AM UTC
(For G. H.)
Say, does that stupid earth
Where they have laid her,
Bind still her sullen mirth,
Mirth which betrayed her?
Do the lush grasses hold,
Greenly and glad,
That brittle-perfect gold
She alone had?
Smugly the common crew,
Over their knitting,
Mourn her -- as butchers do
Sheep-throats they're slitting!
She was my enemy,
One of the best of them.
Would she come back to me,
God **** the rest of them!
**** them, the flabby, fat,
Sleek little darlings!
We gave them *** for tat,
Snarlings for snarlings!
Squashy pomposities,
Shocked at our violence,
Let not one tactful hiss
Break her new silence!
Maids of antiquity,
Look well upon her;
Ice was her chastity,
Spotless her honor.
Neighbors, with ******* of snow,
Dames of much virtue,
How she could flame and glow!
Lord, how she hurt you!
She was a woman, and
Tender -- at times!
(Delicate was her hand)
One of her crimes!
Hair that strayed elfinly,
Lips red as haws,
You, with the ready lie,
Was that the cause?
Rest you, my enemy,
Slain without fault,
Life smacks but tastelessly
Lacking your salt!
Stuck in a bog whence naught
May catapult me,
Come from the grave, long-sought,
Come and insult me!
WE knew that sugared stuff
Poisoned the other;
Rough as the wind is rough,
Sister and brother!
Breathing the ether clear
Others forlorn have found --
Oh, for that peace austere
She and her scorn have found!
2.3k
It's a cool place to meet.
25 cent wings.
Nice, tiny booths
Lit by tiny electric lamps
In the guise of candles,
That give everything a nice, golden glow.
It's a Corona light,
And Corona-colored light always makes me feel
at ease.
She pulls up in a silver acura.
Gets out of the car and I can
see her ***
from the front of her
as she syrups over.
She’s got on a Black tanktop;
black bra straps showing
against white-pink
puerto rican skin
all while holding up those veritable C's.
Her hips burst against
a
long, beige
d
r
e
s
s,
and I'm wanting to slide my hands all the way up her shirt to that black bra, and snap it off.
We have conversations about feeling older than
eighteen
and twenty-one
respectively.
Our lips are saucy
and oily. Tiny chicken scraps
can be felt in our teeth.
"I just started reading Starship Troopers."
"Yea, I love that movie."
I've never seen the movie,
but it endears her to me
that she loves it.
"Do you have any plans?"
"Plans?"
"After college?"
I plan on finishing my wings
before you, then I'm hoping
you'll let me hold your ****
"Not yet."
"You know I've read some of your poetry."
"What do you think?"
"I like it," She smirks,
uncomfortably.
She ladles a wing in a slick of sauce.
"Truthfully, it was too much for me,
you really shouldn't talk about things like that."
She brings the wing
to her lips
and smacks it down
with a loud ******* noise
of a working, pink tongue.
I’ve wanted to hold her **** ever since I met her.
Now I’m lost.
Because she’s got black eyes
and I’m not even thinking about her **** or her bra.
I start thinking about how white her teeth are,
and how much two people can never know about each other.
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 12:15 AM UTC
He who stands for something is prone to prejudice.
He who is prone to prejudice
Is quick to act
He who is quick to act
Is ultimately destined to folly.
For it's said "He who stands for nothing".
"Falls for anything".
So, with breath held
And careful consideration
Ask yourself.
"What do you stand for"?
Is it natural design.
that your action is not of your
Making?
So much control, smacks of huberis.
Like a stubbed toe
On the best of days.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 7:06 PM UTC
Sometimes I just want to see another way of being me
Another way of being free of all insecurity
But there are times when that is hard
And there are wounds that have been scarred
And now I'm trying to get by with what in my life has been marred.
I keep trying to escape all of the lies that cover my eyes like tape; such a disguise, I can let out only sighs.
It's hiding all of my fears deep inside all of my tears that never flow, I don't let them go, so I keep moving, I reap what I sow.
So no, I'm not fine, I walk a fine line between peace and what is at least my foreseeable destruction.
And I know I'm laughing and requesting you leave it alone but what is worse is the curse of knowing I am and will always be unknown.
All weight will drop off my shoulders, but before, it gets much colder,
So cover me in this vacancy of emotion and make me bolder.
Make me able to stand under the pressure of the hand that smacks my hand and tells me "Man, it's just a phase." which does the opposite of
Raising me up and making me new, so if you only knew that what you do makes me rue the so-called man that I've become and now
The future man that I will be will never rise up from his knee
So I'm left stirring in this mind of never-ending insecurity.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 10:32 AM UTC
Can't you feel my screaming heart?
I feel all yours and it's unbearable
To know everyone's intention may seem ineffable
Though my passion is emotion and empathy my art
Dwelling silent in a crowded room
To the right a pursuit of lust
And my left a lack of trust
Empty grins with their facade and doom
Another item has been stolen
My peers in an unknowing uproar
I see the culprits guilt pour
From his weary eye and coven
The ***** swoons the love of an unworthy patron
She gazes at me with a tempting question
Attempting to construct my envy and affection
My will is stronger than that seducing notion
The lonely man makes a joking inquisition
All the rest see it as a laughable gesture
I look with sad eyes to see his slouching posture
He wants to die in his pathetic position
The muscle bound dunce smacks his lips
Glorified as the acrobatic conversationalist
Strapped men in shackles and girls can't resist
His compensated shortage of yays and yips
A quiet smile looks on with a perfect mask
Playing pretend with an inglorious burden
Faking a life inside of her chaotic garden
Of hollow theatrics in which she basks
There goes the lad with his flippy hair
The little ladies want a picture with the fellow
Oh you're so rad the flocking lasses bellow
And, you wonder why I don't seem to care?
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 10:07 AM UTC
Basketball
The name is in the game
You either shoot or you fall
Ball in basket is primary aim
Dribble, dribble, dribble
The ball smacks the ground
Defender’s actions written scribbled
Forward rushes hoop bound
There’s no “I” in “team”
passing becomes like breathing
To enter the pro dream
Cause orange is the color we bleeding
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 7:43 PM UTC
Here in the west borough, down three or four blocks from the epicenter, the shocks come to you in tides — little, electric, delightful in some alien way. Even the sounds of instant decay ring pleasant. The concrete, the bricks, the mortar, the Corinthian columns, the suspended ceiling tiles, the florescent bulbs, the coffee cups, the desktops, the family portraits all fall from their stations, screaming toward the cool pavement. It’s a temperate Thursday in January and the weathermen continue to talk in stunted disbelief. A car catches fire on Malcom X Boulevard, and weather is the wrong word, you think, for this phenomenon. It’s rage. It’s bitter. The violence of the sun-catching glass smacks of vengeance and this whole thing is man-made or, at the very least, god-made but not anything so indiscriminate as weather.
There’s still the pleasure of it though. The collapse of the old world. And there’s nothing but rubble on the corner of 9th and Dominican, and for the life of you, you can’t remember what stood there before. In your evergreen bones you know one thing: whatever anodyne brick institution reigned will be replaced by that glorious glass and that glorious steel, 100 towers impaling the sky. The future is now. A tremor. A cloud of dust.
For about ten seconds the windshield is worthless yet you speed up, hurling yourself through the fog of destruction into a **** world, feeling essential and brilliant and and and.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 11:59 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
They’re holding ‘em
At airports
Stopping them
From coming in
What’s being done
To some Muslims
Border on a sin
Is this the price
They pay
For their desire
To be free
It smacks
Of blatant racism
If you’re asking me
They’re holding ‘em
At airports
Like cattle
In a bin
In the name
Of homeland security
“Least that’s
What they pretend
The countries
Have been named
But none from Nine-Eleven
Their number
To be exact
Totals out at seven
They’re holding ‘em
At airports
Because of
Their religion
You can say
What you will
But he’s made
His decision
Based on
Little else
Other than
Irrational fear
In the face of principals
We used to hold dear
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2017. All rights reserved.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 11:53 AM UTC
How to make nonsense out of bitter citrus fruits
Leave them be, already a font of nonsensical egg yolks
You do this for yourself, your own self, and no other self
Endure another fortnight daliance, you dance forthrightly
Absorb information like paranoia
The facts are lying in bed with an orange banana
How to make something lasting in a world cursed with impermanence
It cannot be done. It simply cannot be done.
