"squashing" poems
****
Frock..
Flock.
Bock!
Bock bock bock!
Mother mother bock,
Mother mother bock bock
Mothercluck mothercluck
eggsh eggsh eggsh
1 2,
1 2 3 Crack!
Eggs eggs cheese,
Baking biscuits
Frying spud
Mix'n roux
Squashing beefs,
Squashing beefs beefs beefs.
Rolling patties,
Flipping bacon.
Who eat the bacon?
We eat the bacon!
Roll'n patties-
-uuuh yeah, let me get a bacon'n'egg
In'a'tick little man.
I'll put that **** in my pan.
If the thank you doesn't show,
You can owe me blow me-
Imperial March ringtone
-Checks cell and ignores call-
"Who was that?"
"What? Oh,
Just another annoying memory."
-OH!
My kitchen love!
Ovee Ovee Ove-n
I think I wanna roast-ya toast-ya!
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
Two things that do not go together:
Oil and vinegar
Like two puzzle pieces that don’t fit, one bigger and heavier, the other smaller and lighter. One sits slightly on top patiently, waiting for some impatient six year old to try and make them, squashing, trying to change them and mash them into one picture, you take your bread and you dip, and these two things that cannot physically mix taste perfect.
Fire and ice
For one is too hot to handle her own heat and the other is too cold to be touched by human hands. Get them too close and sparks fly- he melts from a glacier into a puddle at her hearth, but to his misfortune leaks a liquid love and puts her out.
You and me
Like the puzzle pieces, I sit smaller and savvier, waiting patiently as you sit heavy and heartbroken over what you could never have but always deserved. But nothing is perfect, because for five years you were too cold and I too eager, and we destroyed each other- you when you caved and I when you drowned me out and now you are so far away. We wait patiently for someone to force us to fit, while everyone who comes along merely samples and says we are perfect.
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 8:13 PM UTC
This terribleness. The blur of traffic lights and puddles paints Los Angeles on my face at night. It's so hard to know who will doze in my blind spots. Sunflower seeds and ******* lining the carpet. I sat on the front porch for five hours gutting the wolves from my appendices. Usually the headaches go away with the squashing of the lights. Fluorescents are the worst, halogens second, and 60-watt 120-volt light bulb the bane of my existence. I look at my phone but I cannot summon a quirky 120 character quip. I need excedrin but all I have to grape flavored children's aspirin. I should have asked for the water. How many unfinished glasses of water have I left around this world?
Maybe Bruce and I will squash after work. I can hear his weekly catalog of two night stands with those married transient women who drive from Santa B. I hate golf, I could have made carried a career in this resentment. Maybe rolling down the window will alleviate some of this pressure. Maybe it's barometric pressure, The Baby is here in time to drag the houses out to sea. It feels like Michelangelo is carving The David in my head and it's the chiseling I've never wanted. It's Tuesday and the drugs were horrible. They killed five of them today. We wrapped their heads in blankets from the Thrifty, and had to have the interns find clothes that would fit for the Christian caskets. Two days until Giving Thanks Day.
I am wrapped in copper and stuck in amber. I am acquitted by nonsense and stipulation, sick with nausea and pushing my forehead into the steering wheel. This is all terrible. The lying I've never told myself. The people that don't even know it's lying. Her and I always seem to escape with our happiness and pleasure in tow. The odds are slim, but our clothes have never fit too tightly.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
I would like to hold an Asda Memo pad in Fleet Street
I would like it if, in the process of being a low-priced tomato
I were stepped on
and really assured that the real-estate in which my squishing had occurred in - would grossly swell in value
Seen as my squashing had occurred.
© Copyright David Bosworth March 2014
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 4:23 AM UTC
My mother's not an alcoholic but she's plenty of things I'd like to sing
Thanks for criticizing my skinny jeans and ****** up child hood teeth.
Here's to making my first girlfriend cry and squashing my beliefs,
a toast for being paranoid and obsessed with what you lack.
Better swallow all the car keys, mom, cause I may not come back.
And dad, thanks for slowing down the car so I could stick my head up
for knowing my mom is unstable and when I should just shut up.
Here's to holding me down and bruising my wrists and daring me to leave
because what I found and loved and lost is more than I could ever begin to believe.
