"stoppers" poems
Way up there
In the thin, thin air
There sits a man
Who laughs and grins
And fiddles with his double chins
A lunatic, if you must know
He paces, paces,
To and fro
Not love, nor hate
Does Steve perceive
But TV programs make him seethe
Xanax, ****** amyl poppers
None of these are Steve's show stoppers
Thorazine would do him good
But he won't take it
Like he should
So Mumbling Steve will grimace/grin
Until it's time to cry again
His mother loved him not a whit
Flushed Steve away, like so much ****
He killed his daddy, uncle, too
He killed that man, with Devil's Brew
Mumbling Steve drank up the rest
Of that that killed the old ******
Then laughed and laughed
And flashed a grin
Then burned off his extra chin
JNc 3-16
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 11:38 PM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She had her own signature scent,
A lasting aroma, that lingers in every corner of her home
As the strong winds picked up the scent,
and move it quite a distance.
She carefully prepare the mixture from the earth
Cuss ,kuss grass, Jasmine, rose buds and roots,
Before she prepare the mixtures with that special touch
Like a fine wine from the winery,
“One more drop of Rosemary oil, she would say
This would make the scent last for eternity,
Old Granddad he would make silly jokes,
His word usages, madam chemist, a witch with a spoon,
But in the end, she would always made a special potion for him
We would carefully select the flaky mahogany woods shaving,
with combinations of fresh vanilla leaves with extracting oil with oils
Those homemade perfumes from flowers had lots of potential.
Granddad hand craft the wooded bottle stoppers with his chisel,
It was a joy to watch, the old Irish typhoon working and smoking his pipe
Old Alan baffler was Nana nickname for him
She would scold and speak harshly to us
for touching the those colorful luring bottles
“Don’t open those bottles, you malicious children
Else a witch would appear: She would often say,
For me, my nana was an old chemist,
with old decade’s wooden sticks.
Preparing the mixtures like a fine wine,
I am forever grateful for those memories
I should have follow in her footsteps,
Her secret potions, her gift,
Is worth millions of dollars today
Looking back on yesteryears , good parenting
and good memories
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC
You mumblers and raspers
Of resp'rat'ry rattle:
Open your throats!
Forsake ye! the gaspers,
You quoters of cattle
And prattle of goats!
Or lay ye with horses
Whose tongue ne'er divorces
Those ivory choppers,
Those sibilant stoppers;
You lispers: beware,
Whether stallion or mare,
While you nibble your oats!
Stop your speech-stumbling!
Go suckle an udder
You dizzy, damp calfs!
Restrain your talk-tumbling,
And swallow your stutter
Nor utter foul laughs!
You outspoken nags
Mimic bolt-broken stags
As you bleed allegations
Down paths of my patience
And clatter your antlers;
What heavy-hoofed ranters
For no one's behalf!
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
The club is small and dark and hazy
like the veiled comedy of minstrel performers.
Those dingy lights do little for the atmosphere—
dangling hemp from clouds of cigarette smoke.
This hole is filled with the classy of day and the
sassy of night—a real “blue material” kinda crowd.
Harry, the manager, after calling quarter and five,
booked some awful oleo acts just minutes before
“places!”
—The crowd sits on their hands ‘til they’re numb
and lame like the fish they watch flop on the boards.
Two acts down followed by some soot-covered
clown’s lazzo about who’s who and what’s what.
Give me a break! The crowd wants fresh fish to fry—
Girlies in pearlies with spun out legs that tower
the torsos they’re pinned to. Give them that
New York Style Cheese-cakewalk Variety Act!
The listless listeners of this K.A. circuit let out a
snake-like hiss, en masse. (The only show stoppers
are off the billing, stage left at some other club!)
The manager thinks fast like a quick change act—
Harry snatches a prop from the nearest kook—
In a long brown bathrobe, with a broad brown cane.
He hushed the crowd of loud, jeering jerks, in one
swift swoop of his leg-breaking, knockout **** called
The Vaudeville Hook.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 8:10 PM UTC
beard-red explorers
pillaging-horror practitioners
tribal-family groups
insurgent-nomadic roots
that
trailed wave-rammers across never-ending spans,
continuously-toilfully matters not the demands
women and men side by each
beastly-feasters no table safe
stand up for yourself or be a weak-waif
in the bloodshot soul-panes, fierce
pagan-purveyors by rites
despised-womanizers
siege-setters
monk-murderers
a blood-spilling bee
treasure trove crash n’carry
Thor had his hammer
every wave-rammer had an oar for every
pair of life-stained hands, the stains
were borrowed and the very life-drained out of others
blood-smitten berserkers, heart-stoppers
and yet
discoverer’s children
wandering wet-wilderness
found a Stormy-Stop, a few
actually, and one be Newfoundland
may-haps they settled in peace.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:02 PM UTC
Do not fear the unknown in front of you,
But explore it's essence!
For fear is a blockage of progress,
And stoppers of growth.
One does not learn to swim in a whim,
But free fall with courage knowing it might be the last,
And come out stronger soaring in the wind.
One can only stay in the maze to die,
But find refuge by exploring the wilderness.
For the liars play their soft lyre to sooth you from the truth,
Like Sirens charm their voices to men's demise.
Like Odysseus, be a nobody for the Cyclopes,
But come out as a victor of his kingdom!
For risking nothing will get you nothing,
But find courage to voyage to unknown,
And be a champion of unraveling!
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 9:53 PM UTC
"I am going to punch you in the face" he said
burn
wistling sounds
wiped
wiped again
It's not a falicy
It's reality
you walk, you talk, you die
wonka? He was a sadistic ****
I'd drink his **** if I had it in me
Everlasting gob stoppers. Clod hoppers
Fizzy lifting drinks to poo stink
swallow blood fest
**** out the rest
Sarpinos torpedos
squeeze my labedo chester chito
flaming hot meat he don't eat
so discreat. Now wipe your water on my leg.
is it really midnight.
YEAHHHHH
goodbye
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
If the world was a stage and I was a play-write:
The wind: It was a musician, the muse of a heartbeat and whistling was its charm.
The leaves: The companions of the wind, they were the strings of the guitar. Dancing towards oblivion.
The flowers: They were the painters. A vision was their purpose. They played with colours and mystery.
The sun: It was the stage light, as it glowed upon the sounds of music in the air, the surface of the leaves, and gave life to all the trees.
The stars: They were the show stoppers, dancing in the sky. Revelling in the attention from the eyes of the observer.
The moon: The shy wonder of the night, sometimes barely visible. As it timidly sets the stage for another afternoon.
And lastly,
You: With a thousand stories to tell you’re in thousands of places at once. Looking for mountains to climb and things to design. You’re curious and too quick, never on the stage but merely an observer, but secretly you’re the whole show.
There are a thousand stories to tell,
So I’ll tell you a secret to this mysterious show
The script is blank, the pages clear white
And every minute new words appear
For I am merely following sentimental alliances
Just an observer watching as the future becomes clear.
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 4:10 PM UTC
(silence)
quiet
darkness
stillness
quickness
no time
frozen
whispers
tapping
sitting
thinking
listening
crying
sullen
sadness
good
bad
rain
thunder
no lightening.
happiness
calmness
clatter
thickness
smoothness
cowards
heros
lovers
sinners
helpers
killers
painters
stoppers
halt.
hush.
silent
again.
nothing
positive
negative.
neglect
honor
hatred
love
shh...
quiet
darkness
stillness
quickness
no time
frozen
whispers
tapping
sitting
thinking
listening
crying
sullen
sadness
good
bad
rain
thunder
no lightening.
happiness
calmness
clatter
(silence)
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
He would file the edges of glasses down
Whenever one would chip
And I would find them,
Rough rimmed
Ragged edges ground
And always where my lips would rest.
I don’t know why it annoyed me so.
Perhaps because I hated the imperfection so badly
But the dishes too, he began to glue those
When broken and that was too much.
Cup handles superglued and breaking just
As I lifted the hot liquid for a sip
Lead crystal port decanters with the
Elegant stoppers mended
And sitting cockeyed on top
Daring me to lift it and then
Only to break over and over
And him,
trying to fix it
again and again and again.
I found myself deliberately smashing things
Down when chipped, or flawed
Throwing them on anything hard.
The backyard patio became my favorite
Breaking point.
I couldn’t stop.
although I cut my feet and knees
While creeping through the yard
barefoot
Weeping.
I hid the adhesive.
Just so he couldn’t try to mend things one
More
time.
I severed the cord on the grinding wheel
And found myself examining anything
fragile with a keen eye=
Sometimes a magnifying glass.
Searching for any imperfection that might prove
A flaw capable of breaking.
And in the end
it seemed to me
That nothing,
nothing could leave this house
Until finally,
eternally,
unfix ably broken
or crushed into pieces.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 9:39 AM UTC
Trippin and falling, high like i can’t touch the ground proper
im stallin and falling like prophetic time stoppers
so stop!
and watch a television show, because when it comes to us you just can’t know
inside the body, outside of time, shulgin synthesized drugs parody the mind.
seen black holes ebb and flow, but you think you on a ro’?
Put on ZINNs shews and check the news
HEADLINE TONIGHT:
PSYCHONAUGHTS PREACHING TO THE MASSES
FROM THE pew pew pews….
our lazers are in favor
ignite the light,
PEW@!
mind blown dead slaver.
2) Silence as my psyche gets psychedelically psychonaugtic, toppin my minds eye-conic depiction of psychotropics, an ocean of dreams, im sailing through thoughts, so potent it seems, l on the drop, this is some psycho-logic……
3)…..Naughty nautic. Sailing through waves of rhymes, try to , but when it comes to the jugger-or-naught, you can’t stop it.
so we dreadlock the dreadnaught just so god can fill the hair lock,
fall from the sky, slow down and reverse this verse,
cause there is no up or down, just forward or rewound,
straight
****** LOGIC
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC
Warm toes, cream floating in the coffee
A sweet red apple encased in rich toffee.
Cheesy mashed potatoes and bangers
Cheeky whistles of the old clangers.
The comforting tune to Watch With Mother
The antics they get up to in Big Brother.
The two adorable children in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
The all time favourites that Mary Poppins sang.
Gob Stoppers that used to change colour in the mouth
The warmth of the sun as you travel south.
The cotton wool smoke in Camberwick Green
Rainbows with crushed apricot colours in-between.
Sunsets sunrises who could ask for more
A true gentleman opening the door.
All these things I would not mind doing twice
if not more because they are all things nice.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
In a trance with a different light in mind,
I provoke,
Like the entertaining women dancing for their menfolk,
That's a joke,
Degradation of women is not the subject mostly when
Need to be told,
I guess it might be getting old,
Solid gold,
Chambers with secrets in it like Harry Potter,
Feeling elevated off the ground like a helicopter,
Cops and robbers,
Tell the coppas that I did not shoot the sheriff,
Guess they'll shoot me down anyway call them
Heart stoppers,
Have no beef with anyone , I'm more like the safe haven,
More like a beacon, if you want heaven then just behave and,
Life is too short to be worried about a grave and,
Your mom just lost her job and your dad is on the deep end,
Do what's ....best for your life despite the things you've seen around
You,
You're a..
Lost cause to them, but you'll make it , they won't be better than You,
You buss your *** everyday to pick up on the homework but you can't
Concentrate on the lessons because of a kid that that picked at you and bothered you your whole life,
But your more than meets the eye, okay.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 1:41 PM UTC
Hearts.
Pleasurable, they break.
Kid with soul decides his future.
Walks down hall with door,
man with soul divides.
Door opens.
Leads to nothing.
Man dies.
Man grows back.
Chances take a hold.
Congruencies clash together.
Metal sounds of clatter.
These divisions are the fractions of human kind.
Trickles and patterns are hardly literature.
Quantifiable.
Cultured.