The length of a breadbasket will often determine
the size of the loaf
The ratio of meat to potatoes makes nonsensical lemonade
The worst kind...worse than the worst
This document is not intended for distribution
during the lifetime of the author
Only with his passing disseminate expecting sympathy for
the old poet's story, how rarely it truly changes
The ingredients for the above mentioned nonsense
have been properly proportortioned and mixed per instruction
Take a wiff, you can smell the sweet aroma of their baking vapor
As a child I ate spoonfuls of baking powder
The aroma certainly saturates the proceedings
Almost intoxicating how it smacks your heart with nostalgia
The stupid cartoons, the National Lampoon stolen from the convenience store you hung out in
Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in
That, my friend, is the beginning from the end
That, my foe, is the bleedin' end of the road
I'm in Ian Curtis' voice, deadening repetion
Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out
Ding, Ding, the timer in the kitchen chimes it's melancholy ring
The nonsense is at this present moment complete
Ready to serve, ready to eat
and please don't choke on my words, I'm half asleep
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 10:36 PM UTC
Drop the rocks
Full-grown pop in the jaw
Bleeding gold
Won't save your soul
Moving again and again and again and again
Until the pacific
Closes behind your back
because criticism smacks
kids out of whack
Morphemes-phonemes again
and again
Given the knowledge
of a recycling bin of
letters
Use them again and again
Won't save your soul
Atom smash logic replaying
and playing before your eyes
Some days it's too much
coal to mine
Mouth covered when you
step in time
Won't make your life
I'm a goner if I can't
stand on the rocks
and if the laundry doesn't burn
If the grim reaper doesn't speak
nonsense words from one
state of consciousness
to the other
Drop the bomb
Call the mob
Stock our shelves
Grow the letters
Feed all those starving
tongues
Let me tell you a story
Once the grim reaper
dressed like an old woman
and bought denture cream
just to know how it feels to
grow old
A human is an animal
Some think an olive is a fruit
A dog is a wolf on the inside
Begging to learn the trick
Speak
Next in line most wait
for straight prose
pinch their noses misguided
Want blood to bleed red
Don't want ideas to smash
their bread
Won't save their minds
from a punch in the gut
Mine closing in their faces
and their Atlantic drowns
shattered glass
encasing words upon words
owned by streams of
Consciousness running
all around
Those nonsense words
running aground
can't swim though all
the world's frowns.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
The guy sitting behind me
opened up a tupperware,
brought his own food
to my favorite cafe
and he smacks his lips as he eats it
crunches the world's loudest salad
and burps as a finale
*I want to **** him*
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 9:17 PM UTC
Smothered in leftover sausage ham gravy
A liver-spotted sewer-swimin' baby
Crawls up to the dumpster as Ma and Pa
Dig din din out of the can can
Before the man man comes out with the pan pan
And smacks em' all up real good like.
Homeless in the gutters rely on the
Percentage of Americans that aren't
Obese pieces of **** that finish not only
Their meals but their plates and silverware...
Some even eat the waitress.
How fat must you be, America?
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 4:02 AM UTC
I like that you don’t know my name
this dangerous liaison
smacks of a suicide mission
in this day and age
flying solo in the erotisphere
carries all kinds of penalties
especially with broken wings
that have left me unable to soar
crawling like a serpent
banished from Eden’s beauty
for all the sins I have performed
no resistance to temptation
always accepting any fruit proffered
by shadows that pass through the night
the rings getting darker under eyes
that have seen too much bed
and not enough honest rest
too much passion with no feeling
blank faces and sweated screaming
I like that you don’t know my name
so you won’t judge me far less trace me
for my part I promise to never call again
Feb 10, 2022
Feb 10, 2022 at 1:00 PM UTC
I think about you
this heart begins to race
I can’t stop thoughts
the way you taste
how your tongue rolls
your low moans your
warm, soft skin
solid smacks on said skin
you shove into me
and I’m pretty sure I might,
be losing my mind
e v e r y t i m e you’re in me
**** with your
tight grip around my wrists
soft kiss along my neck
fast, heavy exhales
ill come for you
time and time again
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 11:34 PM UTC
Alice chalks
secretly, in
red and white,
a caricature
of the new
nanny her
father has hired.
The stick like
figure is spread
eagled across
the side wall
of the house,
red hair, eyes
and mouth,
white long
protruding
teeth and
four fingers
on each hand.
She has heard
her parents row;
the new nanny
took her by
her small hand
to the nursery
and sat her in
a chair; stay
there, she said.
She draws a
thin white line
of chalk through
the nanny's heart.
She stares, smiles,
and wipes her
hands on her
pinafore and
put her hands
behind her back.
Her father had
punished; her
mother had
cried and rowed
and now Alice
waits outside,
by the wall,
staring at the
caricature, the
stick nanny
with an arrow
through her heart.
The sun is dull;
rain threatens;
birds sing; the
thin maid walks
with a mild limp.
Alice waits for
rain; her hands
sense the area
of punishment
pain. Mother
loves and hugs
and kisses. Her
Father glares
and shouts
and smacks
and never misses.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC