"starch" poems
I am your denial, your Lent fast
The mania in your DNA,
the way the helix twists around itself.
I am the finger-shaped bruises on the inside
soft of the thigh, the color of ripe plums
that you can’t stop pressing
because it hurts just right—
like us, the way we crack our knuckles.
The scoliosis question mark,
bent spoon of your spine like
Scandinavian silverware, its unfunctioning beauty.
The snow of a thousand dandelions gone to seed.
The sugar sacks of fat around my body
that I love to touch and hate to see.
I am the thrift store of your desires,
a polyester pantsuit resold.
The starch of morning arthritis.
The dark under your nails
that isn’t really dirt.
The yellow smoke smell in a jacket.
A mango eaten off the pit,
stringy mango veins that stay in your teeth.
A washing machine that doesn’t drain.
A man cursing in his native language,
foreign words that don’t translate.
Apr 19, 2012
Apr 19, 2012 at 4:51 PM UTC
first line lips are false as a beach next mcarthur’s in chicago next the big blond takes the elevator down next pearl on the lip next shalimar stirs the canine **** all right I like that let’s start a new one do it what what do you have don’t **** up wheres the apostrophe ******* you’re cruel now back now whack it again whack it again I want it to go back whack it press it whack it okay new line
i want elevator i want uh i want don’t ask the bellboy for the time just take the elevator to what? to notions? to the lingerie shop? ah **** you grandma new line
all right one more time okay **** the gin-socked tongue that’s “soaked” period once again the elevator down paint the pretty tie (cough cough) thai next big buick big *** like fish put a ? after fish take it back take it back you ***** okay that’s not bad you do all right ah **** song of india in the desert at night put “” marks around song of india & desert song in capital letters hit shalimar then cadillac red lips then **** like a seashell with a gin-soaked tongue start new line
all right does mcarthur stick his socks in the bathtune at night that’s bathtub the dog howls at the moon buries it in the backyard snakes lose their skin cocoa butter slick water on the brain of the big dark blond song of india **** **** **** big fish *** big v8 you ***** keep up with me painted rocks like a pretty tie fast car long legs and a broken heel now dead no not dead yet um estee lauder goes down on price-waterhouse in a swedish bath bellboy watching this is his reflection in the mirror no silver one-sided next line
big blond trampled by elephants with wrinkled knees starch is not chic all gone shalimar stirs the k-9 **** sequined *** in the moonlight cadillac red lips hungry dog eats tail becomes himself bad dog play dead okay what do you suggest bad doggie bad comma bad comma hungry dog go for the tongue you dumb ***** keep going new line
what do cactuses(i) have??? fronds fur what are their things called new line
dog hates gin go for the breast stupid ***** good dog dry dog poor dog pour blond water of life **** yellow a thai like painted rocks period next
i want head down legs up i want sequined *** only ****** level damp dampened dampest ***** panorama **** **** **** blue blue down there feminine azure with clouds too got it odalisque in blue period have mercy on me no no new ******* line what are you filling that thing up with okay stop it for now
4.6k
Son of a Snitch
My daddy was an informer to the FBI,
got caught selling drugs to this undercover guy,
his only recourse was to tell what he knew,
but people found out and gave him the *****
they even took it out on me, I'm Mitch,
and rubbed it in my face, call me son-of-a-snitch
came home from work the other day,
looked for my ******* and my can of starch spray,
magazine was gone could not find it at all,
I said hey, who took my friggin book off the wall,
wife looked at me and with nary a hitch,
she said why you ask me you son-of-a-snitch
went to the super to get me some cheese,
beans and beer and bread if you please,
wanted a streak but the cost was to high,
asked man behind counter I say hey old guy,
why this price so high is this some glitch,
he say don't ask me you son-of-a-snitch
everywhere I go I get the same old crap,
a punch in the gut, a facefull of slap,
just because daddy bought his way out of debt,
this is the kind of treatment I always get,
I plead my case give it my best pitch,
quit that whining you son-of-a-snitch
Gomer LePoet...
Apr 15, 2010
Apr 15, 2010 at 7:51 PM UTC
Child, the current of your breath is six days long.
You lie, a small knuckle on my white bed;
lie, ****** like a snail, so small and strong
at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed
with love. At first hunger is not wrong.
