"snuffling" poems
Just a quiet woman polished bright by nerves,
I once felt wild for dipping my hair in purple.
Noticing, my hairdresser asked if I had anyone special.
I dated a man with a good job
who liked museums.
We saw a drunk girl in a leather skirt-
heels hobbling down cobblestone,
her bird-arm linked through a friend’s.
He rolled his eyes:
_would you go out wearing skirts like that?_
On the dating app I’d written:
loves dogs, drinks champagne from paper cups.
It wasn’t a lie, but I am such a liar.
I told him yes,
because I needed his reaction,
his self-corrected mind,
though I’ve never worn one.
I say I’m fine with whatever,
or this is stupid,
but truthfully
I’m afraid I’m only a very nice lady,
soft in the hands of whoever will take me.
I carry anger like a weak religion-
a god I light candles for twice a year,
more symbol than practice.
I’ve heard of burying St. Joseph upside down
to sell a house. But there’s no charm,
no saint, for loosening the knots I keep tied.
I want to keep the bright mess of my dog heart,
mud-spattered, mulch-snuffling,
faithful to its own scent,
while crows, squirrels, and the occasional fox
paw through the dirt
for what they almost forgot.
Aug 15, 2025
Aug 15, 2025 at 8:33 PM UTC
How do you tell someone that you’re tired of existing?
No one has done anything wrong, and by all normal standards this day has been quite nice, but something in me
can’t
handle
that.
Something in me can’t stand this constant standard of
“surviving”
Being exhausted of simply being is draining and no amount of stimulant can correct this.
How do you tell someone that it takes all of you to simply wake up in the morning? To wake, to breathe. How do you tell them that it’s nothing they’ve done, but you just can’t do it anymore.
How do you say **** like this?
How do I think **** like this?
Where could I go?
France?
Scotland?
How far would I have to run for these hounds to stop their pursuit of me?
Will they stop this chase?
The answer is no. No, I don’t think they will.
I think they’ll keep ******* chasing me.
They’ll keep coming. They’ll keep
this race no matter how run-ragged I may be. They’ll keep pace, keep biting at my ankles, keep snarling, snuffling, tearing the ground with their paws. They’ll hunt me until the end— no matter how many rivers or oceans I cross. Or maybe the river Styx will clog their all-knowing-noses….I shouldn’t have given them my scent. But they know it now. They know it and they want more.
I’m living off jolts of too much caffeine right now. What way is that to live? Living, though is an overstatement.
I’m not living— I’m just taking up space.
Taking up space and filling up volumes with these hollow words— as if I don’t know how stale I sound.
So where can I go? What do I do?
What the hell do I do when I can’t even decide if I want to be Alive?
What do I WANT to do?
I WANT a house in the mountains.
I want an herb garden planted in the shape of a sacred spiral. I want a river to bathe in, a fire place to cast into,
a cat to hate and watch suspiciously,
a dog to keep the hounds at bay,
a kitchen to make magick and medicine in, and a bed warmed by someone else.
I want cold nights and mornings warm
only because there is skin against my back.
I
want not to be a prisoner of my own words.
I want to stop dreading the day that I run out of words-- because the day I run out of words will be the day I let the hounds catch up to me.
I want moonlight&moonshine.;
I want sunlight and dizzy sun spots.
I want trees and the sound of a roaring tuck.
I want sweat and the smell of Wood.
I want woods and warm skin at my back.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail,
She looked so limp and bedraggled,
So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle,
Or a wizened aster in late September,
I brought her back in again
For a new routine--
Vitamins, water, and whatever
Sustenance seemed sensible
At the time: she'd lived
So long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer,
Her shriveled petals falling
On the faded carpet, the stale
Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves.
(Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.)
The things she endured!--
The dumb dames shrieking half the night
Or the two of us, alone, both seedy,
Me breathing ***** at her,
She leaning out of her *** toward the window.
Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me--
And that was scary--
So when that snuffling ****** of a maid
Threw her, *** and all, into the trash-can,
I said nothing.
But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week,
I was that lonely.
3.9k
heavy head, ****** and tired sleep echoes through my corridor head. love, a treasure, buried deep within my x-marked chest; i stuck blades of grass in a picture frame, because everything else went away: like the cleaning lady outside my door, vacuum like a pet dog, pawing at carpet, grooming it with its soft, snuffly nose. mess cleaned and she went away. vacuum like a pet dog, hip-hugging, man's best friend.
lines in the bathroom, lines out the back. waiting and shaking with a crazy laugh filled with warmth like a smile radiating from my muscles. powder leaves the plastic surface, like the cleanin lady outside my door, and her sniffling, snuffling vacuum-dog. ****** into a ten dollar bill, with a whimper and a sigh, the pup hops away with its owner, the cleaning lady off to brush along some other fool's corridors.
on the cold steel, the train slows down, a mile out from the station. up hill, down hill, steam choking carriage, searching for thrill in the click clack, crazy rails of a cool powder train. in the bathroom crushing pills to get you up hill, down hill, with a steam choked carriage and that cleaning lady outside my door, she brought that dog, and he was barking real loud, makin' a fool out of me, in the bathroom of that click clack, crazy powder train. hands scritch' scratchin' on the white sheets, until in a moment, it all crumbles to dust, ridin' on the wind's back, leaving like they all do, like the cleaning lady outside my door, and that pet vacuum-dog of hers.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
If I'd a dime for every rhyme
That popped inside my head
Wishing plague and misery
To **** what is already dead
Then perhaps some day, should I have my way
I'd bring silence to the lambs
**** it's bleating, end it's breathing
And let me rest amongst the ******
We cursed few do mock the blessed
We dance on your very grave
If only you saw perspective
You'd know there's none to save!
Time, time and time again
You promised to make change
And now my mind won't SHUT UP
It knows that I'm to blame!
I did this, I did that
I know what wicked ends
Have forged the stage of sorrows
That gave you all there was left
With piggy eyes and snuffling pride
Your wretched filth, and life
Have tempted fate, as of late
Now scream, pig, and die...
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 11:28 PM UTC
I am just a city girl, I'm calling up at city lights.
The daily roar of traffic, unsettling on this chilly Tuesday night.
I am frightened by my shadow, as sunlight comes around.
I ran along the pathway outside my darkened house.
Heard a creature snuffling, perhaps it was a mouse.
Then my lovely carer crept outside the bungalow.
Oh no, my shuffler got trod on.
She thought it was the discarded head of a tatty old brush.
A broom head, chucked out in the gloom.
It was a little hedgehog.
Poor creature creeping around in the dark.
Went indoors.
Found a torch.
The pig of the hedge had gone.
My carer told me she felt guilty.
I said she need not be.
As the hedgehog, scared by heavy feet.
Was up the pathway nibbling meat.
The meat was meant for me.
(c)LIVVI
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:21 AM UTC
The crickets abandoned the yard
not long after you.
The evenings are too quiet now—
no big, dumb you exploring every
bush and branch,
snapping and snuffling
through the thicket,
coming home
with dirt on your nose
and covered in burrs,
goofy faced.
Just grass
and a sleeping garden.
The squirrels fear nothing.
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 5:07 PM UTC
Aardvarks and Applesnarks,
filling in between the quarks.
Scratching and scraping behind the door.
Shuffling and snuffling all across the floor.
I hear them tapping, hear them scraping,
wonder where they've gone a traipsing.
Aardvarks on the move,
Applesnarks in the groove.
Looking like land sharks after the ants,
Make sure you don't get one up your pants.
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 4:25 AM UTC
My God, my God, what queer corner am I in?
Didn't I die, blood running down the post,
lungs gagging for air, die there for the sin
of anyone, my sour mouth giving up the ghost?
Surely my body is done? Surely I died?
And yet, I know, I'm here. What place is this?
Cold and queer, I sting with life. I lied.
Yes, I lied. Or else in some ****** cowardice
my body would not give me up. I touch
fine cloth with my hand and my cheeks are cold.
If this is hell, then hell could not be much,
neither as special or as ugly as I was told.
What's that I hear, snuffling and pawing its way
toward me? Its tongue knocks a pebble out of place
as it slides in, a sovereign. How can I pray>
It is panting; it is an odor with a face
like the skin of a donkey. It laps my sores.
It is hurt, I think, as a I touch its little head.
It bleeds. I have forgiven murderers and ******
and now must wait like old Jonah, not dead
nor alive, stroking a clumsy animal. A rat.
His teeth test me; he waits like a good cook,
knowing his own ground. I forgive him that,
as I forgave my Judas the money he took.
Now I hold his soft red sore to my lips
as his brothers crowd in, hairy angels who take
my gift. My ankles are a flute. I lose hips
and wrists. For three days, for love's sake,
I bless this other death. Oh, not in air --
in dirt. Under the rotting veins of its roots,
under the markets, under the sheep bed where
the hill is food, under the slippery fruits
of the vineyard, I go. Unto the bellies and jaws
of rats I commit my prophecy and fear.
Far below The Cross, I correct its flaws.
We have kept the miracle. I will not be here.
1.6k
It's in the act of
Unlocking the front door
Leaving the chill of the outside
For the warmth of home
It's in the dog that comes
Snuffling happily at your feet
The cat that pads up quietly
Reluctantly curling around your ankles
It's in the bowl that sits
Still warm in the microwave
And the accompanying note
Wrapped around the spoon
It's in the moment
Of stepping into the shower
And letting the hot spray
Wash the day's grime and cares off
It's coming home to you
Snoring under the covers
Smelling like soap and sleep
As you wake up a little
To tug me closer and kiss me goodnight
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC
my happiness looks like this:
three staffordshire bull terriers that keep stealing all the blankets on the bed,
and a fourth back at my mother’s home who cannot contain his excitement when i visit
grey winter morning light leaking in from behind the blinds—
i hate winter and i should be asleep,
but still my happiness includes this:
the hours i lie awake,
still insomnia ridden as i was when i used to write the nights away in sorrow,
but now
i watch videos of people who like the same pretty colours and the same pretty furniture as i do,
decorating their houses and building
useful things
i put a little more spare cash into my savings each week
and squirm impatiently for our first home together
ours. mine and his.
the main picture in my montage of happiness
is the man lying next to me, sound asleep
an arm cuddled around our oldest girl,
both of them snoring and snuffling in their slumber
sounds i loathed from other people
are sounds i cherish from him.
i kiss the tip of his nose,
each cheek,
the curve of his forehead,
the point of his chin
and settle one more on soft, lax lips
my words don’t feel so beautiful
because all life’s beauty, i find in him.
i don’t have poeticism to spare for writing
when all my love letters are spoken to him
and he embodies everything beautiful
from eyes to smile to skin
down to the soul within
Feb 23, 2022
Feb 23, 2022 at 2:31 AM UTC
There’s a guy I know
Who’s into spirits,
And not the liquid kind.
He stares sidelong at the world,
Twists his head from side to side.
Imagine what he might find.
Vampires drink wine in Soho,
Sipping from fluted necks
In late night **** stores.
Werewolves run Hyde park ragged,
Robed in riches turned to rags,
If only in the lunar mind.
Police pigs snuffling
Through street trash,
Hunting for him shaped treats.
Televisions watching
His living room and recording
Names and faces of all his kind.
The media he scorns,
Puppet masters pulling strings
For their puppet masters.
The government and the media
Are in it together he opines,
Waving a rag with that in mind.
Aliens control the government,
Sinking sinuous senses
Through simian skulls;
Prodding, poking, pulling
Political factions to provoke
A return of the fleet they left behind.
Codes in hoods hide in churches,
Linking mathematical shapes
To chain centuries of history;
Statues wink and leer at
Myopic armchair men and women
Hunting for the doom of mankind.
Millions of rubes bought over
Shop counters using nonesuch
To sell their souls for trinkets;
Illuminati design adverts,
Flashing commercials;
****** for the public in mind.
Big name pharmaceutical
Selling death at a point
For the sake of profit over parent;
Buying stats to lie to the mass,
Doctors demanding dummies
Despite the way the stars aligned.
Taken for a ride,
We queue with tickets in hand
Waiting for our turn on the rails.
Lie on lie on lie.
He sleeps with one eye on the sky.
Tracking cameras on a road sign.
This guy I know,
He thinks too much.
I don’t mind.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
Long ginger muzzle
eyes burning
through the copse, fixed upon
the snuffling vole eating
grubs in the moonlight,fangs
like stunted darning needles
revealed in its widening jaw.
hunching in the grass
it crawled cautiously forward
and pounced
like a god on an acolyte
quenching blood-lust-
the fox ate again that night.
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
we have an echidna
dining on ants
in our garden
the little devon rex cat
tuxedo boy is perplexed
it is the first echidna he has seen
and tux is not sure if it is
a toy, food or a future nemisis
so is watching it from the deck,
neck stretched out so far
he has lost his wrinkles.
eyes big and nose twitching
his ears swivelling like radar dishes
the echidna,
is placidly eating
little nose snuffling,
and spines shaking as he moves
he is done now
and makes his way
to the hole in the fence
the cat, now bold,
goes to investigate
nose to ground, but not for long.
the acridic smell of dying ants
give him cause to sneeze and sneeze
before hustling back to the safety of the deck
another lesson learnt
echindna's are no cat's toy...
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 12:01 AM UTC
We cower
Under covers
As if a thin sheet
Might save us
From these
Macabre horrors
Drooling, smiling,
Scuttling,
Red- bellied phantoms
Slither by Whisper in many voices
They drink fear
Revelling in it
Invisible children
With laughter
Turning into hate
Snuffling, shuffling
Coldly touching
Smiling, eyeless
Grasping, gasping
Terror, dark
Chuckling, biting
Surrounding, frozen
Wildly insane
Sliding, tripping
We hide from this monster
Cower
Down
But fail
...it's
inside
us
all...
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
a small, dark shape is reflected in the large, round eyes of the owl
tilting its head, it watches the creature snuffling through the snow and listens to its feet move
it takes off from its branch with a shivering of ice
meanwhile, i pretend i dont know it can hear me and continue clambering along
i do not know if it would be better to look my death in the face
(red on white, the drops bounce)
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 4:15 PM UTC
Without my ******* Jack secret
decoder ring I am lost
when I see a periodic table
I want to read left to right
for sense not status so
Nitrogen plus Oxygen means “No”
Phosphorus plus Sulfur makes “P.S.”
Lithium plus Beryllium spells “Likable Bear”
and so forth
Abbreviations of elements
that form the world I inhabit
appear disguised as aliens
their images blur from solid
to sinuous liquid
then gaseous vapor
as my eyes glaze
over into white noise
switch cognition channels
to resolve the mystery
contain the strangeness
in a familiar form
my numb brain grows a snout
starts poking around
like an old hound dog
snuffling autumn leaves
to decipher the scent of calculus
when the jonquils of high school algebra
have long since fallen
and confused summer yellows
with dew wrapped plums
quiet in dappled shade
plump and smooth
glistening soft
with promise
on a blue checked cloth
upon a worn oak table
(c) 2017-04-06
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 2:07 AM UTC
A snuffling comrade,
Curled in a silky smoothe ball.
What great joy a cat!
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
If you fly too close to the sun
you might get burned.
Me?
I saw my chance
stretched out before me
and I jumped,
discovered I could fly.
Me?
I picked the sun,
paid the price
for the high.
-
I have known
darkness.
And yet
every time
I plunge
down,
down,
down,
it’s always the same
Shock,
and pain.
Oh God,
the pain.
-
Deep in the dark,
I curse the day
I ever saw the sun.
Better, instead,
to have been born a mole,
content to spend my life
snuffling about in the soil.
Deep in the dark,
licking my wounds,
I am certain that this
is the end.
-
Good bye to
trust,
to love,
to warmth.
Good bye.
-
How could this have happened?
I cry out to myself,
but when the tears dry
I remember.
Remember how
I am addicted to risk,
addicted to the extremes of feeling -
anything to escape
the Nothingness.
I always seem to be courting
the ones that carry concealed weapons
they don’t know how to wield.
And, me?
I am the perfect target.
-
I figure I deserve this,
and so
I make rock bottom my home,
try to get used to the dark,
try throw a cloak over
the light I've known
try to bury it deep underground.
-
I dig and dig and dig.
My blood goes cold,
I hibernate.
-
I hibernate
until one day
I find I can move.
My limbs work,
I am not as broken
as I thought.
-
I am cold,
I miss the sun.
-
So I shake off sleep,
and pack up my things.
I am not a worm,
not a mole.
Dark
was never meant to be
my home.
I turn
all the swords in my back
into a ladder
and I haul myself up.
-
Back on solid ground,
I begin to warm up.
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 6:11 PM UTC
Snuffling, sneezing, rasping, breathing rattling like a Gatling gun, stuffed up, bunged up bring me a hot cup of something beginning with cognac.
but it's better than it was.
now I'm through the worst of it, thank god and paracetamol.
'He's getting on and in his state you'd think he'd want a tete a tete with Doctor Bob,
( no rhyme intended but the inner voice is such a **** )
Saturday and at the crack
the dawn is laughing
I'm staying in bed.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 11:38 PM UTC
He shuffles in snuffling
I see that the cold
has got to him.
Tea for to warm his bones and
a seat to complete his rest.
It's not so unusual these days
to see the luckless to whom
the Lady of Luck never pays.
Signs of the times?
if so
we corrupt them in couplets
and rhymes when it should be
doublet and hose
for the warriors
within
the man who shuffled in
goes
and another soul
takes his place
same look on her face
it could be his twin or
it might be a friend of
mine
shuffling in.
At the sharp end of the stick
it becomes harder to pick
yourself out of the gutter.
Thank God it's not me
sitting there
drinking tea
wondering where or how
never thinking blue sky
only wondering why
and why is the question we answer with
Why?
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 11:26 AM UTC
as the hands ever unseen,
push forward,
the tines of time,
i lie with eyes open,
but it must be said,
with a desperate desire
that they be closed.
i listen to the wind rail,
against it's perpetual,
homeless state.
fury has been it's nature,
this past long night
and has doubled
the occupancy of this old
king bed,
sprawled beside me now safely asleep,
is a tangle of blucat and small, but growing to fast, child
both resting, hard up against the lee- side of the man mountain.
all creating a purring, snuffling, snoring thing,
that has an equal measure
of comfort and annoyance, circulating within my brain.
outside the house,
something has come adrift, but not enough, to blow away and it bangs in an awkard thunking rhythm agin the side of the house.
in the bed it is warm
and slightly sweaty.
outside of the bed,
it is crisp and overcool.
outside the window,
the sky is lightening,
to a grey that portends...
a long day
i make my choice
and leave the warmth in search of, the first of,
far too many coffee's
and the unseen hands,
still move,
the tines of the
old grandfather clock.
ever onward, everforward.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
Sahara danced upon the roofs on sniffling, snuffling London town.
Piles of mess chucked all around.
Anyone fancy a cigarette?
Just puff on the choking smog, will stuff your lungs a little more.
Makes your eyes itch , blood red *****
Not a beach chair in sight, nor a flowing tide.
Come tomorrow the sand will die.
With the rain in will be washed away.
Wonder where will it go!
(C) Livvi
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC