"sniggering" poems
When my father was young he mowed lawns for money. He pushed a second-hand spinning blade in the hot Florida sun for spare change.
With dull coins clanging in his pocket and crumpled bills in his palm, my father fought to escape home.
To him, home was synonymous with scary southern suburbia, where late-night television was replaced with screaming matches and loud fists. Angry eyes with children's cries. Barbecues bombarded with apologetic looks from neighbors. Pretending not to hear shatters and shouts of supposed 'baseball black eyes'.
And so he pushed. Pushed the rusty lawn mower down strangers' yards, pushed away the sniggering snot-nosed kids calling him 'Spic', and pushed at his father's demons, crawling down his spine, whispering that he was no good.
Years later he kept pushing
Pushing
Pushing
Pushing towards whatever came next. Yet no matter how much he pushed, he was still the same boy with the lawn mower. Angry, mad, pushing violently ahead.
The smoke of sanity is inhaled now, as my father's blood-shot eyes try to suppress the angry boy within. The residue of stolen innocence is not left unnoticed. A touch of tone on his once sunburnt neck and the man he has made instantly flushes away, leaving his father's demons. Calmer than before, a dying star, burning bright before collapse.
Like a strong jaw, his father's anger is passed down to him, and I, his son, am now born with this seed of destruction. Smaller than before, but still seething.
Constantly reminded, I sit in a leather chair surrounded by white walls in carefully controlled climate, plastic pen perched on my palm, I push.
I'll keep pushing.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
Sickness listens to us sigh.
Sniggering snidely as we die.
Seeking our soul as we comply.
But still I live
And yet I am not alive.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 8:02 PM UTC
The sun, a heavy spider, spins in the thirsty sky.
The wind hides under cactus leaves, in doorway corners. Only the wry
Small shadow accompanies Hamlet-Petrouchka's march - the slight
Wry sniggering shadow in front of the morning, turning at noon, behind towards night.
The plumed cavalcade has passed to tomorrow, is lost again;
But the wisecrack-mask, the quick-flick-fanfare of the cane remain.
Diminuendo of footsteps even is done:
Only remain, Don Quixote, hat, cane, smile and sun.
Goliaths fall to our sling, but craftier fates than these
Lie ambushed - malice of open manholes, strings in the dark and falling trees.
God kicks our backsides, scatters peel on the smoothest stair;
And towering centaurs steal the tulip lips, the aureoled hair,
While we, craned from the gallery, throw our cardboard flowers
And our feet **** to tunes not played for ours.
2.6k
Thomas, Tommy baby,
you are both hot,
and sweet.
Tom Cat you’re red hot--
when I catch you in your Tom Cat Strut,
sauntering across campus,
strolling like it ain’t no thing,
cuz it don’t meant a thing
if it ain’t got that swing baby.
So dig this, Tommy Gun,
you groove with the best of ‘em
when I spot you strollin’—
Your head, teetering left and right like a seesaw, boppin’ baby,
arms hangin’ loosely, swinging freely, wildly, go! go!
legs scooping forward in boisterous trombone slides--
Groooooove Tommy baby!
You’re Louis’s best blows--
ten feet from the mic and the Fives baby,
you’re hot, red hot,
any closer and I'll burn up!
Go!
But you’re cool, real cool,
and oh so sweet.
Super sweet--
in your beard like a pepper and salt shaker tossed across the table,
I look to see those rosy lips part,
and peep those pearly whites shinin' like the bell of Louis’s cornet
brandished in the air, under those ballroom lights--
you’re screamin’ Tommy!
Let me hear that laugh that shakes the room,
punches like Blakey’s bass drum,
thumps like Mingus--
T-Bird you’ve got that hard bop in your soul,
you’re gonna bop to the top TB,
into the third heaven where the angels fall in line to your swing,
that incessant strut that keeps the devil at bay,
Blow! Blow! Blow!
And I see you now Tom Cat,
up there in the clouds,
digging your way across eternity,
bopping and jiving, swinging and blowing,
in your faded khaki pants and worn tennis shoes,
loosely buttoned collared shirt,
tight rectangular glasses that glistened the bell of your eyes even more--
I gotta stand twenty feet away Tommy baby!
You glance down at me and wink,
rearing your head back to let loose that Mingus and Blakey
bottom-end laugh,
guffaw guffaw guffaw!!!
--so hearty and rich,
the backbone of every nervous first-year classroom,
and the sniggering seniors you continued to befuddle and dazzle
with your mysterious ways
and insatiable swing.
So blow, Tommy Gun, blow!
Go Tom Cat go!
Dig T-Bird dig!
Let loose Tommy boy!
Swing for us, swing swing swing--
Hot and Sweet, Tommy baby,
hot and sweet.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
If a tale need be tattled,
the snawky Snawk would arise.
With its snickley tongue of arsenic blue,
and loathsome gamboge eyes.
To the King of the stickley Snicklers,
the Snawk would spill his talk.
But scuttlebutt was all t'was,
for he was but a snawky Snawk.
Might you ask
who am I be?
I am a jawky Jawk
who talks incessantly
of the snawky Snawk,
with his snickley tongue,
and his breath of kyarn,
and Beelzebub dung.
You see I knows of him all too well
and well he knows of me.
Invidious brothers, one of the other,
same Mother both have we.
Now the snawky Snawk spins yarns
so dark and thick and odious.
One might find his fatuous canards
to be though flatulent, commodious.
But If ye be a gawky Gawk
of the snawky Snawk beware,
For his loathsome camboge eyes
can squinny a ribald stare.
To your knees his gaze will bring you,
you'll tell all the tales you know.
Then he'll tattle them to the Snickler King
and off to the headsman you will go.
That is, unless, you know the ballad
the Snawk is most offended by.
'bout the frowzy blowzy stable boy
with only just one eye.
He lost his eye in a snickering match
twixt The Snickley King and he.
But got the best of the old nabob,
for he could cachinnate you see.
He did cachinnate and aggravate,
till the old King did concede.
The stable boy was the better of the two,
his tongue cut like a snickersnee.
For the frowzy blowzy stable boy
was not able to tell a lie,
nor could he mince his words with honey,
of the truth he could not hide.
And if one day you find yourself
in the land of the quidnunc kith.
Shun the snickley Snicklers,
and their sniggering King forthwith.
But if ye meet up with the stable boy
though untidy he may be.
Dare not tattle of a soul,
he'll let fly his snickersnee.
And remember well, the ballad he sings,
of the King he did do down.
Drink in its waspy strain and keep it nigh,
lest the snawky Snawk cometh 'round.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
In that age of aged seasons
predating our own's four-square rhyme,
a reasonable jape was hatched
beaked but hairy to a guilt-free Hen
whose humors ran with jaw-slackening
creatures, foul and not at all bird-like.
Soon after its mixed-up cracking,
two prattle-prone Wrens hopped to spread
rumors of an un-chickity chick
and the ungodly origins
of fatherless yowls. Their tittered jeers
found welcome ears, and Mother Hen preened
her babe chased by merciless guffaws.
This Hen was not one to lay
down meekly, and a never stony
tongue rolled out its antidote myth
to a pair of gabby Gulls: "My child
may look not-much, but he's divine
engendered and miraculous born.
Sure he's messy, ah, but you'll see
he'll grow to be, much-much-more than
any feathery tykes your like did bear."
She clucked it so seriously,
who were they to doubt her? The plumed
sniggering ceased. But before another
grateful day could dawn in a hallelujah
glare of right angles, out pecking
up a snack, Mother made eye
contact with an unfortunate Fate
brandishing his lucky-gripped ax.
What of her wonder-why, joke of a boy?
Left alone at straw-pocket home,
waiting for his Hen to return,
he starved then decayed to hollow bones,
and was never thought of again.
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 12:43 PM UTC
He's back.
I'm under attack!
He's sitting in the back;
Of my mind,
What is it this time?
Things were going just fine.
Great even.
I was happy,
Planning to marry.
He's watching,
Whispering,
Sniggering,
Figuring out,
How he's gonna get me now,
Try and slow me down,
Run me into the ground,
I'll drown you in Brown.
What's fair?
You're not there,
If I drown out the sound.
You're so destructive,
Trying to destroy,
All this positive thinking,
I have employed.
Why does no one believe that you're here?
you scare so easy,
I'm fresh out of fear.
If I tell people you're here,
They give me a long wait,
Then a short break,
How many holidays will it take?
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
Spend my nights counting sheep
Might as well change my name to Little Bo Beep
I have flocks of hundreds, leaping over fences
Counting them all, as the bleating overwhelms my senses
But they don’t lead me to the land of sleep
All these baa-ing, stinking woolly sheep
I’m sure they are sniggering, as they prance in my head
And I lay fighting with the covers in my bed
Eyes red turn to a window, lit with early dawn
Another night passed and the sheep have withdrawn
I head out, another day, clothes dressed inside out
Too late to change, too busy dealing with the fallout
Of arriving late to work, and to the boss’s rant and rave
God I can’t remember his name, is it Brian or Dave?