So here's to my brother who got the short end of the stick
cause I was born so ******* intelligent
And here's to the buddies who left me on my own
Because we're all too lazy to pick up the ******* phone
Said I'll splatter my brains across your bedroom mirror and serial killers don't have motive,
not everyone knows enough to know what they don't,
but if this isn't the so-called "real world" I don't know what is.
So here's to death, Mr. Portuguese, zodiac signs, poor stitching and the trees (and their leaves.)
So here's to now, Mrs. Angel face, you've finally got your perfect family (and you see)
SO HERE'S TO THIS, my dear bestest friend, to laying in the tub at 2 am (til 4 am)
And here's to wrinkled toes and kissing, to grass stained jeans and living where you are (you've gotten far)
And you can try to end it all but they'll probably just hit you,
And when you go to therapy I'd like to be there with you
Because I don't think they know what they've got
No they don't know, they don't know
they don't know.
So here is you, living on the streets. I'd give it all away so we could be (why not happy.)
So here's to you, open heaven gates. Jesus knew that death awaits us all (well all fall down.)
Everyone I love is dying, everyone I love is dying (screaming) x how ever many times you feel
And I
am
dyyyyyying too.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
Darkness sets in with mankind,
throughout time words will transform the inferior man into the superior man.
The age of name calling will emerge.
Barbarian,
savages,
uncivil,
Let me stop for a second...
Telling the world another man is unimportant shouldnt take away the fact that he is still a man.
Name callers need peace while overthrowing others who also play a role in mankind by dissecting their own consciousness.
They have a need to
belittle,
discredit,
transform,
transform into something greater,
even though it's all in the mind that one is greater.
Truth be told wars are pushed forward to the masses by name calling the enemy,
Imagine looking a man in his eyes and calling him a cockroach,
for whatever reason one will feel like he is now squashing a bug,
yet no bug is present.
History will tell a story about mankind no matter the name.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
Jiminy Cricket needed a sport
That little Pinocchio could play
He didn't like tennis, the shorts were too short
He didn't like skiing at an Alpine resort
He didn't like squashing in a little squash court
He didn't like pigeons or clay
He dreamt of a game with a bat and a ball
A game that could last all day long
Where all would be welcome, the short and the tall
Where language and creed didn't matter at all
Where it could be played from the spring to the fall
A game for both weak and the strong
He pictured a game that was played on the grass
That all the young kids could enjoy
Where boys stood around, there was no need to pass
Where scoring was easy and points would amass
Where no one would notice or try to harass
A mild mannered small wooden boy
With pencil and paper, he had so much fun
Designing his very own bat
He wrote down the rules so they'd know who had won
With six points for boundaries and one for a run
And proudly admiring the work that he'd done
He decided to call it "HOWZAT!"
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC
A crack in the wall
Or under your bed
Live a people so small
They're thinner than thread
Shorter than mice
Shorter than dice
Shorter than lice
Shorter than rice
But away they build
And cities they make
Tiny but skilled
Like the things they create
So hear the bed springs
It's their world you're squashing
And know there are things
Still doing their washing
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 7:51 PM UTC
Who can travel like song
Whispering from galaxies
She has sung & he sinks
Deeper & deeper into love
Following in the fall
Bleakness to brightness of the brightest sun
Bathing by purity across the world
Lucky cultures aren't the same & I am from a different one
Kindness can be the morning dew
Kindness is what she is to you
Here and there conflict body warmth & hearted
Holding hands colliding
Squashing crashes avoided
Overcome & overthrown
Positivity is more powerful
Than anything he's ever known
Jan 14, 2022
Jan 14, 2022 at 3:38 AM UTC
Go, cry one last time
Feeble and withered in the storms
Your soul had its darkest night
Ye think its the wrath of God?
This endless menace
Or the creation of your soul?
However ye may deem my friend,
How good wings are without wind?
And the blossoms without scent?
Ye spread the wings to glow
Mistaken; to reach heaven?
But the gentle breath withheld its blow
Bow not to the pity of your heart
Nor the squashing unuttered pain
For glad tidings will be heard
Cherish, for what ye have in soul
Rare bear in such might
So go cry one last time
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC
I'm reading the Codex Gigas,
one hundred and sixty pounds of flesh,
black hairy tongue,
penitent Battenti sponges staining the robe with blood,
stalking through Campania.
Crushed insect nests,
a shiver up the jaw from food not had in too long.
Squashing caterpillars,
the insides squirt from their ketchup-packet bodies
in a spray of slime-neon green.
Pheromone cream drips from your ***** I gag it down,
curdled milk-paste.
When pulling the dress down, one never knows
whether you will get a paper cut,
or a gaping jaw of hairy
life.
We all live like pigs, but need to clean up to appear to live
like everyone else appears to live when we visit them.
You rob me of myself; a teacher
walks into a food bank ashamed and finds his student working there.
My life experiences pile up like broken infant bones,
fragile phalanges of famine,
until all I add up to are decades of
Holodormo,
the Killing Hunger.
You hide in the sea,
I lick your left palm.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 9:59 AM UTC
Hurting by the ocean waves
sand with blood, we all
learn to behave, when our
curtains catch no light,
and do not prevent the
squashing night
to give my child to another
and to abort a fetus, who
is or was his brother,
depending whom you ask,
of couse I wouldn't know,
so I numb with clothes,
money, and blow.
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
I've bled blood thicker than water and thinner than a sheet of ice. It never mattered what i did, i always broke through. today was the same as yesterday until i set myself free. I was drowing inside my body, killing the fear and squashing the insecurity. We trivilize poignant things and make mountains out of mole hills. The thing about living is that you just have to let it all go, let it do what it wants to you. All you can do is choose to appreciate where you are and follow the path of least resistance.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 6:36 AM UTC
There's no room for happiness
in this crowded mind of mine
where decentralized ideations
push and shove to be at the forefront
squashing any small hope for anything else
to move or scream its way in.
Annoying streetlights outside windows
penetrating the all-consuming darkness
that serves as my consciousness.
Illuminating the nightmares with vivid detail.
Nightmares reflecting horror
in gruesome images of conquest,
of demons breaking free.
There are no boundaries here,
in the place I call my mind.
****** suicide, **** assault.
All of these take place with the
frequency of glass shattering from
a high pitched note,
held for the longest time,
falling toward a field of spears.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
You're holding my heart
With your delicate hands and
long fingers
And you caress it with tenderness
and care.
You hold it like it's the most valuable treasure in the world.
But then you start squeezing it
and
crushing it
and
squashing it
'Till it bleeds out and all that is left
Are a few shards scattered into the dark
of the void night
Sep 29, 2019
Sep 29, 2019 at 1:54 PM UTC
He drank and continuously created
white clouds,
Though he was withering he was beautiful.
He resembled a browning oak tree; leaves
slowly drifting in the wind.
Leaving the tree **** as nothing but a frame.
My darling, for you it was time, and winter came.
Squashing the burning tip beneath his shoe,
And mumbling the forsaken words,
I love you.
Hair a mess, and pinching the silk of my dress;
let's sit in a field and I'll pull at your hair.
I ask you if it hurts, but you don't seem to care.
The last time the air was clear back in
November, I tell you all the time but you
don't seem to remember,
How important you are
Now engraved in my bones.
When you're not with me I feel so alone.
Cheeks as white as the frosting of a
buttercream flower.
Lips dried, lungs died.
Over your pit I cower; calloused fingers against stone.
Christ, I should've known. Just know you'll forever,
my home.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC
A happy cat was on my lap.
All ginger, fat and having a nap.
He shared my cake,
all pretty, iced pink.
I bet it makes his poo poo stink.
He had enough of squashing me,
(he weighs a stone and a half you see)
jumped down, and checked his empty dish,
gave his ginger tail a swish.
Then he went off for another snooze,
dreaming of all the food he'd choose.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 3:19 PM UTC
all hyped up
on a pedestal
(how do I get down?)
forget me baby...
I'm no good.
everyone clamoring, crawling
desperate for my attention
a whiff as I pass by
the breath before the kiss
slow releases of poison
permeating their being
i am essence of delusion
acrimonious bedevilment
rolled over their temples
seeping into their veins
eating away at their cells
like a virus replicating and destroying
inducing mutations with a smirk
no containment
and to which there is no antidote
passing from one victim to the next
nonchalant and ruthless
on the prowl, half sleep
squashing beneath me
egos, hearts, lives.
next?
as I said -
forget me -
there is no love.
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 10:25 PM UTC
There's an igloo
glowing auburn-yellow from the inside
miles of empty snow and ice around
lead-blue sky bears down:
an endless weight squashing reality.
I'm trying to remember which muscles are required to make me stand.
