"squeaky" poems
Dangerous roads
and starless nights
a/c out
and faulty lights
squeaky brakes
a seat that bites
you can take your truck and stuff it
endless circles
lonely bi ways
without a net
on the highway
it's time that i just
did it my way
you can take your truck and stuff it
you can take your truck and stuff it sideways
right there where the sun don't shine
you can take your truck and stuff it sideways
it's not your life that's on the line
you can take your truck and stuff it sideways
right there where the sun don't shine
you can take your truck and stuff it sideways
i'm on my way....and that's just fine
paperwork
time delaying
canvas straps
constantly fraying
you ***** to me
but i hear naying
you can take your truck and stuff it
life's short
i'm not waiting
takes too much
to keep berating
i'm getting *******
and we're not dating
you can take your truck and stuff it
you can take your truck and stuff it sideways
right there where the sun don't shine
you can take your truck and stuff it sideways
it's not your life that's on the line
you can take your truck and stuff it sideways
right there where the sun don't shine
you can take your truck and stuff it sideways
i'm on my way....and that's just fine
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
I would rather be hysterical than vulnerable
to what most people call love.
I would rather couple with strange women
on an Amsterdam getaway
than let one more man
try to own me.
I prefer to ignore my own psychodynamics
in favor of endless talking cure analysis
and occasional astrology cult ******
that promise to speed my eventual evolution
from wounded *** object to invulnverable starchild.
I don’t need a Beverly Hills shrink
to tell me my narcissism and depression and squeaky voice
are symbolic of never having the power
to set a boundary between me and my father
who doted over my puberty
with slobbering praise and veiled lust.
Everyone who knows me for more than a week
sees my father throwing me financial bones
instead of apologizing for what he did
and the more I take his money
the freer I feel
distanced by automobiles with dark-tinted windows,
a house with a skull and crossbones doormat,
a silver .45 under my pillow
and not one single ex-boyfriend
about whom I will ever say a kind word.
I have created emotional and psychological invulnerability;
all men are now my father
and all men pay the price
of never being loved by me
and I pay the price of never being able to let them love me.
Now I just play with partners
and when they inevitably start to use the “L” word
I start to run inside
and I bounce off the walls and mirrors
of my own emptiness
and I go on a photo safari to Africa
where I pretend to understand the meaning of life
and I put out restraining orders
against the men who insist that I explain
and I have come to rely on legal and monetary fences
to protect me from
the truth about my deep loneliness.
I’ve never had an ******
never said I love you twice to the same person
and I think
as long as the money’s there
I won’t have to.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 11:33 AM UTC
I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Because it means you’re listening.
His piano keys are no different from mine.
I like hearing you talk about Mozart.
I used to play his pieces before I sleep.
His arpeggio is my lullaby;
His laughter, a sombre tune to which I tune
My keys.
There’s no denying that you like Mozart;
Never mind his spending habit.
I sometimes think you are Mozart.
I think Beethoven was fad gone true because
He was deaf to his laughter,
And Schubert was too old, too young to remember
How to step on the pedals
While he tried his many operas
On his baby grand piano.
I think of Mozart in my sleep, in my dreams,
On the toilet, while eating.
I think of Mozart and his young son
And the requiem he stood dying to finish.
Mozart became a
One night stand, and I am not proud of that.
I majored in advertising, God knows why, and maybe
Mozart had something to do with that.
I factored one and two equals the sign of what digit,
And maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I wrote a story once,
About a starving artist;
Maybe he was the force behind that.
I filled my library with fiction,
And fiction became a running schedule for me.
Maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I’ve grown roots and sprouted horns listening to Bach;
I don’t think Mozart knew that.
But it was the size of the shoe that never fit me in third grade,
And the roots run as deep as a well of Hope grown asunder.
I knew Mozart would not like that.
And it was holy.
We are holy.
He was holy.
Mozart was holy. Mozart was holy.
Mozart was holier than a cow gunned for meat turned to steak
And corned beef on my breakfast sandwich.
Mozart was holier than a dishwashing paste advertisement
That promises oil free, squeaky clean Experience.
Mozart was more than a religious façade played in the sala
Of some affluent geeky teenager’s house
Where no one bothers to eat the garnishing.
Mozart was holier than Bach, Chopin, Stravinsky, Wagner.
His flute promised a princess to remain priceless.
Mozart was holier than Salieri.
Mozart knew better than Salieri.
Mozart played better than Salieri,
And he got the better of Salieri when Antonio himself said,
**** that Austrian ****** who plays, lives and howls like a show monkey.
**** this court.
**** this Emperor who can hardly keep together his fingers to play.
**** Austria.
**** Vienna.
**** this era of opera played in German that hardly sells a ticket.
**** this requiem and this boy,
This mad man, pint sized and hardly put together like a china doll.
**** this piano, and to hell with his lovers.”
I saw Mozart once. He waved at me.
I turned and looked away because I was listening to you talk about Mozart.
And I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Than Mozart talking about
Himself.
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
If I close my eyes and think of you
I can smell your scent
From a mere two days ago
The flutter in my heart follows
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I can smell the joints
That I identified aged 10
I try not to *****
If I close my eyes and think of my best friend
I can smell her perfume and washing powder
It makes me smile
And want a hug
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I can smell the stale beer
A middle of the night smell
It meant 'don't leave your room'
If I close my eyes and think of my mum
I smell safety and comfort
Strength and gravity
The balance keeps me strong
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I can smell the stale sweat
The cruel words of abuse
The hatred inside myself
If I close my eyes and think of my sister
I smell vanilla and style
Fashion and creativity
Sullen kindness
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I can smell the cold of the room
With its broken window in the arctic temperatures
The fire unlit because the marijuana needed somewhere to grow
If I close my eyes and think of school
I smell the comforting sawdust
The corridors familiar
The classrooms like home
If I close my eyes and think of my father
Not having friends round to tea- because.
16 not 6- you can't buy my trust
16 not 46- don't want prayer flags for my birthday
If I close my eyes and think of home
I smell the damp washing hanging up
Every squeaky floorboard
Every drip, clank, comforting noise
If I close my eyes and think of my father
I smell the power he loved to have
How I haven't seen him in three years
The fear that still remains
If I close my eyes and think of myself
I smell nothing
Hear and see nothing
At that is what scares me the most.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC
It's unfortunate that Parisians
Are very hard to bear,
In terms of flash obsequiousity,
They drive me to despair!
And patience is an attribute
I don't profess to have
To mercifully administer
When accents veer to Slav.
Baltics look like jellyfish,
The Germans are obscene
And loud and overbearing
But the Swiss are very clean.
Italians are a swarthy lot
Who gourmandize on food
And sacrifice their suavity
By being impudently crude.
The Spanish are no better,
In fact they are probably worse,
For obsessing in the blood sports
I actually rate them in reverse.
Starchiness is British
They're convoluted to the core,
The Old Boy system's lost it's sheen
Aspirants flock to it no more.
The Yanks are looking slightly crass
Whilst fighting foreign wars,
Their pinky held up squeaky clean
To call "foul" to China's flaws.
China sits inscrutably
Holding all the cards
Waiting for the moment
To strike beneath the guards.
India and Pakistan
Are squabbling like kids
The uproar over Kashmir
Rates them lower than the Yids.
The Yids are walking tightropes
With Iran's nuclear ******
Whilst currying Yank approval,
Eventual bombing is a must.
The Dutch behave so anally
They're always proven right
When faced with rigid negatives
They blanch with haunches tight.
But not the Argentineans
They love to dance and flirt,
To chase the senorita
Cavorting in the scarlet skirt.
The South Pacific's wallowing
They're adrift from World affairs
Oz's self preoccupation
Mirrors Kiwi's vacant stares.
Africa's way past comment
Lost to heat and dust,
Warfare, **** and pillage
And the rest decayed by rust.
Eskimos are OK
Clean living on the ice
The population static,
Zer-O pollution's nice!
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
14 April 2009
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 12:08 AM UTC
a storyteller's perspective, steppin' off the ordinary edge, into the unknown
An unsent letter lay on the rustic log cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light comes in,
where it laid fallen, half *** crumbled, yet never a wadded ball;
never an unspoken thrown paper stone, a befallen regret was all.
Silently atilt and leaning against the canted wall's slant
behind the gathered dust a squeaky hinged burl wood door
A timeworn tarnished copper wind up clock roosted,
an old lip smirched coffee cup time stood still;
an empty bottle of gin sat near the bed post headboard
where the ink stains and blotted spillings let the memories in.
Stained pages torn and bent like fallen paper wings
returned to the unread sender … postage due, south a heaven sent ―
A sullied envelope, gnawed and mouse chewed,
for a nest of new beginnings ―
just read: Lydia ... ♡
... followed by a scribbled empty heart
The time aged brown tattered tablet paper left behind
stifled like the unread heart it holds upon the threadbare pages
of smudged tear’s ache and spilled gin
The weathered rock hearth fireplace filled with spent ashes,
hand rolled cigarette butts, traces of an aching lament;
scratched up old vinyl records lay ***** and tired out,
from a time of sweeter fallen fences, a musical bliss, and
a lost angel's abandoned red slinky party dress,
aside a busted off black velvet high-heel stuck sullied
in a hollow knothole in the ancient barn-wood floor
a sparkly pearl pink jewel entangled in a spider web
An unsent letter lay on the rustic cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light gets in
The final unread words silently said:
*"We lost our way,
it all went wrong,
it all turned bad"
..."This is the outcome when someone you love
up and throws you away"
...“I’ll reach out from the inside
I’ll rise up again and do without”
..."You went out into the world
with an untamed hankerin’ ―
like a carefree restless gypsy breeze
and come back worlds apart"*
The Unsent Letter,
just whispered words to the dust in the wind
in quivering ink:
...*"how can I ever unremember you...?
a thrown stone sinks wordlessly as a rock...,
an old wood bucket with a rotten hole the heart,
fallen forgotten, rock bottom as an empty well"*
just signed: ... ❤ August
January 1st, 2017 ... august ... wild is the wind ♡
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 12:20 PM UTC
I wish you could see what I see here.
Smell the beautiful stench of sewage and un-showered people.
Feel the African wind fly through your hair,
bringing with it a mouthful of dirt.
Pick dry black boogers from your nose, and
bits of dirt and grime from your eyelashes.
Clean your teeth of the ram you watched them **** last night,
just before you ate it.
I wish you could feel the Ethiopian sun on your bare arms,
licking dry lips because you ran out of clean water to drink.
See millions of curious brown eyes as you fly down dirt roads
in a squeaky dust-covered van.
Watch the African sun rise upon a city of stories,
stories which walk the streets every day without fail.
I wish you could be here and experience this.
I wish I could bring you here.
One day.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC
Saturday morning
Bedroom with sun shining through my green diaphanous curtain
My cats have carved out little holes where sun strikes through, unfiltered
and a rhythmic sound from above
Someone is getting frisky
and has a squeaky bed
And the natural cycle spins on, faster, faster
more intense and finally gone in silence
It's better than violence
but still TMI
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
Antonia is such a good swimmer,
She often swims in the sea,
Where she met a friendly dolphin,
Who she invited back for tea.
There were plates of jam sandwiches,
Ice-cream, with jelly in a fancy dish,
Vanilla slices and chocolate cake,
Oh, and of course, lots of fish.
Then the dolphin shared a story,
Of a far off-distant land,
Even though his voice was very squeaky,
Antonia could easily understand.
The story told of mermaids,
Magic songs upon their lips,
Their singing enticing sailors,
From the rigging and decks of ships.
Though, the sailors were not harmed,
Only enchanted in a drowsy sleep,
Dreaming in the mermaid kingdom,
Beneath the ocean cool and deep.
The mermaids made a prophecy,
Of the sailors promised release,
When mankind stopped all wars,
And had learned to live in peace.
Antonia thought, ‘how very wise’,
Watching waves upon the sea,
From the beach, she waved goodbye,
To the dolphin who came for tea.
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 5:36 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Gotta wipe off the seat , sanitation is key,
Squeaky clean future if you make it soon,
Skipping that class in the bathroom,
Be on the phone in the bathroom,
Taking those pills in the bathroom,
Ladies look good in the bathroom,
Not that I spy on the girls room,
Teenagers have *** in the bathroom,
Pick on other kids in the bathroom,
Gather bearings in the bathroom,
Gotta wipe off the seat , sanitation is key,
Squeaky clean future if you make it soon,
Treasures , treasures , they fill the hearts of these people,
Disguised as greed,
It never ends , there are still more sequels,
Pushing and pulling emotions and boundaries,
Can't be weak in this world ,set in every country,
**** on the government in the bathroom.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 1:53 AM UTC
The French
peasant monk
pushed a wheel barrow
along by
the abbey church;
the squeaky wheels
echoing through
the nearby wood
and throughout
the silent cloister;
his tonsured head
lowered,
back bent,
prayers simple
maybe said.
I tended
the dying monk,
aged and fragile
as an ancient script
of yesteryear;
I recalled how
she tongued me
along
my inner thighs,
bringing tears of joy
into my hazel eyes.
Dom Gregory prepared
the altar for mass,
laying the altar cloth,
preparing the priest monk's
robes and gowns,
making sure
the candles were ready;
his footfalls
like echoes
on a deep deep sea.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 3:32 AM UTC
I heard a squeaky noise
of fevered vigour.
opened to see a shocking
act of a well known figure.
For it was Mickey mouse!
******* a slice of Jarlsberg!
A dickey mouse pounding away.
The cheese isn't complaining.
So, I guess it's ok?
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 6:47 AM UTC
in black of room
Toddler directs the scene
starring a squeaky mattress
and the lightsaber
under its door
Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 5:51 AM UTC
If I were you,
I would have spared a glance,
At that woman who,
If had the chance,
Would have shown the world what she could be,
Had she not been robbed of her dignity.
If I were you,
I would have noted,
How she was walking past the crowd,
Cold and unnoticed.
If I were you,
I would have thought,
Why she wouldn't smile
Even when the Sun was up?
If I were you,
I would have seen
How people were avoiding the dirt,
Thinking themselves to be squeaky clean.
If I were you,
I would have noticed
The longing in her eyes,
Dejected and melancholy.
And if I were you,
I would have gone to see
How it was only but her gaze that was with me.
She would have just smiled,
At my concerned eyes,
Because that's all she could do.
And if I were you,
I would have known,
Magic cannot be created by words alone.
And so I would have hugged her,
And watch her cry in joy.
Such wonders a little gesture such as this could do,
Who knew?
If only I were you...
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 7:36 AM UTC
Anticipation rising
as our holiday nears
My gosh, Eid ul Fitr
is already here
In the early morning
on your way to groom and a bath
I know it's so because
I too clean up to be on the same path
Squeaky clean
the skin on our faces shine
A gigantic goal accomplished
oh we're feeling really fine
Who needs Christmas when we've got Eid
a festivity that includes all Muslims even those in need
Decorative clothes we wear while extending our hearts to each other and offering a good cheer
it isn't hard to tell our love of our religion is near
From the same community we come, it's known we throw a fun-filled Eid party
"Because this is my holiday" and our festive spirits aught to be really hearty
Allah hu Akbar, the accessory and ornament of our special day
along with a duo and nearly two billion others, you'll hear me loudly say
When little girls, Atefeh's and my enthusiasm about Eid blossoming as we sang an Eid song perhaps trying to compete
"From sunrise to sunset, no food did we eat. All praises are due to Allah, our fast is now complete."
Mehdi whose thoughts of his beloved in the distance too busy with his boys climbing trees and ducking low
a long time friend of two families to witness a wedding and a start of an Eid tradition that brings the community together, what a show
So here's to Mehdi and Atefeh, Eid enthusiasts among a few
showing you gratitude and appreciation, for we've heard it said "It takes one to know two."
by: Najwa Kareem
Jun 4, 2019
Jun 4, 2019 at 7:05 AM UTC
Every good thing shall happen...
like Friday nights and party rush
surprise calls from a long-time crush
auburn leaves and a cup of tea
cozy couch and a good movie
a sweet embrace, granted wishes
locked up hands, friendly kisses
perfect music, fireworks galore
passionate poetry, books in store
skinny-dipping, pineapple juice
mountaineering, romantic cruise
stick-it notes and scented letters
white rose petals and silver glitters
dusty slip-on and faded pantaloons
sweetened berries and tasty prunes
smooth raps and slow rock hits
magnetic charm and awesome wits
11:11 verses and chicken bones
starry night skies, pebbles and stones
a perfect score, crispy pizza crust
locks and highlights, passionate lust
skirts and pumps, pictures of us
Halloween treats and wedding fuss
hot cappuccino, jam and jelly
first paycheck, winning the lottery
chocolate mousse, ice cold drinks
ocean waves, seductive winks
silk and laces, laughs after cries
cool car drifting and belly butterflies
left hand scribbles, messy hair buns
Oakley goggles and water guns
funny jokes, late night talks
rainy days, twilight walks
flickering lights, vintage cars
logs in swamps and monkey bars
a hopeful daybreak, latte aroma
fogged up glasses, squeaky veranda
carnation in bloom, warm summer breeze
slow ********** trimmed cypress trees
naughty kiddie play, blindfolds and tricks
mistletoe and acorns, fresh and fancy kicks
baked salmons and grilled corn
ending fights and a newborn
free-verse poetry, an orchestral song
a stranger's smile, a dancing throng
finishing a novel, Luna's glow
binding friendships, December snow
but the best thing for me, I'd like you to know
is to tell you finally that I Love You So.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
His humour is sarcastic,
his belly is never full.
His life is filled with jokes,
his days are never dull.
He hates all the spiders
that are living in his house.
He doesn’t mind his friend,
a squeaky little mouse.
He always makes fun of the dog,
who doesn’t seem to have a brain,
and he despises “the world’s cutest kitten”
because he thinks it’s a real pain.
His owner is at his wit’s end,
he doesn’t know how to get
this big, fat, orange creature to
finally act like a real cat.
-
Because what cat eats lasagna
at every chance he has?
What cat has a teddy bear,
instead of on his arm a lass?
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 1:58 PM UTC
Practical shoes on your feet
Squeaky clean vision could be 17
I always thought fashion was cynical
But you tell me it’s how your heart beats from withdrawal
when your marrying your hurt with my button down
It’s so easy to tell you secrets
Especially when you’re full of them
Let’s just end this how it begun
With my tongue
She doesn’t have a boyfriend though
But she ***** like she’s got plans to
Oh God.
She hasn’t had a bad day in ages
She messes around like she has that too
Dressing up zoned out
in a trance
I’m in doubt it’s what’s it’s all about
it’s just a way to get to the next room
you shout, out loud you say
you’re living a puzzle that keeps shifting
your trapped
'It's my way out'
She doesn’t have a boyfriend though
But she ***** like she’s got plans to
Oh God.
She hasn’t had a bad day in ages
She messes around like she has that too
It’s another aroma stuck in my mouth
'It's my way out I'd do it all over again'
Your beating heart says yes yes yes
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC
I have had this question
That's been bouncing in my head for quite some time
So while I'm at it I just thought
I might as well ask it in rhyme
Out of all the Disney characters
I feel compelled to ask
How come Pluto is the only one
That ended up getting the shaft
Let's start this off with Mickey
Who rules the Magic Kingdom with all of his might
Although with that high squeaky voice
I believe his underwear is notched a tad to tight
Then there's Daisy and Donald
Whom I can barely understand
It still though is quite clear to me
They speak in a language known to man
Poor ole Pluto I wonder
What goes through his mind
While his tongue is lolly gagging
With his tail keeping in time
And what about that Goofy
Who can barely dress himself
That dog carries on conversations
Even when there's no one else
So go ahead I tell you
Take a look at the whole batch
And you tell me that Pluto
Is not the one that got the shaft
While I'm thinking about it
There's the planet Pluto out on the edge
When did we decide to kick it off
Of our planetary ledge
But I digress because it's Disney
To whom I throw this question at
But believe you me it's NASA
Who will be at the center of my next rant
So out of all the questions in my life
That I have ever asked
There is no simple answer to why
Pluto got the shaft
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 9:08 AM UTC
Forty days and Forty nights
Kachina dolls danced
pounding deer skin drums
rattling snake gourds
whistling circles of
flustered chicken feathers and totem poles
around the drooping firmament
here and there wisps of
sunken chested, shrunken breasted
castrated clouds dragging their empty
rain barrels could be seen straggling
across heat infested waves
at times I swear I could hear the wind
cussing through dry crackling branches
Pine wearing wide brimmed straw hats
squabbling with over bleached blond Palms
How we languished and thirsted for the
dulcet, pure, pellucid taste of Your crystal kisses
lavender squeaky clean smell of rain-bells
oh! to feel those torrents gushing down our
upturned faces, slicked back hair,
engulfing our flowering *****
drenching us to the bone
then this morning we heard an unfamiliar sound
fairy feet tap-dancing on rooftops
excited I ran outside
crowing the Gayatri mantra
flapping prema pink wings
waddling like a duck in slap happy puddles
Yes, Dear God
a grateful, thankful swan,
gossamer reflection
glistening fervently up at You
from diaphanous depths
inexhaustible wellspring
diamond spa of Your Love
Hari Om
Visit my author's page:
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Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
Stretch your hands forward and gaze beyond it's reach,
And then ask yourself what do you see?
Those many eyes surrounded by your presence speak,
but they are leaves followed by the winds that past by your will,
and their blockade will only seep through like cloth against water.
Does a lion faint or fear by the sound of any creatures it stumbles upon,
Let alone does a squeaky mouse not follow it's instinct to hide?
Not even Goliath can take your deeds,
nor can anyone stand by the front of your palm to dictate your will.
For your action is a will of your own, and your's alone,
For you have only the person in the mirror to resolve!
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
******* and bra's mindlessly slung over chairs
while the serenade of squeaky bed frames
is aided by the collaboration of lustful moans
Chocolate sauce drizzled over naked flesh
the toppings of whip cream and strawberries
are also included.....
The exchanging of saliva....
passionate kisses conclude the motion
of passionate ******
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 8:42 PM UTC
There is music almost everywhere
You can hear it in the breeze
Blowing gently through the dusty fields
Working slowly through the trees
Music is most everyplace
Just listen and you'll find
Music in the meadow grass
Music of every kind
The crickets make their squeaky noise
The birds they quack and coo
I hear music, if I'm listening
And I bet that you do too
There is music in a lover's voice
A gentle lilt in what they say
There is music in their breath as well
Listen closely as they lay
Don't close your ears to all that's there
You will miss the orchestra
You have two ears to listen with
Open up, hear nature roar.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC