"snarky" poems
catch the last wave and i'll be there
combing the beachhead of our misery
swollen with big love, choking on the theory of our negative heavens
you and i,
we marvel at the heresy of our wisdom
and cherish no giant over divine
we david the furies that are nephelim
but conjure no gods where the plastic can't be useful
we dunder in the bluff of innocent cupids
we -
the idiots on the cliff -
dancing
when the glockenspiel itches !
clock faced and *** up
i'll be there with black honey, " With You "
no doubt
pondering the wrinkles in your sleep breath.
the sweet killing of tomcats and mackerels
the plain fact that our noses
are numb from eskimo kissing
in the igloo of our perpetual alaska
the arctic furnace of our wild fires of pure illusion
to trod stunning over hell's paradise
and catch a glimpse of snarky
stark Silence...
You
catch the last wave -
and i'll be nothing but the singing bones of the wind
in the throes of an ****** of " need you " and only you.
a chosen cyclone from heaven
i'll be just a little boy
in the clutches of a dead teddy
where the poppies sing
hallelujah !
and our hearts blight the orchid of our accord.
and down -
comes, what ?
what do we do ? what could we possibly ?
we hopscotch the bonnets
and glue ravenous bumblebees
to a blanket
of snow.
cause we have the technology -
we can disassemble it...
discretely.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:24 PM UTC
I'd last about an hour as a clerk inside a store
invariably I'd shoot my mouth off
about someone's daughter dressing like a *****
or making comments about the dreadful things consumed
which would include a good 99% of the people in the room
I'd eventually end up getting my lights punched out
after ********* someone as a fat *** undiscerning lout
or cracking some aside regarding what comprises that crud
and making faces of revulsion "you'd be better off eating mud"
ewwwww, you really eat that stuff?
this store should be sued for selling such bluff
children with diabetes, a third of adults obese
the courtesy clerk dies a little for lack of surcease
line after line of vapid consumers
mindless knee-jerk impetuosity belay the rumors
what's an adulterant, what's a filler?
propylene glycol alginate, yum yum
sorbitan mono sterate, shut up and eat it, its fun!
I can't even pronounce it, much less do I care
need I be a scientist to enjoyably savor fare
Go ahead and poison yourself
the quirky clerk exclaimed
its ever so clear you're stupid and lame
stay mired in your pig-headed muck of ignorance
you're exactly what they want
another brain dead consumer
a regular culinary savant
stuff your face with no remorse nor heed
no worries, the clerk of little courtesy knows your need
he'll limply wheel out your cart of miserable choices for you
and wise-crack some snarky rejoinder
then promptly get beaten, black and blue
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
I have stomach aches
Caused from the hole deep within me
Where the butterflies ate away at the flesh that I was
You see butterflies are nasty little things
They like to come when you want…to come.
For that special someone
But I have butterflies for people that don’t know I do.
So I tried to fill the hole with honey
With vanilla
With anything that I could get my sticky fingers on.
The only thing my fingers got on was me
And then they got me off
Because I have this hole
This deep burning hole that gives me stomach aches
That I want to fill with peaches
With kiwi
With pomegranates
Sometimes the stomach aches come in the night
When I lay there in my peach colored sheets
Pulling at an old band tee shirt until it comes off
And I become a writhing mess in the witching hours
But sometimes my stomach aches for the boy that wears sweaters
It twist and turn and the hole will scream from my abdomen
“Give me”
I want to kiss his lips
I want to stain his sheets with my ***
But then the ache goes away
I’ll get an ache for the arrogant and snarky boy
When he sits there with long, admirable fingers
I want him to dig them into me
And sometimes my stomach aches for me
It aches for the day that I can completely satisfy myself
In every aspect a human ever could
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
It started with Guitar.
It ended with Snarky comment.
Guitar hit Song.
Song hit Smile.
Smile hit Happiness in a time of sadness.
Happiness hit Laughter and Laughter couldn't help but tip too fast.
Laughter hit Feelings.
Feelings hit Observation.
Observation hit Friendship, but more like Crush.
Crush hit Heart.
Heart hit Words.
Words shook a bit, but hit Send anyway.
Send hit Waiting, but Waiting brought Maybe.
But Maybe wasn't stacked right.
Maybe never fell.
But the other ones did.
The ones that didn't spell your name, but his.
Love hit Replenish.
Replenish hit Happiness.
Happiness hit Life with my true love.
Your name just lingered there, Maybe still standing.
But then Maybe toppled.
Maybe hit Conversation.
Conversation hit Doubt.
Doubt hit Curiosity.
Curiosity hit Coincidence and Coincidence was just too big to miss.
But that was the last part. Coincidence.
Because his name was prettier, nicer, and actually said yes.
But Coincidence just kept begging. Coincidence decided to get there anyway.
Coincidence pushed Alcohol and Alcohol tapped Texting on the shoulder.
Texting plummeted into Conversation.
Conversation hit Argument.
Argument hit Apology, but instead of Apology hitting Acceptance, it hit Snarky comment.
And that hit Resentment and a bit of Anger too.
Started with Guitar.
Ended with Snarky comment.
A Domino Effect into Catastrophe that I think about everyday.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
Some days i am angry, actually most of the time im angry.
I sprout out rude snarky remarks, so people can have a reason to hate me.
I roll my eyes and cross my arms, hoping that someone can give me a reason to be filled with annoyance.
I hand out ***** looks as if they're candy.
I lash out on friends and family.
I tell people’s secrets so they have a reason to leave me.
I break people, and I break things.
The violent anger in me never ends. Anger is sadness, and sadness is anger, misery is despise,and despise becomes misery,
But the anger is all just a charade.
The anger cloaks the victim in me by pushing people away.
The victim in me cries lakes of tears
The victim in me stays in bed all day, and stares at the ceiling
The victim in me craves the feeling of being held
The victim in me fantasizes of blades, knives and needles
The victim in me cannot be happy for other people's successes,
The victim in me craves the sweet comfort of feeling loved by another person that it almost hurts.
The victim in me yearns for the love that other people receive.
Sometimes the victim and the anger like to play a game. The game consists of the seeing who can botch my brain up the most.
The battles in my mind goes on and on, as i lose friends, one by one.
The anger tells me to push people away while the victim is telling me to accept the love a random girl gives me because that might be the only love you can get
The battle in my mind has now become a war that I cannot win.
The anger in me cage's my heart slowing down my breathing, making it impossible to honestly love someone.
The victim in me has told me to be sad, so people will care, for the victim urges me to over share my thoughts to anyone that is willing to listen.
The anger, tells people off, the anger hurts people, the anger ruins lives.
But shrouded by anger, is the victim, the victim who just wants to feel the love that other people are given.
The victim in me looks at the word love as if it's a magical word that could possibly fix anyone.
The victim in me believes in fairy tales. True love, a princess and happiness.
But the victim in me doesn’t know how to love, nor does the anger. Neither know how to love properly, but maybe just maybe they don’t have to love, maybe I can be the one who learns to love.
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 2:53 PM UTC
Running on empty,
Lost luck and fumes,
Choking out victims, with a distinct perfume.
Rub the glass between your palms,
And let it bleed out the toxins.
Litter the house with crude memories,
Like oil churning, polluting possibilities.
Ripping wings from flies,
And the legs from a spider.
One by one, shooting cans like army men.
Bleeding out to start again.
Snarky saints believing they're saved,
Crying blood and burning sage,
To rid themselves of the rage.
Thinking they'll see the graffitied golden gates,
When all they're doing is shoveling their own graves.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
Everyone says
"Oh, don't worry! It's just a phase."
Or even worse,
"You'll grow out of it soon."
And so you begin to think
That the quirks and smirks
You see in the mirror
When you've wiped the shower fog clear
Are somehow wrong and undesirable
To the masses of others outside your door
Even if what you see makes you happy.
And so you try to hide
Behind conformity and masks
Of aloofness,
Of apathy,
Of indifference,
Of nonchalance,
Until you yourself begin to believe
You've passed the phase!
You've grown out of it!
You're finally someone whom the world
Can pour its love and adoration on!
And so you wait for that sparkling moment,
When you go from ugly duckling
To ravishing debonair desirable swan,
Yet the days turn into weeks into months,
And finally years have passed away
But nothing happened.
And you find yourself wiping away
The shower fog with a tired hand
Only to see the quirks and smirks
That used to make you happy
Are gone and for what gain to you?
Where are the masses of adoring friends?
Where are the praises of who you've become?
You're all alone like you've always been.
But I ask you,
Is this really who you want to be?
Where's the girl who recites Chaucer?
And rolls down grassy hills?
Where is she whose snarky comments
Could hours of hilarity fill?
Where's the girl who laid bricks
Side by side with her father?
And imagined up the neighborhood
Olympics with his other two daughters?
So I'll ask you again,
Face in my mirror,
Are you happy?
Is this who we're going to be?
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
I am a knock on your door
You open up and I sneak in
Ill put your life on the market
Snarky teenagers to target a holiday demographic before fully developed concepts begin
Your backpack and notepads house your sins
A man that's tall and gets caught in the calls of women to distract from the purpose of ink pens
You're too ***** to be great
A ****** is a dead end
And a vortex for survivals' fate
Explorations of vanities' intellectual alternative gate
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
Downton Abbey’s going off the air.
I’m not through yet, it’s just not fair.
Nothing before that show ever had
That kind of class, that degree of flair.
Life without my weekly Downton
Is too sad and inordinately scary.
What will I do without my frequent fix
Of the elegantly snarky Lady Mary?
And will the feckless Mister Barrow
Ever develop a true human soul?
I am sure this handsome actor fellow
Will never again get such a meaty role.
And the Dowager Duchess herself,
She is not someone easily done with.
She is, after all, tradition incarnate,
And under all that, she’s Maggie Smith.
Bates and his Anna filled my heart
With alternating sorrow and great joy
Almost as much as a lady of nobility
Marrying the handsome chauffer boy.
Dresses and hair lengths shortened
And nobility began to get real jobs.
All this was before ****** flared up
And turned starving folks into a mob.
I never missed that we were seeing
The transition from ‘la belle epoque’.
That time was running out for that
In the worlds ever-changing clock.
It was a yesterday we never knew
We of the age of electric equality.
We got to look inside and see it
In all its grandly overdressed reality.
I had begun to recognize artwork, in
Lovely strolls through baronial halls
And huge family meals at table.
I am sorry that it is over for us all.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
If i had a minute
I'd hug you close
breathe in your scent
and never let you go
if i had an hour
i'd give it to dad
because three children
bills
and life itself
is too much stress to place
on one mans shoulders
if i had a day
it would go to to the siblings
who adored every aspect of your
snarky, compassionate, motherly love
and who only had the chance to know you
for 8 years too few
but I don't have a minute
an hour
or a day
because 7 years
was so long ago
and that grim december day
still runs through my mind
like a broken record
"She's Gone"
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 10:16 PM UTC
imagine all the cells that form to
join in your sensation
all the stars that blew your bits together
for proper procreation
being born with every breath and
reaching death through exhalation--
i simply can't exist without you
nor you without i,
and of this we can be sure that
(though the sureness of my i
obscures the many in us all[
mere words to ***** for thoughts we cope with]
)it will rumble beneath
and explode at the surface
to delayed surprise of just reprise
(mistaking inflation as progress)
that libations of dogmas won't change a thing:
when you look at the fibers in the fabric of being
(spun finely by spiders invisibly swift)
and if our knowledge were but a fly
we'd see ourselves trapped by its infinite web,
both victim to its trap and servant to its host
(though this is the nature of matters sticking close[
especially light years away])
just as the lattice of language roots deep
inside double-helix libraries unimaginably tall
filled with books authored by curious protons,
excited electrons and fleeting photons,
composed of sentences by snarky quarks and gluons
lying in -eate groups with unseen companions
(read between the lines) working in union
to fashion a sum greater than summation could do--
an alchemical-calculus of fractal fluidity,
finding contexts for novelty to sing songs
like Earth (though just a planet in other eyes)
to give conscious rise within the cosmic playground
embodied by us, but not encompassed by us;
rather extended through us
as curiosity mirrored.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 2:37 AM UTC
i don't think that you know
what privacy means to me
i'm staying drunk in the quiet
of my safe liturgy
of thoughts because concepts
are honest and curious
they aren't gonna judge me
and that's what i need
some company with peace
but inside them i'm violent
i'm rough to the touch
i try to be silent
so i'm not caught searching
the corners for love
when every house party is about
"that idiot who said" or her "stupid makeup"
so i'm not sure where i expect to find
any sort of understanding
in these social engagements
i don't see meaning in
ripping down others just for being
in the same room as you
and minding their own business
it always makes me uncomfortable
i don't see the usefulness knowing it's
easier to call someone else useless
when you feel so
and draw your own conclusions
than admit you don't really know
it's easier to stab the surface
than to learn someone's breathing well enough
to understand the way their blood flows
it's easier to make a snarky comment on their clothes
than to sit down and get to know them
so admit it
our darkness thrives on judgement
and you will feel so much better
because once you let go of them
emotions flow through you like weather
extend your arms for once
and realize that every single person you know
knows something you don't understand yet
instead of barraging them with
the ways you wish you were better
you thought i was going
to say they weren't you
because everyone's partial
to weak knees and weak ankles
it's easier to strike the person
who opens their arms to you
even once is enough
to break them because you justify
they allow themselves to be
so breakable
and though i feel these things to be true in my gut
and want to validate every single person
i can see needs the love
i'm in need of my own breed of saving
and i'm sick of this negative engaging
i just don't have any more chances
to be so kind
as to offer you
a target
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 4:23 AM UTC
Hear the voices
So many choices
Which would you like?
Here comes the strike
The joker, the depressed, the one who dreams?
Split personality? So it seems
Maybe you'd like to hear
They're getting closer- so near!
The one who's quiet, likes school, is neat
Time to go out; voices to greet
Or the bubbly, popular one
Quick, run
Perhaps the one with snarky comments
Use common sense
Oh, wait, you don't have a say
Go far away
In what invades your mind
Dark, cruel, or kind
Hear the voices
But there's no choices
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC
There you sit
Smug and sure of yourself
Silent yet snarky
Your wisdom, your worth
Your self-richteousness.
Why do I desire your
Acceptance, your favor
When you only have enough for yourself,
Only for those whom you approve of?
Here I sit, opposite of you,
of your self-created grace and glory,
looking at me as if I were the epitome of evil.
I don’t feel evil, just worthless in your eyes.
Why is your morality better than mine?
Why do you portray your holiness supreme
and mine as worthless and undesirable?
Why do you politicalize your faith?
I don't with mine, sweet Jesus I cannot fathom why you do.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 3:44 AM UTC
There's nothing I hate more,
Than judgemental, snarky people,
Who roam this earth,
Assuming that their words are harmless, but always true.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 8:38 AM UTC
Effortless words, spoken with no efforts,
A miracle, it seems to me.
A fractured mind, adrift at sea,
Your presence drives me to insanity.
Hanging by a thread, very thin,
Chaos reigns within.
Should I bother, should I care?
Let the wind take you elsewhere.
A snarky voice, it whispers low,
In the darkness, where I go.
No need to impress, for all is lost,
My interest fades, like morning frost.
You linger near, a mystery,
A running commentary in my head.
Your words replay, like a haunting melody,
From different voices, I am misled.
Nothing feels right, nothing seems true,
You've driven me out of my mind with a beautiful view.
Nov 8, 2023
Nov 8, 2023 at 2:43 PM UTC
Last week I sold a bunch of my memories
to help pay the rent. It was either that or my car.
I gave them 146 rarely used memories, they gave me $40.88…
I thought it was a fair deal. I mean, I wasn’t using them…
A couple weeks later I was curious
to see how they were selling, so I walked to the second-hand shop
that had made the deal with me. I saw an elderly woman looking
at my memories. She picked one up, stared at it disapprovingly, then
tossed it casually back in the pile. She did this a couple more times, then
walked away. I waited until she had left, then walked up and picked
up the one she was looking at. It was a memory of kissing and elbows.
Whispers and smiles.
I stood perplexed with the memory in my hands, wondering to myself what
brought about the look of disapproval. To each their own, I suppose…
I hung around that day, trying to get into the heads of
those who were looking into mine…with little success.
There were laughs, tears, and the occasional snarky comment. I watched a memory of driving
down an empty interstate with the windows down on an exquisite summer day sell
for 28 cents. I saw a memory of climbing trees and rope swings leave with an old man
who wanted to remember youth. A girl with dreadlocks in her twenties took a fuzzy memory
of less than legal implications.
I came by every day until they were all but gone, only a few stragglers here and there; One of a hospital bed,
another of a meatloaf dinner in January.
I really don’t like meatloaf.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
I look at your face and picture
Us
My arms wrapped around you by a fire
I think to myself
"This is nice."
But then I remember,
You're across the pond
I see your smile and picture
Us
We are at the cinema and you laugh at the film
I turn to you and smile
But then I remember,
You're across the pond
I listen to your laugh and picture
Us
We are sitting at a café having lunch
When I whisper something snarky about the woman behind you
You laugh and we are happy
But then I remember,
You're across the pond
I watch you blush and picture
Us
We are walking in the park, hand-in-hand
I stop, turn to you, tell you how beautiful you are, and kiss you
You blush and all is well
But then I remember,
You're across the pond
****
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
Impress the granite impressions
Blue and black anti-reflections
Marbles flicked and jacks are scooped
Like the games we lose in endless loops
Hardly pass any standard detection
-
You haven’t heard the lover’s truth?
Dialed in from the last phone booth
In a town that has gone all mobile
Begging for a title so proud and noble
So they can sip their gin and Vermouth
-
Mass-printed art for bath room walls
So raised noses can judge while ******* in stalls
They only care for tags and brands
And they never stop to wash their hands
When they’re dressed to impress at the local mall
-
This is hardly a truth - hardly a lie
A middle ground opinion to make snarky girls cry
They say “He’s so enigmatic! What a beautiful soul!”
But deep down inside they just want my pole
Their improper word usage squeezes from me a sigh
-
You think tumblr is neato? You like showing your ****
The lies flow like tar from primordial pits
Slowly creeping to the surface, but unending below
The smell catches hold before the obvious show
This is a pageant for show offs, not a battle of wits
-
But here I am still, begging for your love
A click or nice word is like a sign from above
Opinions that drive me off of the nearest cliff
A glance or a compliment to get me all stiff
Your nothing, save ignorant, but you fit like a glove
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 12:07 PM UTC
“Wow,” I said.
That snarky smile with her newly adorned thick glasses gazed up at me,
gingerly sipping on that grande caramel latte with soy milk and no whipped cream, obviously
“What?” she replied
Staring as her red cup graced the gentlest lips I’ve seen
I was speechless
Even after 17 short months I get like this
Like the first date oh-shit-what-do-I-say speechless
How wow is that?
To share your Sunday mornings with
those glasses, that smile, and that **** latte without the slightest of cares
but to enjoy the upcoming breakfast and morning sunshine together
“Nothing,” I smiled
Watching as she returned to her menu deciding which sides to go with her toast
A daunting decision, indeed.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
Finding myself tired and uninspired
at least the bed left me today.
I did my laundry
what more do you want from me
I can't think of much else
in this haze.
Sometimes,
the passions stop.
I no longer see the sputtering
of yellow lines down
a highway
as something I could recreate
into a beautiful composition.
The sky is only grey
and no longer the keeper of
nostalgic malaise.
My feet only move me
when bothered for the trouble
and howl and moan
every mile of road
they encounter.
I don't have a real position on
the matter
when my thoughts scatter
and I'm left with hollow eyes
and a succulent consciousness
gone dry.
I don't have a snarky reply
just another useless day
I unwillingly offer up
to the unforgiving clock
and a loss of sentiment.
C.e.m.
3.10.15
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
Shouts out to the post modern ironic twisted ***** of confusion making sense of a chaotic existence
Shouts out the the same folks for laughing at their own struggle
Shouts out to the bleeding hearts
Shouts out to the dried up stones
Shouts out to the snarky *** momentary breaks from the void that they carry alone
Shouts out to the religious castaways, to the tradition breakers
Shouts out to the tradition keepers, and the self evaluators
Shouts out to the pathfinders and the trailblazers
Shouts out to the lack of motivation and the desire to be admired
Shouts out to mania driven fervor satiated not even by approval
Shouts out to calculated efforts and spontaneity as a ruse
Shouts out to reused tropes and cliches strung together again and again in different orders
Shouts out to all living as peninsulas, carving themselves off as islands.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 4:23 AM UTC
As a child everyone was scared of the monster under the bed
That made snarky and rattling noises just when we're about to sleep
I was scared too
But then we grew up
And realized that it's all a myth
We got our heart broken
Shattered beyond repair
We got our self -esteem splintered
Soon we stopped sleeping at night
Like earlier times
But this time the monster that made noise
Was inside...
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 8:22 AM UTC
Maybe I'll write a poem
That totally rocks
Like maybe one about
Pick-up trucks
And good-old boys
Who drink and make noise
And ogle the girls that sashay by,
Leering and giving them the eye
For nothing but tosses of their heads,
Snarky sneers and icy "Drop deads".
Or maybe I'll write of high society,
Given to extravagance more than to piety,
Dressed in their finest, parading the street,
Deferential to all, light on their feet,
Dancing through life toward their urns of ashes.
Or maybe about old men wearing galoshes,
Smoking cigarettes in the snow,
Maybe there's more future in that:
Some things you never know.
Or maybe I should write about lovers and haters
Or apple pie and mashed potaters.
So many topics out there to choose:
The seasons, bananas, fantasies, the blues...
But maybe its not the subject you select
But how you present it that has the effect?
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 6:27 AM UTC