The nurses nod their caps; you are shepherded
down starch halls with the other unnested throng
in wheeling baskets. You tip like a cup; your head
moving to my touch. You sense the way we belong.
But this is an institution bed.
You will not know me very long.
The doctors are enamel. They want to know
the facts. They guess about the man who left me,
some pendulum soul, going the way men go
and leave you full of child. But our case history
stays blank. All I did was let you grow.
Now we are here for all the ward to see.
They thought I was strange, although
I never spoke a word. I burst empty of you,
letting you see how the air is so.
The doctors chart the riddle they ask of me
and I turn my head away. I do not know.
Yours is the only face I recognize.
Bone at my bone, you drink my answers in.
Six times a day I prize
your need, the animals of your lips, your skin
growing warm and plump. I see your eyes
lifting their tents. They are blue stones, they begin
to outgrow their moss. You blink in surprise
and I wonder what you can see, my funny kin,
as you trouble my silence. I am a shelter of lies.
Should I learn to speak again, or hopeless in
such sanity will I touch some face I recognize?
Down the hall the baskets start back. My arms
fit you like a sleeve, they hold
catkins of your willows, the wild bee farms
of your nerves, each muscle and fold
of your first days. Your old man's face disarms
the nurses. But the doctors return to scold
me. I speak. It is you my silence harms.
I should have known; I should have told
them something to write down. My voice alarms
my throat. "Name of father-none." I hold
you and name you ******* in my arms.
And now that's that. There is nothing more
that I can say or lose.
Others have traded life before
and could not speak. I tighten to refuse
your owling eyes, my fragile visitor.
I touch your cheeks, like flowers. You bruise
against me. We unlearn. I am a shore
rocking off you. You break from me. I choose
your only way, my small inheritor
and hand you off, trembling the selves we lose.
Go child, who is my sin and nothing more.
4k
I
Our ****** dreams, all seedless in the light,
Of light and love the tempers of the heart,
Whack their boys' limbs,
And, winding-footed in their shawl and sheet,
Groom the dark brides, the widows of the night
Fold in their arms.
The shades of girls, all flavoured from their shrouds,
When sunlight goes are sundered from the worm,
The bones of men, the broken in their beds,
By midnight pulleys that unhouse the tomb.
II
In this our age the gunman and his moll
Two one-dimensional ghosts, love on a reel,
Strange to our solid eye,
And speak their midnight nothings as they swell;
When cameras shut they hurry to their hole
down in the yard of day.
They dance between their arclamps and our skull,
Impose their shots, showing the nights away;
We watch the show of shadows kiss or ****
Flavoured of celluloid give love the lie.
III
Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which
Shall fall awake when cures and their itch
Raise up this red-eyed earth?
Pack off the shapes of daylight and their starch,
The sunny gentlemen, the Welshing rich,
Or drive the night-geared forth.
The photograph is married to the eye,
Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth;
The dream has ****** the sleeper of his faith
That shrouded men might marrow as they fly.
IV
This is the world; the lying likeness of
Our strips of stuff that tatter as we move
Loving and being loth;
The dream that kicks the buried from their sack
And lets their trash be honoured as the quick.
This is the world. Have faith.
For we shall be a shouter like the ****
Blowing the old dead back; our shots shall smack
The image from the plates;
And we shall be fit fellows for a life,
And who remains shall flower as they love,
Praise to our faring hearts.
3.7k
Those who are conceited are like the foamy starch in a *** of pasta
That rises and billows so proud in its manner, falling over the sides of the pan
But little do they know that they are nothing special later on
They just end up being some disgusting crusty mass that no one wants to find in their gnocchi
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
Growing up way back
when life was simple.
There were wringer wash machines.
On Monday morning I remember my mom
fill the wash machine with hot water.
Add soap powder, but watch or it will clump.
Then she added fels naptha soap
Which was a bar, and you sliced off
pieces for the extra ***** clothes.
SIMPLE?
Now she added the clothes
While they are agitating
You wait...
You have a second tub filled with hot water.
to transfer those clothes into, for rinsing.
You always used the same water over.
You started with white clothes,
then eventually by the time the
dark clothes came around
the water looked pretty gross..
SIMPLE?
After rinsing you use that magical wringer.
Which is two rollers that sqeeze all the water out.
Time...it all takes time..
Then into the wash basket.
Laundry back when life was simple...
By then your basket if full of wet heavy clothes.
Out to the clothes line.
But first you had to run a dry cloth to wipe
the dirt off the clothes line.
Hanging up all that laundry
with those cute wooden clothes pins.
Not even clip ones were invented back then.
But the bag which held all the clothes pins
was real cute, it looked like a dress...
SIMPLE?
Socks, ****** shirts, slacks, towels,
oh those heavy towels
and my favorite the sheets.
Time, it takes time to dry those clothes.
Laundry back when life was simple.
Back then everything was ironed.
Starched and there was no spray starch,
or steam iron.
Mom would dip the collars of the shirts
into a bowl of starch,
and roll it up,
it was ready to be ironed.
Laundry back when life was simple...
How can that be a simple time.
I watched my mom and grandma
do this every Monday.
Starting early and it would be evening
when she would finally have
the clothes folded and put away...
The next day was for ironing.
~~~
SIMPLE?
We have the simple life
for now we can throw in a load, have it washed,
thrown in the dryer, and hung up
in a couple of hours.
Taking a coffee break in between
the washing and drying...
by ~ judy
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
I now delight
In spite
Of the might
And the right
Of classic tradition,
In writing
And reciting
Straight ahead,
Without let or omission,
Just any little rhyme
In any little time
That runs in my head;
Because, I’ve said,
My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed
Like Prussian soldiers on parade
That march,
Stiff as starch,
Foot to foot,
Boot to boot,
Blade to blade,
Button to button,
Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton.
No! No!
My rhymes must go
Turn ’ee, twist ’ee,
Twinkling, frosty,
Will-o’-the-wisp-like, misty;
Rhymes I will make
Like Keats and Blake
And Christina Rossetti,
With run and ripple and shake.
How pretty
To take
A merry little rhyme
In a jolly little time
And poke it,
And choke it,
Change it, arrange it,
Straight-lace it, deface it,
Pleat it with pleats,
Sheet it with sheets
Of empty conceits,
And chop and chew,
And hack and hew,
And weld it into a uniform stanza,
And evolve a neat,
Complacent, complete,
Academic extravaganza!
3.1k
Child, the current of your breath is six days long.
You lie, a small knuckle on my white bed;
lie, ****** like a snail, so small and strong
at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed
with love. At first hunger is not wrong.
The nurses nod their caps; you are shepherded
down starch halls with the other unnested throng
in wheeling baskets. You tip like a cup; your head
moving to my touch. You sense the way we belong.
But this is an institution bed.
You will not know me very long.
The doctors are enamel. They want to know
the facts. They guess about the man who left me,
some pendulum soul, going the way men go
and leave you full of child. But our case history
stays blank. All I did was let you grow.
Now we are here for all the ward to see.
They thought I was strange, although
I never spoke a word. I burst empty
of you, letting you learn how the air is so.
The doctors chart the riddle they ask of me
and I turn my head away. I do not know.
Yours is the only face I recognize.
Bone at my bone, you drink my answers in.
Six times a day I prize
your need, the animals of your lips, your skin
growing warm and plump. I see your eyes
lifting their tents. They are blue stones, they begin
to outgrow their moss. You blink in surprise
and I wonder what you can see, my funny kin,
as you trouble my silence. I am a shelter of lies.
Should I learn to speak again, or hopeless in
such sanity will I touch some face I recognize?
Down the hall the baskets start back. My arms
fit you like a sleeve, they hold
catkins of your willows, the wild bee farms
of your nerves, each muscle and fold
of your first days. Your old man's face disarms
the nurses. But the doctors return to scold
me. I speak. It is you my silence harms.
I should have known; I should have told
them something to write down. My voice alarms
my throat. "Name of father-none." I hold
you and name you ******* in my arms.
And now that's that. There is nothing more
that I can say or lose.
Others have traded life before
and could not speak. I tighten to refuse
your owling eyes, my fragile visitor.
I touch your cheeks, like flowers. You bruise
against me. We unlearn. I am a shore
rocking you off. You break from me. I choose
your only way, my small inheritor
and hand you off, trembling the selves we lose.
Go child, who is my sin and nothing more.
3.1k
White wash walls
White starch coats
Translucent skin/veins
Vision blinded by numbers
Personality sequence
My numbers
The label stapled across my eyelids
Like a chip for feeble shoulders to bear
A dash of this
A dab of that
Normalfunctionalproductive
Happy member of society
Girls stuffed with modelling clay
Feed me lye and cigarette ash
Replace my brain with silicone
Paint cherry red lips
And tell me to be unique.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
My daughter fell in love with a potato,
"A potato.......
