"snafu" poems
WHEELS!!
Car insurance policies,
Snafu in technology,
Male methodology,
Some men are kind and comical,
Some are not so logical,
So-called men and their vehicles,
If they've got tyres and testicles!!!!!
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
This poem is a Google Adwords ad,
Intruding into the sidebar of your heart.
It’s a 1-800-LAWYERS commercial
Making you money off your personal injury.
It’s a brutal, ****** UFC bout,
Weak in its ground game but knows its Jiu-Jitsu
And it’s got you on the mat, begging you to tap out.
This poem is *****
a SNAFU waiting to happen.
It’s the sarin gas Syria used against its own
And it’s the attack America will be responding with,
Using ****** to punish murderers.
This poem is a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken
Getting your finger-lickin’-good fingers nice and greasy.
This poem is yet another poet writing yet another poem about poems,
With the word poem repeated ad nauseum.
This poem is a bunch of awful band names,
Like Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Tapes ‘n Tapes, and Chunk! No, Captain Chunk!.
It’s a summer blockbuster and a teen dystopian trilogy.
It’s riding *****
In your ex’s car.
This poem is anthropogenic global warming
Whose CO2 emissions are dangerously high and climbing
While its polar bears are stranded on the broken ice floes of its verses.
It’s a baseball crowd speaking the words “no hitter”
In the midst of a no-no
Which itself is a no-no.
Its bad grammar, who’s comma’s are all, out of place
And its’ apostrophe’s, are meaningless.
This poem is Zooey Deschanel,
Who will not marry me some day, any day, in the future.
In fact, it doesn’t even know I exist.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
We have romanticized the idea
of a large ceramic bowl
an area
to potentially suffocate
lay until water drops body temperature
sticky humidity
is this sweat or water
cinnamon scented
and flavored
snafu: flames
singe my nostrils with your desserts
naked
and vulnerable
but completely content
I am stewing
in ceramic bowls
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 11:18 PM UTC
Self loathing
confusion a snafu is what i am
nothing more but a waste of space
I always ponder why i am in this place
I want to have potential-to feel like i’m worthwhile, worth breathing, worth existing
Always asking for the truth, asking for an answer
shifting
Why can’t anyone hear my cry for help, my weep for the truth
Searching for a reason why i’m doubtful and suffer these scars subliminally
Malady
I’ve come to accept i’m mentally ******
A loony
A daft existence
Unhappy threnody
but am i existing?
Is this actuality, reality
Too much sensibility
emotion teeming sensitivity
why
why
why
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
Enough is the word.
Media martyr bleeding--
SNAFU Johnny Law.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 1:44 AM UTC
I'm beside myself,
What can I do?
Having an OBE
Because of you.
I'm next to an idiot,
The blame lies with you;
Like an NDE,
I'm leaving you.
Is this a dream?
My life's askew;
I'm not what I seem
Because of you.
My body of bliss
Roams looking for you;
My love for you made
An astral breakthrough.
I'm on a spiritual walk
On a plane that's new;
This plane will crack
If I'm snapped back to you.
A paranormal snafu
That won't do;
But I'll return
When my body's near you.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
Thunder in a Bottle
Let’s slide between the
sheets of eternity and
Oblivion orging ourselves on
Pistachio gelato and conversational
Snafu
Tangling ourselves in tangents and
Inhaling
Stardust in cosmic proportions
You were the thunder to my lighting—
Striking from above and below—
While you pure, never touching the ground
I spoke tongues in your presence
Spinning curve ***** of diction for assonance’s sake
I hoped my words were spaceships
Someday I’ll understand you or
just stop trying.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC
My sad and sweet name twisted around his tongue with drunken fantasy.
Merely an expression of something else, made in his head.
Manifesting before him.
Manifesting into him.
Manifesting for him.
As he grabs a fistful of my hair and pins me to the ground.
Manifesting.
And then I can't breathe.
Is it the body unconsciously laying on top of my tiny corpse?
Corpse.
I was dead.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
I came back to the bookseller’s counter
advising that I wanted to utilize the new
nook.
As I’d sniffed pages earlier,
we’d spoken of plucking guitar strings and
the benefits of
retreating into one’s office to write for the afternoon.
I used to do that.
No remorse, no regret, always cared what it meant...
after the clientele was seen, observed to be secure
in their homes,
tired eyes, hips, knees and backs noted
as required,
I left houses that didn’t belong to me,
slipped outside of lives that were not mine;
lives that I’d invested in anyway,
as much as it mattered and for what it was worth.
Slipping back into my office,
the blonde wood of the door shutting the hallway noise out
enough so that I could concentrate
on something other than the safety of some old lady,
retreating to the memory of what I’d just done
with the eyes of an outsider.
Write.
Write the sadness of that lonely old girl
out of your guts.
Write.
Write the misery of a 65 year old veteran
who’s fallen into homelessness after serving a country
that appears ungrateful but we both hope isn’t.
Resources, in the vernacular, are a slow go SNAFU,
a ***** that shows up
just as the fall breezes begin to bite
with December teeth.
Write.
(I tell myself again and again.)
So as not to cry
and do it here,
in this quiet,
paid-for space
so that you can feel like a writer,
not like a fraud,
a failure with a heart too big for your chest;
a devil in your brain who drives so fast that everything’s a blur,
a car-wrecked,
attention-span grab,
an emotional ambulance ride to nowhere good.
Write.
So that when the tears fall,
You can publish them,
Taking ownership before they dry.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021
Aug 29, 2021
Aug 29, 2021 at 11:57 AM UTC
What was a storm
here and there
has become a tsunami
of catastrophes.
We are subsumed
by flowing disaster.
We open futile umbrellas
or furiously doggy paddle
to stay dry and afloat
without result.
The Ten Day Forecast
calls for doom, gloom,
and genocide with
a sprinkling of famine,
war, and pestilence.
Turn on the news,
everywhere the waters rise.
Sixty-five million refugees
bob upon the swells.
Compassion founders
like a rusty ship.
Simple decency
takes a dive.
Don’t bother to
hold your breath.
Morally speaking,
we are all
fundamentally sunk.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 12:18 PM UTC
If you believe it's a luxury
the krap that they're churning
out in a factory
you need your head testing.
Situation normal and **** you
'Snafu'
or something similar,
but that's Yankee,
don't thank me
it's true.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 11:13 AM UTC
got what he wanted at my expense.
Said crack fast talking
hacker and scammer
pulled figurative wool over my eyes
going incognito and speaking a clipped
English mien his disguise.
He appeared (rather sounded) genuine
after yours truly experienced computer snafu
(the Macbook Pro essentially hogtied
courtesy virus that disabled any activity)
even turning the laptop off then on
only wrought frustration to boot.
An out of state Apple computer
technical support person impersonator
(imposter invariably linkedin
to aforementioned fraudster -
most likely brother in arms)
answered telephone number
provided on the screen.
Admonitions against sharing details
about case in point, whereby cyberpunk
donned many hats to convince me
serious computer virus,
malware, trojan horse, et cetera
counterbalanced with voice on other end
affecting sedulousness to "listen carefully"
and carry forth the following commands.
Yours truly trustingly,
passively, meekly, et cetera
(though feeling jittery)
carried out the repeated instructions,
which charlatan inveighed against
speaking softly (in retrospect,
I ought to have carried a big stick),
indicating (as if held at gunpoint)
to headout off to the Trappe branch
of Citizens Banks and withdraw cash
all the while recording verbal dialogue
with small, medium at large criminal
(the scam artist(s) in question).
Upon retrieving legal tender
(quite a *** thee next entrapment
entailed driving to closest ATM machine,
an MP gas station/convenience store
in Collegeville to convert
high denomination bills
(a considerable number
of money crisp Benjamins)
into bitcoin cryptocurrency
then hightailing back to where I live,
an assisted living facility
named Highland Manor.
Finally, the schmegegge script
(incorporating ejaculations that
questionable hacker convinced me
to swallow hook, line and sinker)
alluded to strong likelihood
scam artist lurked in close proximity
to above named banking institution,
which divine comedy bumbling
Ace of spades, an inept card shark
anagram name Meg Found
left as crypto clue told.
Jun 25, 2023
Jun 25, 2023 at 1:09 PM UTC