I'm braiding the coarse-twine letters of your name into a gallows rope,
tie it around our necks,
place the knot correctly so the vertebrate split,
separate fragile cord that brings all life to the body,
same as the delicate thread that held us together.
Did it ever,
really?
I drip away from you
charred
marshmallow held over the flame
too long.
This ceremonial rattle shakes
full of seeds within dried husk
the sound tickles your eardrums
as you **** on the snow and ice
covered with its coat of
honey,
nectar,
black gall.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
Nothing has
taken place
in this empty
cold and dark
remote room
it has been
and always will be
empty.
I can hear the
punching
on the table
the hard slamming
of the door
the shouting
of an ecstasy rage
from the outside
but still in here
in my little, cramped
secluded room
it is just silence.
There is nothing
for me
to command
in this
empty space
a wise, old
drunk man
once said
'don't try'
and somehow
it turns out
to be true
that everything
is here
not to be tried
and for all the
emptiness in it
there is nothing
for me
to command
in this
empty space.
There is nothing
for me
to wander around
in this empty space
there is no
road, street
or alley
for me to go
back and forth
but there is
always this
static presence
of feeling
of nature
of instinct
that has been
squashing me
sitting on me
telling me
to run and jump
frantically, wildly
just to see that
it bores nothing
and there is nothing
for me
to wander around
in this
empty space.
This empty space
can't be filled
this empty space
can't be replaced
this empty space
can't be changed
for
this empty space
has always been
empty
and it will
always be.
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 12:50 AM UTC
Don't know
What hot dylon bars
Be, I spit so fast I glow
So bright you can see me from Mars,
Count all the stars bright
Yet I see the ones not in sight,
Keep digging them out
From the dark and the doubt,
Rockstar Agent I am
Looking for you like Uncle Sam,
Keep writing them notes down
Better luck you would find as a clown,
That's if you don't sink
From the heavy thoughts you think,
Bring you to the edge
And fake a drop unless you pledge,
To break a beat with me
Have a ******* and tea,
As I write rhymes
Compose the lines
For all to magnify
Without a glass to the sky
Refracting sun
Blazing ants; while chewing gum,
Squashing don'ts and cant’s
Deaf to the senseless rants,
Just for the fun of it
See how the match stays lit...
© okpoet
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 4:13 AM UTC
There was this kid once, who went on an adventure-
to Coborns...
(Let's get this straight, right now, this kid wasn't me,)
Following the gray cement pathway she walked,
But the kid had this thing about bugs...
She never did like them much, but she liked them
Even less squished on the sidewalk with guts-
Spewing all over.
So this odd little kid walked purposefully,
But stared at the ground, so as not to trample one
Of those nasty bugs with her relatively clean shoes.
Well, the one time she glanced at the glistening waters
With birds swimming atop, she heard the noise,
Felt the crunch, of a massive cricket.
She didn't have to see it to know what it was,
Every detail of the pancaked thing was etched
Into the bottom of her gorey tennis-shoed foot.
The rest of the way to Coborns, she felt the cricket's body.
It wasn't stuck to her shoe, she was quiet certain,
But the after-image in her mind wouldn't let
The feeling of the cricket out of her thoughts.
On the return trip home, this girl,
(who, just to re-iterate, isn't me), made sure
To stop looking down when she neared the place of
The squashing. And to this day, she still wont
Look down when walking to Coborns.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
I think it's time to face the facts.
You're bags are packed;
You're leaving & you're never coming back.
One text just ruined it all.
I shouldn't have called that girl,
I shouldn't have called that girl.
I knew she was no good.
I knew.
But still I failed.
I fell in lust.
You've had enough.
I just wish there was something more I could say.
Takes a lot to even own up.
I planned to lie to just get you back but then that wouldn't be very grown up.
Got to face the facts.
Your bags are already packed.
You're about to leave and you're never coming back.
One text just ruined it all.
I should have called that girl;
I should have called that girl.
Only though, to set the record straight.
With tears in my eyes I write this;
With regret flowing from my pen.
Because I thought what we had was ‘Love’,
Was 'Fate'.
I ain't think it would ever end.
Now you say you hate me;
How could I ever blame you?
Because I said I’d never do something like this and I fell face first on my word.
Squashing every bit of a promise that existed.
What exists now?
Me & Hennessy.
But it can never get me over the thought of losing the best thing that ever happened to me...
-RegretfullyBitter
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC