"sourly" poems
Tie me up
Leave me
Hang me
**** me
When it ends
Maybe
I'll choke
On the
Noose
Around my neck
When it ends
Maybe
I'll choke
You choke me
But
Never enough
I keep breathing
Sep 14, 2021
Sep 14, 2021 at 12:50 AM UTC
(sorry, but not sorry)
There once was a potato plant,
(Because potatoes grow on plants...)
This plant harvested baby potatoes.
This was no ordinary potato plant, however,
It was SPECIAL!
Anywho, the plant grew several baby potatoes,
Who were harvested and shipped on a crate to a grocery store
in a cold, dark shipping truck.
The potatoes, they weren't scared! Yah know why? Simple.
Because Potatoes don't have FEELINGS!
....but if they did....they'd be scared. Take my word for it.
The potatoes arrived at the store and were bagged, ready for purchase. They sat together in a pile for hours,
thinking about (but not thinking about) what would happen in the future, why they were in this bag, UNTIL, UNTIL a homeless man (he looked homeless) reached into the bag, pulled out a single spud, and RAN! Out the store, down the street,
HE WAS OUTTA THERE! BYE-BYE SUCKERS!
Well, on his way to.... wherever he was going, he fell and dropped it. That's what stealing does to yah.
It rolled into an abandoned alley, far away from the man's sight. He couldn't stop and look for it, because he was being chased, so he ran away sourly, the potato being left cold and alone, without it's family to be piled up motionlessly beside it.
This potato was different. Unlike it's family, it could feel,
it could think and understand, even without knowing language at all, it's like the potato just knew everything and anything, without a purpose. And, another thing.
This potato, it was hungry. Very hungry.
Only hours later (again)
A parentless child walked the streets, searching for something to eat. They hadn't eaten in days. Of course, the child found the battered potato on the ground,picked it up and smiled.
It was the end of the potatoes life cycle, it seemed.
Or...was it? Seconds until the end, seconds until facing the terrifying wrath of the human's sharp, untaimed teeth, seconds until it got to see if there was a potato heaven or not, JUST SECONDS, something changed.
The spud; it grew. No, it didn't grow in size, but it did grow a mouth, and arms. And it could scream. Oh God, yes, it could wail like no tomorrow, so, quickly adapting to it's new form; it yelled ****** ****** The child threw it at a wall, screaming and running away.
..... Silence from the potato.
Sadly, it could withstand the grasp of a sweaty, homeless dude,
it could bare the growing silence from it's siblings,
it could even dodge the teeth of a starving ape!
But the potato was no match for a wall.
Mashed potatoes for dinner it is.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 8:54 PM UTC
My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.
My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.
A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.
A devilish ********** of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.
Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.
A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.
Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.
Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.
Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.
A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.
A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)
A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.
A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.
A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.
An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.
A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.
A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.
Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.
A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.
Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
The Chef
As the Bourdain said a cook is nobody
he has no power no one cares what he has to say
some of them are gifted with a natural talent for food and its ingredient
and flashes of inspiration can fire the spark that is godlike.
I knew of a restaurant which was always full at lunch and dinner,
Where the chef? I asked a waiter. Oh, he is somewhere in the back.
Back of the food place an open door, the chef stood to smoke
a cigarette. I looked at me sourly, but when I expressed
interest and when an order came in of a bacon omelette
he made it with the flourish of a craftsman.
The manager of the establishment said the chef had worked here for
Six years but he- the chef- was impossible to work with.
The chef suddenly quit and drove a taxi. Less stress that way.
The restaurant faltered until the penny dropped, a chef is a star
In the firmament of catering without a flawed genius in the kitchen, it is better
to run a pizza parlour
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 4:46 AM UTC
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done.
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud,
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are.
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense—
Thy adverse party is thy advocate—
And ‘gainst my self a lawful plea commence.
Such civil war is in my love and hate
That I an accessary needs must be
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
1.8k
where I was rash and coarse
he was confidently unconfident
so sure of what he didn't know
he was all soft spoken words, wit dripping off of every word
I wanted his soul
I wanted to memorize the way his eyes twinkled with delight when he talked about something he loved
I wanted to be the thing he loved
he wanted to save the world
I wanted to be his
but I wanted to be the noncommittal sag and run and he was oblivious and beautiful
the world seemed to work against us while simultaneously not caring enough to keep us apart
edging us on long enough for me to fall face flat on the pavement of realization and while mending my bruised ego I sourly admit
****
I fell in love with an aquarius
Jun 15, 2019
Jun 15, 2019 at 4:07 PM UTC
Redundancy struck like a knife to my soul,
No more work from that deep dark hole.
It’s the end of my life the dinosaur died,
I’d either break down but sourly we cried.
No future for me or my friends and mates,
They’re all lost, finished at the pit gates.
Weeks pass by it only gets worse,
We begin to wonder is it a curse?
Changing direction is the only option,
Putting myself up for adoption.
Please employ me the look in our eyes,
Pure disappointment no one can disguise.
Moving on slowly we drifted apart,
Finding employment making a new start.
Not as painful an experience expected by me,
Changing direction in my life had to be.
Jul 16, 2011
Jul 16, 2011 at 6:42 AM UTC
hard soft i'm large and groaning a fit of plastered excellence in my ambrosia fountain of giggling fornication this city is grandly exalting and flustering mightily incense of femmes du *** who art graciously ******* with a their boisterous choir of laughing *** or the men groping seriously their frail fair trackmarked beauty and they finger their air and lush and spit gratuitously their eyes upon their *******
and they like to laugh with their haughty whorish
breath a longing barely chained loosed slowly in splattering
abscesses of lust
; asinine men go and plead sourly your heads in thighs sweating
anorexic *** your Are
is
just
cosmic
lice
Dec 1, 2010
Dec 1, 2010 at 10:50 AM UTC
So okay yesterday was not the best.....
The sun crouched down below in space leaving negative energy
Negative waves of passionate, vile disgust to wrap its devilish arms around my burnt soul
So okay he does not love you.....
A frost-bitten icicle grows on his shoulder
The cold, icy chip stings as it pierces through my skin
The frigid, snowy water drips and mixes with my blood as it gushes from my veins
The scarlet red liquid flows like a river beneath my feet, soaking into the dry ground
On hands and knees, I pound the desert sand, sharp pebbles and beads press into my hands
So okay life seems to continue marching in an never-ending, torturous cycle of disappointment
Its a pattern that sourly repeats itself, its puzzle pieces staining the fabric of time
Manipulating the evolution of the course of time
End the stinging pain that warps the beating of my weakened heart!
Let my soul piece itself together after being ripped viciously apart
By your own demonic hands....oh those beastly fingers....
They chewed at my heart, and ate my soul for dinner
But okay, so what you do not love me, so what the sun has set on a melancholy moment
A single moment out of a million, mind you, it will be okay.
Yes, it will be okay.
Talking over the pain.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
Some place
Some time
There was a tea shop.
Open not just in the mornings,
But at noon and the evenings too.
Mornings, the menu read
Uzhunnuvada, idli,dosa,
Uppuma, vellayappam,idiyappam,
Sambar, payaru curry,kadala
And several chatnis.
Noon, the menu read
Aviyal,achinga,pachadi,
Kichadi,pulisseri,thoran,achar,
And several kinds of buttermilk.
Evenings, the menu read
Sukhiyan, bonda,
Pazhampori, parippu vada, mulaguvada,
Diluted milk, black coffee
And several forms of tea.
There was a cook in that tea shop.
There was an owner for that tea shop.
Both had a son each.
Those boys went to the same school.
They studied in the same class.
They sat on the same bench.
Whenever he was hungry,
One of the boys thought of
The owner of that tea shop.
Eyes widening with admiration for
The great man that he was!
He could eat anything
Whenever he was hungry,
Reaching for it in the container
Or poking his head into the food shelf
Or entering the kitchen itself.
He could take anything,
The boy salivated.
To the query “What do you want to be?”,
He even replied once that
He wanted to be that man.
But, whenever he was hungry,
The other boy thought of
The cook in that tea shop.
He lauded him in awe of
the great man that he was.
He could cook and eat
Anything any time any quantity,
He imagined jealously.
To the query “What do you want to be?”,
He even replied once that
He wanted to be that man.
Wait, don’t leave yet,
Dusting off your bottom
After reading an average poem.
Sighing indepthly
Or grunting lazily
Or belching sourly.
You are free to leave after
Answering a few questions.
Who owns this tea shop actually?
These schoolboys from the tea shop,
Whose sons are they actually?
There is another boy
Besides these two
In this poem!
Who is he?
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 9:17 AM UTC
To the old man buying oranges,
We have never spoken,
But I owe you my thanks.
You wandered into the store,
Locking onto the produce section,
You demand the honor your age grants.
Carefully you inspect the fruit one by one,
Examining every dimple, checking every rind,
Scouring for flaws in your beloved items.
Placing the chosen few in your basket,
You set out for the lines,
And ****** yourself into my spot.
Because of your age, I do not object.
You transfer your citrus treasures to the belt,
Locking them in place, between the dividers.
You glance back at me with a scornful expression,
I look away feeling guilty, for what I didn't know.
You release from your wallet only what is required,
And quickly bury it back out of sight.
You hand over your money sourly.
Latching onto your bag of chosen keepsakes,
You march out the door glaring at the ground.
I pay for my items and head out as well.
As I exit the store I see it in an instant,
Your tiny frail body tumbling through the air,
Landing onto the car that almost missed you,
But sadly it did not.
The crowd rushes toward you, lying there quietly.
It all happened so fast.
I watch as your oranges flee from their bag,
Rushing away from the tragedy that freed them,
Tumbling quickly away with your life.
To the old man buying oranges,
We have never spoken,
But I owe you my thanks,
For taking my place in line.
Jul 27, 2010
Jul 27, 2010 at 5:54 PM UTC
Inhale, exhale
A quick intake and shuddering sigh
The last thing he wants to do is this thing here and now.
It's pointless he says sourly
He has potential but he hides it behind the ****** job he got
As a freshman in high school.
It's a horrible habit he'll never kick.
Potential-hiding that is.
He's not legal, but I buy him the alcohol he wants anyway.
Because I went to grad school, and still I see myself
Wishing I was this loser dropout
Still splurging paycheques on condoms and red solo cups.
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 4:58 PM UTC
We went out to dinner and you ordered my favorite
when it came, we switched plates
because you knew I’d change my mind.
We walked into your friends house looking for some beer
instead they pulled out a sweet little baggie
filled with don’t-say-it-out-loud-named drugs.
Everyone gets big stupid smiles watching Rodger
cut it in lines on the table.
I’m trying to tell you with my eyes that my heart is beating faster
than it’s supposed to
that I am in no way comfortable here
please please take me home *********
and you told my eyes out loud,
“Yeah but I’m gonna do it anyway.”
(Full blown panic attack. It’s what you do to me
baby.)
Leaning over the table like you’re about to get ******
(that was mean, but I am mad),
inhale deeply through that roll of paper.
I’m watching you sourly from the couch
whispered into your ear
“when you come down, you’re taking me the **** home”
(this entire poem goes in The Swear Jar)
instead we had makeup *** upstairs and
I flirted with all your friends.
I guess it got later. The party started going,
some Taylor kid’s speaking in my ear
“That boyfriend of yours, does he love you?”
“Not at all” (I’m a flirt but at least I am honest)
Told me to call him when I shake off the loser.
How can I shake off this loser?
How could I give away the boy (man?) who orders
my broccoli cheddar soup
so we can switch bowls
after my disillusioned moment
of chicken noodle wanting.
He carried me to bed again, and held me when I woke up
crying.
We listen to Neil Young in the car on our way out to the woods
he said
“What a sad man…his Mimi went away.”
running his hands through my hair.
This is my excuse:
you don’t know a person, until
you have gone through their medicine cabinet.
They say.
Mine have prescriptions
You’ve had to find yours yourself
to find yourself. But now I think
it’s time to grow up, or die real young.
It’s not my problem.
I think I maybe should stop it with this
problem.
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 10:53 AM UTC
Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits
When I am sometime absent from thy heart,
Thy beauty and thy years full well befits,
For still temptation follows where thou art.
Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won;
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed;
And when a woman woos, what woman’s son
Will sourly leave her till he have prevailed?
Ay me, but yet thou mightst my seat forbear,
And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth,
Who lead thee in their riot even there
Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth:
Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
Thine, by thy beauty being false to me.
1.1k
The road to the funeral home
was plagued by
brown Cadillacs stretched
out on overgrown lawns,
and cats lounging lazily
on splintered planks.
Eleven people sat scattered
around dozens of expectant
chairs laid out in long rows,
hairlines moistened by a
lackluster air unit wheezing
in the one window.
The Reverend approached
the pew and began his
assault of sentences--
they spewed from
his lips like careless
bullets, and they stung.
He shook his hands at us and
promised that she had
been delivered to God…
I wonder if he meant
delivered like her
neighborcare packages
containing the familiar numbing
glory of ****** that got her
through cancer after cancer,
limbs and eyesight failing,
decades old and stewing
in her stomach.
He sputtered out syllables
like bouts of fumes-
they filled the air and I
swear I could smell them,
the stench
of stale cologne
and stale culture.
I could taste the
disgust coming up from
my esophagus,
that bitterness the brain
dispenses when anger
can only be expressed in
a tapping foot and sourly
sagging lips.
I sat there, silent, as that
ancient man
with his West Virginia
draw clumsily
stumbled over a list of
relatives “Marge†would
meet in heaven.
He forgot my father,
skipped his name and
my heart began to pump
faster, my cheeks burning.
He did not know that she
was Margie and we would
remember her soft yellow curls
and infinite knowledge of
antique dolls,
hundreds of pristine replicas
beaming in glass cases.
He did not know that
her lips were electric;
she shocked our cheeks
with each hello
and goodbye.
I wish he knew her like I did,
the young woman who sat
stiffly in this plastic chair,
her little girl all grown up.
I wish I could have pushed
him off the stage and
made up for the seven years
I missed of kisses and
old stories and support.
But I sat there, silent
and stared at the cracked ceiling
tiles and fake flowers
on the front folding table,
yearning for the pounding in my
temples to stop.
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 9:43 AM UTC
And it's all over.
All of it.
Thudding our way down the rabbit hole,
We finally found the bottom.
It finally came to a flaming end.
The many years of perfect storms, first emotions
And raw desire
Have finally reached their drought,
Silenced with the recent memory of an apathetic stare.
"Is this doing anything for you," he said.
And I, with a "No," stopped all motion,
Stuck in position that may have once
Driven him wild.
But there was nothing, now
And everything we once had seemed to sigh in that moment,
Gray and tired.
I was no longer his goddess.
He was no longer my muse.
We had exhausted every corner of each other -
And now we had finally discovered the parts of ourselves
Who no longer could give a ****
Even in our once tireless animalistic urges.
And although it ended sourly,
It ended with a, "good."
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 10:13 PM UTC
I figured where we fit on this little journey:
In the middle of the start just as it’s about to end.
Hire a gun! Hire Gun! Ah’a but can’t we be one?
Fixed- the fickle have a sickly sweet dream to spend.
Let them follow breadcrumbs all the way to the sun.
And as the 'fat whites' are watching, we too watch them burn.
The woken dead poets sleep as we owe them it.
But yet I feel disgrace as I chase their tongues wit.
Fright learns a lesson when he hears himself gurn’.
Now he’s pouring himself sourly across this page.
Disgrace! Disgrace! can’t you fit each word in its place.
Foul taste! Foul taste! my words are forgotten,
with his forgotten waste.
But time as it takes, takes my breath slowly with it.
Till my last word is winded for another tongue to spin it.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
things change over time and I know this far too well
but when I'm looking at you
and your eyes begin to swirl into patterns that I feel like I have always known
I feel time stand still, I feel everything stop in this world
and in that time, the only thing I can think of is you
the way you look in the mornings when the light cuts through the blinds
how you smile when you look at me, when we kiss
the way your fingers intertwine with mine...
and then I am awakened
not sourly, but in the most lovely manner
with the feeling of your lips pressed to mine
and your arms around me
and I know that if I ever am scared of the moon falling
and the sun's rays ceasing to shine
I can look into your eyes on the darkest nights,
freeze everything, and know that you are mine
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 2:22 PM UTC
cheeks came heavy
resolute of cherry blotches
some rough candy
between their blossomed chunks
sugary sourly
imbued so cleaving mine own
with that writhing
miraculously specific tongue
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 1:08 PM UTC
I am holding onto minutes
as if they consist of
a thousand red helium balloons
ready to ascend like mumbled prayers
into the atmosphere
the same desperate way I sense that
maybe,
you are ready to leave me
I have conquered time with a death grip,
dripping sourly with words
that cannot form at this altitude,
with worries that feel as if
they have both feet hanging off the edge
of a New York City skyscraper,
plummeting the way my stomach feels
every second that passes without
even a glimpse of
your fragile existence
for I am a windowpane
that will shatter because of
a gentle April breeze
or the caress
of a perfect lover, destined to break
like the fragile bones
of a skeleton that has forgotten
the knowledge of living
the last time I kissed you
I tasted blood in my mouth.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 10:29 AM UTC
In the street I am,
Walking, walking,
Looking, looking,
Around.
Picking up sounds.
Rush, sooty, loud.
Forming a cloud,
Vibrating the ground.
And when time no longer meets,
Then the roar of the streets,
Drowns all kinds of beats.
I’m plunging into the depths of my soul,
To find something made out of coal,
So my candle's flame would finally ignite,
And the streets' lamps could find the light.
In the street,
I am, looking, looking,
Walking, walking,
Around.
I know, know, what that means, I know.
I'm watching every flash of ambiguity grow.
I'm hearing whispers of happiness go.
The light is dim,
The shadows dark,
The faces blurred,
The voices bark.
I'm watching, watching,
People in the street, passing,
By me, with familiar faces, walking, walking.
I'm meeting with the pleasure of injustice on their face,
And bits of pleasure are lost with every pace.
I see thoughts of all types,
Fears, angers, hopes and doubts.
The light gets brighter,
The shadows grow long.
I want to know,
I want to know,
Where does the pleasure go?
Where the thoughts I see around are born?
And what, what, what have they borne?
Their hearts crippled and lame,
Spewing hatred and blame,
You will surely be ashamed,
Of what became of them.
I wonder if ever they were stronger for love,
But all that’s remained now, is one wounded dove.
On the side of the freeway, covered in soot,
Many have come and gone, not one of them put
The dove in a shelter, a harbour, a port.
I’m daydreaming,
I'm wondering,
Mumbling a prayer,
From the blackness of their despair
I can see their strength is bare.
I find it sourly funny,
But bitterly sad.
The faces are dark and barking and mad.
Wearing a sorrow and weariness clad.
Harmony? Maybe, a certain kind,
But it is teeming with wildlife on every side.
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
the room is filled with
old lady stank
the kind that assaults the nose
and crawls down the throat in
an angry attempt to
drive you right out of the building.
she says the walls are “peach”
but I can see behind the cracked flakes
that it was once yellow.
I just grunt and sit at the edge of the bed
determined to hate both colors on
principle alone
I don’t want to be here, in her stank
I don’t want to look at the cracked
and pitted
desert that was once her face
I don’t want to strain to hear her
wavering and whispery voice
Yet here I am,
surrounded
by horrific images of a ****** Christ
nailed ironically to the walls
rosary beads hanging from
every candle in the room
and the Blessed ******
fighting
for space on the walls next to her
zombie son
where’s her god now
I wonder sourly as I strain to hear
her wavering and whispery voice
relate how nice the orderly was
who
washed
her prune of a body this morning.
hell, forget the god
where was her family
or her friends
or her nut job preacher
there’s only me
carrying my own stank of
whiskey and smokes
sitting here on the edge of
her bed
listening to her stories
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
And ever since that dark Wednesday
Your kiss is flat and empty
Maybe you'll never be coming back
Maybe you'll never come to save me
I am constantly reminded of you sourly-choiced absense
And I will not forget
The feeling I would get with one kiss
And every night
And every day
I dream about our past
Why can't these demons let me go to sleep?
Why can't you come back to save me?
Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 8:32 PM UTC
I'm trapped behind a person I want to be...
I'm trapped like the person I wanted to be
like fireflies in a jar on a stormy night -
like caterpillars longing for flight
There's the person they all see
and then farther down is
the one that's really me
I'm ugly, stupid, and fake
like plastic dolls, robots, and
castles made sourly of cake
There's a mask - only a mask
so why can't I take it off
I feel like an actor alone in the cast
I'm simply not myself
even the mirror will agree
it only sees a doll on a shelf
This really isn't me -
look closer and you'll see
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
4of1
8 speaking
in gluey resin
sweaty spits all
in every rouge drowning
supple cheeks between writhing
pinkheat
carelessly incredible
screaming sourly
some
cali((for
nia)
i
c
a
t
i
o n)
Jan 15, 2011
Jan 15, 2011 at 2:41 PM UTC