My mind was confused and my face was a picture...
of why would someone ever love a potato?
I asked this myself in my head then out loud.
My darling how have you a fondness for a potato?
*He is the only one for me he is so soft and never
has a chip on his shoulder..*
A chip? really, how did you meet my little lady.
He was just mulling around in a mash pit,
The music was the spud rock and he was my root.
I will have to meet you new boyfriend,
Dad, I love Barry, he even let me wear his jacket
it was so fluffy inside...
Fathers out there would have the same look on
their face as I do now!!!!!
"OK, as I was waiting impatiently to see this lad.
She walked in hand in hand, I just gave the daddy
look, hi Barry he stared in a starch looking gaze.
my daughter spoke "I'll just get my bag,
I spoke in my sternest voice,
"Barry if you don't treat my daughter right,
"Lets just say ill mash you up, understand....
And then they left not the gentlemen of before
no jacket to lend her, just walking out the door
like he had just been roasted by my words...
Hours had past worry in my thoughts then my
daughter came back, tears in her eyes.
"What ever was the matter my darling?
*"He had steamed off because I wanted to know
why he never leant me his jacket,*
"He said I was being a dumpling with him,
*"So I told him you were right and that he had
a chip on his shoulder, he replied I was fried,*
I told her that potato's can be a little mashed, and
a chip they will always have, because you cant change
a potato they will always have a little starch inside...
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 6:51 AM UTC
lonely chord tired guitar play
soul numb as callous fingers
heart hollow as sea rusted string
flat wrought steel,
peeled off tire
fire face melted
fleeting garish glimpse of starch shirt 60s
itchy lice life like gene spliced flight patterns
bioengineered space age
Han Solo with (hold) full o'Spice
Synthetic Cannabinoids sprayed on Marshmallow leaf ruin life
Chewie grab the bowcaster, ill grab the glock foe blaster
Smash, mash and crashed'er like Britons of Lancaster
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 3:04 AM UTC
So I took her to the river
believing she was a maiden,
but she already had a husband.
It was on St. James night
and almost as if I was obliged to.
The lanterns went out
and the crickets lightened up.
In the farthest street corners
I touched her sleeping *******
and they opened to me suddenly
like spikes of hyacinth.
The starch of her petticoat
sounded in my ears
like a piece of silk
rent by ten knives.
Without silver light on their foilage
the trees had grown larger
and a horizon of dogs
barked very far from the river.
Past the blackberries,
the reeds and the hawthorne
underneath her cluster of hair
I made a hollow in the earth
I took off my tie,
she too off her dress.
I, my belt with the revolver.
She, her four bodices.
Nor nard nor mother-o-pearl
have skin so fine,
nor does glass with silver
shine with such brillance.
Her thighs slipped away from me
like startled fish,
half full of fire,
half full of cold.
That night I ran
on the best of roads
mounted on a nacre mare
without bridle stirrups.
As a man, I won't repeat
the tings she said to me.
The light of understanding
has made me more discreet.
Smeared with sand and kisses
I took her away from the river.
The sowrds of the liles
battled with the air.
I behaved like what I am,
like a proper gypsy.
I gave her a large sewing basket,
of straw-colored satin,
but I did not fall in love
for although she had a husband
she told me she as a maiden
when I took her to the river.
2.2k
Knuckles knee-deep in bright orange dust
Her words half-crunched
In a hurricane of hurried lunch
I mix in wit to her serious plot
Her mouth flies open, filled with half-chewed corn starch
And she still looks like a matriarch
We turned the radio on
But was gradually turned down
The ridged **** twisted all the way around
So she'd mention a song and I'd ask her
"How's that goes again?"
To hear her voice slip in and out
When really I knew it all by heart
Even when there was no reason to,
We smiled
Giggled off each other's cues
She looked from me once
Her eyes widening like a telescope
Mouth gaping, absent of laughter, as she braced a hand against my chest
The liquid-like sucker punch
Of the metal colliding quick
Like jelly under a rolling pin, I stuck
Grasping onto prayers with my fingers loose as God
She didn't scream, just held my shirt
As my tumbleweed Taurus vaulted yet another foot
Into the same solid ground, the same stars of shards
Mingled with bright orange dust sifting through the air.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
It was January of 1994
when he told me, "Son, true love,
well, it's hard to come around."
Or maybe he said, "come by."
I can't remember exactly.
Memory is foggy, age, you know.
I never thought I'd ever say that.
I've had a pet since I was born.
Not the same one, they always end
up dying. I haven't gone a year
without one close by me.
Before bed, I pucker my lips
and pretend to kiss twice
behind both ears while whispering
to them, "Goodnight." Then,
I lightly scratch their sanctum,
be it cage or kennel, so they know
I am no ghost; I am truly there.
Dog, cat, rat, it doesn't matter really;
they all just blankly stare back
and continue with their nightly business.
"If you love something, it can
never leave. Only hate can
drive others away, and that,
that's called, 'self-hate.'"
Then he laughed,
he laughed out with stretched
cheeks and gold-capped teeth
and that "eyeglasses-off" look
as if the world was deaf,
blind, and dumb. His
white collar crisp, stiff
with starch. That morning was ours.
Within earshot, the cat was mewing,
awaiting our kitchen entry where,
in the white-walled corner, sat his bowl,
staring at the ceiling, brown, dry, stale.
That morning always comes back to me
like a child returning from school.
Homework on the table and a snack
to eat just before rushing out to
meet up with the neighborhood kids for
a game of football down the road.
They've surely had talks like ours, Dad.
They've rubbed noses and brushed
pink cheeks of late lovers, flashed back
to mother and wrestling with brother.
Those important conversations
that only return with age,
we all remember them.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
Forest sentinel,
Bi-centennial
-Chop-
Feet of roots,
Fingers of shoots
-Chop-
Hands of stems,
Arms of limbs
-Chop-
Skin of bark,
Flesh of starch
-Chop-
Beard of moss,
Nothing of dross
-Chop-
Blood of sap,
Crack of snap
-Chop-
And that was that...
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 12:17 AM UTC
So many eyes lay upon cursing skin
crevices grit, pockmarked with each thrashing intrusion
budding enthusiasm, awash, boiled...
suffer, oh suffer, green potato.
Crinkle cut? Jib of glut!
manipulate form and function
stain of starch satisfaction...
coffer, oh coffer, oh cough, ahem, cough!
It ain't about money.
That's right, mustn't disturb the soil,
So many eyes lay upon cursing skin
crevices grit, pockmarked with each thrashing intrusion
budding enthusiasm, awash, boiled...
suffer, oh suffer, green potato.
A memory, distant, the taste of that green potato
rots in the kitchen... eat it, enjoy the flavour,
dine on discourse...
digest it,
bury it deep inside,
release it,
let it grow again.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 1:58 AM UTC
i started seeing the stars brighter when you left. started seeing myself
brighter. before, all i could see was
y o u .
i could barely see myself. my soul was starving and my heart worn,
falling into bed every night without taking time to change the sheets.
i hate to admit it, but i think i forgot how to be myself once i had you.
maybe it was the timing, and maybe i was just divided—my feet in
two doorways, leaving one place and entering another. i was stuck
in the hallway with starch-white walls and no light. and i ignored
it because i could, because i had you to distract me. but now i can’t
avoid it. i look at my life now and see it as cold, hard clay, aching
for my hands to turn it into something beautiful, something with
meaning. everything is falling, and i’m surrounded by empty water,
but i feel like i’m being reborn. i forgot how to look at the world
through my rose-colored glasses; lost them in my mother’s house
and settled for grey. that isn’t me. maybe i was too crowded by
rosebushes smothering me from seeing any sort of sunlight, but now
the soil is clear and all i can do is let the sun touch me until i turn into
something just as beautiful alone.
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC
anger pie ingredients:
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
8 tablespoons butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes and frozen
4 tablespoons vegetable shortening, in small pieces, frozen
8 tablespoons very cold cream cheese, in small pieces
1/3 cup ice-cold water
3 skinned kittens (preferably still kind of alive)
1 cup dead Armenian tears
1/4 cup potato starch
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
1 tablespoon butter, in small pieces
1 seven year old, lightly beaten
1 1/2 tablespoons sugar
directions:
1.Take ingredients
2. Stare at the until the scorn bursts them into flames
3. Force feed it to a dying cancer patient
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 8:50 PM UTC
"Don't drink that coffee," my friend shouted at me,
"That caffeine will **** you!"
he said impatiently!
Drinking water is bad for your health,
the feds put fluorine in it
to **** you by stealth."
Paternally he whispered,
"Whatever you do, don't drink cows' milk.
the sucklings its made for
aren't close to our ilk.
The consumption of pigs and animals that ****
most certainly will keep you
from obtaining sweet bliss.
And stay away from creatures that swim in the sea,
their svelte tasty bodies are filled
with deadly mercury."
And then he looked aghast at my plate,
"Tell me you're not eating that excrement," he sighed,
"Do you really want to die...
from eating french fries?
Don't you know that fried things are the scourge of the planet,
cooked in hydrogenated fats by
some woman named Janet?
Avoid eggs, if you can, and by no means eat the yolks,
your cholesterol will rise,
that's no funny joke."
Then, with a scowl in his voice he said,
"Avoid plants grown in this country,
sprayed with pesticides and poisons
by corporate monkeys.
And stay away from foods grown in the East,
they're probably fertilized by
humans, dragons and beasts.
Potatoes, tomatoes have starch and acid,
that eats up your guts and
make you grow flaccid.
Lemons and limes will ruin your pretty white teeth,
making you go snaggle
right in your sleep."
With a superior air he ended his harangue,
"Beer, wine, and all forms of liquor,
Can you think of anything that
will **** you quicker?
Don't eat rich chocolate--it'll make you a ****
humping everything in sight
like a mad deer in rut.
Cakes, breads and cookies too,
contain sugars and flours that's
sooooo baaaaad for you.
~~~
I'm hungry and starving and don't know what to do,
I want to eat something
but afraid to give it a chew.
Though all of this leaves me feeling quite uneasy and queasy,
I'm closing the door and
doing as I pleasey!
Jul 19, 2010
Jul 19, 2010 at 7:58 AM UTC
The penguins march
On a stretch of snowy starch
Ignoring the onlookers
But wolf whistling among the crowd, the hookers
The sounds clearly getting louder
Is that... is that gun powder?
Gouging out the eyes to block out the sight
Is definitely not the answer to your plight
The confetti flies upwards and away
To turn into a malleable *** of clay
Juggling the yard of goat string cheese
More after this message? Yes please!
Longing on the thought of belonging
As our not so miserable existence we seem to be prolonging
Your thoughts, i wish to sway
With my words, let me take you away
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
The dust has been lifted
Wise words from the man in the red truck
As he eluded provocative ants dancing ‘round cigarette ash
Pokemon never behaved like jackals
Or any other eighties hair metal bands for that matter
At least Pantera shredded their way out of that shtick
It allowed me to quench my thirst with neon Gatorade
And stomaching peninsulas
This is why starch as a way to mend secular viral videos
Was never a serious consideration
That right belongs to the intergalactic Prince Albert
Of the Ziggy Stardust federation
It’s what made me feel secure with crack and root beer
Can I get a signal out here,
Or did the waffle train miss me by a nano robot?
God save this illustrious choir of cephalopods and naval lint
Before they find their way into the haphazard way
I chop chicken under drunken stars
A wizard once led me to this concussion
But I cannot remember the first door he smashed with a crowbar
I know it had only been six years since Julia Roberts was in Erin Brockovich
The movie about the alien cyborg, who birthed Africanized
Native American bumble bees
Or was that merely a fan fiction continuation?
That’s when the itch in my head stopped….
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
My mother told me when I was a boy
Son look up, and see it, that grand old sky.
But now I suspect, her meaning was coy.
When I look up, I see that we will die.
This great ordeal will end without a ring.
For I have befallen no matriarch.
Not one coy mistress to dinner I bring.
For life is as passioned as my food's starch.
I don't want a body, merely your heart.
I no longer care, life has lost its art.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 10:23 PM UTC
Corduroy Bucket Hat,
Correspond too that
The core to your heart
A pond
Stop skipping that
Shade around your
eyes
Keep in mind the light
in your optics
Know that the op-s-tic
Tock that got the sky
limiters chattin’ pishposh
Then pour your sun out
through the sourdough clouds
Imagine the bucket hat
Capturing all that
Static starch sound
•
My view of an old love song
Dec 29, 2020
Dec 29, 2020 at 9:12 PM UTC