"souped" poems
I have this friend across the pond
As bright as clear-night stars
Intelligent and talented
And faster than souped up cars
But she has her flaws, alas
As all the best poets do
I know this to be a fact, of course
Who hasn't got one or two?
After all, it has to be said
Perfection is lack of character to me
So I'm keeping my eye on my talented friend
And watch as her mind flies free
By Phil Roberts
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 9:11 AM UTC
*She was way too tough for me.
no it's more I was not hard enough for her.
The old ***** brick houses
of Englands industrial north
caught between industrial revolution
and social unrest .
I was just a youth back then.
The big war fading from memory.
I stopped at my friend's back yard
it was a hot summer back then.
His souped up bike was gleaming
like a prize racehorse.
She pulled a flask of *****
and took a long pull
her bright red hair
like glowing coal
her eyes as black as darkness
she was hard pretty.
Her mini skirt flashing
her shaply legs.
a stray dog big and hard
just like her.
jumped up and licked her face.
she Laughed
they were like two
kindred spirits
like sisters by nature
wild and drifting and free.
She had *** with me
the first time I met her
and told me I was not
rough enough for her.
I just was a bit scared
of telling her
I wanted out of it.
The kick-started bike roared
like the steel lion it was.
She squealed in delight.
then the stray dog peed
on the concrete.
she lifted her skirts
like the hard ***** she was
and peed next to it.
she jumped on the back
of his bike and they
went off at full speed.
To test his bike out
at the racetrack.
I hear they shacked up together.
and we're very happy.
I dated a nerdy young woman
quiet and conservative
who became a librarian.
We got married
four years later.
had two kids
and a housetrained dog.
She never once told me
I was not rough enough in bed.*
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 3:49 PM UTC
I bought a cruiser bike
instead of a mountain bike
I’m a sextagenarian
not a 30-something
so every morning I pedal
to the corner across from the Ritz-Carlton and the Montage
next to the high-rent Pandemonde Café
and count the Ferraris roaring by.
I never had a Ferrari
but I did buy a ’96 Mustang once
and souped it up with a supercharger
which was around the time
my doctor took me off testosterone
because my prostate specific antigen
was way too high
You have an inoperable prostate malignancy, he said
after the biopsy
You can’t take hormone replacement anymore
It will **** you
And as I lean on my bike
depressed about missing the rush
of another boost of synthetic male hormone
I enjoy watching the Europen speedsters streak by
so proud of themselves
in cars that cost more
than my house.
I used to wish I was them
used to feel like them
when I was younger and charging hard
but now I just utter prayers
for each Lamborghini that goes by
and I say
I hope your car is faster than cancer.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 6:45 AM UTC
To soak up the dirt is to soak up the stories.
My story is grime pushed into the cracks in the concrete
From all the crusty hobos and sweat-sheened showgirls.
My story is glitter from all the strippers and their grinning patrons, and
***** spilled liquor, and ***** from those who have sought a cure.
I am nourished by pain, and also rubber from the wheels of souped-up sports cars
Driven by men with chasmic souls. The oil from a billion french fries
Palliates the sting of alcohol upon my fractured, ***** skin.
The filth of the cigarettes and of the **** smoke,
Dank in the air, and heavy, slathers on another coat.
I see all things and I hear all things and I know all things.
I can see up your skirt right now, you precious little object,
As you flee the casino like a gull from a shark’s open jaws.
Your nightmare is right behind you, and he’s starving.
His humanity has been chewed up by the worms of his rancor,
And all that remains is an animal with hot blood on his brain.
In the alleyway I hear the pop and crack as stiletto gives way to concrete
And bone gives way to undue stress. His smile is unhinged as
Stifled screams and muffled gunshot atomize in the black air.
A decade later, the mops of sad janitors cut through like razors,
Making clean spots more unsightly than the ocean of grunge.
Surreptitious blood spatters, long since scrubbed
Still glint under blacklight. The chalk outlines have absorbed
Into my unholy black skin, and though I was drunk on your blood,
I still remember cradling you as you died.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 1:57 AM UTC
Improved
Build the car with thicker metal
Give it a bigger engine more power
Beef up the brakes and gear box
Improve the other things
You’ll get an improved model
Looking like the old one
But with state of the art
Features full of benefits
Ride drive like the winds
Nobody and nothing to stop you
A souped up Olds Mobile
Give it some on the road
Ride to meet the Devil
Feb 4, 2023
Feb 4, 2023 at 8:50 PM UTC
You seem to know where you're needed
to whom this command addressed is a crazy me-man,
a street walking big DaVinci ibearded mumbler,
the kind you would cross the street
before the smell is close enough
to sending you running, not just
politely walking fast but a souped up
hi-yo silver away!
this guise no surprise,
you must and do
already know where I’m needed,
sealing the pact with a yellowtine post-it
writ in simple block letters ordered in a brewed cafe,
my latte arrive states my name as**
come see me
come to the time the place and the date
and prepare oneself for twenty and fours
of rigid interoperability as our systems
interface reach the pure state of 100%
ultimate wordless dialogue
communicating
in with by
perfect silence
heaven
you will write a verse,
my reciprocation
is already prepared
this terse repartee
will many spawn poems generational
for your family amazing and extended
an elephnat never forgets,
his servers are a rolling stone
with no direction home,
capacity unknown
every blade sighted retained,
and every sensate glance
a phrase seeded
departure will find me clean shaven,
pressed jeans neat,
and shod in well worn dockers,
cloaking my innate invisibility
when the children ask who was that,
you’ll sage reply
one new who knew where one was needed
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 10:18 AM UTC
Every day was the same as the one before. She
Every day was the same as the one before. She
went to the cupboard and took out a box of Wheetie Krisps
went to the cupboard and took out a box of Kheetie Wisps
just to survive another morning shift, or so it seemed.
just to survive another afternoon shift, or so it seemed.
Why wouldn't Sam in Sales notice her? After all,
Why wouldn't Irving in the Post Room notice her? After all,
he was only a Trainee Executive; and she was good enough for him.
he was only a souped-up errands boy; and she was desperate.
Of course today, as with yesterday, he would simply walk past her.
Of course today, like yesterday, he would just run away.
The ground floor cafe queue never seemed to get any shorter at lunchtime
The sandwich trolley lady seemed to get shorter and shorter of sandwiches
The bistro down the road was no less crowded; the food was expensive,
The local pub's parrot kept screaming "TIME!" and the food was crap,
No-one ever spoke to anyone outside of their clique; it was just another working day.
No-one ever had any time to chat; it was just another pointless day.
And so the days went on. Until one day her reflection reached out and pulled her into the mirror.
And so the days went on. Until one night, her dream reached out and pulled her through the vortex.
To be Continued...
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
They flex slowly.
Come up tails.
Coin flips floating down the
Riverbanks,
Past the fountain pens
Dripping with fresh
Ink and short-armed knives.
Laughing hard
At their ridiculous leather jackets,
Brandishing bug eyed grins
Above all other
Deadly weapons,
Just as disarming.
Souped up
Vintage cars and hats
And stowed away
Overcoats and canes
Somehow soaked
By the groundwater rain.
Coming up
Aces,
Breaking through the sea
These
Kids,
They'll be alright.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
Rubber faces. Foreheads sweat, stream clown makeup when cheeks meet. Sweet blood: corn syrup, water, starch. Lick then smell. Vampires pick jolly rancher debris from teeth. Blue fangs. A skeleton in the closet undresses a nun. Open door open window sit three cats. Watch the sun set. Crows murdered around oak trees. Darkness. Lights, music, karaoke, Elvis sings Franki Valli. Richard Nixon gropes a slutty nurse. Left hand, right breast. Alcohol permeates air. Skin, sweat. Touch. Marilyn Monroe hoards candy corn souped with beer broth in her stomach. Passes out. Steve Irwin wears a sting ray through his chest, ***** tail through his shirt, surrounded in blood. First place in the costume contest. Alter egos. Fred Flintstone feels snubbed. So does a saran wrapped girl. Nipples hidden with black fabric circles. Black balloons. Orange ones. Red balloons. Popped. Silent girl in white stands in the corner. Caresses a small bottle of cyanide in her fingers. Thumb, middle, pointer, pointed at Marilyn. She knows she will not wake up. They’ll call it suicide. Elvis finishes his song in a falsetto,
Oh, what a night.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 10:46 AM UTC
When the universe
And all her baby stars
Souped down
In clotted clumps
Tightly wound in
Golden-plummed roses –
This is when the sea
Ascended, and all your
Mother’s tribes descended.
(In a pop,
Not a bang.)
“Red paint and crushed
Blackberries will drip
Like plasmic syrup
Down your arms and
Into your bellies.
You will hear the Earth
Sing a lullaby,
Soft as clouds making love.
Our canyons will rupture
And we will bathe in the gush
Of purple-blue paper water.”
But then the sky exploded.
And pellets of dusty snow
Climbed down
And pierced my flesh,
Froze my core,
And numbed my Native voice –
Hushed my sweet mother,
Dyed my ancestors’ blood
To match the soiled snow.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
The Q Man
The Q Man was somebody who was different
He travelled the galaxies and universe doing a job
Flying a Type 6 spaceship interstellar style
Normal space travel took forever and a day
But his ship was a souped one off
With engine and fuel enhancements
Zipping from world to world to work
He lands in a remote place and hides
His pointed ship from observers or spies
And hikes to his location to do the job
The tool of his trade is a long range rifle
Made on Planet Earth three millennia ago
It’s fitted with modified 7. 62mm bullets
These **** every single life form from a mile
On normal blood and body organisms
Normal explosive bullets do the job
With insect like ones with an armoured body
Armour piercing acid bullets eradicate them
He has 3002 different bullet types to use
Each one killing a designated target
The contract killer with no home
Except between the stars in his ship
Living for a dozen centuries extendable
You don’t want to mess with him
Nor be on his **** list as you’re ******
Zapped by an old skool high tech bullet
Fired by the best assassin there ever was
The Q Man and his rifle always on call
Aug 7, 2021
Aug 7, 2021 at 3:30 PM UTC
Doctor told me
I got a Vitamin D deficiency
Thought *"I coulda told you that!
It's been 7 months!"*
#TrueStory
But in all seriousness
Twas a relief
To have an explanation
For all the fatigue
And flu and aches
And moods
I know I'm sick but was
Tired of always feelin ill
Child with Ricketts level
Gave me some souped up pills
Could feel it in my bone ahhs!
This is the ****** ***
Alive again!
Spring in my step!
And though this is all said in fun
There's lessons to be taken
From the blood tests
I just had done
Put those vampire tendencies
Behind you
Catch them rays
Enjoy the ride
And erase the gloomy days
Of sitting inside
Go get out in the sun!
AND IF NOT GO GET YOURSELF SOME!
;)
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
The window is strung with the residue of sun dried rain drops
like strands of glowworm silk hanging from the aged ledge of the forever forward shuttle.
They're from a storm passing through not too long ago, whose wrath still rises from the fallen leaves and souped soil on the side of the busy city sidewalks,
But the sun is warm and bright and the tree line ebbing and flowing against the blue morning sky is splattered with vibrant yellows and oranges and my nose fills my lungs with the crisp breeze that stands the hair on the back of my neck and my heart skips as my mind drifts towards the wisped clouds lounging just out of reach... and my cracked lips spread... and my teeth embrace the winter kissed air... and I laugh as a warmth fills me and... I think of you.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC
You crop up in my dreams so much
that lately
I think I might still be in love with you.
It's been nearly two years
since I've kissed you.
It never worked, it was doomed from the gun.
You drove me *******
crazy. Your hands
were forever blackened with oil.
I'm making things of myself,
discarded home like old receipts.
I haven't been back in a while now.
You must have known that I'd leave.
I love words and you loathe them.
You'll be married soon, I think.
I'm sick for the days in the sun on the beach.
The familiarity of your skin,
your boring bravado, your gentle talk.
I miss kissing you in the dark.
I'm so far removed from the bog—
trekking the streets of Dublin with big dreams.
'Twas far from ambition we were reared.
Big city girl in the smallest pond,
where the fish all slept with eachother.
Slicker. Full of ideas.
All I want is a carvery dinner.
To sit in a souped up car at night
at Ross, off, but the heating on,
old blankets tucked up and
watch the waves lap
over and back
over and back.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 5:19 PM UTC
EVIL rides in SUVs with the windows all blacked out.
HONOR drives a plug in car that leaves no resdue behind.
APATHY rides in secondhand Nissans with the clear coat
flaking off.
CELEBRATION rides in limos with open tops for standing up in.
TRAGEDY rides in a long black hearse with all the horses
under the hood.
BRAVERY drives a bright red Moped that cuts in and out of
traffic.
POVERTY must ride the bus in a much too long commute.
ARROGANCE drives an escalade that’s the fourth left turn on a
yellow.
BOREDOM drives a station wagon missing the left rear
hubcap.
PANIC races in the family car where panting and blowing
isn't helping.
HAPPINESS drives almost anything with a baby in the back
seat.
MACHO drives a Ford F350 with wheels even bigger than
his ego.
MELTING *** preens in a souped-up Chevy that dances like a
hip-hop star.
PRETEEN rides a bicycle and dreams of a Mustang.
YOUTH hauls *** in a Jeep Wrangler with the rag top
down.
MIDLIFE CRISIS rides a Harley in a group of seven on weekends.
OLD AGE drives slowly in an ’83 Chrysler Imperial that
won't fit in the parking spaces.
LOVE floats along on hopes and dreams and has no
need of wheels.
ljm
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 8:54 AM UTC
I spot the small things
The giraffe balloon
Floating by the window
of my bedroom
Where I brood on the day
I spot the small things
The souped up ride
Tearing past the street
The go faster stripes
breaking my concentration
I spot the small things
The washer of hotels
cleaning the distant windows
along the parallels
As I struggle to work
I spot the small things
The dead pixel on screen
Making the image
slightly unseen
On your update feed
I spot the small things
The name on your message
With a heart on the end
That day was a lesson
Not to blindly trust
I spot the small things
The couple in the corner
Kissing away secretly
I slowly mourn her
You're truly not mine
I spot the small things
The robin on the wall
Serving to remind
To be above it all
and be more than I am
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC
say to her that is right
or you must go wide
she ordered him at bright
the river is blue as her eyes colored
she told again as she was in fight
the sun as her face is white
she told him you listened at my guide
he nodded his head as her hair was as a flight
her hair was yellow as wheat at feilds side
she was angry, her face got red for fight
he got sweat as her smart so clear as white
milk that souped in his heart to get tide
to calm, but she ordered to go wide
he smiled and said," i will after i had my fine
if one sees that smart so near no so wide
his heart will certainly bow and say at right
as the sun appears at a day not at night
your smart prisoned me and i can't fight
Jul 12, 2019
Jul 12, 2019 at 10:43 AM UTC
I am bullied, for I am small,
He is praised, for he is tall.
He thinks he's better than me, because he is
And I am losing, for the game is his.
Although it's close, he laughs in my face,
But I'll win; I'll beat him, some other time or place.
I practice, as hard and as much as I can
For when I beat him, I will be the man.
They'll stop praising him, and they'll praise me,
For at that moment, I will be better than he.
I'll finally wipe his winning streak clean,
And that will pay him back for being mean.
Today is it, game day, my day, D-day.
Today, I, by myself will leave him in disarray.
His souped up baller verse my new one,
But he'll be upset when it's all said and done.
The game progresses, this could be it!
At the buzzer, it's up, it's in, I really did it!
I've never seen him so mad and ****** off
As when he pressed the reset button and turned the console off.
My practice, my progression, my game! it's all gone.
That's it, I won't play anymore, I'm done!
I'll get him anyhow, you'll see, oh boy!
But since I'm no man, I"ll go play with my other toys.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 3:15 AM UTC
Your stare an aphrodisiac; a small heart attack, systematically stimulating, straining my self control.
Your hair provokes my amorous glare, tearing down the walls of insecurity and worry.
Your eyes, even behind the lies, a sweet surprise as luminous as any sunrise;
save your good byes, no need to cut ties.
Your thighs catalyze my emotion quicker than any wave in the ocean.
Your flaws, minuscule in demeanor, as beautiful as a souped up two seater.
You are a movie and I'm just sitting in the theater.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 8:43 PM UTC
When we lose
There comes to be a reversal process;
a rapid prototype souped into bitten rhythm.
And then you collide, like
light particles melting film to form
some replica of an inner war. What is it
about trying; what does attempt do –
Pacify? Resize? Boost the morale
of twentysomethings clinging
to past participles like the sting of a bee?
What can you do to stop the ache
of feeling like **** What is there to grasp
when no light appears?
But then a day comes.
It’s all fine, with friends, with music, with
anything other than self-flagellation.
At which point I fight the fight not to stay
a mere summary.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 11:15 PM UTC
You flake apart
Jump around in the boiling basket
but never out of it
why won't you
just let me live my life
an eternity in a swiveling ballet
cut up sniveling fish fillet
knife tip broke inside of it from the stress
the protoplasmic cowardice, the futile breeding quit
Would you like to wake up
to every battle I have in my **** head?
emotion submits to caviar delivery
tossed foam cups with the soda in it
belly up, split apart
the lives lit, baked-in honor
as if you earned it, like a lalala legendary
a souped down chopped up piece of aquatic livery
on a sanded down wooden board
Sep 18, 2023
Sep 18, 2023 at 7:37 AM UTC
You are dead and you made us in that hospital.
That lump of flesh in the pit of you: clay.
With your hands you grasped it, pulled into yourself: mouth:
umbilical. Like a snake consuming itself. This is what they mean
when they say that circles are perfect. The water
was warm. It snowed outside for days. I visited
my sister
and wondered about brains. She speaks of her therapist
as a friend.
I speak as if I don't know I am
a person
and imagine
the rush of light in each of our heads. The heady fire
revealed in MRIs. The showerhead can barely contain the steam
and nothing cools me off. Back to our younger years
in the libraries
when we were still constructing ourselves. You said
such lovely things
that when you died it felt like deaf. I can no longer
hear
you singing. Except now, I grasp
at the hard body of a psychology textbook, reading,
some exam tomorrow-- listen, you could've come to Harvard, too,
if that is what you wanted, if your body would let you-- and your quiet
suggests the problem is that I am stuck in the frame of my
nakedness cross-legged bottomed
laughing souped into the bottom
of the shower curtains: and they open: the steam: the still
images of sliced brains in my textbooks: coffee-cups
emptied by the lips I have taken from you: quiet,
yes, no wonder why. When your hands
did their last thing, when they reached into your own mouth
to spool yourself into you and the books we sent you
that you couldn't read because you were dissolving
When your hands
did that: did you think: could you: and if
you could: do you
think
that was what made you: you the whole time?
Or was it: the departing of the air: as if to sigh:
when it gets so cold outside that every whisper:
feels monumental because: you can see: the clouds:
you speaking before you: before: your own eyes. And then you blink
for a very long time in a single still flutter, stuck.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 5:17 PM UTC
We never really did ask for you,
Souped up cars and ****** up avenues.
Shivers down your spine, over fined for the damage done.
Pay up. The greater good needs your wallet son.
******** parkour, running in the streets off,
The roundabout where a couple broke each others lease on,
Life. There ain't no harder calmer man who's fighting.
The parents he believed in, smoked out the lighting.
How could there ever live a guy who's fighting for the personal right to call himself his family that's split across the world.
Divided, the house cannot stand.
Invited to the worldwide plan to forget, integrate and live inside a computer world.
Nevermore to care, the raven leaves the planet earth to find a people who can feel for something other than themselves.
Singing little nightingale, posted in a video warns users, but his language of the heart doesn't sell.
Candid, Sanded and machined to a polish.
Words spread like a bacteria.
Myriad.
Your dearly sad.
I couldn't help but notice the monster I created. Monster see, Monster do. Promise you a monster too.
Snowy hills and lonely peaks, to 7 every day of the week.
It's cold to you. It's hard to you.
**** a little animal too relieve yourself.
Believe yourself, it should evolve to defend itself.
Softer hearts grow distant.
My parents wonder where I am?
I'm well enough, without a friend.
Better to observe than pretend. To be anything but what I am.
Confused about where I am.
You couldn't see beyond the brush.
Merry-go-around-the-bush-with-him-you-found-on-Tinder.
Forget that we ever said I love you.
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 6:33 AM UTC
a limning rush of sinister
fiery angry flames bent avast
analogous copse,
where every limb bough, bore full
roaring furnace hot blast
spewing weighty incendiary volcanic
magmatic eruption out classed
Krakatoa, no longer the benchmark,
sans most powerful trajectory arc
this latest supernatural phenomena poetic
pre sent dent trumpeting not don
shearing, slamming,
and stripping off tree bark
(most definitely paging the innocuous Clark
Kent, where like loess lain
during Pleistocene Epoch
rendered, manifested dark
kenning shroud likened
to world wide webbing em brace
where lava floes easily did
(like a poetic souped up Chevy)
out to chase innocent prey
smoothing over (akin to mason,
or gigantic glazier) clearly shining deface
of planet Earth with a smooth glassy like face
though starkly barren, bereft, bilked
every last trace of civilization
nonetheless exhibiting amazing grace
which global catastrophic event poo tin brake
fast upon ONE haughty, egoistic
arrogant **** Sapiens chief drake
particularly ***** king machine "FAKE"
superman usurping free reign crowning himself
totalitarian American tyrant,
bare ring his right arms
emulating gesticulation sans dictatorship
of the Proletariat make
pact with credo of Karl, Harpo,
Groucho, and Chico Marx,
where mortals DID NOT quake
especially empowered youths
asper grassroots action they did take.
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 4:19 PM UTC
I saw the one I want
but half was missing
I remember the sleeping bag
in the back seat
for when we were
more than kissing
The hopeful hammer
and the threat of poison
I couldn’t feel it
at the time
I was frozen
******* in a tent
The zipper was broken
Hand over my mouth
so it couldn’t open
A field full of muscle
I couldn’t confide in
driving souped up fortunes
I was afraid to ride in
Just give him what he wants
next time and he won’t hurt you
I couldn’t feel it
at the time
I didn’t have what I needed
to complete
my competing thoughts
Two names I love
in separate headlines
I knew then
I couldn’t leave
without breaking something
I knew what I wanted
but she was missing
and they were both gone
I couldn’t feel it
at the time
I couldn’t hear
a single thought
A decades long
drive-by memory
frozen in time
Now I can feel it all
Mar 31, 2025
Mar 31, 2025 at 8:26 PM UTC