"sputnik" poems
of course i ********** every night,
otherwise i'd be wondering
about the next Laika in space
with some next soviet conspiracy
Sputnik hovering while i chance
abbreviate a change on hairstyling
thinking: jeez, this is a little bit too
afro frizzy for a brainstorm,
maybe i better opt for Jamaican dreads?
economics of shampoo usage,
suddenly a large bank account.
i do get the idea behind treating nouns
like albinos... bleach the *******
hang them to dry in Polaroids...
while commercial flights fly at a certain
height, and the rich buggers fly high enough
to jet-stream in the cirrus uncinus bracket...
and they lie to children,
they're talking about strange satellites...
i can't see satellites, not without Galileo's
excommunication apparatus,
satellites, as far as i am concerned
orbit the earth in a non-visible spectrum
of the vacuum... hence their orbiting outside
of the visible spectrum atmosphere of
the earth, i would not be able to see
a satellite for the love of Michaelangelo.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Bumming your fat knobs and insert your helmet naked and unashamed
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Kicking off kick-off, cyborgs brought face to face
Tartan sunstroke and may Mumbo Jumbo's **** all lie among you
Nine, eleven, seven, thirteen, six, quinquereme, ******** ********* Tweedledum and Tweedledee, unsocial person, erectoffensive!
This is Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
You've really ****** the naval officer
And the hatchet faces want to know whose blouses you abuse
Now it's time to evacuate the ******* if you have a free hand
This is Lance Corporal Tom to Masticated Ectoplasm
I'm fancy dress dancing through the cat—flap
And I'm groping inside a swollen grotesque sailor
And the plums look gigantically unusual nowadays
Ergo from Land's End to John o' Groats am I piddling in a crumpet slammer
Telescopic hindward the lump
Uranus Arsenic is scatological
And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** *********** with
With the proviso that I'm Ichabod celibate centipede sextillion heads
I'm fondling vigorously paparazzo
And I think my sputnik knows which direction to ****
Tell my ballbreaker I ****** her vigorously for England, she bonks
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Your menstrual cycle's kaput, there's oojakapivvygizmo spleen
Can you smell me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you get to the bottom of me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you delve into me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you...
From Land's End to John o' Groats am I vibrating ring my crumpet criminal lunatic asylum
Telescopic hindward the groupie
Uranus Arsenic is scatological
And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** *********** with
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 4:22 PM UTC
Oatmealed and omeletted, start to a dull grey Seattle day
Mutual “Good morning” yawns wait the elevator gruzz
Cheery maid vacumates my room in a swirl of efficiency
Brundling my notes and my PC together I walk to work
Strumphing along beside the fumes of the grundling traffic
Email mountains confabulate the uncoffeed hordes
Typed kerattle the calm before the budget storm
Subterranean stocks desphorror of legal gamblers
Bonehead logic meets dumbling marketing aspirations
Now silent nerbling excuses of cur-whipped executives
Micawber’s message crystal in strangression of promises
Fundamental economics the only possible bankerage
Blood will flow in abattoir of management incastrophies
Doe-like and frembling in the light of impending execration
The stapression painfully personal as reality bites as last
Beer time comfrunks gather early in a huddle of hope
Sheep-like they absorb the tendralations of others’ fears
Remonstressing their misfortune in a depression of dinner
Relaxed at last in a hopefindation of beer goggle logic
Sleepfully staring at the mortgage arreared ceiling
My thankful escape to the Murakamied Sputnik symphony
Harmony in the silence of solitaricious nightcap with Hilton Mark
Wishing I was home now with my cuddlicious girl again
Grateful for loving and living in this aventacular world
I quietly srift off to sleep in a snozzle of sweet dreams
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:28 AM UTC
Sputnik to the Moon
Mankind's finest hour yet
Forged from savage fears.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC
I am the vessel of my ship,
I am to wrestle a little twit.
Will you help me find my virginity?
I think I've lost it somewhere,
Or someone borrowed it.
I am a farmer of black beans,
I am the Tarmac at the airport,
Will you join me for coffee?
I think I'm seeding the soil,
I found purchase in this toil.
I hate traffic and sputnik,
I love triptychs and music,
Is it you, me and everyone we know?
I guess we can play monopoly,
Just lay down your weapons, I'm fun you see.
Of course you can trust me,
I'm not a wet black bean,
Can I sing the national anthem?
I speak ****** and some other lingo,
I read French and women undress.
On second thought I'll be a stallion,
And yes I'm part French-Italian.
How far does it go?
I'll tell you what, do you know the muffin man?
The one that lives on Drury Lane?
If you do open up, let Thomas the train do his run.
A hippopotamus would laugh at this,
These lines said with such a clever lisp.
It'd have to be high as a koala bear,
Eating eucalyptus leafs at the fair.
I couldn't be more assured of this,
I wouldn't be reimbursed to read miss.
Doesn't it hurt? Aren't you choking yourself?
No me feel no pain,
Cookies are like nova cane.
Last but not least,
It feels better than summer heat,
The question everyone is a critic for,
Are you happy?
If Lois Lane was a *****
Cookie Monster a compulsive eater.
Then of course I'm sure.
May 20, 2011
May 20, 2011 at 8:53 PM UTC
Individuality
Crescens
As a riping
Moon cheeks
Blossom
At the Infinite
Cosmic Winds
Caressing
Your Particles
Sometimes
I see She winks
At me reminding
Myself of Others
Who percieve
The same
Sensations
You're not other than me
I have touched the
Astronaut's Space
Suit
My beloved
Neverland
Was intrigued and
Fascinated with
The Exhibition
And one
Sputnik
Was a Cute Cat
And The Real One
Was dangling
From The Ceiling
Surprisingly
Awesome at
Dimensions
As Children's
Antigravital
Balloons
Are
Destined to
Take off
Sooner or Later
These Beautiful
Reminders For
Artists's
First Lessons
in Projection
Ad Infinitum
A
Precise
Pretty
Focus
On
Flying Objects
Restored
On the Canvas
Of Our Conscience
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC
The windfarmer was thirty
When Sputnik was launched.
He woke the kids who followed
His finger across the night sky
Of a nativity scene.
He returned to the tractor,
Ploughed years of soil,
Planted rows of questions,
Tilled crops and cared
For animals.
He's a windfarmer now.
Stands beneath the behemoth blades
Turning over the air we breathe,
Felling the clouds,
And harvesting the wind.
The mills are run by a distant orbiter.
His farm,
He calls it Spooknyk.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 2:32 PM UTC
She was just a little stray dog
Wandering Moscow's cold grey streets
Then claimed in the name of science
By men who must succeed
And so into sputnik 2 they strapped her
And sent it on its way
Little Lemon still unaware
That this was her last day
She still had many years to live
But never had the chance
The scientists said they had a greater need
And so science had to claim her
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC
_How does it feel like to float in a complete void, alone with an uncertainty of surviving and going back to where you used to live?_ I was talking about the Sputnik II, the famous satellite launched with the dog Laika aboard. The very scene also portrays the life here on land. Each day, I'm caving in my own realities, an impressive way of escaping. It has buried me in that idea of you existing on it. It is a badge to be given, a sigh each time you twist the **** on the door.
And there I am, a banquet of a montage of a violent delight, a beauty of the sea cascading the shore, it's in my veins, a rushing current of this mere event. I watched people applaud, how the glass clinks, and you, an array of sun, so immaculate, I can't look away.
_I cannot bear losing it._
and we'll be a specks withering, it is a bittersweet love:
I would endlessly live on it.
Apr 3, 2023
Apr 3, 2023 at 11:06 AM UTC
If you **** an ear on a moonlit night-
point it to the sky,
you just may hear the crunch of gear
of sputnik whizzing by,
It was built by them there Russians
errrrrrrm,,,, 'bout 1957,
outta garbage cans n rusty vans
then launched quite close to heaven,
think it's due fer re-entry soon-
but I guess I'll be in bed.
so I'll pray real hard that she's off her guard
and it lands on the ex wife's head
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 2:13 PM UTC
**** the sunglasses...
double ****
dinner... making my father lunch...
triple hush hush ****** third....
i might be a drunk...
(burp)
but i have my obligations;
the day doesn't begin
with or without a dosage
of sleep...
i tango with a sputnik...
what?!
you know just your random ****
sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet home
Idaho!
Ghana?
**** i misspelled Missishippi....
no,
not exactly Family Guy funny,
but you know,
you spend a night with two Germans
tripping on mushrooms,
watching American dad...
with an Egyptian drinking *****
all quest-west in Amsterdam...
and you're not seeking the company
of a Puerto Rican hubbly-n-bubbly...
touch of flesh...
the night must be pretty entertaining...
so that's what you call exfoliating
when given into excess...
... .... .... (the excess pause)...
and then shhhhhhhhhhhhhh
in a makeshift metaphysical library...
literary... yes... (burp)... literate...
the sunglasses are working
just fine...
the sun isn't...
why do i always sit through the vanilla
sky of a sunset, why?!
hush darling...
Shakie Shtevens is going
to tell you all about what gives him
the Shakes...
shakes? if you drink... hot sweats...
one minor posit of a subverted
hangover...
a slap, a punch, a slap
once more, oh look, i'm found and bound
to sober;
getting drunk,
and then returning to the leash:
well...
covert for: a pristine afternoon.
p.s.
quasi-headbanging to a meat-head
tune...
yeah.... Slipknot... what?!
no.... MC Hammer!
i'm touching jack-shit...
look at me...
touching... clapping using jazz hands.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 12:46 PM UTC
i will rock you out tonight
i will shoot your sputnik to the moon
i will be an itch in the crotch of your space suit
i will be inside you
i will crush a star and sprinkle it in your hair
i will open your eyes and
i will open your mouth
i will start you up
i will let you loose
i will hold pure life in my hands
i will sleep on another couch tonight
i will dream of famine and golden wheat fields
i will dream of contradiction
i will recite the lords prayer
i will pull us under and
i will ***** a device that will bring us afloat
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 6:24 PM UTC
here i am
pondering human existence
and loneliness;
such a universally desolate moment;
i am here.
to question the matters of
who i am, where i am
and why am i
i started the moment i start;
at the briefest encounter of warmth
i retract myself completely.
knowing that to know
is knowing too much
i realized i am emptied
a void of knowledge;
incompletely, i drift on
like the sputnik II.
as it orbits the earth
without a meaning
without a song,
and what does it see
when laika looks out
to the vast darkness?
what does it think?
these
are the questions
of my sleepless nights.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
What are the odds
Of finding je ne sais quoi
When you're searching for it
In the middle of a dead language
Or in a parallel universe
Like Sputnik Sweetheart
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 4:20 AM UTC
*diaphanous girl
a headless masquerade
her black lipstick and shivering pearls
giggle like earthquake chandeliers
festooned buttocks
curves a lyrical hell of desire
pocket eyes
dead suns
aloof
yield vacant split azure vault
a fetish horror
zoomorphic and decapitated
a thrilled non compos mentis
her mouth widens
like a line turning into a circle
turning into a jagged city
of twining red wet mayhem
fish head stare
and toothy kisses
on red abdomen posy hook
jutting her spine for sadistic fires
she rolls her velvet thighs
wriggling
a wrench
and twitch
a mad headless lunar sputnik
circumambulates spit tongue sputum
she is the eye in the sky of eternal night
her spirit impaled upon
torrential mountain libidos
impaled on a wild life park of *****
wet ********* a basket of skulls
she nestled
her depraved tilted crown
lilting onto the stained guillotine
saying come on
i can hardly wait to get started
make me the ghastly queen
goddess of the witching hour
bone blood
and black glitter dead of night
Aug 11, 2019
Aug 11, 2019 at 2:33 PM UTC
. a month spent listening to (a) grandfather's medley of memories, an eroded imagination, an inversion of a figurative- something of other... a month spent with the breath of Shiva... dementia... no wonder my use, subsequently, does not represent the vitality of a springbok... less a torrent of a waterfall... and more... heavily reliant on: perpendicular and subserviently cryptic.
what came first:
the vowel,
or the consonant...
| standing ground...
figments
of the imagination -
vowels
and the rigid
arches of
huddling
consonants...
unkept lockets
of birches
woven
in pine forests...
dead to humor
English oak:
numbed
a'pathos
vater...
vague wounds
caressed
by the winds...
in beast: siamese -
no differential,
unto a blast from
a sputnik's
starry baron knead
of the knee
third letter:
surd...
what the eye
and the aye does
see...
but the: hushed
agreement bypasses...
to 'now
is no sentiment of
a nauw...
Cymry:
piquant,
the difference
between
(k)now
and n A w
no... 'now...
brigadier is
not (a) /
no trumpet-tier /
player...
-teer...
a vowel,
a consonant,
a surd...
and if...
VII were again,
and 7 far from F...
tickling e. e. cummings...
translation?
missing...
the obscurity
of the concept of flesh
when wearing
a pair of gloves,
the Sait Paul & Peters...
flesh disintegrates,
what remains is...
the mediating
numb between gloves
and the "abstract"
of skeleton...
what came first...
the "vowel", or "the" consonant?
past the moral "question":
the glaring contort...
a letter - L, 90°...
that gave birth to
the Girth of Delta?
360° and the "missing" 5...
Kant: negation = 0,
reply...
Λ = sanction.
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 8:12 PM UTC
dollops of dander
mighty mousers meander—
cats with cattitude
© 2020 Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
May 22, 2020
May 22, 2020 at 2:00 PM UTC
Minnow problems.
Never have I seen so many pentagrams.
Visions of the cross are tangible.
Yet the willows bend, fold and cross in unholy manners,
patterns.
My eyes close.
A moment ago they were open and burning.
From the prairie's apathy, the infirm stand strong on the jagged mountain.
Their skin and hard husks weathering the gusts.
Their numbers fall with the every grumble of those wet shiny aberrations.
Miles above, the delta beckons.
Farther below, the road's beginning with its paralyses and warnings of excellence.
Opens wider.
A pile of soil, collected daily.
The farmers rub their square white teeth in confusion.
The universe with nothing beyond. When she thinks of death, she is sad.
There is pride knowing there will be nothing.
During the panel, her words of unobservable importance betray her.
Betrayal found with the ski mask and semiautomatic.
The singularity is denser now. Collapsing as memories of the father echo.
They echo in her *******
In the residue that falls onto her *******
Finding whole helixes without the tools to measure them.
Speaking little of anything.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
From the dawn of man we've looked to the sky
looking for our God, our heaven, our galactic neighbors
searching for answers, but finding more questions
from Sputnik to the voyager probes
from the first moon landing to the space station
from the dawn of man we've looked to the sky
pushing and pushing to explore
never giving up until we are no more
searching for answers, but always finding more questions
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC
I went without breathing for days
Days after I was alone
Because I craved for a status quo
I craved for millenniums to stop turning
And I craved for the birds outside my window
(Oh those ****** birds)
To stop chirping
There is beauty in such stillness that no one else will comprehend
Much-needed stillness after nights of revolution
The sputnik in my brain is going places
But all I want
Is stability
For once in awhile
I looked in the mirror
And combed my hair the other way
And that was the most changed
I had engineered in days
I tossed my coins
To make decisions
And I lived on leftovers
From the previous summer season
Loneliness came in like a platinum plugger
And I shut my doors for days
I left logic on my front porch
And it grew tired of breaking in
I tried to throw caution to the wind
But I was careful to nail my windows shut
And so I lived within myself for periods
Not the person I used to be
And admired how the birds could always chirp
With such
Vigour
Unlike
Me
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 2:59 AM UTC
*your every word was a gold nugget
and you made me feel so very rich
but that was when you were my brother
you spoke about strange things from afar
though you were always at home with the hens
but that was when you were my brother
you strummed your old guitar like a lost lover
and spoke about the sputnik, Russia and heaven
but that was when you were my brother
now the rot has set in and our wounds are festering
you tell me i'm not your mother's son
now that you're no longer the brother i adored*
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 2:17 AM UTC
god's plaything -
what is the colour of rain
that paints this city
with the havoc that once
trouble wreaked over
our sorriness?
god's no god
until he is god
in someone's throne
and i may be a fool.
he is a cool cat rolling
thunderously over the silence
of our homes or
perhaps a soldier
marching his way
homeward amid
the tatterdemalion
of days.
god's temple
is the body and a body's
oblivious of this -
god knows no "sigue sigue"
nor "sputnik"
nor piercing the helm
cerebrally
god's no fool to goad any gambit
or watch the wane of old solace.
or is it that i am
a leitmotif and my peccadilloes
are a path's adagio towards contrite?
god voyeurs over the
windowless hours
of my sanity's eclipse
and soon, when all of my prayers
turn to ash and
no sound of me is heard,
in the evening of this tide
is deliverance
and i have slept.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 9:40 AM UTC
when Margot met Circe: bah bah black sheep,
St. Bartholomew's chicken ****
for the puff of leg-room...
duffos... 1996 made so much sense;
hence the days before teen-mom
m.t.v., hence the days before
teen-mom m.t.v.,
is that revising the opposite
of the caveman within journalists
who'd have no imagination to
carve out a hammer?
but who still celebrate
that origination of all future history?
there's never too little history to revive,
there's only too much of the wrong
history to bookmark,
and subsequently revive...
whatever happened to culture of
things seen on t.v. when marijuana
was illegal?
ted the magic talking bear?
or is that ted'x talks? they legalised that ****
because because there were apparent
geniuses in s low mo t'yo née -
or: scooby dooby do... where are you...
magic monkey juice...
let's make america nostalgic ultra!
as the german poets and philosophers
tried to revive classical greek and came back
with a ******** clock for what really did become
good luck...
because they made marijuana legal
for non-high purposes as in extracting
something akin to Great Ormond kids ingesting
the green morphine monster...
but where's the fun in that when it's all legal
and couch-potato bound and never daring
for the jazz communes and spontaneously
propped poetics?
but i also grew up with
*Wilk i Zając - Odcinek 13 - Olimpiada 1980
w Moskwie* /
wolf & rabbit, episode 13, olympics 1980 in
Moscow... very ******* sputnik in terms of
tunes comrade Gagarin...
i once knew the meaning of the word: harasho...
i think it means: i understand.
я ci pokarzała! (i will show you!)
nu pagarzni! (no you won't!)
o' Ronald re re re, ***** i wielki flop!
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
when the moon was full,
grandpa and I would stay in town past sunset
the road home good, with few ruts, the pastures soft
silver in all that lunar light
his team was old, slow,
but grandpa knew no haste
even getting to the cellar, when
great twisters came
born the week Lincoln freed the slaves
he not once drove a car, though he lived
to read of Sputnik in the Gazette,
and died when JFK was elected
summers lasted a long time
with grandpa--I still see him. giving reins
a gentle shake, reminding his horses to pull us home
whistling to them, telling me tales
on a July night, the year of the Crash
he put his gaze on the fat orb, barely waning
“one day we'll put a man up there,” he proclaimed
but I thought he was pulling my leg
“have to put him in a cannon like,
enclosed in some hard shell, otherwise
we’d blow him all to hell, gettin' enough power
to loose the bounds of God's earth”
grandpa didn't live to hear Neil's famous words,
two score years after that summer night; though I yet hear the shod
hooves plodding, the wagon wheels rolling, and his words
soothsaying, whenever I gaze at a white moon’s face
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
alt. original fleetwood mac - breakout - kiedy byłem małym chłopcem (when i was a small boy).
**** me!
if this is the sort of music that was
played behind the iron curtain?
please! please!
oh god please take me back!
one and only one example is
sufficient:
breakout's
kiedy byłem małym chłopcem...
(when i was a small boy)...
it's like
listening to fleetwood mac...
oh wait...
peter green's fleet...
before the female vocals...
ha ha... "cultural appropriation"...
white boy's blues...
could be a genre, could be...
was.
http://tinyurl.com/ycql35uu.
yeah, communism was all bad...
solidarity activists
infiltrated an iron maiden concert
with badges in warsaw or katowice
(sputnik),
sent ol' **** wałęnsa to florida
in hawaiian shorts... plus plus...
oj, leszek... niezły floral pa-pa-tern!
the story of breakout parallels
that of fleetwood mac... great blues
bands... guitars of the former band:
pan nalepa...
oh yeah, no culture
under the iron curtain, universal shared
misery that hoped to attain a plataeu
of shared misery...
very bad, bad bad bad, all bad!
ah, i won't even mind talking about
the coal-miners' saint that was gierek...
and some said: hallucinating
maggie had all the wild cards ready for
a reagan insurrection... howdie pawtner...
(sure, quick i.e. in howdie,
alt. howdy)...
giddie up!
we're heading for the rodeo!
and a texan bush-wackers' tight-nip,
getting spanked with a cactus! ye-ha!
alt.? no hyphen, two acutes:
yé há! branches... gotta break 'em.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 7:54 PM UTC