But slowly his voice fades to the sound of a bleating lamb
And his head takes on the form of an angry woolly ram
Baa, Baa, Blacksheep, the nursery rhyme sings
In my head. I feel sudden expresso cravings
I battle through the rest of the day, coffee on tap
And at lunchtime I manage a ten-minute power nap.
Then home and an early night put into place
Hot milk, no TV, a book to create a relaxing base
I am primed for the perfect night’s sleep.
But two hours later, I am wide awake. Counting sheep.
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 9:47 AM UTC
"Curiosity killed the cat, you're the cat."
Of course I had to be the **** cat..
I was looking for pleasure and I found it..
I found pleasure in the expression of her face after I forcefully slipped my member in her ******
Seeing humans/animals (or what ever we are) in discomfort was my only comfort..
I craved bizarre,
Torture had become my nature, I couldn't stop it, and I didn't want to..
"Why fight my nature?" I thought ..
"So you're telling me, that sin pleasures you?"
"You can put it that way," I said; sniggering
In my dictionary "sin" translates to "pleasure"
Let me tell you one thing though.. Yes, Indeed I am that curious cat, **But curiosity did not **** me, It led me to discovering my bizarre pleasures, and nothing makes me feel more alive than that.**
- Narcissist
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:29 AM UTC
Jumbled fumble deep in blue
riots ride on poet's stage
stumble crumble masked and ****
wordly sprinkles on the page
swooping climbing up and spy
hands of longing gazes free
drooping group a dream of skies
scribble a scrawl of destiny
through sniggering sight of shady peaks
and troughs of roaring battle cries
slain and buried, lost and weak
does a penner's ink survive
for when the ride of scary scares
cheering wave of passersby
heed the truth like all elsewhere
gloomy terror also dies
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
He first notice Elaine
as she waited
for the school bus
standing there
in the pouring rain
with her younger sister
and other kids
from the village
he noticed
how drowned she looked
her spectacles so wet
she couldn’t see out
her dark hair
hanging limp
about her face
and she looked down
not up
as she climbed
aboard the bus
making her way
down the aisle
of the bus
like some female Crucified
and sat in the seat
by the window
and peered out
her sister sat
next to her
equally as wet
yet unperturbed
laughing at another
who jested
at her state
but Elaine's
was a separate state
a lesser one's fate
knowing other eyes
gazed and sniggered
and whispered
into their hands
but not John
he saw her through
his own eyes
pushed away
the sneers
and sighs
and sniggering japes
and saw a deeper soul
within peering out
through the window glass
that showed
the falling rain
he looked away
taking note of her hair
and eyes
and glasses smeared
and how she pushed
her wet hands
between the caresses
of her knees
and dampened skirt
how by the look
of her face
revealed
her inner hurt
and as the bus
moved off and on
the radio blaring
some Mike Sarne song
the voices of children
competing for the space
and John half listening
to Trevor talk
some such of fishing
with a friend
at pond or river
he did not discern
or Trevor’s sister
across the aisle
chatting of some dress
her mother bought
not the fashion
she complained
but John held close
the image of the girl
who sat behind
across the aisle
whose dampened
state of dress
and soul
had moved his mind
and touched his heart
but said nothing
to either Trevor
with talk of fish
and rod
or Monica's dress
or clothes whatever
it had been
unfashionable or such
as undesired
he looked out
at the passing scene
as the bus raced by
thinking of Elaine
sitting a little way
behind
wiping the raindrops
from glasses
so she could see
and not be
half blind.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 9:02 AM UTC
*Awakening mischievous sun from the cradle of sky
Peeping athrill with a smile of fathomless sleep
Smirking at the moon with a goodbye
Being ever hot passes an alluring wink
At the lotus to bloom
Sniggering in a puckish way poking us like thorns
Shines adorably bright the biggest star
Making our day full of healthy war*
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC
The comments you make,
The laughter and sniggering
Drive me so insane!
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
Hello, Hola, Bonjour, Hallo, Salve, 你好
As I sit in the corner of the Spanish room,
A thoughts creeps into my mind,
I think how useless it is to learn a language,
And then my head explodes,
Are we ever going to use these languages?
Doesn't Google translate suffice?
Then the most embarrassing thing happens
The teacher asks me a question
I sit there trying to buy some time.
I see out of the corner of my eyes that the class is sniggering.
I get so infuriated at this useless subject
I am pounding my fist against the school gates
And thinking why Christopher Polhem
Did you create the lock?
I jump in despair because my dreams
Of flying were shattered when I was told
That Isaac newton had discovered gravity.
I wish Thomas Edison hadn't created the light bulb
Because I didn't want anyone
To see the tears rolling down my face.
It was like someone 13.8 billion years ago had pressed that
Big red button that said Control.
I am asleep
And I am in a brick room
Nothing else is there except for the empty void
But I am clutching on to something for dear life
It is almost invisible, it whispers
There used to be a diamond wall
But they broke it down
Do you know how they break diamonds it asked?
I do we learnt that in science
They find the weakest point and smash it with all there might
That’s what they did to me, the diamond wall said
But you can fix me
I woke up and I knew what I must do
I wrote about all my shattered dreams and read for inspiration
Slowly but surely the priceless diamond wall was rebuilt
And it Expanded and expanded
So once again I believe I can touch the stars
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
Bruises for my troubles
And troubles give me bruises
Classification is big at High School
And they've stuck me with the losers
Sniggering and sly talk
Like I learnt to read lips a while ago
So don't clap at the top of that mountain
And try to blind me with all that snow
They believe I'm a chained bull
They can **** me into anger
But this ****
Is
Going
Down
And you think you know me, but I'm a stranger
Weren't you told as a kid
To not talk with whom you know not?
I'm allowed to fight back now
So
Run
Before
I
Watch
Your
Corpse
Rot
Honestly
My father said if words don't work
Just knock 'em one
But stop short of going bezerk
He doesn't wanna pay what they'll need if I stick them
In
A
Wheelchair...
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 10:13 PM UTC
I pass bins bloated and stinking
dead pigeons squashed 'n rotting on the floor,
I pass the rich, the greed-infested
sniggering entities dancing on the backs of the poor
I pass dogs nailed high upon billboards
apartments riddled with flies,
out in the distance a stray cat whines
curdled with the sound of a child's cries
I pass drug addicts sneering and leering
arms pock-marked and bruised -
through *** drugs and addiction
obsessive compulsive dispositions are infused
ecstasy the fuel to the stars beyond
to a world way better than our own;
through poisoned hope and substance abuse, upon our brains
the stye of sickness has grown
[music blaring formulated and fascist
Oh save me ground control! Ashes to ashes]
for is it any wonder I rot from inside
doomed to death by a heart blackened and sore?
Crawling along, the carrions line up on the horizon -
my cuts bleed, my bones ache, pain this body can't take anymore
nineteen years I've waited to be loved
alas nothing but a crass compassion that neglects
oh please -
please tell me
I'm not destined to live like these rejects?
["I'm so happy... hope you're happy too"]*
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 7:32 AM UTC
I welcomed you into my labyrinth,
shut all the doors,
drizzled blankets across
everything, each squashy chair
where you could rest your head,
leave remnants of you
in perfume and hair
so I wouldn’t forget.
Little pictures
developed in my hands,
a simple magic trick
which made us smile
as sniggering kids.
Then they dropped to the floor,
created a collage
of recent memories,
our private history
stationary and square.
Bricks cold as frost on grass,
you danced,
I fell deep. A soporific
multi-hued haze played in my eyes
as if it was endless hopscotch.
Sunset glazed our faces
a marmalade-orange,
we lost ourselves
in towers of books
and images
which now spread
beanstalk-like up the wall.
Pinch-marks resembled
berries on my arms,
soaking in madness,
basking in your light.
I could rest in this maze forever
you said.
Then I, in frustration,
turned over in bed.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
The light glows off her sleek hair,
the tint of her skin,
divine and deliciously fair -
she's stood at the newsstand
paying by debit card,
her smart mini satchel clasped in her hand.
I watch cautiously from the nearest side-street,
through frosted up glass,
jumping now and then
at the occasional car that might pass.
She's beautiful - moving so effortlessly
and strangely angelic,
the chemical lag of this non-present world
makes it all seem so... psychedelic.
Oh, will she see me stood here
with those inquisitive blue eyes,
will she see through my insidious disguise?
'Cause I crave food on a daily basis,
many people stroll past me
sniggering and laughing with disgusted faces.
I lounge on the London streets,
my beds are the floors,
I curl up beside the twisted lepers
and next to the infected ******
And so as the woman exits the shop
I feel my hand twitch, and drop
to the little surprise tucked in my belt -
after all these years
I never wanted to know how killing someone felt,
but
my stomach gripes in pain from starvation,
my bowels are always tight with constipation,
it seems everyone lives so grand
but not me, oh no -
I just want that bag clasped in her hand.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC
I mean the rain you drop in my voice
like a cloth cut by scissors, bridling its mare
and my hand sniggering in lust
though a smell of a banana
in an old part of this city, all alone
in hotel rooms and on brass beds
dirtiest hours of my face
a sartor with winter night face.
Koray Feyiz
(Translated from Turkish by Koray Feyiz)
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 5:42 PM UTC
The smell of tension is in the air
the military are out in force
the rebels are getting ready
let the violence take it's course
Bottles full of gasoline are being prepared
rebels sniggering, we will have the ********
then off they go in masks and hoods
cocktails not for drinking in hand
causing havoc making a stand
on their turf their destituted land
Tension starts with shouting and jeering
perfect political engineering
they watch on cameras the melee
touching themselves at others dismay
sick is this system controlled by the lame
they are just playing blood lust mind games
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
Saying Political Things
I suddenly find myself
Saying political things.
A president who has a name
That pumps out rhymes that rhyme with stump and thump and clump
So numerous, so humorous you try in vain
To stifle sniggering, giggling, trying to abstain
That is, when you are not afraid of what comes next,
(What, whose head will come undone on any pretext.)
I, who never had opinions of significance inside my head,
Find that I am sitting up in bed
Watching the news,
The countless views,
And find I’ve got some too!
The boohoo, ***** you kind, and views about:
Is North Korea bad or mad?
Why is the crime rate rising?
Is it rising?
Not the least surprised
If it goes either way.
And so I say,
It’s unexpected to discover
Arlene Corwin (former Nover)
Faltering and altering, but taking stance,
Dancing around matters of importance,
Though they may be comical to you,
Positing her new-found thoughts political.
Saying Political Things 5.29.2017
Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 10:33 AM UTC
Indigo spilled through the arid cradle
across scabbed lakebeds
their life long ago robbed
by errant dust devils
sniggering back to their grottoes
in the barren foothills
through seemingly dead hands
eternally arthritic
arched up, and into
the earth-filled wind of creation
scouring the impurities from the land
past the aeon-old titans
clinging to thier final mountainous footholds
weary from their trek from the Tide
ready to descend into the valley
to die with the dawn
in every hidden oasis of life
every subtle warren and clandestine nest
where the small things, with every painful breath
prove that existence
is worth struggling for
and out, under the broken edges of the sky
whose shattered glass fell ages ago
a septillion points of light
ground by the endless cycle
back into the loam
but where Indigo goes so too goes her keeper
mounting the cradle, flooding the valley
hidden in their woven coffins, their buried crypts
the small things bowed thier heads,
and the land fell silent
the malevolent sentinel had come
monarch of the pit, lord of the ******
soaring to his azure font of judgement
culling by flame those creatures found most wanting
for this is his domain, it's denizens whisper: fed by the Hell-born river
until he dies once more
his dirt choked blood spilling into the horizon
trickling down the desert's spine
followed by the silent chime of stars,
and a resurgence of life,
waiting for thier own lord to rise
it's here you will find him
atop the granite seat that breaks the basin floor
the man with evergreen eyes
having found when facing North
the Moon is always at his back
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 1:50 AM UTC
Oh consume me sick brethren
wreak havoc and bleed thy sorrow
stalk infatuation with a sniggering smile,
and linger upon every hour of tomorrow
["Do you think the world cares
about your pathetic existence?"]
run fingers along dusty windowsills
cry away from the footfalls of the dead
spray your hair black, paint on your best face
from the shadows morals and innocence are shed
["You're just another freak
so give up this futile resistance."]
take your conscience by its swollen throat
saturate it in fury to stifle its desperate cries,
seeking vengeance you're killing strangers and
cutting yourself off to block out the swarming flies
blackened and bruised, you leer from the corners
and blow dreams to pieces,
["Oh come with me child" the Vampyre did rasp
"to the divide where insanity and reality creases."]
languish in frustration,
take out anyone in sight,
**** your pistol and get your trusty hook
go forth monster, and paint red the night.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 9:22 AM UTC
Sitting, simmering in the soul
The remnants of a conscience pang
Hovering, holistically
To scarify internal slang.
Banally, belligerent
The would be, could be, might be, won’t
Embattled deep, so deep within,
The me, inside, roars loudly… “DON’T”
Locked within a silly song
A nervousness leaps back and forth
A twitching in the raised eyebrow
First east then west, south then north.
Torridly to cast about
Wrack the skull for answer clear
Sack the flaming gates of Hell
In inspiration’s roasting fear.
Suddenly it all clicks in
To fit together lock and key,
To slide incumbent, one on one,
To tantalize that smile from me.
Oh the rush of fresh relief
As if awash in crystal spring,
To titivate the vaulting joy
Of ego’s maniacal thing.
M.
Waikato, New Zealand
29 November 2017
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 8:18 PM UTC
unborn deceitful
misers tumble, men burn, peach
sniggering soaked lash
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC