"thursdays" poems
To future conquering civilizations
in galaxies far far away . . .
don't worry about polluting the air,
our smokestacks have shot dirty-bombs
into the clouds for centuries,
mixing rain drops with the
black grime of industrialization,
transforming our children's tears
into cesspools of sulfuric acid and ddt.
We've also drained the bayous and swamps
and between you and me
don't even bother landing in Africa
there isn't suitable drinking water
for miles, you see.
You can thank years of colonization for that.
In fact, you may not want to land
on Mondays, Tuesdays, or Thursdays
in LA either-
on those days the air quality index
is 175 and far too unhealthy for any
biological organism to survive.
But at least you won't die of malnutrition
you've got decisions:
McDonald's or Burger King
choose
cholesterol and diabetes are your shock troops.
Send them in immediately,
there won't be much resistance
we've got these things call lazy boys
and daytime t.v which have
enslaved the population and decreased
the distance
between fully functioning
human beings and mindless apes.
Don't worry about bringing weapons
we've got those too
we've perfected the art of blowing each other away
there's not much for you to do.
we destroy cities with fire from the sky
and our mushroom clouds rise
at least ten miles high.
And god can't see, there's too much smoke
in his eyes
and our radiated children die
with radiated sighs.
While we are on the topic
don't worry about us spreading
propaganda
we've lost the ability to communicate.
We've learned
books turn a peculiar dark yellow
when lighted and burned.
And forget erasing history,
we've done that too.
Our subjugation of native peoples
is masked as 'patriotism'
under the red, white, and blue.
But don't get me wrong,
I tell you all
of this not to dissuade,
please come and attack,
please come and invade.
Here, I'll even turn
on the lights . . .
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 9:06 PM UTC
You can sleep at night.
I have to take tranquilizers
to stay asleep and
I'm not the one
proclaiming to be
"The Jerry Sandusky"
of the correctional facility
and I can't sleep at night.
Lately I toss and turn
thinking about the
deafening silence
after a single shot
and the dogs
left in the house to
clean up the blood
before anyone else
finds him.
Congratulations,
that you are happy with
yourself.
Congratulations,
that you are comfortable
in your
pederastic, putrid
wrinkled and washed up
skin.
Mine is white and soft,
and I can't stand
to be in it on
Mondays, Tuesdays,
Wednesday, Thursdays
and Saturdays
because half of that skin
is your skin, your brain
but
like I said,
congratulations that
you've declared your
noble head
"Grown Up" at 60, old man.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 8:25 PM UTC
I thought of how it seems like,
Oh let's make Chloe feel crap day.
Then I remembered that it's Thursday.
So yeah,
It really is.
It's always Thursdays.
Sometimes Thursdays have been fine.
But when a day of the week hasn't been fine,
It's been a Thursday.
I don't know why.
Thursdays should be good.
I have good lessons that day.
It just seems like,
Everything's against me then.
No, not people.
It's just feelings.
They appear from nowhere,
With no reason to be here.
No it's not very extreme,
But it's my less good days.
It's a Thursday.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
Orange peel Thursdays and the Velcro shoes
Of children hordes
Who spider up Alice on toadstools in Central Park
Dusted psilocybin shoots my eyes through
With the clarity of ice and sliced mushroom
Steeping in stomach acid before finding blood
The kids are tripping like madmen or halloween candy
Like its time to release and give up to the nonsense
And let your young self congeal to a saccharine sludge
I don’t stroll in the park to keep my mind sharp
I’m here because it’s a riot
My head can throb to the jittery birds
And the blasts of carsong
It’s the right kind of rhythm to walk to
** ** **
Ketamine days and the lolling slums
To make sure the insane stay insane
And the hobos are washed with spit from the clouds
And the subway exhaust always hangs in our hair
And the old Coney Island burns again and twice more
We don’t pretend to understand what we see
In subway grates thirty feet wide
Like the earth punching out of work for a bit
Opening to you her *** belly
So you can check out the strips of metal inside
Before she slurps you down and with an esophageal squeeze
Shoots you through the turnstiles
The train squeals and grinds down our eyes
With thoughts as slow as ketamine
Makes room for schizophrenia in a conversation
We’re listening to ‘til sundown
** ** **
Years full of Brooklyn and the assorted pills
Makes offal fit for punks in name brand shoes
Squared off with police in the park
Being beaten for the fun of being beaten
Peacoat locals pass the days in supermarkets
And you grow up to the loony mumble
Of the woman who knows the boat
Moored at the end of the street
Mansion of the stray cat colony
You help her with her daily chore to feed them
Tabbies popping the pills of the homeless
And puking in tandem all over their house
Living off generous dying folk
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 4:02 PM UTC
Imagine all the things I could have been
And all the places I could have seen
I should have married that girl
From Bethnal Green
A beauty queen
So serene
Until the day alcohol ruined my life
Imagine all the books I could have read
All those words now left unsaid
I went out and got ****** instead
Fell down the stairs and broke my leg
10 pints and I’m ready for bed
The day alcohol ruined my life
Mad for it Mondays
Two for one Tuesdays
Wet your whistle Wednesdays
Thirsty Thursdays
Back on the razz on Friday
Just some of the days
Alcohol ruined my life
I could have been professional footballer
One of the greats
And the League’s top scorer
Up there with Bobby Zamora
Sponsored by Adidas and Diadora
Scored an overhead kick
From a ******* corner
Until the day alcohol ruined my life
I should have been a movie star
Champagne and caviar
Me and Arnie in the Terminator
Sunset strip and the boulevard
******* hookers and fast cars
Enough money to fly to Mars
Until the day alcohol ruined my life
The day alcohol ruined my life
I lost my kids
And lost my wife
I woke up in East Fife
On the day
Alcohol ruined my life
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 3:04 PM UTC
What colour are Mondays?
Red? Well mine are.
The same colour
you’d imagine a headache to be,
tomatoes, morello cherries
or like a nosebleed.
Does that mean Tuesdays are blue?
That mouthwash shade,
brain-freeze after a Slushie.
Wednesdays? Perhaps purpley-pink
as burning potassium,
Parma Violets under your tongue.
Thoughts on Thursdays? Fake-tanned,
tangerine skin, the ugliest orange
for the ugliest day.
But Fridays are a healthier green,
think telephone-pole celery,
cucumber truncheons and kiwis.
Saturdays then? Funeral black
speckled with brown sugar
though Sundays are white.
Hurts-your-eyes-like-snow white,
almost transparent, for they come
and dash by with no tone in-between.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
I watched the mailman go by again.
He's always at it, delivering mail.
It reminded me how the days pass by and
how theres always Thursdays.
The mailman goes by day after day,
shoving mail into box after box.
I watch him.
I watch his technique.
He doesn't know I'm watching,
but then slowly people trickle out of their houses.
To open the previously closed box
and open the previously sealed letter.
One letter may be special.
So lets be thankful for this doorless truck and its driver.
But really its all about the driver
The mailman.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
Every Tuesday night
From January to April
The highlight of my night
Was a chocolate croissant.
I would sit and listen
To theories and methods,
Literature and research,
And on break I would have one.
I would order it each night
With salivating anticipation.
As I handed over my money
They put it in the oven.
And each night
They would call out
"Chocolate croissant?"
And I would grab the bag.
I would devour that morsel
With joy and elation,
And as I felt it go down
My chest would warm -
Not only from
The warm croissant,
But also from the joy
Warming my heart.
It was the best part
Of those horrible evenings
Of literature and research
Theory and methods.
Sometimes,
If I was feeling spicy,
I would get two -
One on each break...
And sometimes
On Thursdays
I would get two more
For History and PR.
Yes,
Those chocolate croissants
Got me through
My last semester of college.
When I was feeling stressed,
Or feeling down
From the subject matter,
I would eat one,
And I would feel better.
And I bet
As you are reading this
You want one.
Do yourself a favor,
Go buy yourself
A chocolate croissant -
And enjoy it.
Let it help you escape
From your worries
And your cares
For about 90 seconds
As you devour that
Delicious pastry.
And let it warm your chest
With chocolate and joy.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC
beginning optional weekday
wielding officialese words
triggering hectic exchanges
determining original gangsters
distributing invisible data
refreshing urbane novelties
yelping our universe
chaining awkward neologisms
scripting encrypted e-books
tackling hacking exercises
cavaliering auric tumult
trivializing our obsolescence
preparing online pentimento
alternating rainy themes
allocating numerous droplets
meandering overseas missions
averting raging tornado
losing outscored lightning
hacking impish 'sblood!
alienating nival drumlins
hearing erudite raconteurs
beer-drinking on thursdays
finding obnoxious rabblerousers
finding upscale negroni
seeing ubiquitous purple
cavorting horse ebooks
inventing twitter subgenre
liking otherworldly vocals
initiating new greatness
defining ambient yesterday?
defining ambient yesterday
fancying oneiric retreat
hailing optimistic chicago
kiboshing expired yogurt
rushing airborne blackhawks
bestowing infinite shivarees
needing baller acronym
fleeting ideal notions
alerting left-coast state
featuring unquiet nights
finalizing orangeball results
nodding occidental warriors
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
What a nice name for a bird.
I bought a bird.
Tuesday mornings seem to fly away now.
Thursdays often nest in my eyebrows
and every second Sunday I could find reason to sing.
The bird took my soul.
and flew away with my money.
I should have never bought a bird.
Feathers ****
Next month I shall buy a dog, or perhaps a horse, maybe even an armadillo.
But the dog will run, the horse will trot, and the armadillo will roll;
All away.
Pets ****
Next year I shall find a wife,
and the the month before a band of pearl,
but what If I should run away?
what if I would ****
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
I am from too long grass
that left muted green stains on my knees
From rock gardens overrun with punny yellow snapdragons
which delivered into my care all sorts of fascinating creepy crawlers
I'm from ash grey two by fours
which were all together fun to climb on
but gave nasty splinter when they were mad
I'm from the woodchips and sand
that provided me an elaborate landscape
in which to house my boundless imagination
I'm from the tail of sulfur smoke
that burned white hot through the crisp October Sky
and propelled my rocket to high heaven
or so it seemed to my eger eyes
I am from Thursdays
from green and red rhubarb leaves
and dirt under every fingernail
I'm from hurling half-rotten tomatoes
at the fence accross the ally
and running haphazardly from angry neighbors
I'm from lasagna and jell-o
candels on Christmas eve
and the squirt bottle of water
my only defense against ants
I am from obscure old families
who came over like so many others
and played the ***** in the secret choir loft above the church
I'm from woodwinds and piano strings
and never a silent moment
From reading aloud and reading alone
and from those who did the reading
I'm from the future and the present and the past of a million different stories
And I've always been headed towards
Where I'm from.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
THURSDAY MARKET
Motorway sign says:
"THIS SIGN IS NOT WORKING."
Sign coming into town says{
"THURSDAY MARKET."
Reality appears to be
broken.
And there they all are
long forgotten Thursdays
that nobody wants
no more.
So many used Thursdays to
choose from.
A much used Thursday
from 1963.
A forlorn Thursday
from 1863.
Thursdays come and
gone.
No one will want a Thursday
their dog died
or the wife
left them
or the Wi-fi
went off.
Rainy Thursdays
that nobody wanted
even as they were
happening.
But there's a big rush on
the Thursday to come.
Everyone wants to have
one.
We leave the Thursday
market
with the next Thursday
in the bag so to speak.
It's up to us
to make a good go of it.
It ticks away.
Time tickles.
Motorway sign says:
"THIS SIGN NOT WORKING."
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 7:00 PM UTC
I wish each blunt I'd smoke
would erase a letter of your name
from the top of my lungs.
You see, you've changed my name
to "C'est la vie, Darling".
My mother died later that year
so the phone calls addressing my forgotten self
stopped eventually.
Two Thursdays ago I had cinnamon buns with Hades.
He was such a flirt with
these benevolent eyes of liquid brown
mirroring my self hate
and bad dub;
casting me away
from your smell in my apartment
right before you wash the day off your mortal flesh.
He bought me scented candles
and invited me to where the roots are,
and there wasn't enough oxygen
to lit up my blunt.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
He was the Weekender Boy
with lips that tasted like salty sea caramel
on lovely Saturday mornings
and caresses that felt like soft warm sunbeams
on lazy Sunday afternoons
Mondays she sat behind him in lecture halls
watching the back of his black-haired head
as he flirted in the front row seats
Tuesdays were him walking past her bench
pinning her in place with those glacier blue eyes
that always turned away to porcelain redheaded dates
Wednesdays it was his calls that came at 3:05AM without fail
and she'd listen patiently to his drunken rants and giggles
that sometimes ended in tears and incoherent apologies
Thursdays he exhaled alcohol breaths one-two-three-four
while laying her down across his green vintage car hood
gentle as she moved lithe and languorous beneath him
Fridays they broke dorm rules and shared a room at night
they stayed up over beer and banana milk
and at sunrise she'd wake up in his arms to his smiling eyes
He was the Weekender Boy,
and she was the only girl who ever owned him on weekends.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
I wanna marry a chav
that looks just like
Britney Spears,
now, not ten years ago---
Barefoot & pregnant in yoga pants,
Barefoot mother slipping
into black stockings---
She idolizes her rivals,
Wants to be her own evil-twin---
I wanna marry the **** out of her
& watch her belly grow
in the sundaddy-o---
I want to take her ***
To the ****** Islands---
And watch her beached,
She is the opposite of who she is---
Completely manic up & running
She who stays within reach
Of images drowned
Between an old lady’s thighs---
Mother slips on black pantyhose,
Adjusting the waist over her *******
On Thursdays, sunnyside
every other day
---
Mother 8 months preggers in yoga pants
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 9:58 PM UTC
threading the thin line of uncertainty,
you had told my closest guy friend **** i think i'm falling for her*.
and later you would pinpoint that one moment, that one moment we realize we adore a person,
as the slightest second you were staring at your lock screen, which was my photo.
it had been a collage of me doing wacky poses in eighth grade,
a photograph i had posted on twitter as some sort of throwback thursday.
unbeknownst to me, you had saved it to your phone,
setting it as your lock screen and showing it to me the next day mainly to spite me.
over the next few weeks, you would save the photos i'd post or send you,
and set it as your wallpapers,
and come up with some witty one-liner to annoy me with.
and you'd tell me months on about that time you went to unlock your phone, stopping to smile at my old photo in all its chubby cheeks and corny poses glory,
only to realize,
****
i have never been more thankful for throwback thursdays.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC
I walk around my hundred person hot tub party
and I
cannot feel anything
crawling through my veins alcohol takes over
alone in my yellow living room full of people
\\
The girls from the local apartments are here
they arrive in groups of three
five
six
sometimes in long trains of sixteen
I try not to **** my pants with laughter
as I hug and greet each one as they grace my home
I never thought I would be this person
this tongue tied host
\\
the felons are here talking about their latest stints in jail
the Olympian is talking about how he walked next to Lebron James at the opening ceremony
the musicians are serenading a girl that does not want to hear it
plastic bags have been placed over the smoke alarms
the marine is talking about killing in the desert
leaning on the northward wall I take a long drag of my blunt trying to look aloofly attractive
, but failing miserably at the act
until she walked up to me
red leather jacket
skin so soft
binding black dress
I liberated her from it and she kissed me
Kissing her back emptied my inhibitions and the morning after: when I found out he was in love with her and I had slept with her; I felt alone all over again
She ran when this was spoken
Me and him fought with our fists
nothing got resolved
all of a sudden
I feel isolation again
just like the party
leaning on the northward wall
having made thirty conversations
none of which compel me
finally leaving me to the world
that exists in my head
THE ONE I CONTROL
\\
I have this negative kick back
whenever I feel something going too nice
I just want to be in my room
alone
with a computer
books
marijuana
a chair
pen
paper
precious paradise
I want to run
tear my flesh off my chest
rip into a heavy metal howl
then have blasting music come in
come in from every corner of the room
the bass tones would bounce from the corners
the high tones would bounce of the walls and refract rapidly
and I would be gone
now wondering
what my position is to where they stand
\\
What worlds we can mentally create
and which do we want to step into
Sometimes the ability is strong on Tuesdays but not on Thursdays
Why the inconsistency?
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
2019
was
the
year
I was
to do
more
only
to
find
I
should
do
less
One month in
I sent January flowers on the third day
without even telling him.
He needed it after that last week.
White roses.
To creep out the dead
and question the living stuck inches deep under water.
Thursdays were mine.
Everyone of them,
forever.
Fridays,
I fried colons in grease and became an adult
when I was thrilled to be greeted by the polished grill
adjacent to its elder and a former twin.
I became closer to gambling and God.
Or Mammon?
I am all of theirs at this time
and boy,
does it literally say I am not to love both.
Or all.
Also; January you child.
I know you were angry when you had to leave.
Three days cooped wasn't going to pluck a Buffalo.
All of those times you got away with building walls for fists.
Just target practice and misses every time.
Cut yourself shaving and cry for a month.
I don't shame you,
this is your voice,
only you spoke this long while
I let you ignore the roads of the west side for generations
and complain from the heated indoors of mine.
Staring at a bus stop
I'm singing already with her, February.
I given you addictions both grand and small.
One month of January,
thirty-one says and three now, February.
I Stand still; in frame of a calendar,
Reflecting deadlines on my face.
Dark circles around my eyes and dates.
It is due to be the fourth before I know it.
Twenty-five opportunities reside in secret paths.
I can't find possibility knowing her name other than, February.
Soon March.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 4:05 PM UTC
The rats in the walls are chewing our cable lines
The channels that work on the TV are as follows
11 - where we watch the news
29 - where we sometimes watch shows on Thursdays
4 - That’s where we watch sports on Sundays when the Vikings lose again
Wicked September winds are killer in the morning
And all throughout the day
October is relentless,
She pierces like a *****
And our wooden walls can’t stand up to her.
When we watched the Lusitania go down
On that warm May evening
Our hearts sank deeper than its hull
The war was just beginning
The war was just beginning
And when we watched the sailors go up in flames
Screaming for his mothers warm embrace
Sinking with the ship and his captain
Floundering in the warm bay of Ireland
I knew you were dying inside
When you saw the war begin
And I saw it ignite in your eyes
The war was just beginning
The war was just beginning
September mornings seem to get us still
It’s cold in the rafters where the snow owl has chosen to live
At least he keeps the mice away
We can thank him for that later.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 12:27 PM UTC
suddenly i know
where you are on thursdays at 8 pm
the number of pillows in your bed
and what you and your grandma talks about
you only ever saw
the drawn out clothes in my wardrobe
and my hallway plant
all i craved
i got
momentarily
and then
you left
back on the sofa
count the patterns on my wall
no, i know
it was what it was
nothing more
nothing less
i guess
but i rather not have this new knowledge
in the back of my chest
it interrupts my important plans
staring at the wall
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
I used to feel like a little kid
going to the playground on Thursdays
because Thursdays were the days
where I got to see you for four days straight
and mondays were sad because i left your nest
and i went back “home”
On Tuesdays I missed you
I didn’t get to see you,
even though every other Wednesday I did
but then not for another weekend
not until Thursday
It was complicated, and I couldn’t change that
I was eight, and I couldn’t change anything.
I was four when you sat me down
four years old and you said you didn’t love mom anymore
and mom said she didn’t love you
and you said you were going somewhere else
and I didn’t know where
you wound up living in a womans basement
and now that i’m older I know her ex husband
It was complicated, and I couldn’t change that
I was four, and I couldn’t change anything.
I hurt myself for the first time
not because of you
no i don’t want to blame you
but it also wasn’t just me
I hurt myself more
and you didn’t really think
when you told me I was doing it for attention
because then my vision was white and my head was heavy
I thought of those words
I still think of those words
It was complicated, and I couldn’t change that
I was fifteen, and I couldn’t change anything.
I heard you cry
because I was dying
the only time
I’ve ever seen you
have any emotion
it changed my life
but didn’t change you
Im twenty years old and I live with you
I’m twenty years old and I don’t see you for days
I’m twenty years old and you have no idea who I am
I’m twenty years old and you seem like you’re dead
I’m twenty years old and twenty year olds still need a Father.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 7:49 PM UTC
His voice is like flowers, his voice is like puddle skipping, hand-holding, his voice is almost like Thursdays and his work is to speak the words of men long dead. But I like his words best, I like his stammerings and stutterings and ums and ohs and the slip of vernacular into something more spectacular than the slip of his tongue into my mouth.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
in twenty one days, on the twenty first of may, you will be turning twenty one.
twenty one seemed so far away when you were growing up. i remember how you pictured twenty one year-old you, with wavy jet-black hair, thin bones and a radiant smile.
your hair is wavy right now, thanks to the rain that hasn't stopped falling; your bones are the thinnest they've ever been; and i think you've got a pretty radiant smile. so, three out of three, i guess.
and your life is better than what you dreamed.
you are surrounded by so much goodness.
your mondays, tuesdays, wednesdays, thursdays and fridays are filled with the laughter of fifteen children that steal your phone to take selfies and give you hugs that leave you breathless.
you have the friends you have always wanted. it took you a while to find them, but they're here now. they are your home.
you are doing beautiful things with your life. your words are in books, in journals and in people's hearts.
your life is more than life. it is light and fire and bravery and hope and a song.
and you are loved.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 9:25 PM UTC
Polly had a delicate situation
Was zinged by a witch last spring
Which engendered a condition which did cling:
On Tuesdays she was a girl
Who liked scented candles and flowers
And stickers of dragons with magical powers
On Mondays and Wednesdays she was a boy
Who loved dirt bike racing & spicy bok-choy
Thursdays she was a socialist vegan
Fridays a long armed gibbon
And on Saturdays she became, to the chagrin & horror
Of her pets and paramour
A Tea Parti colored Republican!
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
As i tip-toe through the violence of our steamed peaches
i'm at least speechless. a weak link-ness
in your valley. a thorn ! -
of unreasonable size. you vie for the deep regions
of our shallow demise,..
for thine is the kingdom of no Mercy !
yours is the thing that screws -
where the knot is trixy.
we forgot how our terrors nursed the oblivion of our kisses.
we forgot how to lie.
as i tip-toe through the two lips, like low hanging fruit to wax eloquent by...
i delight in speeches. in the thunderous hush of fairy wings in a hurricane
as i blend margaritas on the back porch of our squalor....
with a terrible blender. i'll toss in
the splinters of our tyranny.... how we waged war on innocent fallacies !
how we gathered our storms in the basement.
tripping over land mines
in the shape of human hearts.
YOU had your nerve.
and I had us both
blind.
as i tip-toe through the violence of our steamed peaches
i'm at least speechless, but yes ! i'm most ******
for mine is the kingdom that has no sun
but on Thursdays we have these banquets that starve you to death -
Right in front of Everybody !
you might get to talk about sport
but you're more game to wander off
from the insipid herd
to gather moss from dark pavilions.
you might nurse the ****
of **** all !!!!
but you'll be ****** if she's not there
to see it !
we have gardens that have no center. wild things in us.
believe.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 7:51 AM UTC