"squatted" poems
I lied by the sea,
far away from the ebb-
uncared, untraceable,
a heap among the mounds.
You came to me first,
And then joined in she,
both squatted by me,
started the play with me.
Never can I forget,
the first caress-
I know not, yours or hers,
but it was like heaven.
Your juvenile dreams,
naive imaginations,
bestowed on my otiose self,
by your seasoned skills.
Grain upon grains,
both made me proud.
Not conforming to a flaw,
meticulous maven masons.
When your hands tired,
she backed you up.
While she was ******
you tended her to health.
Finally, I stood tall-
an Olympian castle.
Both were beguiled,
I would never be happier.
And, then came the storm,
Satanic vibes infested the air.
I couldn’t fathom what befell,
you were furious, she was crying.
Raised voices, clenched fists,
intimate moments castaway,
I stood a meek witness,
while a relationship was severed.
Came along the lunar surge,
I was wiped away without a trace.
Both stood distant from the other,
watching me fall, filled with remorse.
Mar 2, 2010
Mar 2, 2010 at 9:15 AM UTC
The water pooled up at the lowest points on the sidewalk.
The rain gave way to the sun and the random puddles of water now sparkled with life.
My attention was guided to a single puddle.
The puddle had positioned itself right in the middle of the sidewalk.
People were hopping over to avoid getting their feet drenched.
Others sloshed through the puddle paying it no mind.
The puddle was calling out, but received no attention from the people.
A small child heard the call, and approached the puddle.
It was a small boy no more than the age of eight.
He leaned over and looked at his reflection in the still pool of water.
The boy began making silly faces into the mirrored surface.
The puddle responded by making the same silly faces back at the boy.
The boy squatted down and dipped his finger into the water.
Small ripples left from his fingers, and made their way to the edges of the puddle.
He carved his finger through the water making shapes for a time.
The puddle enjoyed the attention, and was glistening.
The boy stood up, and a smile slowly made it's way onto his face.
He then leapt into the puddle splashing water in every direction.
Jumping up and down in the puddle, and smiling the biggest smile the entire time.
An infectious laughter sprang from the boy.
Other's noticed, and smiled and laughed with the boy.
The boy's mother appeared, and scolded the child for playing with the puddle.
The smile left from the child's face, and those watching now walked back into their lives.
The puddle calmed itself back into a smooth surface.
Slowly evaporated, becoming smaller and smaller, leaving only the dry concrete below.
The puddle would return after the next rain. Calling out once again.
Waiting patiently to give away it's joy.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
I first cried
where freshness itself struggled
to breathe. Outside
the Ganges,
asthmatic,
began to cower
back in fear, in
disgust, in
disease, browning
like the discarded banana peels
on the roadside below.
I first cried
in a dirt town
where kings and queens
drank to grass avenues
and swaying music in the realms
of history books.
I first cried
where those books
aged quietly
in forgotten rooms.
I first cried
where the streets bled
out crumpling homes and
cardboard stores with misspelt names,
spilling children in dust dresses
and hair matted
into rust pieces.
I first cried
where those children hung
babies on their arms
like my mother swung
her handbag, a flag
of Valentino, while stumbling on
crushed cans and dog ****
and foetid mud-water
on the way to the dentist.
And the children cried
out snot, their arms
perpetually reaching
for a rupee
from the traffic.
I first cried
where white-lit department stores
sprouted in defiant sanitation
between eczema-covered apartment blocks
in which washing lines drooped
and parking was always a problem.
I first cried
where many gods and goddesses
resided on the footpaths
decked in glitter
and cloths of rouge
as old men with
skin weathered into mottled
leather shook
beneath sheets of jute
on the roadside below
and offered tiny flames
to their gods
as morning bellowed and their coughs
grew worse.
I first cried
where stareless men burnt
their fingers
on the Chinese noodles with too much
chilli powder
they cooked and fried and cooked
for those who never saw them
but to haggle over a ten
rupee note,
on the roadside,
on every corner.
I first cried
as thread-blanketed teenage girls
with wrinkled faces
squatted amongst cows
in the middles of roads,
chanting prices, in voices
full of tar,
of the mound of peas
they were selling for that week.
I come every year.
And I'm ashamed to say
I'll never live here
but in my verses
because I can't stand the smell
of the place where I was born.
I first cried
here.
I first cried here.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 2:55 AM UTC
Do you want to live forever?
said the Gardener to me,
tending to a creeping thought
and watering the sea.
I replied, no, but thanks, you see,
I'd rather be a tree.
And spread my branches out
to
shelter creatures underneath.
A tree? A tree? He whispered tentatively.
Why, I can't remember what it be.
That word. That thought. That memory.
He shook his head and shrugged at me.
(So I scratched a crude drawing in the dirt
and The Gardener squatted there pondering at it a while,
robes lifted up above bony knees)
But I do that too, said he, jumping up quite suddenly.
Pardon me, but I just see no need - No need to be a tree!
Just beg a princely role of me
and I shall fill your fantasy!
I said, thanks, but well, you see..
I'd rather be a tree.
He paused for quite a while.
Then said okay, a little hesitantly.
Then said that he would not be that okay
until he sees these silly things called trees.
And until he sees the purpose of the thing it is
that means so wonderfully much to me
to
want to be a tree.
So he turned me to a tree and put me in a park.
Where couples came and families
and cuddling lovers in the dark.
And colored birds were friends to me
and I sheltered all of them beneath.
And spread new life through little seeds
and quenched the world its need to breathe.
And in the autumn dropped my leaves
to feed the insects in the weeds.
I stretched my roots in luscious ground and saw such beauty all around.
I was
old and happy as only a tree
could ever wish or hope
to be.
And then one day I saw a face, quite out of place, was watching me.
And he said..
You are very naturally a tree
and have done so extraordinarily well in green
that I will leave you be to live your dream.
And as he walked away, it seemed
he smiled happily back at me.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
A friend of mine was unemployed,
he didn’t know what to do.
So he went down to the Army office and
said “I want to join you”.
So they sent him off to war,
for something he didn’t know.
They put a gun in his hand and
said “shoot the ones across the road”.
So he squatted down in the mud,
with the **** the bullets, the bodies and the blood.
Trying to think of the ones he loved.
Trying to ignore all the death and the pain.
Then he saw the enemy come up to him.
He got his gun and went over to them.
He looked him straight in the eyes,
“That’s the first mistake”, the Officers replied.
For he saw a young man about his age,
he said “You’re the enemy, I must shoot you dead!”.
The man said “Why?” and stood there still.
My friend was silent and thought a lot.
His mind went crazy, he couldn’t shoot.
He couldn’t see why the war was on.
Why was he fighting? What’s to be won?
Why shoot a man the same as him?
So he put his gun on the ground,
and the enemy did the same.
Then the Officers went up to them,
and shot them both in the brain, and said
“They should have played the game”,
and went back from where they came,
to carry on the war,
like all those times before.
Safe in their bunkers,
with a gin and a straw!
Copyright: Gordon Warren (1986)
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
some claimed the paddies smelled like
fetid fishes, ***** some said like the dung of oxen, peasants
or other beasts who squatted there
others whispered the fields reeked of death
while I found no odor to be grander evidence
of life’s languorous longing for itself
we marched those mired moors, as hunters
of invisible prey--ourselves too being stalked, or worse,
mocked by other hairless apes,
who like we, sought light, but
could divine darkness far better, for we
knew little of night, its sacred riddles
some said those places reeked
of rotted flesh, the festering relics of our deeds
I inhaled deeply, slowly
only rich, fecund stories
were revealed to me, ones I fear yet
this silent night
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 7:37 AM UTC
something told me to get up-
the bus stopped and i left it feeling lost-
i knew what town i was in-
had for several years-
ten o'clock was coming on-
same with fatigue-
i had some ****
so i went in search for a place to smoke out for the rest of the night-
even just to lay my body out would be alright-
the garden center was full of soil and sod-
plastic chairs stung all along the wall-
i crept into the sod tent-
i could not afford any rent-
i smoked a joint that night-
i really just wanted soft sleep-
the first of the three nights i slept in the sod tent-
never really got it all figured out-
until my last night-
by that time i had a nice palace-
i was king in my sod tent-
which i squatted in-
different i suppose from breaking in-
Sep 15, 2010
Sep 15, 2010 at 8:58 AM UTC
Leaping, leaping, leaping,
down line by line,
growling at the cadavers,
filling the holy jugs with their ****
falling into windows and mauling the parents,
but soft, kiss-soft,
and sobbing sobbing
into their awful dog dish.
No point? No twist for you
in my white tunnel?
Let me speak plainly,
let me whisper it from the podium--
Mother, may I use your pseudonym?
May I take the dove named Mary
and shove out Anne?
May I take my check book, my holographs,
my eight naked books,
and sign it Mary, Mary, Mary
full of grace?
I know my name is not offensive
but my feet hang in the noose.
I want to be white.
I want to be blue.
I want to be a bee digging into an onion heart,
as you did to me, dug and squatted
long after death and its fang.
Hail Mary, full of me,
Nibbling in the sitting room of my head.
Mary, Mary, ****** forever,
***** forever,
give me your name,
give me your mirror.
Boils fester in my soul,
so give me your name so I may kiss them,
and they will fly off,
nameless
but named,
and they will fly off like angel food dogs
with thee
and with thy spirit.
Let me climb the face of my kitchen dog
and fly off into my terrified years.
1.4k
And Death entered her room at nightfall,
To fetch a beloved soul.
"Why are you crying, child?" Death asked the child.
"Mr. Snuffles won't wake up! I keep shaking him, yet he won't wake up!"
The child responded, cradling the small black cat in her arms.
"He has passed away, child. I'm here to take him to a place where he shall finally rest."
Death explained to the crying child.
"Where will you take him, mister? Why must you take him away?"
The child cried louder, seeming more desperate to keep her beloved cat to herself.
"It's time that Mr. Snuffles must go on and get rebirthed to his next life."
"With his short life in this world, he has already fulfilled his purpose, and that is to look after you as long as his little body allows."
Death further added.
"But you can't take him away, mister, not yet! I am still not grown, and I am still afraid to be alone in the dark!"
The child hugged her beloved cat tighter.
"There is light in the darkness, my child, and there is solace in being alone."
"Even if you wish to keep him longer, his body couldn't sustain his soul anymore. Another life awaits him at the other end."
Death squatted in front of the child, gently prying the cat from her.
"Why must you hold on to something that can no longer be there for you?"
Death asked yet another question.
"Because I still haven't made Mr. Snuffles happy! I haven't loved him enough yet. He can't go yet, please, mister!"
The child pleaded.
"Isn't it ironic that only in death humans find empathy, only in death your kind desperately asked for life when so many of you waste it away?"
Death thought to himself, seeming to wonder the irony of human emotions.
"Child, in this world, there's not a thing that remains permanent. Everything will eventually fade away, as well as the grief you are feeling in your little heart. One must know when to let go in order for the deceased and the living to move forward."
Death told the child softly.
"There will be comfort in grieving, there will be love with hatred, and most importantly, there will be life after death."
Death patted the child's head as he stood up, now cradling the black furball in his arms.
"Remember, child, death is not a curse nor is it a blessing. One must embrace this process in order to value the significance of life. Without death, life will be meaningless."
"Go forth, child, cry, grieve, be angry, yet remember that you must go forward in order to continue the existence of your beloved cat in your memories."
Death said as parting before he faded into the darkness of the night.
The child, stunned, collapsed on her bed, clutching Mr. Snuffles' collar near to her heaving chest.
- N.V. 🥀
Sep 3, 2025
Sep 3, 2025 at 1:39 PM UTC
Can you feel it?
*That something juicier and wetter
That something wilder and fiercer
That something wiser and stronger*
Divine and lovely fragment of God
Searching and sifting
Through the soil caking your feet
Your archaeological dig site
Resurrecting from your deep red earthiness
Sorting your finds
Cataloguing your treasures
Can you smell it?
*That something juicier and wetter
That something wilder and fiercer
That something wiser and stronger*
Turning over and over each exhumed shard
I watch you squatted, frog like
Remembering ~ Releasing ~ Restoring
Becoming one with Ivory bone and awakening to the harmony of blood's song
Navigating with courage your shadow
I watch you bearing down
Giving birth to truth and beauty
Can you taste it on the wind?
*That something juicier and wetter
That something wilder and fiercer
That something wiser and stronger*
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
Make me a flower delicate and sweet,
spewing fragrance into the blowing breeze .
Make me a violin from whose strings
melody flows to soothe the ailing nerves .
Make me a rain cloud, sailing over
the breadth and length of skies
showering cooling droplets on to the thirsting Earth.
Make me a lamp shedding beams of light
dissipating darkness from the mazy depths of gloom .
Make me a vessel full with love to pour out
into all empty pitchers.
Let every atom of my being throb with Thy filling love
Let it spring forth in jets to form the gushing stream
Let the Earth wear a celestial charm
Let the plants celebrate the carnival of colors
In my basket, I shall gather many a fragrant bloom
to be offered at your feet with love
and remain squatted in Thy presence ,
not losing in the pageant of this transient life.
I wait for
The PEACE to dawn upon in a world where violence rules
where hate like worms eat into the core
and the air rent with fears – illusory and real
I wait for
The LIGHT to break into me to see myself bare!
to hear the music of your heart, over the cacophony around
and to sing songs of spontaneous praise!
Give me Light, Oh Lord! Clear brilliant Light,
not to enjoy the wayside scenes
but that I shall not stumble and fall.
................................................................................................
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 7:43 AM UTC
I have retired,
long ago, from my duties
my wonderful job
That has made me millions.
You best think twice
before you speak arrogantly of me.
Know, when you undermine me
Next to others among,
That I have made millions.
I’ve fed mouths
Raised beautiful souls,
Scrubbed till my skin cracked,
Squatted till my bones ached,
Cooked art till my heart was content but,
I have no right to complain
I never look back on my life with shame,
because I have made millions.
I arose at the glint of the sunrise
Filled my ears with the bellowing
Of vendors and their creaking carts
Sacrificed my sleep
To sustain my job
because my efforts are worth millions.
I was dedicated,
Worked hard for my family,
my tendrils of hair askew
I continued my work
Masked my emotions,
Even when I was feeling blue
all because I was too busy making millions.
I kept my “office” ***** and span
Invented my own tips and tricks
since I was passionate
about making millions.
I wonder if you think I am worthless but
I simply sit back and smile because
I tell myself
I was a queen in my line of work
I didn’t just make beds,
I made wonderful souls
It never required money
I never had to get paid
Now,
The thin wrinkles on my hand
Remind me that
I am more than satisfied,
Because I know
I’ve made millions.
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
a cairn on every mountain
chronological tricksters stacked
by near naked natives, or frat brothers
who pointed the way there
with crushed Bud cans?
fossils were less disingenuous,
treasures from a Jurassic sea, staring
back at me--coprolites a fine find, evidence
our voiceless progenitors also
squatted and shat
after days of wilderness
wandering, I found a lonely menhir
tall as two men, wide as one, in no
particular vantage point
to the sun
who carved this monolith
I'd never know; how it was dragged here
would vex me even more
I sat beneath its shadow
until it stretched a desert mile
all the while watching, waiting
for someone to return
to claim it
when no one finally did,
I rubbed my hands on its weather worn flanks,
and bid goodnight to ancient strangers
who worshiped this silent stone
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 11:04 AM UTC
It was a good pup, running in front of traffic;
hungry, terrified, a slight breed with big eyes.
It's ears perked straight at my whistle between car horns.
It came when I squatted to the sidewalk along the park
on that early weekend morning I had danced til three.
It had a collar with the tags gone.
It sat at command barely able to contain
It's joy at obedience.
It wagged Its tail, wanted to leap
but sat again when I said "no".
I scratched It's neck,
patted It's head,
calmed It a bit.
It was in need of affection so badly,
It followed me a while,
long enough to let me worry
It wouldn't go away.
I could imagine It waiting at the door to my apartment
when I awoke about noon.
Then It was gone.
I couldn't wash It's smell
from my hands for at least three days.
It must have been ***** in heat.
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 3:56 PM UTC
That is as good as it gets:
Mrs Hushbenway gazing
at herself in the mirror.
Her husband lies in bed
staring at her back; her
backside squatted on the
small stool of the dressing
table, her back ramrod straight,
her hair in a mess. She grimaces,
shows her teeth, licks her lips.
He takes in her fading pink
nightie, the dark pink *******
showing through, the way she
sits there gazing at her face,
the way she grimaces. Enough
to sink ships, he thinks, not saying.
He imagines she’s some other,
some younger specimen, sitting
there, slim figure, maybe naked,
brushing her hair. She is talking
now, he assumes it is small talk,
some neighbour’s husband or
kid or some new baby on the way,
or some dress she’d seen, but not
in her size. He thinks of the old days,
the days of rough and tumble, times
of getting in late, falling into bed
and having it off before deep sleep.
She’s asking him a question, no
idea what, he tries to bluff, to pretend
he had not heard too well. She
turns and stares, her big eyes, cow
like, brown and liquidy as diarrhoea,
search him, brings on the pretend
fear, the good husband pose. Ah yes,
now he’s heard, knows the answer,
what she’d want him to say and he
does and she turns satisfied and brushes
her locks, having lost her looks. He
knows her well, knows her funny ways,
her little lived in world, her way of
seeing things, of saying things, the
words she prefers, leaving out words
not hers, like **** and **** and ****
and **** words he likes to sprout in
anger if banging toe or elbow. Now
she undresses, takes off the clothing
piece by piece, he hums the striptease
tune, but she's not amused, and gives
him her stare. Oh you, he thinks, who
could sink a thousand ships, whose
face could turn the tides of sea, shut
thy cackle, come kiss, remember me.
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 3:05 AM UTC
As they all sat around the camp fire reading to
each other poetic rhyme, there were many who
would not last the night at camp forward what
or who would meet there demise?
Sue was writing ***** things you could see it
in her eyes. The others around the camp fire
was Brother Newton, Orchidee, & Karen, they
were talking philosophy… Bri mar & Grandma
were talking rather intensely about meanings
of life & religion agreeing to disagree.
Lolly was laughing with Ant, Poetic T &
Tadpole about his latest creation in stiches for
all to see. Jambo didn’t laugh he just quite
abruptly disagreed.
It was late, the fire once fierce now red embers
could all only see. Good night Sue said it’s
getting late for me, she needed the toilet but
full were all three so in to the woods she was
shown a good spot to ***
As she squatted a bear trap went off cutting
Sue in to three. Her scream unheard as only
things that go bump in the night could be
heard aloud in the trees.
Brother Newton went off to sleep only to be
awoken as someone carried him off trapped
in his sleeping bag was he, In the background
Alice cooper could be heard, the man behind the
mask as he was violently smashed against the tree.
Brother Newton now left as all that could be seen
was a red soaked sleeping bag sinking in to the
lake near camp never again to be seen.
Grandma went off with Orchidee to pray, but
as they approached the alter tubular bells could
be heard as the cross fell or was it pushed?
And nailed under the cross were both. We forgive
they both said as there life left for another less
blood soaked place..
To Be Continued
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
The lure of gold brought Fifty-Niner’s in droves
to the Kansas-Nebraska territory
laden with packs, picks, pans and shovels -
hell-bound for adventure and facile wealth.
Placer miners squatted beside frigid streams,
dipping their pans and filling their sacks
with nuggets bound for the assayer's verdict.
Mine towns sprang up where the veins were strong.
In ******* Creek, Leadville, Independence and Central City,
the valleys rang with the strident cacaphony of
drills and explosives - burrowing shafts deep
into the ore-rich valleys and mountain slopes.
Headlamps lit and shadowed mazes of timbered tunnels
where men piled rock high into mine cars
headed for the mammoth crushers at Idaho Springs.
Whiskey freely flowed in saloons and hotels
where raucous miners let off steam with
every mode and cast of ***** talk pleasures
In time, the veins were spent and profits dwindled.
When the drama ended and the curtain fell,
the miners vanished - leaving only ghost towns behind
and a new state named for its reddish river – Colorado.
Aug 5, 2020
Aug 5, 2020 at 12:41 AM UTC
she was obsessed with this idea of rebirth because she messed up too many times; she believed everyone deserved a Rennaisance, and it was her vision of the circle yeats drew,
and it was for dreamers who squatted in gutters along alleyways hoping to find a muse fallen and buried in the filth;
and it was for realists who really had fallen and buried themselves in filth because their homes were lower than that;
and it was for addicts, who believed they had really been to the moon and conspired against naysayers;
and it was for conspiracists who knew all along the moon simply didn't exist because they had it manufactured in their kitchen;
and it was for sleeping girls with trembling hands who sought out this kitchen in the night whilst everyone merrily slept;
and it was for the sleeping boy who really wasn't asleep but lying naked under sheets and limbs;
and it was for the tangled limbs that still quivered next to him from a dissolved ecstasy, boyish and sad and hungry;
and it was for that hidden starving hunger that still plagued the neighborhood's homes and lingered on doorsteps, begging;
and it was for begging peals of laughter that his mother sent up from the rooftop when the sky went dark and only her kin across town, reeling, beastly, gorgeous, could ever reply;
and it was for unsent replies, for conscripted soldiers, for wars fought by better men and surveyed by lesser;
and it was for less-than-scrupulous masters who hid under their solemn cathedral art that spoke higher than god himself;
and it was for god who left the world to fend under his illusory cloak of stars, so dim it only mocked his fiery wrath beneath;
and it was for that fiery wrath, the kind that incited and ravaged and devastated, merciless with abandon for all of mankind's own misgivings;
and it was those misgivings that had started her renaissance, her quest for glory cores and sovereign minds, for signs and streets and women and colors and light and the end of all suffering;
it was for restart (like a death, but shorter), somewhere between termination and a genesis in vitro (the liminal space found within and without); for her alone, solitary line cleaving the shadowy folds of time, defiant, windswept, miraculous, insignificant glitch through the eternal night; for her, until she commanded time to stop; for her, hungry; for her, powerful; for her, terrified; for her for her and only ever her: the regifted universe.
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 10:11 PM UTC
"I hate flowers," she said, her mouth curling toward the ground.
What kind of a woman hates flowers?
"I love nature. I'm in love with nature. But the thought of a flower as a token of affection makes me sad."
"Oh," slipped out of my mouth, barely audible. "Well what would make you happy then?"
After a moments pause with her eyes on my shoes, she looked up and directly into my pupils she said: "A minute."
After another pause, she opened her mouth again; "Just a minute."
And so I squatted down right there in the hill, the carpet of never ending grass beneath us swaying lazily in rhythm with the invisible wind. I sat. She bent down and followed my lead.
And I gave her a minute. Many minutes that managed to blend into each other without my notice and before I knew it, it was dusk. The Sun peered out over the vast horizon, letting us both know that the time we had spent sitting silently had lapsed and appeared to us as no time time at all. It was just the grass, the sky, the wind, the Sun and us.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
she wore his favorite dress
dark and low cut
short and tight
he sat in the chair
while she walked in circles
he tried to not follow her
but he could resist
she squatted before him
and he tried not to look down
she licked her lips
and stared him in the eyes
suddenly
he had a withering feeling
like he was
rotting
from the inside
she smirked
and sat on his lap
his vision got blurry
his hands started shaking
and the light
left
his eyes
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 2:47 PM UTC
“*So you ****** up,*”
he spoke up. He shrugged as if it were no big
deal, but really it was; it was a huge deal.
“No big deal,”
his face betrayed his tone.
“Uhm? No- really it is, it’s a huge deal,”
I protested.
“Okay, bud, take a breath…”
He threw me a sheepish smile
That I pathetically fumbled.
“‘Take a breath’?”
I echoed with a scoff.
“‘Take a breath’?!”
I grabbed a hand full of my hair with each arm and squatted on the concrete.
“First you said ‘the worst she can say is: no’;
and now you tell me to ‘take a breath’?”
I tucked my head between my knees
and stared at the white paint
that had begun to fade off the parking lot.
“Well, yeah. I, you know,”
he chuckled.
I was certain he was doing that stupid thing,
where he scratched the back of his neck,
even if I couldn’t see it.
“No,”
I groaned,
“You don’t know.”
“Okay, this is embarrassing… Get the hell up,” he crouched down and yanked us both up by my wrists.
“Is everything you say a lie?”
I took a long and dramatic drag on the word “lie”,
pulling my arms away from his grasp.
“So she called you a b#tchless, d#ckless, f#ggot *who would die such a big ****** that your* wiener would invert at even the
slightest touch of a woman,
no big deal,”
he repeated once more.
All he got in response was another groan.
He leaned against his Toyota before trying to remedy the situation,
“I mean, you know, who hasn’t been called a-”
“I really don’t need to hear you to say it again.”
He chuckled and scratched the back of his head. “Right, sorry. Probably not helping, huh?”
“Yeah, no.”
For some reason,
this kid just did not know when to
shut up.
“Well, I, you know there are plenty of other fish in the sea, right?”
“Yeah, but no angel fish wants to go out with a sea urchin!”
I gestured to myself before pressing my stomach against his car.
We’d been at school far too long after the bell.
I was sure some of the teachers suspected we were doing crack,
or something.
“I,”
he started, looking to me at his side.
He stepped off his car and
opened the passenger side door for me.
“Then, I guess you just gotta find
another sea urchin.”
Feb 13, 2025
Feb 13, 2025 at 12:52 AM UTC
So sad the cemetary stood,
Rows of identical crosses
Commemorating wasted lives
And pointless sacrifice for glory.
One rainlashed day I was there with a fat little **** I knew
To inspect her great-grandfather's grave;
A hero who had repeatedly groped his own daughter
Shortly before meeting death in Paschendael's slaughter.
My friend elegantly squatted, hovering o'er the grave
And performed a perfect Valsalva manoeuvre,
Depositing a well-aimed sausage thereupon.
"That's for you, you grandmotherfucker"
She gaily murmured sotto voce.
But tragedy struck: a defecation syncope
Caused her collapse, skull smashed on the gravestone;
*"I'm in the **** was her final tragic moan.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
I think the king left you a message, Ole Miss
Stop and learn to let go.
Before you squatted over his drum major baton
And let “the n word” strut across living rooms.
Stop and learn to let go?
I learned in textbooks about when
The ****** strutted across the living room
You made him fetch more ice to fill the lemonade lifestyle.
I learned in textbooks about when
You claimed to hate my sable hue.
My people still spray lemonade flavored perfume on this
Lifestyle I run now. Something backwards remains:
The claim to hate my sable hue.
Though now you wear it for fun
The lifestyle I run somehow remains backwards
The glorified get picked from trees.
And now they wear it for fun:
The color of the dirt from which the lemons burst
The glorified get picked from trees
And when life gives you those lemons, you make lemonade.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
The actor was so thrilled to be offered a part
uneasy that two suited men
told him he had to sign a binding contract
no disclosure or go to prison
realised there was no choice had to agree
but offered him a huge fee!
Pressurised signed was told to wait for a call
they would not disclose details
life put on hold regretting that offer of work
could not contact agency
what had he committed to it blew his mind
wishing time he could rewind!
Several days later his house phone rang
a voice gave a short message
outside ten minutes apprehension grew
picked up his bag and waited
at precisely the time stated a van arrived
from then on freedom was deprived!
A side door shot open abruptly told to enter
once inside the vehicle sped away
within not alone three other men squatted
nobody spoke on that journey
what seemed like hours being thrown about
he was filled with fear and doubt!
At last it stopped they were greeted by a man
smartly dressed and well spoken
apologised for covert action and no information
found themselves in a large hangar
on one side changing rooms and catering truck
it dawned on him here they were stuck!
It was cold as they were shown to a huge room
chairs were placed facing a screen
sitting the smart man went to the front lingered
until they were all quietly seated
explained he was the director of this project
with those present was about to connect!
From behind them armed guards now entered
please do not be alarmed he said
they are here for our protection and security
you have been chosen to participate
in a conspiracy that must never be exposed
the screen lit up the secret disclosed!
Images of a barren landscape was dispalyed
this is the set built-in this hangar
here the moon surface has been recreated
because we are going to hoax
for the want of a better word the moon landing
with astronauts on surface standing!
This is the first meeting of our brave flight crew!
Just another conspiracy theory?
#TheFoureyedPoet.
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
Some days it *****
To be a poet
To have words
Softly banging
In your head
Clouding your sight
With visions
Of things pictured
Or perceived deep
Within your brain
Incomprehensible
And duplicitous
Swirling and straining
To chain
Into verse or prose
The Goddesses of words
Unasked and uninvited
Laboring in your mind
Squatted down and
Birthing broken strings
Of words
That linked correctly can
Make them demi- gods
Half God
And
Half lyric
Spelling out the Iliad
Perhaps…
But you are left
Walking through the day
In a daze
Quietly tasting words
As they flood
Into your mouth
And onto your lips
From the jumbled maze
Inside your brain
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC