"smarm" poems
Looked in the lint trash
What, a bucket of spiders?
But that's just my smarm, I mean
Charm, yes so charming, I
Feel I should tell
You: See, I am the kind
Of a man whose particles of rage all blend blisters into macrame
What? That's to say I only craft with vengeance, Art is Hell.
I'm not really sure, see, it seems I
have so many words inside and yet
No order, no syntax, no form, no norm.
Can't spin A.D.D. into gold, No,
I can't tremble, blink, then in that
Blink! Distill a miracle
Of words whose sentience, er,
Sentence myself to the chair,
The chair at the computer where,
Confounded,
I shiver and sigh, sob, eye.
Sep 7, 2011
Sep 7, 2011 at 6:43 AM UTC
It's funny how you're no longer attractive to me
because my week with you was laced with an ennui
that I could not foresee
and was forced to oversee
your drug-induced reveree.
It's funny because you think you're a player,
but you've got only one layer,
which acts as a disclaimer
to your vacant container
of empty and witless charm.
You seem to ooze smarm
to those who haven't been darned
with knowing the feel of your arm
in their, and you always seem lost
and somehow aloft
but I think that's just because of your recent list
for a drug that breeds mistrust.
I'm not saying you can't get high,
or that I don't have the supply,
but I can't understand why
I could never verify
and ounce of sobriety in you
in the week we went through.
If this is a preview
of your future revenue,
I don't want this friendship to ensue.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 4:36 PM UTC
Silver slivers of solid liver and jam
Whiskers kiss past Turks or ham
Flavored paper for popular people
Begin please! Climb our church steeple
Forget it, I mean you no harm
If you can't be cute, then try for smarm
Tell me a secret you know about boys
Though you might not know any, you still have soft toys
Never, ever, always - tall days (in platform shoes!)
Hate, love, lust, rust and remembering
Silly games with guns and dismembering
Bombs that explode into strawberry stars
Sparkle and twinkle, and try to melt cars
Jelly beans, tangerines, chocolate and fries
Buttered toast fireworks in ovaltine skies
Capable people do commonplace things
while I write myself a pair of pink wings
to fly overhead of their sensible plans
and pelt them with pillows and empty food cans.
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 7:27 PM UTC
My brain doesn’t fire
Synapses the way I want it to
Anymore.
It just shorts out
Causes a commotion
Leaving me on the floor.
I got a few to no tricks up my sleeve.
But these idiots keep putting faith in me
Like filling a plastic bag with more plastic bags.
I can’t see any reason to the way I’ve been living.
I’m fighting myself by instinct.
If you build a multitude of clever one liners
On being “Angsty and smarmy”.
Then when you run out angst and smarm
Your basically ******
So I’ve been trying to reinvent myself
For the kids.
The little bastards with the confidence to keep stars from falling.
But I haven’t seen a gleam in ages.
All I see is an empty sky reflecting in my hollow head.
I try to sleep it off
But I just wake up feeling dead.
I could go find a firing squad,
But that’s not what I want to say at all.
My brain isn’t working the way I want it to.
If this is growing up, we’re ******
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 4:30 AM UTC
Translucent feelings
Uncertain dealings
Waiting waiting game
Untenable desires
Plump opaque heart
Waif dreams
Dappled time
Smarm sublime
Plot twist ...
Hankering for fresh juicy thinking
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
by Leslie Thomson
One night late after midnight,
A poet sat with pen in hand,
Surrounded by crumpled up paper,
No words came to his command.
In his house there crept a poem,
Full of smarm and beguiling;
Just out of reach of the poet,
It stood there, sardonically smiling.
“Do I elude you, poet?”
Said the poem with mocking tone,
“Do I keep you awake at night,
And won’t ever leave you alone?”
The poet snatched at the poem,
Which stayed outwith his grasp.
He cursed at the elusive creature,
Who laughed with a throaty rasp.
“Poem how did you get in here?
And why won’t you give me peace?”
Asked the poet of the poem,
“I am tired and need release.”
“Why do you evade my clutches?
And keep me awake so very disturbed?
After all, I am a poet;
I am King of the written word.”
“Oh such grand conceit,” mocked the poem,
“To think this is your life to choose.
You are the king of NOTHING;
You are but servant to the muse.”
“You know your mind is not your own,
And words are beyond your control.
You merely scribble what is dictated;
You will write what you are told.”
“It is true,” bemoaned the poet,
“I asked not to be entranced.
To spend time with words evading me,
And leading me in merry dance.”
“Yet I would never want to escape it,
For I love the written word so.
The muse has me in her clutches,
And I never want her to let go.”
“So you tell me poem,” said the poet,
Just what is a poor poet to do,
When I’m distracted day and night,
And haunted by creatures like you?”
“You try too hard at times,” said the poem,
“That is why we lead you on this chase.
Each poem is like a lover;
We must be ready to embrace.”
And the poem slipped into the poet’s clutch,
And only then did he understand,
That he would never be king or master,
The muse is always in command.
His mind at once was inspired
And he continued the work he planned;
Contented and filled with love,
For the poem in his hand.
So when you look for inspiring verse,
To enlighten your life or fulfil,
Remember a poem will not be forced;
It must come of its own free will.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
It proved too difficult to bear the pain,
Of Heart weathered by attack of lovelorn rain,
Ferried to a destination cruel,
That does the righteous mind offend, appall,
Betwixt the loves I probing, searching go,
Dreaming, rocking, swinging to and fro,
Turning rocks, upending flowers for hallowed sight,
Of Loves raw ruby adorned in beauteous light,
But searching was the stupid thing to do,
For it was inside my heart that gift from Love sweet grew,
Who can call it treasure that one finds,
It's indelible, an activity refined,
That kindles in the fiery, impassioned mind,
And sings borne aloft on zephyrs for kindred kind,
Still, from him, with tears I fragile went,
The hour of my passion duly spent,
An admonished and assailed little scribe,
Writing dutifully to gift the reading tribe,
With tales and treatises of loves lament,
Bereft of touch of gift that heaven sent,
His paeans snared a poet, caught my boot,
As I ran through fields of joy in gay cahoot,
But he caught me only to slay,
The prize, and hold her captive to the day,
And smite her with a smear that she doth stalk,
For him, angel sullied by lie he talks,
Except it's true I chase the light that flies,
After angels as they go singing in the skies,
I only ever wanted to be bathed,
In that aura, so after it I tread,
But I gave up, tired of the chase,
And his words suffice only to abase,
And his empty crying of abuse,
From the one that he saw fit to contuse,
I thought I'd never frolic once again,
Beleaguered of the whole ****** thing with men,
But at the moment I had given up,
Heaven sent loves chalice, luscious cup,
Chased by suitor, ravenous as pup,
Could hardly count my fortunes or my luck,
Native of Love's consulate, embassy,
Doth with earnest Heart appeal to me,
And now contrition outweighed by joy and glee,
And I want him the world to see,
Whilst dangled on my proud, devoted arm,
Enamoured of his beauty and his charm,
Doth outweigh the devil's pomp and smarm,
For which this sorry babe came to grievous harm,
But now sweet entreaties I again refine,
To feel and fathom love and soar divine.
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 6:51 PM UTC
Easy
--
Truth is NOT a talent
Nor an art
..
Little sweet love
I
Don't want you to need me
---
Gods amid goddesses
WE
----
Don't let THEM NEAR YOU!
Or TOUCH you!!!!!
--
Be who you are
---
Live?
Die?
So be it
LOVE IF YOU WANT
quit bein so smarm-needy!
It ain't really
As CUTE as you think
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 2:17 AM UTC