"tacky" poems
Oh how I hate
this time of year,
with the stupid songs
and holiday cheer...
Annoying bell ringers
outside the store,
and the tacky wreaths
hanging on the door.
Cardboard calendars
filled with waxy treats,
ice and snow making
death traps of streets.
Frazzled parents
spending more then they should
on entitled kids
who are far from good.
Fake smiles & wishes
in the "spirit" of it all,
the empty shelves-
the crowds at the mall.
The hour long line
to see Santa the phony
who falsely promises
an x-box or a pony.
Having to gather
with family who annoy,
gifting another cheap
Chinese-made toy.
Fire hazards
strung with tinsel and lights,
tensions leading
to fun Christmas fights!
Secret Santas-
holiday parties for work-
ugly sweaters
making you look like a ****
The stress of having
an enormous list
and a tiny budget
just makes me ******
No, nothing seems jolly
or merry or bright...
Oh how I can't wait
till post-Christmas night!
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
here's to a package of
Marlboro Reds
in the hands of
someone other than
the Marlboro Man
standing in
for those slack-jawed outlaws
my heroes now lack jaws
tongues
lungs
I swear it's been too long
since I inhaled manhood
The Great Darrell Winfield
rolled
packed
and filtered
into the only thing I know
that makes a man a man
the essence of
cowboy boots and farmer's tan
in every drag
see, I inhale my heroes
all the dusty red-necked
cowboys
Darrell Winfield
and my dad
men whose lives
went up in smoke
to coat my throat
in my own self-righteousness
I'm frightened this
is all that I'll have left
of him
lung cancer
and the lingering stench
of cigarettes
he always smelled
of cigarettes
he'd pull me into these
firm embraces
he held so long
that he'd suffocate me
in tacky business
and cigarette smoke
masked only
faintly
by a poor man's
cologne
still I breathed him in
until I'd start to choke
it was too much man to handle
my grandpa told me
“smoking doesn't send you
straight to Hell,
but it sure does make you smell
like you've already been there”
he was
a grown man
cursing
crying
lying
dying by himself
trying to drown out the inferno
with a case of beer
but sobriety finds you sometime
and I'd rather suffocate in cigarettes
than lose him altogether
and even if he smells like Hell
at least that means he made it back
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 6:14 PM UTC
Star wars pen
Not again
Will you leave me alone
I count the sheep
I need to sleep
Its only 3 am
I hear you shout
I hear you beg
Is this in my head
Super whacky
Almost tacky
Awesome prattle said
Liberated empty head
Drain like a kitchen sink
You **** my words
A whole lot more
You really make me think
No more games
I care no more
Cause I went and brought you
I have no clue
What I will do
When I put your pen to paper
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky tacky,
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
And the people in the houses
All went to the university,
Where they were put in boxes
And they came out all the same,
And there's doctors and lawyers,
And business executives,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
And they all play on the golf course
And drink their martinis dry,
And they all have pretty children
And the children go to school,
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university,
Where they are put in boxes
And they come out all the same.
And the boys go into business
And marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 9:23 AM UTC
Love hard, my friends. Love noticeably.
Love does not deserve to be shoved under the rug, to be disguised, or to be quieted. Love does not mean conforming to the idea that genuine affection is “sappy,” “cheesy,” or “cringeworthy”; instead-- love loudly.
The world wants to tell you that relationships are to be silenced. That posting multiple photographs of each other is tacky, uncomfortable, and something to make fun of. That devoting time with your favorite human being is disgusting, overbearing-- especially when you are young and the future does not exist in your hands.
Too bad, future. And how unfortunate, world. Because at the end of the day, the world does not own love. You do. It is yours to have, to keep, to share, and to do whatever it takes to hold onto it. It is mine.
When you find love, shout it from the rooftops and frame a million photographs. Post selfies of the two of you smiling wide and unwavering. Wear its colors on your face and shamelessly declare it to the whole universe and beyond: You are in love. You are alive.
And likewise, this is my philosophy: Love intentionally, fiercely, tirelessly.
Love so hard it makes people dizzy. Take it as a compliment. In an exhausted world that spins with violence, hatred, and monstrosity-- praise its joys. Snap those pictures.Tell your friends. Scrapbook it, publish it, make art out of it. Laugh about it, display it, live it. Put an end to the grotesque concept that something so beautiful, perhaps life’s most magnificent, should be sheltered. Let it grow.
This is a declaration. I am boisterously in love. There is no quiet here.
One day, you will find someone or something that your heart will never be able to shut up about. And that’s okay. Let it scream.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 9:33 AM UTC
dressed in all black
to show some class
keep my front
covered up
but still
show off
my **** ***
high heels on
and some
red lipstick
hoping to
catch your attention
blue eyeshadow
white nail polish
hoping i'd look good
with all of this on me
sweet perfume
with a heavy
price tag
hoping to
smell like
roses
and
vanilla
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
Some people like fall, but not me.
It's full of death and decay, the gorgeous pieces of fire drift
from their skeletal homes and burn out into
sodden mushy brown paper.
Hard smooth and brown pebbles, spiky holey bombs, and twirly helicopter blades fall from the same skeletons and hide
beneath the paper, waiting for an innocent victim,
lying in the perfect position to slip someone up so that
they lose their bags and packages as they themselves go
slip slide crashing into the ground.
The victims are sure to rise up again, but with some bruises and bits of soggy brown, stuck all over their clothes
In fall, all the blooms of color decease, all fruit and vegetable and good green things die and leaves the world sodden mushy and brown.
Some people say they like winter, but not me.
It's a cold cruel and heartless season, robbing any last trace of life
from all helpless and left-behind creatures.
The vegetation becomes glazed over with melting glass and is the
one spot of beauty, as the only green left resides on prickly evergreens, housebound plants, and the occasional tacky
coat.
In winter, there is no way to leave your personal fortress without mountains of clothes, and so every person becomes a
chapped lipped, red cheeked, stiff fingered puffball.
Every time you jump into a mound of the white fluff that accompanies the dread season, some is bound to creep into your shirt and boots, freezing whatever it touches, and then ever so so slowly flowing along your skin, one of Gaia's little tortures.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 10:19 PM UTC
a different sort of nerves
run up and down my spine
this is new, this is taking
breath and spitting out
a lie, chewing on the
tacky bits of life yet
still forgetting you
will die;
because death falls
through the walls
and takes us even
if we cry,
if we lie;
death is deaf to
tacky pleas and
pulls our breath out of
the lungs
beneath our spines.
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 4:14 PM UTC
With this sky so black I must travel through the valley of thorns
With no light to guide my way
Pain, misery and I must travel alone
Beasts wait for me to die from hunger and isolation
I'm weak from my mind laying siege to my positive place
I give up and lay down waiting for these thorns to consume me like the others who have failed to cross this chasm of eternal nothing.
My eyes become heavy in waiting for someone to pass by who has the strength to pick me up and bring me to the other side
As my eyes close I see a red light too far to reach and too far to speak in the distance. Eerie yet beautiful lulling me towards it. So different so strange to this Valley of thorns.
I push myself up with all the pain and aching. All these thorns injecting into my palms and feet. I see only red as I stumble and fall towards this object.
Everything feels wet and tacky. I'm getting closer. I scream in pain as I reach for it. Something sharp and bold pierces my fleshy fingers.
I grab hold and my pain subsides. These colors I see disappear. I do not feel misery or isolation. I found the other side of the valley of thorns. That is the funny part, there is no other side. Only this thing to protect me from the thorns.
Just like that I found you, a Rose, in this Valley of Thorns.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 7:32 PM UTC
Driving around this valley of sheets
When I see a IHOP and realize
that a sudden hunger has come over me
They say Come Hungry, Leave Happy, and
with one glance at your buns, perfectly made
I realize that I have been staring far too long.
Like Taco Bell, I should Think Outside The Bun
But as I pass a Burger King I begin to wonder
how many possible ways there really are
to Have It Your Way, and as I lay you down
I smile at the thought of how wonderful the taste
of each one of your Baskin Robbins 31 Flavors will be.
While I start to undress you I pause, hesitant
With your smile and slow rhythmic breaths
a song bursts into my head with a just one tip
as if I'm at Cold Stone, and I think, just Let Yourself Go.
"Where to start?" I ask as I glance up at Subway
and I am reminded that I should always Eat Fresh.
I should go in slow, but I dive right in like a bucket of KFC
The scent of you, so enticing. The taste, Finger Lickin' Good
I'll savor every moment, and by the subtle McDonald's arches
that your back resembles, I'm Lovin' It and so are you.
I grab a handful at ******* and realize that this poem
is Delightfully Tacky, Yet Unrefined. Nonetheless,
I can tell by the look in your eyes that you are ready
Asking the same question that they ask at Wendy's
Where's The Beef?
Mar 28, 2011
Mar 28, 2011 at 1:30 PM UTC
The needle-tip,
a bee sting
giving rise to a hive.
A sickening delirium
coursing mercurial under eyelids,
tapeworms and tendrils
weaving wildly:
teeming, churning tides breaking over
greedy teeth (a needy mouth
flaying flesh ferociously,
a fevered wolverine
whipping through a petting zoo).
Each agonizing second
slowly sliding by,
tacky molasses on cloth
covering a table in an innocuous
American home
bruises on mother's face
fade (eggplant to jaundice
to the crimson of the setting sun
dying behind the horizon
line {chopped across a counter-top
like a broken promise...}).
All the lives we compromise
trying to cage a swarm.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
*we are witness to atrocities
committed by regime
over its peoples
over time*
1.
we are witness..
shattering glass of reality arranged into chosen shard-feeds
like omni-gov surveillance into meticulous mind-grafts
spluttering eternal-stats for public mind control
spewing mini-truths of perpetual war raids
disillusionment of history forever rewritten
control supply-and-demand
create dark-cloaked dilemma and monitor shortage and famine
make-believe elements so well played to auto-frenzied latch
thinking is degraded and actions.. well, less said
2.
diligent and loyal yet harbour secret-hatred
feed visions stilted by politrix
deception and manipulation
propaganda is the oleaginous-game by wand-over-mind
totalitarian is the kingpin-holder of cards
and yet, who is really being played!
eternal marionettes on a conveyor-belt
can't even play with yourself alone
your **** your **** your every move..
watched - surveyed - and studied
by that ubiquitous-bulge eye you cannot escape
right opposite your low hard-bed
you're broken into popping-parts
that YOU won't recognise!
thoughtcrime-police is gonna accost ya
get up, comrade.. get UUUUUUUUP!
3.
we are witness
life-tube covered in darkened vapour-swirls
we are witness
children conditioned to watch their parents.. too closely
we are witness
truth so smothered, now re-fed by repeat-metaphor
we are witness
dictata.. dictata..
we are witness
austere existence in a tacky one-room flat
we are witness
subsist on black-wheat and imitation-repast
we are witness
regurgitate the party-dialect on and on and on
(after a while, we end up half-believing.. )
*only the clock which strikes thirteen
can smell the charred-reality
as leftover-truth is shoved
into incendiary obsolescence*
tick-a-damn-tock
and that would be..
one
S T - 26 sept
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 11:53 AM UTC
Who are we dealing with today, the psychopath on the left or right? All hail to mouth from the North, East, West, and South; how else will you convince your audience with all that inner charm you truly don't possess. Your heart is never in the right place but your full lips seem to flap about like a flatulent **** hole. All things considered, you try to come off as, "I can do it all", but we all know deep inside you're one of the laziest of zodiacal signs. Who else is going to catch up on Hollywood gossip and the latest in tacky fashions, most you Geminians seem to don and adore. It's not all bad, I mean, about the only thing you might be good at is reading this critical review and dismissing it because, like all true psychopaths you still refuse to take a look at all 36 personalities.
Advice: Don't breathe...just leave this Universe, you piece of ****
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
Magazines, newspapers, letters strewn across
every table.
Flowerpots, paperweights, nick-knacks atop
every remaining empty surface.
"Tacky" was the word that first came to mind.
Ledges, counters, and all but one chair are drowned in the mess.
The last chair is the womans. She used to keep a few other chairs vacant in case of company, but
as she continued to grow slower she couldn't make the effort
and an extra chair was never needed anyway.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 8:27 PM UTC
And after knowing you for only a few weeks, we knitted our failures into a heinously tacky quilt. It scratched against our bare skin when we spent the night making love underneath it and kept us warm when we went outside to puff away the day's disappointments. The quilt got bigger everyday because you and I stopped caring about anything that was not each other. You, swallowed up by a sea of shortcomings and I, mummified by a warmth that blinded us from reality, became strangers. Now you are just a patch in the new quilt I am creating from battle wounds. It is thick and vibrant, even more coarse than the last. Underneath it, no one can touch me but myself.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 2:36 PM UTC
Today, I sent out at least another 10 advertisements of myself. It’s not fair. These potential employee seeking companies show me at least a thousand ads boasting about themselves, but I only got the time to send out a fraction of their words, and it’s somehow bad taste to show off my handsomeness. No pictures at all, just boring words, competing against the tacky hordes of plastic signs, overt lies, and labeled every things. I don’t even get any screen time, and if I could even afford it, they’d think I over did it. So I can’t use any ****** tricks to show my fluency in PR devilry? Y’all hypocrites.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
Your sun shining on my face through the tinted windows of restraint. Walls broken down though drop kicks and hammer hits. Crumbling to the ground with an earth shattering I love you.
Arms open take me home to somewhere unknown. To the distant unfamiliarity that I call comfort. Trust fall, head slamming smitten. Dazed as a tacky cartoon character. Blistering wind of happiness content.
To where I will go as the heart I carry. As a rock in my chest waiting to be moved by the storm of absolute ness. Walking through a curtain of shivers. Drop me to my knees as I fall forward. Catch me with your strong will and acceptance.
Be able to take this to a different dimension. Somewhere far away from what it once was. It being the thing that is not clear. The pure feeling of electricity in your touch of eel shock. Breathless and abandoned in pure form. Leave me elated again and I promise. I promise.... Ill show you
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 11:03 PM UTC
THE BOXING DAY SALES
WHAT CAN I SAY ABOUT THE BOXING DAY SALES
WELL, THE MALL IS OFTEN A PLACE FOR PEOPLE TO
DO THEIR STUFF, BUT BOXING DAY EVERYONE
IS PUSHING OVER EACH OTHER
THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH GOING TO THE MALL ON BOXING DAY
BUT BE PREPARED, IT’S LIKE ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE
YA SEE, PEOPLE BUY THINFS THEY NEVER USE
AND THE MOTHERS BUY KIDS LUNCH, NEVER GETS EATEN
KIDS RUNNING AROUND, SAYING YEAH WE AIN’T AT SCHOOL
LET’S CELEBRATE LET’S CELEBRATE
YOU SEE BOXING DAY IS THE FRANTIC DAY
IF YOU LIKE THE REGULAR DAYS AT THE MALL
NEVER GO ON BOXING DAY
CAUSE, THEY CALL IT BOXING DAY
CAUSE PEOPLE AT THE MALL BOX YOU OUT OF THE WAY
TO EXCHANGE THE TACKY COAT YOUR MOTHER BOUGHT YOU
TO A STYLISH RED LEATHER COAT, LOOKS BETTER AND COSTS THE FUCKEN EARTH
YA SEE IN MELBOURNE, THE BOXING DAY TEST, WITH AUSTRALIA AGAINST THE REST
AND THEN IN SYDNEY, IS THE SYDNEY - HOBART YACHT RACE, AND THAT IS RAD
AND OFTEN PEOPLE ARE CAMPED OUTSIDE SHOPPING CENTRES
TO GET FIRST GRASP AT THE BOXING DAY SALES
WITH ME, I SHOP FOR THE MOMENT, SOM I DON’T GET DISSAPOINTED
I DON’T NEED TO FALL ASLEEP OUTSIDE WESTFIELD BELCONNEN MALL
I AM USING PANADOL CAUSE ATHENA’S METHANE IS POUNDING
BUT THAT IS PREVIOUS LIFE TRAUMA, YA SEE THE PARACETAMOL IS REALLY GETTING IN
AND I CAN FEEL, WITH THE COCA COLA, AND REGULAR BRUSHING
THERE WILL BE ON INFECTION IN MY MOUTH, I DON’T WANT THAT
I PUT MY VIDEOS ON SOCIAL MEDIA TO ATTRACT A COOLER KIND OF PERSON
YA SEE, I DON’T NEED THE FIRST THINGS IN THE BOXING DAY SALES
I GET WHAT I WANT OUT OF LIFE, I REMEMBER A SONG
THE FESTIVAL OF SYDNEY IS OUR DAY, SYDNEY SYDNEY SYDNEY OI OI OI
I HAVE MY HOME NOW, SO I DON’T NEED TO HANG AT THE MALL AS MUCH
BUT CURRENTLY I AM DOING A TAPESTRY ON PATRICK DUNBARS LITTLE LEAGUE BASEBALL
I FEEL COOL, I FEEL ON TOP OF THE WORLD, LOOKING, OVER CREATION, LOOKING
THE ONLY SOLUTION I CAN FIND, AND AS I SANG FINE, PETER BUCHANAN
A MATE IN WOODBERRY IN THE 1970S, DID A REALLY COOL FINNNEEE
WITH A DEEPER VOICE, HE WAS COOOL MAN
I FAKED HIM TO PROVE A POINT TO THE YOUNG DUDES SAYING
JUST BECAUSE THE OTHER YOUNG DUDES UNDERSTOOD DAD’S WAY
DOESN’T MEAN I DID, HE LOOKED LIKE A REAL PAIN IN THE ***
TAKING MY COOL KID AWAY, BUT MUSTN’T DWELL, WE MUST HAVE FUN
I AM OFF TO THE CAVALRY MATCH TOMORROW, TO SEE THE FIRST
BUT I AM LEAVING AFTER THE FIRST MATCH, NO BUSES IN THE NIGHT
AND THE BOXING DAY SALES BRINGS OUT THE RIFF RAFF THE ROUGHER TYPES
AND THE CHEAP SUPERMARKET PUDDING JUNKIES LIKE ME WHO NEED TO GO TO THE MALL TO LEAVE THE HOUSE
BUT BOXING DAY SALES ARE FUN, IF YOU AIN’T IN THE INITIAL LINE
THAT CAN BE FRANTIC
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
Love is tacky.
Love is cheap.
Love is scrolling through an endless amount of ****** online dating profiles
on a Saturday night.
Love is not subtle.
Love is two people bargaining,
lying to each other,
lying to themselves.
Love keeps track of every misstep
so as to hold it against their partner in an ongoing war of attrition
so that they get to pick what to watch on Net-Flix.
Love does not rejoice in itself,
but does so on Facebook,
so that you can rub it in the face of your ex,
and all those friends that just really want to watch you fail.
Love is cheap.
*** with a price tag marked to sell.
Love is dead.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
I live in a small town with nice people.
Nice community theater people.
Nice non-swearing churchgoing people.
Nice people who keep their mouths shut and their eyes closed.
Nice people who live in ticky tacky houses and sweep their front porches.
Nice people with children who send text messages and drive to nowhere in the middle of the night.
Nice high school teaching, comfortably living people.
Nice mothers-and-fathers people with bright voices and dark eyes.
Nice bored people.
I live in a small town with nice people.
But occasionally they all go momentarily mad.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 2:04 AM UTC
To my first follower,
for taking the courage to click on the tab.
To my first like,
for taking precious moments reading my design.
To the ones who followed after,
for taking notice of my mind in pixelated patterns.
To all who shall come after,
I won't ignore the precious deed.
Thank you for the ones who stayed
as well as those who could not take any more of this ****
I know I am depressing, banal and even dull at times but
for each and everyone of you who thinks I am worth a heart;
I could not have asked for a better companion who shares
this lovely craft.
Let's continue awhile longer,
reading and writing
listening and trying
and since this is getting a bit tacky I'll end it here
remind all of you that I appreciate that seemingly simple click.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
I’ve had this red heart shaped locket
for 12 years now.
I got it as a gumball prize
at a rundown Chinese restaurant
(maybe in Germantown?)
A lot of the paint has chipped off
and the tiny keys to it are long gone.
What shows beneath the paint
is shinny tin.
When I was a tacky teen
I would wear it clasped around my
neck imitating Sid but not
knowing it.
I always wanted someone to give me
something like this
but I impatiently jumped the gun and
cranked the dial of the machine
myself,
and the tiny Valentine rolled out.
(SINCERELY, YOURS TRULY)
No sentiment to share.
Now I’m nearly 30
and it hangs on my key chain,
a teenaged 50 cent memory
amongst adult responsibility.
If you see me standing crossed arm at a show,
and spy my red locket,
know that I’m an advocate of
living in the past,
and harboring silly passions.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 1:24 PM UTC