"spurted" poems
People take the world as they see it themselves
some see black
some see white
many see grey
as for me?
I see it for what it is....technicolored.
Life is far to wonderful and bright too see it as simple black
it is too deep and mysterious to be only white
it is too exciting and amazing to be described as grey
There's a reason that there is color present everywhere.
If the world were colorless, so life would be.
But the autumn leaves are crimson and gold and apricot
The halls in which we walk are of light saphron and amber
The city streets in which we trod are spurted with shades of periwinkle and magenta
The meadows through which we stroll have flowers of violet and buds of rose
The trees with which we have our yuletide celebration are the solemn green
Life is as we see it
dont be strapped down to bland colors like
grey white black
Life is color
Furious Scarlet
Dejected Sapphire
Joyful Fuscia
Envious Sage
Playful Yellow
Even as you look in the mirror, colors are shown to you.
I see
eyes of chocolate
cheeks of mauve
teeth of pearl
lips of ruby
skin of gold
Even my soul is multicolored in all its numerous facets
Dont let yourself be barred into the cell of neutrality
See life for the rainbow that it truly is.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC
We meet again, young debutante!
but what next?
shall we ponder over coffee,
or dance through the streets
with only our thoughts to keep rhythm?
Let us ask thine friend, the caterpillar.
nay, he says, neither are to be,
it is a picnic that you seek.
where the ground is warm,
and the sun is hot.
What a grand idea!
I shall go right off
to make thy picnic one of perfection!
but where to start?
to the butcher for meat.
the baker for bread.
...............................
Why must he bother me yet again?
He stalks me like a shadow,
claiming I talk to caterpillars.
he’’s raving mad!
A picnic? I will do no such thing?
however, I can use this to my advantage.
The butcher’s cleaver never looked so beautiful,
the soft glimmer in the light,
Oh but if i could get my hands on it!
His back is turned, now’s my chance!
.................................
Oh dearest! please have some ham and bread.
come sit by me and tell me of your day!
Oh I pray you tell me about your learnings!
What beautiful hair you have!
It glows like the sun shines,
and your dress is even more beautiful than before,
tell me, how do you radiate such beauty?
................................
I will lie.
I can feel the cleaver in my bag,
a weight on my shoulder,
the meat and bread are horrid.
he is so pathetic!
Beauty is the way the blood spurted from his chest!
glowing is how my face feels when it is splashed with his blood!
gentle is the wind over his lifeless body.
Oh what a grand picnic indeed!
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 6:15 PM UTC
Jeremy the green alien
Wore a bowler hat
His favourite sport was darts
And he had a pint with that
He drove a little mini
Made in 1985
It chugged and spurted down the road
The alien could drive!
He was popular with ladies
He stood out from the crowd
He always had one on his arm
Despite not being loud.
But Jeremy was lonely
And sometimes he felt down
His family from the planet plaxo
Never came to town.
Aliens are clever
And aliens are bright
He tinkered with his mini
So that it could take flight
So if you're sitting in the garden
And a mini flies overhead
Think of little Jeremy
With his bowler hat upon his head!
Jeremy visits Plaxo
And flies to earth for dinner
No more sadness anymore
Jeremy is a winner!
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 4:29 AM UTC
What's happening to all of us? The so-called generation of tomorrow?
Don't you remember how we used to be?
Before we all grew up, swearing that when we're "big" we're never going to smoke or drink?
That boys were yucky and girls had Germs?
Remember how carefree we all used to be? It didn't matter to us what people said or even what they thought. We didn't care if our hair got wet or a stain got on to our clothes.
Now we've turned everything around, never meaning the words that we said. Its as if every memory of who we were, has shattered, into tiny bits of pieces.
Remember the dreams we had when we were young? The morals and virtues we swore we'd never rid of, holding on to these for dear life, yes still we threw them away.
The people we are, the children we used to be, now a totally new adolescent. A conjunction of minuscule parts of both our past and present.
Remember the days we all were friends, no backstabbing, no lies, and complete honestly.
Sharing the humour, not hiding the facts, lived life freely, what happened to us? What happened to the people we used to be?
The all grew up that's what happened I guess, but now barely recognisable. The little child still somewhere deep in the interior of the hard outside we've formed.
Making ourselves to seem like we're stubborn, matured adults, when that's really what we're not.
We're a mixture of what we all used to be and a huge part made up of what we've been through.
All our experiences, both good and bad. All our dreams, some nourished since we were young, and others newly spurted. Our decisions to give in to peer pressure, or resist temptation. Our choices. Our friends, the ones that uplift is and the ones that have torn us down. Our family, the ones who loved us and the ones who have hurt us. Our education, tons of learning experiences. Our relationships, that all formed our inner beings more intricate than all of the above. Our emotions leading us and misleading us to where we might or might not end up . Look, i'm not saying all these things determine where we end up but they sure do influence it.
And that's what happened to us.
That is what we've become and that's what we are. That's made up all the parts of who we really are.
What's happened to us, I repeatedly ask , though the answer, it seems so clear.
Hard to accept, what we've become and who we strive to be.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
5:00 am - Happy New Year!
I look like I should be a musician not a poet.
"It's so easy being a poet
so hard being a man"
- Charles Bukowski
----
5:14 am - Passing Rocklea, no sign of the dawn.
Coopers Plains station.
3 people get on.
Florescent lights cast a spell of sleep.
I wish I could sleep right now.
Eyelids droop like sad flowers from a convenience store.
I write metaphors like a drunken amateur.
Trinder park - Sounds like a bad neighbourhood.
**** ME ITS WOODRIDGE.
Where even the McDonalds sign is ******
XxXxxxxxx, Xxxxxx Xxxxxx :
She could be fun. So tight, she sometimes felt illegal.
Tight and bald. I would slide up to the *****
She loved it rough,
golden hair wrapped around my fingers
as she was pushed into the pillow.
She was loud in the mornings.
I could feel her tight ***
grinding against my thighs
as I ****** her harder and harder.
Until I came :
either inside her.
Or on her chest.
Or in her
prim
pink
suburban mouth.
Tightening my grip on her hair as the hot ***** spurted against the back of her throat.
The head of my **** throbbing as she gulped it down with silent satisfaction.
That only happened twice though.
----
5:37 am - The Dawn begins to rise over the Suburban Nation.
Final remnants of night
twinkle like stars
against the silhouette
of society.
House lights
Street lights
(and the omnipresent)
fluorescent light.
Beenleigh station - A pinch faced older woman gets on.
Business suit, lunch box.
Short hair, glasses.
Her earrings are imitation mother of pearl
(step-mother of pearl?)
She sits next to a window covered in graffiti.
Prim, tight mouth
incarnadine lipstick.
Over in the distance a smokestack cuts through the sky above the horizon.
Trees do mask the sun and sky.
"Hippies; they spend their whole life trying to get to a microphone and when they do, they don't tell anyone to **** off." - The Wolfman.
----
5:52 am - One more stop.
The clouds are the colour of smoke against the pearl blue sky.
----
6:00 am - Arrival.
Clouds are tinged with fire and blood
incandescently.
You can watch it spread and grow
with intensity.
Taxi driver was a foul mouthed Indian.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
the mouse started off like any ordinary mouse
annoying, small, and persistent.
the nymph tried to take good care of him, and he was treasured to her.
the mouse came limping back to her, after his daily battle with the world
she nursed him back to health
as the nymph cared more for the little mouse, she spurted out pellets of blood and flowers
the mouse tried to stop her
but it was too late.
Apr 13, 2020
Apr 13, 2020 at 2:11 AM UTC
roses
spurted as if from fountains atop messy beds
of lilies and lilacs,
jumbled together in a rush of colour that
seemed to have more and more detail
the more you gazed at it.
the sun shone
over the garden like liquid honey
melting over the peeling paint
of the white trellis that held
twining ivy
and heavily scented jasmine in its grasp.
and there, glazing the morning garden,
lay an aureate, flaxen
glow.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 6:25 PM UTC
A bright pink head scarf reveals my position not allowing a disguise.
Piercing eyes set me alight
as you stare me down,
pinched by curious frowns
surrounded with whispering tensions.
Shame floods my pores and drowns me in accusations,
Lowering my gaze
anger courses through my veins
At the disgusting disgrace
of my kind.
Their moments of inhumanity, striking nations with tragedy and a horror stricken pain to the Muslim name.
Islamaphobia fame has spurted to tame and it cannot be held to blame,
For sick
T W I S T E D
individuals have stained and hate filled memories remain.
This is not my Islam!
I dare to mention
My heart along with yours
weeps for the innocence lost,
the heartbroken families left behind and the fearful scarred onlookers who survived.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 8:26 PM UTC
An excerpt from An excerpt from
a poem by T.S. Eliot. a poem by the False Poets
Between the idea no permanence in juxtaposition
And the reality where Falls the Shadow, the shadow
Between the motion. a divisive notion caught between
And the act composition & action, the response is
Falls the Shadow Falls the Shadow
Between the conception grayed outline indistinct, the cognitive sap
And the creation leaks, contradictions irritating birth sac,
Between the emotion whereupon Falls the Shadow emerges
And the response the response conclusive, occlusive, collusive
Falls the Shadow Falls the Shadow
Between the desire juxtaposition insertion, need to achieve
And the spasm *the blurted ****** of spurted letters born*
Between the potency. in the potent white seeds of black words
And the existence coming into existence as a riptorn issue,
Between the essence essences of scents blood+logic foretelling
And the descent birth & death, descent & the ascent, both,
Falls the Shadow Falls the Shadow
Between the desire the desire desired, completed,
And the spasm the latency uncovered,
Between the potency the potent toxins of spit and tears
And the existence the birth fluid of of existence
Between the essence the formulation of the human essence
And the descent from blood dust to blood dust is where
Falls the Shadow. Falls All the Shadows
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 6:08 PM UTC
In my dream
I milked a cow,
the terrible udder
like a great rubber lily
sweated in my fingers
and as I yanked,
waiting for the moon juice,
waiting for the white mother,
blood spurted from it
and covered me with shame.
Then God spoke to me and said:
People say only good things about Christmas.
If they want to say something bad,
they whisper.
So I went to the well and drew a baby
out of the hollow water.
Then God spoke to me and said:
Here. Take this gingerbread lady
and put her in your oven.
When the cow gives blood
and the Christ is born
we must all eat sacrifices.
We must all eat beautiful women.
1.7k
I was visiting my older brother and sister-in-law, when he emerged from a storage room with a box filled with family"artifacts", photos, etc. In that box was a 78rpm record, created in 1947. I was not quite six years old. This caused the eruption of a memory long lost, for it was recorded by my kindergarten teacher; my recitation of a poem titled, "My Sore Thumb", written by Burges Johnson. It appeared in a 1921 publication of a book, "Youngsters:" Collected Poems of Childhood", published by E.P. Dutton Publishing Co., which is now part of the Penguin Group. I only had to memorize the first stanza.
ENJOY!
"My Sore Thumb"
I jabbed a jack-knife in my thumb—
Th' blood just spurted when it come!
The cook got faint, an' nurse she yelled
An' showed me how it should be held,
An' Gran'ma went to get a rag,
An' couldn't find one in th' bag;
An' all the rest was just struck dumb
To see my thumb!
Since I went an' jabbed my thumb
I go around a-lookin' glum,
And Aunt, she pats me on the head
An' gives me extra ginger-bread;
But brother's mad, an' says he'll go
An' take an' axe, an' chop his toe:
An' then he guesses I'll keep mum
About my thumb!
At school they as't to see my thumb,
But I just showed it to my chum,
An' any else that wants to see
Must divvy up their cake with me!
It's gettin' well so fast, I think
I'll fix it up with crimson ink,
An' that'll keep up int'rest some
In my poor thumb!
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
O body, the little fish you swallowed yesterday
Yes, those
There are no other reasons
For this cat to roam around
For the third time
Fish swallowed yesterday, do not flail about
The globular eyes of that cat
O stomach, at least
Till it goes away,
Do not upset
With the slight movements of your waves
Body, body
Cautiously by the seaside
If all the fish that got inside
Bounced on seeing the place of origin
And if their friends tried knocking on each cell
If body, your body washed up all over a shore
Kissed by fishes
Body,
If all that you looked at greedily,
All that you ate ravenously,
All that you relished slowly
Appeared before you sometime
If it appeared
Body, body,
While seeing the kids,
If breast milk from thirty years ago spread out
If cake and fried liver
start out searching for little mouths
If all alcohol imbibed
Spurted out while meeting friends
Screamed out at midnight
Recited a ***** poem while no one was listening
Body,
On a noon, in favorite city
If two areolae appeared
And again spread brilliance
If you spilled out
Inhaling that redolence
Seeing something,
If saliva, sweat or wetness
Jump out
Body, body
If seeing greenery,
The cows and buffaloes and rabbits
Come out to graze,
Frogs start croaking
Seeing rain clouds
If seeing the sky,
The crow and crane inside
Start flying
If the **** comes out into the yard on seeing the hen,
Body, body,
If the fish, beasts and birds inside
Come out simultaneously,
Body, body,
Body’s soul…
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 8:19 AM UTC
Walking into the midnight
through mist feeling
softness of
tangible tickling of silverly shining
lunatic glow of rain drops
that tarnished my soul
rinsed imagination
as i moved towards the womb of night
like an invisible spark
glowing tenaciously in the midst of darkness.
Winds mooed
thunders rumbled...clapping applause
ravishing silence
as the divine being within trembled
spurted out in an instant
as my body flinched with lust
and it burst out laughing...thinking of its grave
on the gallows of nature
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 3:30 AM UTC
I want this to be about you,
But it's not
It resides in the hours
That I spent wide awake
When I couldn't sleep so I smoked
And I couldn't dream so I wrote
What I hoped I'd see
For the metaphors
I couldn't keep churning out
So I smoked some more
And I spurted out
Lines about lines
For the driver on the dented highway
With the window cracked
To feel the chills of the air blowing past
Listening to Bob Dylan tell her
The person she was supposed to be but
Never was
And never will
I want this to tell you how I feel,
But it won't
And if she drives far enough she'll reach that
Looming exit
The one she knows she must take
Back to the life she's sick of living
But fights through the pain
For the same reasons that I
Fight through, because
I want to meet a pretty girl
With great vocabulary,
And a smile like Rita Heyworth
I'm still looking for that girl
To drive me across that highway
And recycle old Dylan lines
As if they were personal dictums
She had synthesized herself
And we can freewheel this road together
See I'll never be that great poet that
Three hundred and twenty-nine thousand people
Have watched on the Internet
And that is a comfort
Because the truth resists simplicity
And in my heart of hearts I am a simple man
And telling the truth through words in meter
Or in stanzas
Will never come as naturally to me
As it does to Dylan
But in my acceptance of my ignorance
I become more powerful
Than I'd ever need to be
Poetic.
So if writing is always my hobby
And never my workhorse
If I can self-satisfy through
Strict stanzas that I will
Seldom share
If it is only to a girl
Driving on a highway
Singing songs about formerly-modern America that I
Recite these rehearsed thoughts of mine
Than I will have succeeded
Because my career will have been love
And maybe I can write this
About you.
And then, and only then, it will be.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
walking down the road now
my car named ‘my writing’
abandoned 3, 4, 5, 10 miles
back
it’s hot,
too hot
and the sun shines down on me
making me sweat uncomfortably
and
the road is long
too long for me
because it seems like I’ve been walking forever
and yet I haven’t seen a sign of humanity yet
then it comes screeching down
the road; a car not used to the
speed it has now; and in it is
a man desperately looking for
me
he spotted me
before I spotted
him and just as
I first heard his
tires melting to
the asphalt he
was jumping
out at me his
tongue tied to
the thought he
was trying to
eject from his
body
his talk excited,
he said: “is that
your car?”
I stare blankly
“is that your car?”
“what car” I say
“the one on the side
of the road! that one!”
he spurted out grin
wide
yes,
I think
so
“fantastic!
let me give
you a lift!”
ok
I say
ok
I said
not knowing
what to think
he asked me question after question
(about the car)
and told me how it was a masterpiece!
a genuine miracle! a historic marker
that I must continue to bring to the world!
ok
I said
(I disagreed,
the piece of junk
had just left me in
the desert remember)
he called a tow truck for the car
he dropped me off at my house
he gave me $5000 dollars (for the car)
and then he drove off
smile on his face
I looked at the money,
the tuckered out car,
my house and thought:
How lucky. Maybe there
is something to this car
maybe there was,
because I just got
back in it and drove
down the highway
like usual
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 2:42 PM UTC
Pierced-
by a red hot trident,
smearing protruding ribs,
Crushed to pieces.
Shreds of skin-
sliced, torn ravagingly
chewed by ravenous jaws.
Hellish beasts,
tossed.
And scraped muscle threads.
Dented bones,
gnawed-
to the soft edge,
cracks of brown dust,
shattered, spread.
Spikes of heads-
pinned through the scalp,
chunks of brain,
blunt rusty shafts.
Rivers of blood
flowing through
dried hearts-
spurted veins.
Crimson eyes.
convulsively shaking-
the last beats,
shrieks of despair,
drops of sweat,
Exhale.
Flashed iris-
The last color-
all is black.
I shed but a tear.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 7:05 AM UTC
The sun set on another glorious day.
I sat in my recliner,
reflecting on what once was.
It was then I realized what must be done.
I walked into the kitchen, and grabbed a knife.
I slowly cut off my index finger.
Blood spurted out,
I began to drink it.
It tasted good.
The pain was excruciating,
but I cherished it.
Every **** second of it.
I then called my dog,
and fed her my finger.
She liked it too.
Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 2:48 PM UTC
When I told you
that you could
have a painting
for five
bucks,
you dug your wrinkled
rugged,
years-worked hand
into your
tethered denim
to fish out 5
ones.
& I handed you a
hastily copied
Van Gogh and
you spurted out your
military ID like
a whistling kettle
unable to hold
its steam.
I hope that when you aren't sure
where you're at
again
Van Gogh's "Room"
leads you home.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
The clocks are ticking,
Although someday the hands will likely stop.
Pens scribble across blank pages,
Although someday the paper will likely disappear.
Soon it will only be keys clicking,
The drums of war in an auditorium.
Where new minds brew destruction for peace.
A figure stands alone at the front,
One mind against hundreds,
Preaching past sins, urging progress,
Or is it regression?
Hundreds of youth don’t know.
They simply sit at the solid tables,
With squeaking, unyielding chairs beneath,
Trying to comprehend the words spurted forth.
Words forming theories and trumpeted as truth.
Hundreds sit, scratching furiously,
Crammed into the cavernous theatre,
A fragile box overflowing with gems.
Here future great minds sit,
Clustered together, an easy target.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 2:28 PM UTC
You sliced through the seven layers of skin on my chest,
Smoothly,
You cracked my ribs,
Gently.
Blood spurted out,
You absorbed it,
Kindly.
The whole time,
I surrendered to you,
In awe,
And thought to myself,
"How am I not in pain?"
When you finally found my heart,
Raw and bare,
Offering itself to you,
Desperately,
You left,
Masterfully rejecting,
What you so intentionally earned.
At first I was numb,
But now it's worn off,
And I inescapably feel,
Every ounce of pain,
You inflicted,
To open me up.
So here's the question:
Do I leave my heart here,
Or do I sew myself up?
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
I bared my heart,
love spurted everywhere.
You watched it splatter on the grass,
apologized.
You didn't want it,
not that kind.
I almost took it back,
but the ground was already soaked.
We walked away,
leaving vermilion footprints.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 2:28 AM UTC
the joke of spurted *****
sticks to her smooth skin
spider silk waiting for
some long-lost splendour
her eyes puddles of misfortune
full of double layers and his flames
violently demanding refuge spurred
by a heart taking hold of hers
somewhere
behind the human stench
a man must live
to gently grow old with
until nothing but the essential remains
small and slow and helpless
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 5:33 PM UTC
~another love poem~
In the thousands of years of Earth’s foregoing,
marking the reign of humans, all seek sapience,
knowing full well, neither first or last am I to mark
this day’s commencement with a need, a desiring,
to notate this not unusual but definitively unique
calendar notation with a tribute, neither requested
but freely given to the person who lies beside me.
*Did I wake commanded or so compelled to scrabble
a collection of words, sequences, initially disordered,
into a shape, to chisel these sendings of a chest into a
living disbursement, a statute, a marbleized creature,
that empties and releases a sensory disposition rumbling
into a messy, mediocre utterance of sentience while they
sleep quiet, pockmarked by dreamed mumblings, dreaming?*
No, I did not.
News headlines come demanding see me, insistent that
I am urgency, but one displaced by the next, making them
instantly stale by pealing replacements. This poem, a self-
appointed task is now eased, spent and spurted into an
lifespan of a length unknown and untold. Here I end, ceased
and resisting, demurring, desisting another stanza, The hour
approaches the seventh hour before noon, rising time. Go now.
*The choring chords of fibrous tasks that stitch existence into
a sustaining impertinent permanence, list-crossing-off, a-nagging.
The itches of living, ask for scratching, 1st cup of coffee making,
but smile bemusedly that this first and freshest to do, newly added,
is done, dispatched with a line-sworded satisfying crossing off.
She sleeps on, while I soon to rise and quiet paddle to the
kitchen where kept the utensils for sustenance,*
I am contented, miraculously, simultaneous,
emptied and fulfilled.
4-14-2021
NYC
7:18am
Apr 14, 2022
Apr 14, 2022 at 7:30 AM UTC
So this is it
This miserable
Pointless terrible
Meaningless
Existence
On this stupid planet!
Hahah listen to that
Sounds like some stupid
Whining petulant child
I can't get what I want
bangs fists
I want a female friend
I guess I'll never have one
And nobody cares
Sometimes I laugh
Other times I cry
The world is a
******* up place
And I'll tell you why
Because nothing is real
It's a programmed deal
What am I
Suppose to feel?
My body I do not like
That much
Not too much fun
I worked out
And went for a run
And this morning
I spurted c**
They'll send you to
An institution
And lock you away
Just put on a fake smile
And pretend
It's all okay
It's just another day
And it's all the same
All the same
All the same to me
Walking on the edge
Of eternity
It is a blessing
And a curse
To see and to see
Is this all you have to offer
Nothing more?
This miserable life
Is such a bore
I do nothing all day
And nothing all year
A world full of nothing
I find it so queer
They lied to me
About this place
I like friendly women
I have an honest face
And so I go walking alone
And I return home
To watch movies again
I am a part time worker
And in the morning a jerker
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC