"swats" poems
...
The Ladybug
Floats and Flutters
***** and Flees
Leaps and Loops
Sits and Swats
At The Coming Luck To You
...
Stares at You
Eyes are bright
Wings are bent
Legs are shaking
Colors are mingling
Blurry and fading
with red and black imminent
...
You woke to a beep
All is white
"The bomb was powerful"
the doctor exclaims
But you're alive,
all because of
The Luck of the Ladybug
...
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 1:37 PM UTC
He hands her bouquets
She swats each away to see
Guns firing petals
She cannot recant
The burn of spells cast daily
Ring ‘round the roses
And we all fall down
Iron-hued blood that stained
Empty bellies rouge
It bled everywhere
Darkened slick of sick roses
She won’t let him cry
Flowers from his eyes
Or hanging paper dollies
Says that it’s okay
Says that it’s okay
She can’t spill bone-dry flowers
To drown in the Nile
She swats each bouquet
Why won’t she just let him care?
He’s swatted away
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
Cat sits behind cage
Bored
Man comes in
Cat leaps up
Tries to catch his coattails
Snags his heart instead
Cat sleeps on couch
Content
Man comes in
Cat wakes up
Swats away his gentle hand
Signing it in red
Cat hunts in field
Brave
Man comes out
Cat pounces down
Returns to comfort of house
Victim having fled
Jul 18, 2010
Jul 18, 2010 at 6:36 PM UTC
She doesn't understand her
biology.
Her need for extra attention.
Her desire to
chirp and meow
constantly, and raise her
**** in the air.
She gazes out the
window with
longing in her
golden eyes.
Her calls through the
screen bring no
visitors.
Little lonely orphan.
She sits with me while
I write at my large
maple desk.
She swats at the
purple orchid.
It drives her batty.
I've been there.
Lost in the
smell and taste of
flowers.
She wanders over to
the Starry Night
painting and looks
dizzy at the sky.
She lifts her **** in
the air and stutter steps
rapidly with her
back paws.
When I got her and
her sister, I thought they
had *****
I named him (her)
Bukowski.
She comes to the
name
and seems to like it.
Pray for me.
Buk's in heat.
Jun 1, 2024
Jun 1, 2024 at 10:15 PM UTC
Her honey'd hole a wet, wet dream,
her liquid gold a silky stream where
sliding thrusts were mounted, hot,
and arching bodies dared not stop;
where moments flowed into the next
and both were drowned in comfort ***
and eyes were riding each one's soul:
his quest for freedom her only goal
And rather than come up for air
this fiery passion sank them there,
(as both an anchor, 'twined like rope,
and locked in pelvic gyroscope)
her swollen thighs around his waist,
her nails embedded, tongues embraced
and fishing for that final taste
with every touch, in every place
Fused as one with melting cores,
(her curling toes demanding more)
his urgent need to plunge her rightly
sealed them closed with hearts bound tight, and
all around them
walls of water washed their sins
in quickening waves that locked them in
with swats and spanks
and gentle yanks and saucy stares
while skin to skin and hand to soaking hair
Like rolling tide to rocky shore,
(her legs thrown wide, his pelvis sore)
the crash and grind of karmic ties
were deep explored and fast revived
- with whispered greed they came alive -
awash with ***** un-restraint and
thrived, un-reined, with fate to blame,
their pulsing needs through every vein,
infused as one and charged by same:
her wild release on which he came
an ocean, calling out her name
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 5:01 PM UTC
Every year my family gathers around the kitchen table
(boxed wine and chatter
about distant binge-drinking aunts)
When I was young my sister carved the turkey
(swatted my hand when I reached for
the carving knife. "I want to do it this year!")
I am in her place at the kitchen table
(boxed wine and chatter
about the bruises on my knees)
I will forever stand in the kitchen
(no one swats my hand when I reach for
the carving knife. "Maybe I'll do it this year.")
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
Eternally grateful
Am I to God
For not only
Putting him
Into my life
But for keeping
Him here
Because when
Death comes
He swats him
Away for the reaper
Is weak for those
Who defy him.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
i.
eating is done fast and alone. teeth
chatter
in the corner,
a rabbit
muscles
in the mouth. sister
visits
naked
save the sheet
she learned
to wrap in college
while
haunting
tents.
ii.
dogs at the door.
father
shoeless in the basement
negotiating
claw
&
cigarette.
iii.
grasshoppers press the palm, spit.
mother swats
her magazine
at hard
boys hits
the wall, these pictures
that have
her smiling, shrug.
iv.
sleepwalking like something brother won at the fair.
we nudge it. put the bread
back of the mouth. injured
deer, slanted
mailbox. wife
a gown
ghosting
her legs
keeps
taut
the clothesline
from hospital
to home.
Jul 27, 2012
Jul 27, 2012 at 12:10 PM UTC
My night, under opaque wraps, collects my candid questions —
unkept before the walls crept back up on me and
crammed my thorough thoughts
into sufficient suffocation and disallowed my dislocation
from total cerebral closure —
and covers cognative wonders with a dense fence-like stone cure.
The clean-cut cold sheets, tucked beneath the bed springs
spring my curiosity through layer after layer
of teeming tides of blockades and prohibition
but someone sits at the edge of the road, just before crack
drops to cliff and he catches my despair, tangled in the rye, and
before my in-experience allows me to cry,
he hurls my candid questions back my way and continues
my disallowance of detaching myself from purity.
But despite his baseball mitts, he can’t catch my verbal fits
so I scream, “My wants can’t be blocked forever and Holden,
I’m holding onto my life for the sake of avoiding strife with you but
celibacy of the mind can only lead to our true demise.”
He looks me in the eyes, scared he’d been outdone,
so he tries to run but the cliff leaves him hanging and
I reach for his undemanding hand that swats my offer
with a backwards hat.
But his fear subsides in his recollection of his misinterpretation of
a silly old poem that led him to believe he could catch our innocence.
So wear your hat straight, Holden, ‘cause in the rye,
you’re not the groundskeeper, but keep your ground and
catch yourself before you fall off the cliff and lose yourself
in your selfless tantrums and your disregard for your need for wondering.
Let me break through my caul, ‘cause it’s burning of decay and
I’ve overstayed my welcome in this amniotic gate, devoid of vitality,
and I like my life in my own hands, so I’ll tell you now:
I’m holdin’ on, Holden. Get a grip and hold on, yourself.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
The cats gather
en masse every
time I sit
down to write.
One by one, they
jump up on the
big maple desk,
and walk across the
keyboard.
Mojo swats at
Shadow's tail.
Bukowski nips at
my fingers as they
peck at the keys.
It's going to be
a long night.
The cats don't
understand poetry
or marketing.
Shadow hisses, and
jumps down.
Bukowski gets
bored, and bites at
the cords.
He gets overly
excited, and slips off
the back of the desk.
The wild look in
his eyes flash
centuries of power
and sadness.
I think of my feral
days on the streets,
stealing ***** and
sleeping under
bridges in
December.
I wrote my words on
the walls of the
abandoned
houses.
And now,
such beautiful
providence.
I quit drinking and
I live in a town with
a clear lake. I catch
fish and eat them.
I've published three
books and I write my
poetry on a
computer that my
three cats view as
a playground.
Sometimes,
it all seems like a
furry dream.
Feb 14, 2024
Feb 14, 2024 at 2:24 PM UTC
I am the lone fly.
Everyone swats me away,
But I am still here.
No one can catch me.
I just fly around your thoughts,
I should disappear.
I have wings to fly.
I land on your brain to stay,
You try to catch me.
It won't work at all,
I just want to be loved,
But I annoy you.
Just keep swatting me,
Eventually I'll leave,
I won't say good bye.
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 4:21 PM UTC
Dear mr. Cole.
I allow myself
"Joe", with the deepest respect
For a man I barely know.
But I know...
You contain
Multitudes, no less than
Whitman. Supporting posting
Writers with the warmth
Of an all-loving Allfather; raining
And shining on seedlings sown
By poets of varying confidences.
Larger than any poet
Ever read
Is he who encourages writing.
Joe, yours is the hand that swats
The one that holds back the
Pen of the uncertain poet.
Your poetry reflects
Your garden, God's Creation,
The beauty within wild things
Growing...
And all that glory and grace
Of which you write,
My friend, our Joe.
Is all a mirror
Reflecting
Its beholder.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
Part One: Wolves and Chokes
Children are such wolves.
A day is a fledgling lamb
That can be crowded, cloistered
And clawed.
I used to speak to you and
Run with you.
You in your red coat
And I with my white throat.
Suspect nothing.
No tooth was fear to me
For a pack does not stack
Its white edges against itself.
Yet still I must have itched
A miracle of irritation
That cannot be ignored.
In the night, my mouth
Is drawn wide.
Like a fetus, I am transparent
And cringing in black situ.
Then a bite, and then a bite.
Then you see what is inside.
A one I love the best of all
Is loath to see me live.
The bitter taste of childhood vow
Comprises all I give.
I’ve broken you, you say.
With a box of fools I never sought,
Always galumphing back to me.
You broke me first, I think.
What posturing, straighten that halo
That chokes me rightfully.
Of course there is no way
To seek out your paradise.
Not if sinners cannot speak.
Part Two: Sebastien
Your hysteria is a fine rope.
My tree stands ready at the dawn,
A line of men and my
Brick wall that chips and splits
When bodies fall.
Even the sun is watching.
No one swats the stinging gaze
Away and no one dares offend.
But I stand.
I shall try to be as salt.
Salt stands even as dust.
Salt sneers at wounds.
Salt loves only the earth.
And the earth will love me soon,
Championing me as her lover
Which is an irony too ghastly to feel.
Rain in the still air, in the sun.
Silence that grinds a heel onto wrists
That steals from me.
A second, then a heartstring.
Thousand and thousands.
Eyes and minutes.
A billion is still only a tenth.
Release.
It is the boundlessness of the sky
And a chorus stabs their shovels,
Stabs the vein with silver mirth.
god touches me.
I am touched by gods.
I am born
And slain by daylight’s pink
Hands.
Every iron finger
Every one a steely tongue
Every cut a golden affair
And the spurns too hot to hold.
I fall and fold and dim.
My hour is burnt
And still your eyes, your teeth
Go with me
To forge both of my decades with
A gilt life of ecstasy I never
Touched but saw.
I saw it in the face of god.
And heard it as a note
That echoed through the days I lived,
And every word I wrote.
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 6:52 PM UTC
Get on the ball
Rustle up some food
Celery seed
Just make it up on the spot
Circle "none of the above"
Avoid all the **** blocks
The **** swats
And anyone who can read and write in reverse
Visit the maddened mistress
She's at the farm in the barn
She's on birth control so it's okay
She wants the same thing you do
Instant gratification
She has a surplus of lust and seduction
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
the fledgling light being carnivorous ate up the stipends
of the hopes that suggested anti-colonial rule
beginning with India and pop-culture;
i'm sure they recorded Frogstomp aged 15...
imgining it, Israel's Son teen fancy for politics, **** me,
Nevada in an hourglass trickles a month through...
curses worse off than attributed to Nirvana -
i'm with Heath Ledger on this one
and his joker dubbed Neil Swats
given the drunk accenting debauch;
called him the Watts or the Volts,
or Tom Waits - grr, gurl or curl the toothpick -
for use in chop-chop-Bruce-Lee
mitigating Springsteen with chord rhythm -
i get it, a crowd pleasing type,
i wasn't, never will be - i minded midnight
tomorrow than the noon of today -
so many people ended up on a car-boot sale of
expectations that few geared into owning a
sports car - it was wonderful, thank you,
some of us educated ourselves for no reason,
that we know happened, because all the **********
capitalised on your stupidity -
we were never the nuclear physicists,
so why did we bother rather than investing in being
supermarket cashiers? why did we?
what was the point? i guess we fabled having parents
who wished us a better life, and in so wishing
begot themselves a better one, and for us a worse one...
oh well... what awaits us in redemptive spirit is
a Samurai's death and nothing else;
akin to Isaiah's oath demanding populist demand
from the heights of formerly being a socialite
in the rigidity of an Israelite king's courtship -
for sooner the pauper claiming to be king,
than the king claiming to be pauper - should both
compete to make his stance righteous among
the merchants / Mohammads / or among those
selling pigeons for worth of postage stamps in
Jerusalem's sacred temple that suggested the news be spread,
rather than those spreading it be whipped and
thrown out - so a pauper-king precedes a king-pauper?
oddly, had that Tibetan prince not descended to India
rather than scaled his way to China - then the similarity -
as the man who desired the northern lands but had
misgivings to the Arabian soil.
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 9:14 PM UTC
Still, she somehow shows her shadowy sorrow. She slowly slips sweet sugary sounds, swallowing my shattered, scared soul. Stretching savored seams within my sleeve, she swiftly swats the softness to Saturn. She slices skin and slithers slanderously, scarring stains into my silver stomach.
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 11:28 AM UTC
You tell me I'm too flirty,
but with a ring on your hand you hold mine?
Friends can't nudge each other, but they can hold each others hands?
They can't playfully tousle each other's hair, but they can touch each other's legs?
I'm trying real ******* hard to put you first.
you and your wife.
Ignore all the signs that point to us and support you and when I hold back my habits of playful friendship swats
you.
you hold my hand
and she's in the room.
I loved it, and I hate myself for that.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
Life is much more comfortable
On campus.
I don't mind the heat of this
Oven life-style
In fact
I quite enjoy
That digging sun
And the emptied space where there are less faces to run into.
Not that they are nagging
And familiar
But August is when I start to get the swats
I seem to annoy the passers by more than they annoy me.
Why, this was my home first anyhow.
Is it such a crime
To be drawn close
By the smell of flower perfume wafting from some young gals neck?
Or by some mans sweetened, soy milk coffee?
Sure,
I might have gotten into your personal bubble,
Just as you in mine,
And yes maybe when you were walking to class I tickled at your leg
Or in your ear,
But I didn't have the gall to try and **** you,
Or even send a sting.
Why,
It seems the only friend I can make
Is this girl with paper and a pen.
Hey, she even grabbed her camera and took a photo of Me!
Me! Just a busy, annoying, and pesky little Bee.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
There she was.
Anger etched in
her silhouette,
framed by the doorway.
You see, women get all
upset at once,
like the crashing of a dam,
like the pulling of a trigger.
And there you are;
half-asleep in bed,
drunk in the back of the cab.
The pin’s been pulled and
there she goes.
Anger has always
been a source of
amazement for me,
especially in the women
I have known.
You never know what
will be the final strike.
She deals with you.
She deals with your drugs
and your drunkenness,
all the fits of highs and lows,
all the impossible arguments.
There she is; that beautiful women
that will still pet
your head and hold your hair
late at night after you’re sick
from the drug or the drink,
or some other, unspoken demon.
Until, in one beautiful moment,
that incredible anger
bursts out like New Years fireworks.
You’re taking blows
to the chin and to the
heart and to the soul.
Her eyes blaze with a
hatred, mouth tight and
cheeks reddened from the yelling,
her hair falls into her face
and she angrily swats it back
behind her ear.
She’s a terrible monstrosity.
A beautiful, terrible monstrosity.
And all you can do is watch in awe
as the culmination of everything
you will never be is spelled
out before you.
There you are; in the back of a cab,
half-asleep on the bed,
drunk on the edge of the bathtub,
and you can do nothing but watch,
slack-jawed and scared,
as that almighty anger,
spilling forth from that
almighty woman,
breaks every single bone.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 5:54 AM UTC
Not even flys know
When doors swing open
That opportunity is knocking
They just enter -
Ignoring the fact that
Even living comes with a cost
The window cracks open
A sleepy six year old
Drools in the back seat
Face full of sweat
Eyes rolling back in her head
Thumb on the switch
A welcoming invite
For the
Lone sky surfer
Trusting the little girl
It enters
The radio crackles
In and out of frequency
But the fly hears no sound
The fly doesn't see the little girl
As little
The fly doesn't even see the little girl
As girl
The fly just enters
The fly has no fears
Risking its life
For curiosity
Its days are numbered
Soon it pings at the window
Trying desperately to escape
As the little girl swats at it
Its small body
Much smaller than hers
Tires quickly
It's frail wings tear
The girl smiles a sense of accomplishment
As the tiny bug
Clings to it's last limbs of life
A tall brunette returns to the car
Releasing the fly just in time
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
Check out the ink,
authentic as a groupie giving it up
each memorable stain
Taints / scars
"see this one, that was the time...
on the road, the streets of concrete and black"
waking up with something missing
another concert and back
stage passing out
green rooms become lucky charms
"magically delicious"
when molly and 'cid drown out
the loud self hatred howl
the piercing sounds like snow on a telly
made of wood / in the hollow
of the skull
screaming fans
get giving head
(another Grateful Dead
teddy tats
le mort - with top-hats)
Check out the ink on them cats
'cuz its cool to hit it
And just like that,
they're just like bruises
Rorschach birth mark
Skin art muses
like permanent stickers
Yang and yin
punch bug & liquor
Business inc.
quarter machine
bouncy ***** and shiny things--
Smiley face!
Have a nice day!
Happy colors cover up
To hide the deeper pain that dont hurt
but slowly softly kills
somewhere inside
where somethings
gone missing...
(now they swallow pills)
...
Like plumes of flamboyant flocks
Birds of dying paradise
and schools of shimmering fish,
Anima and abyss
Inside this living planet, all
makes for interesting documentary
nature shows
since nuture blows
Goes to show
Some guardians using
back of the hand
belt / buckle / switch
Yo peeps pay close attention...
Check out the ink
swats and ****
wears wife beaters
and his chick in the summers
wears faux
furs of mink...
***** on roller skates without a rink
expert skill sets for Sonic
always runaways
drive by drive-thru,
So cool I'll call 'em Culo...
Wouldn't you?
*(In their natural habitats, the group and packs
and ****** of crows, find one another
Lushious... candy color coded hides...
like the wilde-beast their multitudes progress
run migratory trails anywhere from the law
or their own **** making a mess...
Welcome
Mutual Of Omaha's Wild kingdom
in permanent ink ... stains...
memorable times... wasted)*
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
bleak
and raw.
the waters strip the fur
from the creature
as it floats through the ravine.
a fly
lands on a sardine sitting on a porch
in portugal
and the man swats it away
with great ferocity.
i'm outside
watching
the fireworks
and the bleeding of my gums
results in a splitting headache.
gunshots are heard--
and voices
are drowned
by the whizzing of the train
and the breathing of the dead ladies in the banquet hall.
screeching armies
make their way through the castle
and the ****** is extraordinary--
and they become willing wives.
and the offspring are plentiful.
and the roses are vibrant and luscious in the spring sunset.
but despite all this,
i still sit in my chair
and the walls
bleed a pale yellow into my soul
and endlessly
endeavor to erase me for
eternity.
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 2:20 AM UTC
The killer stalks a heart at peace with all creation
killer waits it out, camouflaged, in hiding
waiting for the perfect chance to catch you off guard
Killer swats a fly, kills a mouse, could potentially **** all his neighbours.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC