"snorts" poems
Will it be all the nights of your bed empty when I couldn't sleep?
Are you going to choose instead, the moment
I put underwear on my head and asked in a horrible Russian accent,
"Would you like some bread?"
(--Look that wasn't entirely all my fault I...
had a lot of coffee and had been awake two days in a row.)
I'd prefer--
the flash of my mouth at your belly,
the way your cold feet shock me awake and
the run-on-wheezing-snorts
from you making me laugh so hard I cried.
Actually, I'd prefer
every moment of every day I said I loved you in cups of morning coffee.
Bacon and egg breakfasts.
Hanging out of cars and making Wookie calls;
the moment you taught me about Baba Yaga and I said
you were the smartest man alive.
I'd prefer if you remembered me when I go,
as the sun on your face in the morning after you get to sleep in.
(because I know how work, life, goes for you.
They never let you sleep in.)
As the lips on your closed eyes,
as the love that men and women fight and die for--
wrote legends, penned scripts and made movies about.
That love, our love.
I'd prefer if you just remembered me
as love.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 7:46 PM UTC
IT'S a jazz affair, drum crashes and cornet razzes
The trombone pony neighs and the tuba ******* snorts.
The banjo tickles and titters too awful.
The chippies talk about the funnies in the papers.
The cartoonists weep in their beer.
Ship riveters talk with their feet
To the feet of floozies under the tables.
A quartet of white hopes mourn with interspersed snickers:
"I got the blues.
I got the blues.
I got the blues."
And ... as we said earlier:
The cartoonists weep in their beer.
6.3k
School
Seven
******
Hours
Of
Our
Lives,
Feels like we're tied
Up in a world
Full of people trying to
bring us down.
In four years I've watched
My best friends' smiles
Turn to frowns
Only to be replaced by
Red lines on skin,
Straight like the coke she snorts
Just to get high
And FEEL something
For a little while.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 5:23 AM UTC
I laugh a lot.
I laugh at myself because I am hard stuck to find the beauty in the poetry
but somehow to others words flow like vicious currents rip through ugly ducklings never to be grown to beautiful swans down the river Delta,
the Nile,
we call it emotion, this the true beauty of the words is always flowing page to mouth to mouth to ear,
honey water to be digested by the soul and mind
and some breast stroke some and some do the butterfly and some just fuckin' drown...
so you could say to some poetry is no laughing matter...
yet here I titter like a child because I cant help but wonder if Daniel's saying penance or just stuttering the word *****
So I laugh
I laugh and laugh and laugh I laugh at myself I definitely laugh at you people
I ha ha ha my course thoughts, outwards reflecting anger passion, turning it away
with the yip yawing of jaws and gums flapping in celestial proportions of denial
snorts and giggles push back emotion drowning out any semblance of fear or hate
because who's to say I can handle it,
call it sociopathic tenancies but I'll make it make belief because we just cant handle the fairy tale we live in
we cant handle that there might be no happily ever afters and we cant handle that we dont have a Prince charming to take care of us
but instead the crown is Crown Royal and you love it, love the burn down your throat,
something to keep you alive something to keep you awake but aren’t the two just one of the same anyway?
What is each day but a dream if automation takes you over rides you out like a machine and pushes 100110101.
So I ask you,
I ask you to listen to the words and the voice,
swim down the river any way you want just get your feet wet because living on dry land is living in fear
But more importantly I ask me
I ask me to do what I asked you to do, but how can I trust me to do what I told you to do when I hardly connect the concept of we and have used it but once in my work, though I am no different than you!
Because what are we if not all the same?
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
*Throw up,
now strip your fear from your illness
speak of dogs chasing dolls
but don't know the difference between
one's inner-self and a mirage.
Feel the sweat trickle down
yeah that putrid aroma
take you away from humanity.
Fear stricken eyes
sense of belonging
it makes you want to choke
run along and find your missing link
it's just that easy.
Turn your head and break my back
blue, yellow and green
it all makes sense now
brake your bones on a tightrope
and seek ye who snorts ecstasy.
follow the purge into an army of rebellion
Tick Tick Boom !
there goes your imagination.
taint my vocabulary
who soars within the bars of psyche.
I lost my self in the meadow
find Bambi and Pinocchio gambling on steroids
get lost in your creativity
find a haven in the flames
listen for her soul
I hear she has the best intent.