Bang.
Bang-bang.
Banging.
Thick is the heart.
Thicker is the melody.
Stoppers.
Man defines himself by patterns near.
Man dies once again.
Theories change.
Hearts do too.
Man does as well.
The life is what they seek.
Never to be obtained.
Man lies.
Heroic he overcomes.
Then he pulls at her shirt.
There he beckons.
Then man rests.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 6:00 AM UTC
the sleeper...
riled in slumber
her face fevered
cussed about the terrain
of a floral breeding
bedding patterns and the print
bunched in struggles
in smudges
an amateur trial with sisters makeup
primal cosmetics
make a mock
daubed
ceremony for slumber
dusty and museum are her dollworks
an amphitheatre audience
overlooming her berth
flaunting the gallery shelves
sustained expressionist menace
Roman eyes and Victorian ridicule
stuffed suffering with Ugly Duckling down
****** sawdust and your sullied label
they bray and they brawl
and they sluice their gull gall
a sick drizzle
over the sleepers form
from the exterior
wild wails the weather
its being
drubbing
peers fragile
at the windowpane
a raid on this vulnerable sleeper
impounded in bedroom aloft
raised to meet the jet stream
she is fumbled in dreams...
abraded adolescent swells
judder out figments
a bleed of vandals
siling her muted childhood
parading the playground
berating old
once loved playthings
adopting no sympathy
adapting in favour
of the wild riding will
of the direful pre familiar
into the woods...
a ***** charmed breath
dressed smartly as boy
stoppers her pathway
insisting a gentleman's assistance
frustrates her recitations
of grandmothers doting
stern teachings
like fragile pottery
come to harm
broken into teeth
the quick blood beating
this nocturnal forest
busy in heat
bonding death
to refract the hustling moon
a company of wolves
fill out the clearing
not a spell too soon
their howls reverberate
jeering
mocking their new glut
sifting followers
from the raggle-taggle array of fools
the foolish dreamers
rounded up
amongst them she stands
red dressed and nervous
one hand clasping
and sexing the other
fortified
a great jaw operates here
an excited irresponsible mastication
committed to this fairytale
...agitation in her sleep
Jul 6, 2021
Jul 6, 2021 at 2:11 AM UTC
The other day it rained and while I was driving all I could thing about is how you never used your windshield wipers.
I remembered how I would sit in the passenger seat like a little kid watching the drops race each other to the bottom of the window.
They always knew exactly where they were going. They always had a purpose so it didn’t matter that they had an end.
I used to wish I was the windshield so I could feel the reflected red lights rolling down my cheeks knowing that they had a destination.
And it was with that simple little thought that my eyes became clouds filled with pointless precipitation. And I knew it was because of you.
See every time I think I can breathe freely memories escape like stoppers from my wrapped up heart just to make it bleed some more and remind me the dangers of driving through a downpour.
And every time I try to make sure that my tears have purpose otherwise they will never come to an end.
So I try to bleed you something beautiful with each and every blood cell pumping from my heart.
I try to tell you I love you. That I have from the start.
And I know that’s not what you want to hear, but I can’t get you out of my head and I’m beginning to fear I never will.
It doesn’t matter how many hands I hold or faces I touch something keeps telling me I’ll never love them as much.
I can try to pretend. I can try to move on, but I have never heard nature play such a sweet love song.
I want to know what else there is for me to trust when the pitter-patter of the rain is playing just for us.
It keeps telling me that it was all right to fall. That after all is said and done my tears will have won the race down my windshield face.
Then I’ll smile without hesitation like a child who gives you no other indication of what they have just learned.
But right now all I can feel is the pain as I trace a million blood red drops off the horizon wishing I could find your eyes on me because I don’t want to know that’s something you’ve forgotten.
I refuse to believe that your heart has rotten.
So the other day when I turned off my windshield wipers in the midst of a storm I told people I just wanted to feel the rush, when really I only wanted to remember us.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
Its a crime to wanna find love anymore,
Because if you do find it, you get your heart broken into,ripped out!!!
Stolen.....
And you plead the 5th...
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 6:23 PM UTC
The witch whirled around her golden cauldron,
Her shoes clacking on the stone floor as she
Chants in a language that's now forgotten;
Perhaps chanting to awake the ancients.
Her voice resonates in tune with the smoke,
As it rises in ever growing wisps
Like the clouds that shift to veil the moon’s face.
“Fumus! specula!” she cries as she stirs,
She’d lift the wooden spoon from the bubbling
Cauldron only to find that it’s melted.
Still, she'd flick through her potions book, searching
As her eyes would flash verdant as glow-worms.
Against the starry night sky—Constellations
In their own right against the cave’s night sky.
She’d cast madly in a fervor as bolts
Of lightning illuminate the night sky.
Knowing what’s good for them, the ravens scatter,
Their shadowy bodies blocking the moon.
Still, the witch would brew, throwing anything,
And everything into that dreaded void.
Outside, the cicadas would hum madly,
While the moon would drip silver in the brew.
Madness is found behind her vibrant eyes,
As she stoppers the potions into vials.
Lining her shelves with the odd colored vials,
She waits, hoping for someone to visit;
Waiting for someone to knock at her door.
And yet, after all this, no one will come,
So the witch sits drinking her tea, alone,
Watching as the ravens fly though the night
Preparing to brew another potion
That will never be shared.
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 12:20 PM UTC
Nothing, but nothing would make her life more complete
Without something in her mouth that tasted oh so sweet
But then everything sweet that went into those rich red lips
Gathered permanently on those rather expanding fairy hips.
It did not matter how sugary, the colour of the sweet or the size
It was all eaten pleasurably and then went to her thighs.
She loved it all, gob stoppers, fairy pips and most of all toffee
Sugar mice, dandelion heads and gums flavoured with coffee.
She always had loads of packets of creamy fake sweet eggs
they had the taste of an orange but accumulated on her legs.
The more she ate, the fatter they got, which had its good bits
They enables her to perch in the tree until the wood splits.
She had packed in her fairy store all kinds of fruit whips
every kind of chocolate bar, lollipop and candied pips.
In all flavours, apple, banana, woodland berry and plum
But it mattered not to her how sweet, like it does to some.
Every slice, every little fruit drop, each little wrapped bar
was placed in its own nicely labelled sweet jar.
Lined up at the bottom of her favourite tree, her treat booth
Her world is complete, for the fairy of the sweet tooth.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
Don’t let me use you. I will,
but tenderly.
I found your words
you wrote them on parchment
left them in "bottles with cork stoppers" on
street corners
not for me - for everyone
tangible words, you said
you said,
“i will cut out of my heart all the
things that dont serve me”
please use a sharp, surgical instrument
sterilize it well
if you infect your heart
it will feel like mine
you said I don’t try hard enough
I have to try hard not to be there
leave everything
only to find you checked out
before I arrived
and laugh at myself
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 9:21 AM UTC
It was the less i could do
Climb the mountain
Scale the kitchen
Talk to the neighbours
Find a neighbour
Inspiration, need it
Words on the refuse truck
Toss it in
Screaming kids
Screaming mothers
*******
What, oh *******
Talking art
Modern stuff
Bed with a ****** in it
Jonny
Go home
Bus it
Converse in a foreign language
Can’t understand them
I live here
Inspired to shout
Who am i
This week
A sign on the wall
Jesus saves
Bankers own heaven
Hell
Drowning in realization
Happiness can be bought
What price
Yesterdays
Snow on the hills
Dutchman panics
Refuse collector has a Phd in
Wednesdays
Bus stoppers look in awe
Three together
Another day dead
Dear diary
Inspiration
Boots in bin.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
I HAVE NEPHEWS AND NIECES WHOM I LOVE
TO PIECES - ONE PART FOR THE SMILE,
ANOTHER FOR THEIR STYLE, MEANWHILE
THEY'LL GO THE EXTRA MILE FOR ME;
YOU WISH YOU WERE LIKE THEM, UNINHIBITED,
NO WORRIES, ACHIEVEMENTS WHICH ONLY TIME HURRIES;
WERE YOU POPULAR AT SCHOOL? WERE YOU ONE
OF THE BOYS? OR GIRLS? WERE YOU GOOD LOOKING?
NOT TOO SKINNY, NOT TOO FAT? LANDED NICELY
ON THE PE MAT, GOOD AT SPORTS, WILLING TO SHARE
YOUR LIQUORICE ALL - SORTS? AND GOB STOPPERS,
WARM BREAD, FROZEN ORANGE ICE WHICH WAS SO NICE;
NOW THE COLOURED PENCILS OF LIFE ARE LIKE A RAINBOW,
ONE DAY THEY'LL BE LIKE ME, PRAISING THEIR OWN FAMILY.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 4:12 AM UTC
After going to Janice's doll's
tea party in her gran's flat
I thought I'd best ask her to
a cowboy's tea party as a sort
of pay back thing so she came
to my parent's flat and I said
hi glad you could make it she
came in along the passageway
past the kitchen where my
mother was arranging a few
items for the tea and then
turned left into what I termed
the toy room where I'd arranged
a small table(tea-chest upside-down)
and cloth of bright colours
(tea towel) and two small chairs
(large seaside buckets turned
upside down) with cushions
on the sideboard I had arranged
my toy soldiers and guns a rifle
a sword and bow and arrows
and a number of Dinky cars
she said I guess you don't have
any dolls? no no dolls I said
I can borrow one of my sister's
if you want a doll present
I said no it's all right she said
gazing at me smiling weakly
while we were waiting for my
mother to bring in the food
items I showed her my guns
and holsters and she picked up
a silver looking gun and held it
in her hands it's quite heavy she
said is it real? no it's an old one
my old man got me some place
looks real though don't it I said
it's one of my favourites she
lifted it and pointed it at the
wall and pulled the trigger
and the gun went BANG and
she dropped it and put her hands
over her mouth and said was
it loaded? she looked scared yes
it was loaded with a roll of caps
I said sorry I should have warned
you I picked up the gun and put
it back on the sideboard and handed
her my rifle which she held gingerly
is it loaded? she said no it's ok no
caps there I said she put it against
her shoulder and looked along the
barrel and aimed at the light bulb
and pulled the trigger and it went
click and she smiled and said I blew
out the light she gave me back the
rifle and my mother brought in
some items and put them on the
table and said what would you like
to drink Janice? may I have orange
juice please? my mother nodded and
said you Benny? Tizer please with
a shot of red-eye I said my mother
nodded bemused and went off to
the kitchen Janice looked at the items
nice cakes and sandwiches she said
and chocolate biscuits too yes I said
Mum knows you are special to me
so she pulled out all the stoppers
and here we are and we sat and ate
and Mum brought in the drinks
and left us alone to eat and drink
and talk and I told her about the
gunfight in Dodge City and how
I had shot the Billy the Kid Gang
and she sat impressed and told me
about the coming trip to the seaside
with the gospel church and that her
gran had bought tickets and was I
going? and I said yes I was pleased
she was going but tried not to show it.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 3:08 AM UTC
Fight after fight with step monster, Show Stoppers
Cause I'm a no good, low life, pill popper.
These pills keep me sane, that won't stop her.
Screams heard through the walls from father:
She's a good girl, works hard, act proper.
But I'll never be good as her daughter.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 11:57 PM UTC
have you ever felt so angry
that it was almost like magma
was hiding at the back of your throat?
pulsing and glowing and taking its time
before it erupts and dribbles down your chin,
flowing to your shoes and destroying
everything you've ever held close.
because lately, i've been postponing my eruption with these desperate words;
paper against fire
ink against magma
feeble stoppers to a bottle brimming to the mouth with froth, pressure building up and up and up—
crack goes the glass
paper against fire
ink against magma
sometimes they hold up
sometimes they just aren't enough.
Jun 22, 2018
Jun 22, 2018 at 3:32 AM UTC