Seek purification in
the arms of a sinner
no use looking for redemption in wasteful youth
now darling fade into the night
for the dark will comfort you of all your despair
Brandy + Whisky...*
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 6:11 AM UTC
lay back and relax
go along with what the stream
will give me
sometimes fast
sometimes slow
a snag or two
to keep me grounded
watch the dappled shadows
the canopy of leaves
through closed eyes
perfect state of being
water drips with weird sound
wakes me from my splendor
turn my head
come face to face
with rutting buck
that snorts across my mug
the startled deer
has startled me
just glad to keep it upright
stag turns and runs
quiet restored
left with vision of his eyes
and the quickly narrowed pupils
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
So I met this ***** that was lerkin like a cool,
chic head up angled like she was aiming for a fool *****
Looked like a ratchet who da hell would snatchet unless ya faith is sappy
cause that girl hella *****
Bend down to light a halfy,
Cut shorts **** snorts wreak smoke
Might choke Taahaaa she broke no joke,.
Brain tied Boy lied Needa hero,.
On time,tart lime,she know she be a zero.
Ghett heals wet meals not real done deal,.
(sais the white girl that want's to be a rapper :)
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
Lived on one's back,
In the long hours of repose,
Life is a practical nightmare--
Hideous asleep or awake.
Shoulders and *****
Ache----!
Ache, and the mattress,
Run into boulders and hummocks,
Glows like a kiln, while the bedclothes--
Tumbling, importunate, daft--
Ramble and roll, and the gas,
******* to its lowermost,
An inevitable atom of light,
Haunts, and a stertorous sleeper
Snores me to hate and despair.
All the old time
Surges malignant before me;
Old voices, old kisses, old songs
Blossom derisive about me;
While the new days
Pass me in endless procession:
A pageant of shadows
Silently, leeringly wending
On . . . and still on . . . still on!
Far in the stillness a cat
Languishes loudly. A cinder
Falls, and the shadows
Lurch to the leap of the flame. The next man to me
Turns with a moan; and the snorer,
The drug like a rope at his throat,
Gasps, gurgles, snorts himself free, as the night-nurse,
Noiseless and strange,
Her bull's eye half-lanterned in apron,
(Whispering me, 'Are ye no sleepin' yet?'),
Passes, list-slippered and peering,
Round . . . and is gone.
Sleep comes at last--
Sleep full of dreams and misgivings--
Broken with brutal and sordid
Voices and sounds that impose on me,
Ere I can wake to it,
The unnatural, intolerable day.
2.2k
When saliva is saturated we all need a wakeup call
No matter how foreign we feel
But at daybreak your love is like a milkshake
It claws out my eyes and reluctantly takes Eleanor home for dinner
She sits there
She snorts
She smiles
She tore my heart into so many pieces that I'm still looking for the ones that rolled under the refrigerator
Bingo and broadsides do little for my brain
Ages of nothingness and drifting decades starve me
Lies and mistakes and dreams refuse to move on
They bounce off of Rosie's chin, mangle with age, and bitterly salute us as they die
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 10:48 PM UTC
She snorts her Ritalin
she snorts her xanex
she snorts her *******
before she has ***
She loves her codeine
and her amphetamines
her world spins so fast
she needs some Dramamine
she buys and sells pills,
writes prescriptions
she skips most meals
to feed her addictions
light up a cigarette
gulp down a percocet
mix uppers and downers
hoping that they offset
she takes bottle after bottle
of pills and alcohol
she just tips it back
and swallows it all
a walking pharmacy
a waiting tragedy
a princess of pills
her Medicated Majesty
Apr 6, 2011
Apr 6, 2011 at 7:12 AM UTC
I can still recall
The oddest things
About our embraces
The warmth of her blotchy cheeks;
Swollen like water balloons
Beneath my fingers
The scent of tears and perfume
A salty fume of womanhood
Swirling in my nostrils
The clogged up tone of her congested sniffles
Vaguely feminine snorts
Bouncing around my ears
I can still recall
The oddest things
About our embraces
They were all
So
Sad
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 11:43 PM UTC
She thinks of nobody but herself
But still her bedrooms filled with nails she falls
And always seems to land on her wrist
Gashes a centimeter wide she needs stitches she needs to call an ambulance
She'll bleed out! God ****** she'll bleed out!
But she's not ready to die yet so she stitches herself back up
Hoping she hasn't drained too much
Because she loves the sting the reason she lives is for the sting
And the DRUGS
PILLS: Oxy, Percocet, Vicodin, Demerol
She sniffs them she snorts them she even ******* chews them!
She'll do anything as long as she can float
She won't admit it but she loves life she loves the drugs
And pain and abuse that come with life
She loves the pain, oh god **** she loves the pain
So she stitches herself back up she doesn't want to die
Repeat repeat she does it again
Dripping on the kitchen tile but this time is different
This time she's forgotten about the drugs and the pain
She's focused on her wrist and her wrist and her wrist and her blade
Too deep, she's gone too deep again
But she doesn't care she's not stitching herself back up
She's ready to die with not enough drugs and
Too much pain
She's ready to leave this world behind
Ready to leave the pills
Don't leave me don't leave me
I love you I love you
Grab the needle, please get the thread
Please just stitch yourself back up stitch yourself back up
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 6:43 PM UTC
#
*Imprinted in to the fleshwall-
linings of my very spirit
resides a photo of you--
(staring at your computer screen)
with a genuine look of shock
and disbelief..
..And before I could even yell Sam
I was receiving by you
the most horrendous, publicly displayed
cock-kick I have ever received.
It only stayed out there for a short time
but online, a "short time"
..is exactly as an eternity;
So I pulled back in self protection.
I had been dickin'-around out there
in a whole 'nother poetic-realm..
playfully finding words and verse comparing
my wildly-passionate virility
to that of a well-honed precision,
high powered performance engine
And two clear babes showed up in the comments
and let me know
how impressed and affected they were
by what it was they were reading.
So naturally, me being a single man..
I responded.
I never knew them before, or ever saw them after.
End of story.*
..Almost.
*Young, beautiful Wildling--
I never knew you even gave two ficks and a ****
Until I saw that picture of you..
staring into your computer screen
in raw, disbelief--
...the wind, fully knocked out of your sails.
So.. clearly you buried yourself
in multiple two-fingered snorts
of your favourite "spurned lover's" little helper happy-juice..
and once you reached the intended goal
of full-blown, *********
You performed some of the most Machiavellian-shit
I have ever seen in my life.
(But it fell short of its intended goal.)*
Nothing can remove you from the love of you
that I feel in my heart.
*What you thought was destroyed,
was immediately forgiven
Solely because of that picture of you
that is now, forever mine. Solely.
There is a dream, beautiful girl
..And nothing you can do
can make it end.
(The restoring of you back to you
is such a central part of that dream.)
The restoring of you, young beautiful.. You.
Mm.
Shhh.... listen..*#
Jan 21, 2023
Jan 21, 2023 at 8:47 PM UTC
Today, I want to sink my chest into yours.
Your heart pumping blood through my veins for a bit, mine doesn't want to anymore.
Let's trade.
I'll put my brain on ice.
Wash this skull cavity with some minty fresh chemical while my wrinkled pink mother board discovers cryogenics.
When I place it back Into my tingly, almost numb now, chemical washed head
I will still feel heavy.
I want to turn to a whisp.
Like the Night Elves in World of Warcraft.
A floating blue orb of energy
Just a spirit, weightless.
Let me live as electricity, like that spark you felt .
Like that spark they all felt.
Place me in the power lines so I can power houselights and televisions.
Let me be usefull for something again.
Don't convert my head though.
Keep that on Ice.
Better still, creamate
everything but my heart.
Let the ashes get caught
in carpets and drain pipes
Kept in little ziplock baggies,
Tucked in a wooden box,
Kept back seat of my mothers car,
So she can hold it once in awhile.
Until she parks her car in a bad part of town
And a homeless man breaks in
Doesn't steal the gps, or her wallet on the front seat,
But snorts me three hours later
Thinking he just hit the jack ***
That's where I want to be.
In the lungs of some car burglar
Where his addiction should have been,
coughing on my ashes.
He won't get my heart though.
Keep that frozen in a white room.
Smelling of copper, by a tray of tools,
Latex gloves and paper masks.
One day, thaw it out
bring life to someone.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
If you ask him he will talk for hours--
how at fourteen he hammered signs, fingers
raw with cold, and later painted bowers
in ladies' boudoirs; how he played checkers
for two weeks in jail, and lived on dark bread;
how he fled the border to a country
which disappeared wars ago; unfriended
crossed a continent while this century
began. He seldom speaks of painting now.
Young men have time and theories; old men work.
He has painted countless portraits. Sallow
nameless faces, made glistening in oil, smirk
above anonymous mantelpieces.
The turpentine has a familiar smell,
but his hand trembles with odd, new palsies.
Perched on the maulstick, it nears the easel.
He has come to like his resignation.
In his sketch books, ink-dark cossacks hear
the snorts of horses in the crunch of snow.
His pen alone recalls that years ago,
one horseman set his teeth and aimed his spear
which, poised, seemed pointed straight to pierce the sun.
1.8k
in the middle of the night.
when your snores,
snorts and grinding teeth
serenade, my fancies flight
i choose, to love you....
in the cool of the dawn.
when you, leave your
towels on the floor
and your beard's
shorn-shearings, in the sink,
but kiss me gently, as you go
i choose, to love you....
at noon, when i open
my lunch, to see the gingerbread,
gone, replaced with the
words from "our song."
i choose, to love you.....
and at the descent of the evening.
when, instead of putting
our boy to bed,
you fill his head, with dragons and monsters
i choose, to love you........
and when i say,
i choose, to love you............
....... i lie.......
there is no choice....
i am yours,
till....
the end of....
forevermore...
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
7:06
bringing a new weight to the words "high and dry,"
she crushes ten 0.5 milligram pills of xanax with the **** end of a spoon,
puts half of it up her nose, mixes the rest into a bottle of water along with a koolaid packet.
8:47
bringing a new weight to the words "high and dry,"
she pulls three more pills from an empty lipstick tube in her bag,
chases them with her koolaid xanax cocktail and checks her email:
for every day that she doesn't change her underwear, she makes twenty dollars,
[email protected] tells her.
9:32
bringing a new weight to the words "high and dry,"
she snorts three more fat discolored lines in a public bathroom with her best friend.
her friend crushed the pills with a pen that clicked every time she pressed down;
breathe in fast and hold your ******* breath.
10:15
bringing a new weight to the words "high and dry,"
she takes her last pill of the day.
today has cost her at least thirty dollars
as she makes a career out of killing herself.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC
Fond woman, which wouldst have thy husband die,
And yet complain’st of his great jealousy;
If swol’n with poison, he lay in his last bed,
His body with a sere-bark covered,
Drawing his breath, as thick and short, as can
The nimblest crocheting musician,
Ready with loathsome vomiting to spew
His soul out of one hell, into a new,
Made deaf with his poor kindred’s howling cries,
Begging with few feigned tears, great legacies,
Thou wouldst not weep, but jolly and frolic be,
As a slave, which tomorrow should be free;
Yet weep’st thou, when thou seest him hungerly
Swallow his own death, hearts-bane jealousy.
O give him many thanks, he’s courteous,
That in suspecting kindly warneth us
Wee must not, as we used, flout openly,
In scoffing riddles, his deformity;
Nor at his board together being sat,
With words, nor touch, scarce looks adulterate;
Nor when he swol’n, and pampered with great fare
Sits down, and snorts, caged in his basket chair,
Must we usurp his own bed any more,
Nor kiss and play in his house, as before.
Now I see many dangers; for that is
His realm, his castle, and his diocese.
But if, as envious men, which would revile
Their Prince, or coin his gold, themselves exile
Into another country, and do it there,
We play in another house, what should we fear?
There we will scorn his houshold policies,
His seely plots, and pensionary spies,
As the inhabitants of Thames’ right side
Do London’s Mayor; or Germans, the Pope’s pride.
1.7k
I’m driving laps around
Urique’s unpaved streets
with Arnulfo, the world’s fastest
ultra-runner up front
Chugging tesguino disregarding
Young son, Mateas in the back
Handing us the 2 liter Coca-
Cola bottles, full of the mashy
corn brew.
The cholos are drinking
Tecate, mumbling under the palms
stalking the river, watching us
break down at ever lap.
Arnuflo heaves the truck
from behind, alone,
screaming and pushing.
I snap it into second gear
Mateas trembling,
and off we go. Arnulfo hopping in
smoking more cigarettes
passing the tesguino around shouting
Rapido! Poco a poco! Andale!
Rancherra bumps full blast, the
Eternal bumping,
beem, boom, up and down
Beem, boom, beem, boom
Tubas and brass echoing through all the adobe walls
meandering all the way
down the arroyo
to God know’s where.
The cholos challenge Arnulfo
to a race in their harsh stares
under flashy hats and shiny mustaches,
Ed Hardy models with sharp pointed
snake-skinned boots
Ayyeee, Arnulfo says, He won’t race
gainst Oscarine who they say
is the fastest young Chabochi
better than the elders
who used to chase down deer,
gently twisting their necks
after tracking them to
an ending exhaustion.
Arnulfo tells them I can win
as Oscarine snorts more from the bag
they pass around from his pocket
Off we go twenty yards
Around the farthest tree
And I win because of
Arnulfo's ancient
assurance
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
This was written for Tim Burris. My best friend.
Happy Birthday, Warchief.
The sky will break open.
Meeting shades of red, black, and white, as the sun settles into the void.
This is his brow.
Anvil hands. He marks the moving beneath, like earthen plates in shift.
Affecting change. Symphonic strokes.
War is on his breath. Hidden behind a smile that shines like pax.
Don't dare him or he'll ask you to look down.
Heed the drums.
The warchief comes.
Your victory is written in the fabric of his kilt.
Gilded in the golden thread of kith and kin.
He was watching. He is always watching.
And though the black steed has gone gray,
He snorts storm clouds into the valley he looks down upon.
The tides ripple beneath his skin.
His chest swells in pride and laughter.
Alpha. Hands curled in furious fists of might and mirth,
Trained for love and war and so much more.
Heed the drums.
The warchief comes.
His hug a phalanx.
His word, unbroken steel.
His hands. Anvils.
His history, legendary.
Mighty.
He is the spirit horse.
He is the edgewalker.
He is the vibration playing across the drum skin.
Carrying outward on wind.
Settling peace in the hearts of his own.
Heed the drums.
The warchief comes.
We will stand beside him.
For we are mighty too.
We that tie our spines together, like coursing veins.
We that are family, not of blood.
But spirit.
We that match our heart beats as one powerful rhythm.
Pounding off canyon walls.
Ringing in ears.
Shaking the fabric of the never forgotten.
We that are woven together.
A tartan of our own.
We that stand as one to love.
And laugh.
And revel.
And fight.
We that never run.
But run like blood.
We that are bound with him.
Storm clouds.
A phalanx.
A fabric.
A family.
A drum beat.
We are the drums.
We are the drums.
Look to the horizon.
The warchief comes.
Aug 4, 2011
Aug 4, 2011 at 11:29 AM UTC
Pushing breaklights,
before jumping over the crown,
Taking drags,
in italics (makes us look like we down).
Slouching over countertops,
while hard water drops,
dreaming of minerals,
while the Blacksmith takes benedryl.
Receiving kicks,
from the ends of steel-toed boots,
act a champ,
he winks (we're in some sort of cahoots).
Tattooed blackeyes,
(don't wanna **** with these guys),
cool-kid-alert!
snorts lines in the dirt.
Back with a vengeance,
watching Batman and Robin,
breaks dishes,
because his headache is throbbing.
And I look and I see,
and it occurs to me,
and I forget the rest,
because it feels the best.
And, I left my dad's gun under my bed.
Jan 24, 2011
Jan 24, 2011 at 6:48 PM UTC
A 15 year old girl with 3 ****** partners almost up to 4
Living without essentials because her family lives poor
Feeding in addiction while her body craves more
She's growing up too fast and she's doing it alone
She says she needs the drugs because she won't make it on her own
So she lights up that blunt and snorts some of that coke
As her body sub-misses to the drug she says softly "don't tell my folks"
Deeper and deeper she sinks into her own hellish abyss
As a child she never thought life could be like this
But she also thought daddies weren't supposed to hit mommies
And little girls were supposed to just play with their dollies
Instead of hiding from step-brothers with lust in their eyes
Just to be found in her room at night, awaiting a not so pleasant surprise
Her life has been nothing but bad days with dark skies
A 15 year old girl with 4 ****** partners almost up to 5
Married to *** pain and drugs
She makes a beautiful wife
Married to the death of love
She makes a beautiful wife
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
.
Raising his hand
moving from the desk
as spitballs fly
and notes are passed
*Chasing his tale
in make believe endings
with a princess in pink
draped on his arm*
snickers and snorts bellow
his train of thought
traveling off track temporarily,
temporarily
*Dancing at midnight
drifting the seasons
on a feather boa mattress
pearlescent skin and fingers*
silence gathers around
heavy breaths float
eyes squint, trying to focus
not his, theirs
*Drawbridge openings explored
present tense heartbeats
sundown desires drip
saturating the scabbard*
Homework is sidelined
jealous boys, intrigued girls
as curiosity peaks and biology
is not just a subject anymore
*at the front of the classroom
writing in black chalk
so the rest of the class
cannot see*
but he can
oh he can
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
If you don't know me by now
I am gregarious
I am a loner
sometimes hilarious
other times a moaner
sharp as a tack
dull as a dark cloud
sitting quietly in a corner
other times I'm too loud
I'll lay heaps of praise
I'll call you out
wanna know what's on my mind
I'll leave no doubt
I'll give you kisses
call you an ***
never been confused as one
with too much class
I'm a hard worker
and a lazy ***
I can be your lover
I can be your chum
don't like being played
but crazy about games
don't like loudmouths
love **** dames
have fancy suits
and cheapo shorts
like tasty *****
but no ***** or snorts
oh I will take a hit
off a Columbian joint
get high into a trance
laugh dance and point
yes I am this
and I am that
if you need a friend
I'll be more than that
just treat me right
don't pull my chain
then I'll be there
again and again
Gomer LePoet ....
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 11:35 AM UTC