"thwack" poems
He thwack no metronome to kick oneself
Thwack his **** sucker
With his monolithic flaccid trunk rubber
Me and my Dalek doped
And my excrement unsweetened
Copulate in the open without my jockstrap
You shat encrusted to what you deflowered
So at arm’s length ****** from all that we excreted in the wind’s eye
And I bounce a bedevilled backwash
My incredibles are shafted
I’ll **** **** to Arab
We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones
I croaked a hundredweight arsonists
You **** posterior to her
And I **** **** to…
I **** **** to myself
I ****** you powerfully
The body beautiful’s not enough to go round
You enjoy spanking and I wallow in *********
And ***** is like a tobacco teabag
And I’m a bijou **** coming the corsets in custody
We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones
I croaked a hundredweight arsonists
You **** posterior to her
And I **** **** to…
Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab
I **** **** to…
I **** **** to…
We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones
I croaked a hundredweight arsonists
You **** **** to her
And I **** **** to Arab
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC
O'er the South landscape a force did attack
Whipping winds thrashed furiously about
Buildings were smashed down by the great thwack
Angrily the tornado voiced its tout
People cowered neath protective cover
The skies were tinged in a grey green rage
Twas like a roaring train passing over
The ghastly scene was of utter carnage
Driving rains fell they added more insult
Oklahoma's South witnessed devastation
Nature had reeked an awful assault
A twister caused so much destruction
The tornado was of powerfulness
All in its path under extreme duress
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
The thing is, you can’t ignore that graceful lament-
The teal heaving of your chest-
The wash of questions in your head
That exquisitely hold pinpricks of the future.
There’s a brand of groan you know well
That belongs to feeling unresolved.
That noise you make when you’re a painting without a face,
When you’re two lines of a song that’s lost to the breeze,
When you’re a cup of water dribbling through careless hands,
That noise is the growl of restless dreaming.
There is a struggle to unpin yourself
From the avalanche of time
That has pooled thickly around your legs.
You try to kick, but it moves like molasses.
Slower than a hard thwack to a non-newtonian fluid.
Pointless as collecting antique doorknobs.
There is an urge to catch a destiny by the tail
Like you’re somehow prepared right now,
Like there’s nothing left to learn.
How fortunate you are that perceived linear realities
Can curve the hubris of your linear fantasies.
And yet there’s that gnawing need,
A craving that demands surrender,
That all too graceful lament,
Of being forced to take the smallest of steps
on the greatest of adventures.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 4:06 AM UTC
She was a pretty, little mosquito
that conspired to fly away
once she'd gotten herself
Secretly
pregnant from him
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 5:15 AM UTC
Last year's version of the mind-body problem:
my mind gives orders that my body won’t obey.
It’s a problem.
The body’s warranty has expired and
spare parts are scarce. Plastic tubes
To help me drain have become part of my day.
So there’s still a will. But sometimes no way.
I am now my sister’s age when she died.
And some nights
as I lie down in darkness
there’s a moment of wondering
could this be the night
of the Great Reckoning
when everything I’ve said and done
goes mute and I am gone.
And crawling over me like a slow stain
is dread that everything important in life
has already happened. I remember some days
less than my dreams.
But friend, not this tone!
Let us write a history of now.
Body and soul, stand up and shout
“Baseball road trip!”
Car: check. Best friend: check. Nostalgia for a simpler
time. We can fake that one.
The red zigzags on our map turn into places:
Six ballparks in a week.
Detroit haze, gasping Chicago wind,
Milwaukee self-serve micro brew
Cincinnati chili and watering eyes,
Cleveland’s defiant self-love,
Pittsburgh’s Primanti brothers monstrosity sandwich—
Burger, coleslaw, and fries on toast.
The American dream tastes like fast food,
But the mystery lives between the lines.
Thwack of fastball into catcher’s glove,
Whock! of line drive into the gap,
Ball rolling free across the green
While the runner speeds for home.
Home.
Let’s keep going, friend.
There’s another bridge up ahead and
a ballpark’s lights shining somewhere in the dusk
of the upper Midwest and the open road
unrolls toward the setting sun.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 7:16 PM UTC
She lets me try it on.
I want it. But I don’t get presents like she does.
It’s beautiful. Bright with a white, fluffy trim. Zip and
poppers all the way up.
She widens her eyes. Twists her hands into claws
and she says “Little Red, come here and climb into bed…”
I laugh. Her wolf sounds just like Grandma.
Ma swings her arm back. I stop.
She turns to see what’s changed. It isn’t funny anymore.
I hear the thwack as Ma’s hand connects with her nose. It
was an accident.
Should’ve been the side of her head.
Now there’s blood.
She buries her face, wraps her arms round my waist.
A darker red blooms on the nylon.
She calms down but she’s shaking. We untangle and I help
her on with the coat.
I don’t want it.
We wait for a while in silence; shredding lollypop sticks,
peeling the top off an old lemonade-can.
She starts to cut neat, tiny crosses into her fingertips.
Not deep.
But I’ve seen enough. I feed the lollypop sticks and
lemonade-can to the cracks between the planks of the pier.
The hood covers her eyes completely. I think she’s stopped
crying.
“You look just like Little Red” I tell her.
She says “Maybe I am.”
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 4:40 PM UTC
I started at the edge of my seat.
Subconsciously found my way to my feet.
I look at the mound, and then at the plate.
This is our chance.
Our one last hope.
He steps in the box with a glare at the mound.
First with the right,
And then with the left.
Bottom of the 9th with two men out.
Come on, batter, just relax.
Down by one with a man on first.
A tingle runs up and down my spine.
There goes a strike.
Now there's two.
Down to our last...
Then a ball comes through.
The count one and two.
Here comes another.
Now two and two.
A strike or a ball?
Only the pitcher knows for sure.
He winds his body up
And then follows through.
THWACK
This one's headed for the wall.
The crowd stares in awe as we look at the ball.
The fielder runs back, but stops at the track.
Before I knew it, he was touching em' all!
A fist in the air as he rounds first base.
He claps his hands as he rounds second.
When he reaches third he shakes someone's hand.
He touches home plate and I take off my hat.
And that's how we won with one swing of the bat.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 4:23 AM UTC
Deeply, I tremble.
Courage, I must try to assemble.
Limbs shake.
My stomach does so quake.
Calming breaths, I attempt to take.
I scold myself, thinking: *Come on girl, get a ******* grip!*
Feeling yet another crack of the whip…..
Hold it in! I beg to myself, biting my lip.
But from my eye one tear manages to slip.
Block out all of the light.
Holding on so tight.
I try to **** every instinct especially the one calling for me to fight.
THWACK!
A gut-wrenching scream I cannot hold back…
The edges of my vison are now framed in black…
Not long now, I’ll be away from this
My last thought as I slowly sink into the abyss.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 9:46 AM UTC
O peaceful moon, shining gently o'er the fields,
In your soft light I see a tree, a hedge, a glistening pond;
And the soft night sounds of rustling reeds and swaying boughs
Intermingle with the nightly warfare of a million creatures.
But hark! From the new housing estate across the park
There comes a rather different sound. Through an open window
Comes the healthy thwack of flesh on flesh and muffled shrieks of joy
As Isaac and Wendy Bumsenfotze indulge themselves un peu.
Isaac's got his gasmask on, and his rubber flippers too
And (speaking candidly) looks an unattractive proposition
Especially now his skinny chest towers o'er his massive ********
All four mighty manly inches of it from tip to curlies.
Lying trussed up on their bed, atop its needed rubber sheeting,
Lies Sam, their well-trained patient pedigree crossbred donkey,
Upon whose good-natured, hirsute, unsuspecting person
Nameless atrocities have often been performed in Eros' name.
What are they going to do tonight? I bet you'll never guess.
Well, Wendy's strapped her ***** on and intends to use it first
On Ikey's waiting well-lubricated back end
And then it's Sam's turn and ***** the R.S.P.C.A.
And while Sam is getting poked by loving Wendy,
Old Ike will not be idle: camera-phone in one hand
And mail-order sjambok in the other, he'll record
Their motions and lacerate them both simultaneously.
Underneath his gasmask, Isaac gets a bit sweaty and excited,
And once their party's over all three will doze off:
A truly lovely scene. But they will be soon by woken by
The morning sun glittering on Wendy's cast-off legirons.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
Dedicated to Mike Evans & Wendell Griffin…for their great approach to the King of sports, Golf.
Loosen up, feeling good,
Back swing nice and smooth
Power stroke an easy glide
A solid thwack to move
That golf ball into orbit,
Disappearing into air,
Diminishing like angel dust
On a trajectory so fair.
Looking good, nice and straight
In parabolic curve
At apex point it hesitates,
No breezes cause a swerve
Plummeting to emerald grass
The ball bounces on the green
To travel in a perfect arc,
The best I’ve ever seen,
It teeters at the cup lip
To roll around the rim
And by the grace of God,
That golf ball vanishes within!
The day at once looks perfect
The morning light pristine,
The singing birds in trees
Throw brilliant shadows to the green.
I peer into the cup
To see my sweetest dimpled ball,
That darling Dunlop eight
Henceforth shall grace my trophy wall.
My name will feature on the cup
Atop the clubhouse shelf
And the bar room shout for all the boys
Should put a large dent in my wealth.
But the wonder, the wonder,
The spangled wonder of it all
Will have me grinning foolishly
Whenever I recall,
That magnificent stroke
Towards that iridescent green
When I scored a hole in one
And drank a toast to Golf and Queen.
Marshalg
@ the Bach
Mangere Bridge
12th January 2009
Jan 7, 2010
Jan 7, 2010 at 10:31 PM UTC
What could I have done to
deserve this?
He walked into my class a god
My father with love in his eyes
and burning anger
What could I have done to
deserve this?
He beckoned to the tired looking
Mathematics teacher to stop--
It struck me hard like thunder
A resounding knock on my head
What could I have done to
deserve this?
Thwack! Thwack!
In my fifty third year I can feel my head
still burning
What could I have done to
deserve this?
My father has zero tolerance for
Indiscretion
This, he told me repeatedly --
But not once with his mouth
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 3:58 AM UTC
flowers don't bloom in me
anymore,
they died a long time ago.
but look at the dirt on the floor,
where other dead things
grow.
like
prickly desert cactus,
or
ugly brown grass
constant lonely practice
staring in the looking glass
where'd the colours go
that resided in my eyes
did they fly with the wind flow
whatever they thought wise?
do they not hear my cries
as they soar in the skies
i need motivation down here
but instead I'm filled with
fear.
how do i get to success?
...and when you ask what that means to me
i'll tell you lesser stress,
a cleaner mess,
and this all sounds so blessed
when theres facts, nothing to guess.
my mind plays games
no one else has to play
if they knew the rules they'd never stay
I've been at it long enough as it eats at my brain
but id like to grow back;
roll the bowling ball in the other lane.
grow my flowers, get back on track,
because thats what really should be in me
even if i have to whack and thwack,
i'll win these games.
i want to be free;
so i will be.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
She lay in his bed
Scenes of tunnels & trains
& thoughts of trite moosh run through her head
when young she saw him different
with a quiff
& a whiff of CK on levis
& a watch with LED lights
& a t-shirt blue, skin tight
but with fashion aside
her passion subsides
when he enters not so gently,
did not test the waters
did not guess it was low tide
During the evening they danced
They got down to steady trance
But now it seems he’s in free time
A strange rhythm, so contrived
He doesn’t look like he knows it
Doesn’t seem like type
To quote ornette coleman
In the dark of the night
He has the feel of squashed fruit
And the thwack of a wet sock
Flooped out like misplaced steps
Of a horse learning to walk
The night entertainment then,
Condemned to an eye on a clock
Whilst sharing sweaty absorbence
& not at all evenly proportioned
the most obtuse solos
are always too long
and if made into a duet
it’s just awkward & wrong
one face polite
as one face holds strong
held strong in the notion
it is the king of this realm, his own
like a deluded ****** rock star
with an out of tune guitar
& a confused young groupie
rebelling against her ma & pa
in the end he doesn’t sell it
rather he gives it away
& she is obliged to take it
to carry on the shared charade
a feeble dance of pretence
not to shatter the held façade
of a bullied masculinity
of a young boy fully charged
of a girl swooned by a conman
albeit not well disguised
she convinced herself a prince of sorts
fit to break past her royal guard
she leaves bored & unfulfilled
while he sleeps sound & proud
her dreaming of a prince she’ll soon meet
with a better sense of time
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
In a brutish manner
I raise a glass to Billy Collins
my lips stained purple,
from
seven ninety-nine ($)
dark Chilean wine
that is infused with strawberries, cherries,
and do I detect the taste of…alcohol?
My packaged delights, basics from Safeway.
Green, red, white vegetables with origins unknown
had clattered, frozen, out of a bag, not fifteen minutes ago
I snap the bag with a satisfying thwack,
the chicken is ready from a microwaved attack.
But the noodles, oh, so sweet.
Plump little bags of cheese and oh--brie!
Sweet no matter what sauce, I drown and I savor
Wrapping the package with greens and with flavor.
I curl up in repose, stuffed to the brim
swirling my glass, getting seconds again.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
steam-roller log-pipe and blackberry moonshine, granny-apple moonshine--straight-potato-thwack... three firelit mason-jars of lighter-fluid fire, balanced on a railing; our Rumpelstiltskin host at length shouts, "Hide it! Hide the shine!" as headlights dim the moon, "Cops" is mumbled each to each; but no, wait--it's his buddy and his wife, come to sell some ginseng weeks before the violent umbel-berry date, a pretty $50,000 supplement to living, breathing mountain dirt
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 9:58 AM UTC
Barefoot on a cattle's back
Old as dust, painting it's children
with powdery track
the dry grass its den
the bear of the fields
does it step forward
do I step back?
from the cattle's back
titter totter tat
covered in dust
Thwack
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
When I was a child, we’d lived on the edge of some woods,
Slightly hilly land, crossed with the odd stream or cowpath.
I’d walked there frequently, aimlessly,
Throwing the occasional stone here and there
(Skimming the smaller ones off the surface of the creek,
Displacing mosquitoes and dragonflies,
The larger rocks reserved for thickets of trees,
Rewarding me with a rich thwack if the missile found its target.)
Once I had tossed a great gray projectile
(All but shot-put sized, probably nicked and nibbled
By fossilized trilobites on its edges)
Into a stand of old horse chestnuts,
But the sound that emerged was not the woody report expected,
But an anguished and almost astounded cry,
Nearly human in its astonishment and pain.
I’d winged (more than that, in truth **** near killed)
A hawk sitting inexplicably low in the branches.
In my panic and puzzlement, I’d wrapped the bird in my jacket
(The hawk all but shredding its lining,
Adding to my mother’s already fervent agitation
Over having a wild bird in her kitchen not destined for the oven)
And taken it home, where we’d put it in a cage
(Not a bird cage per se, but the old crate for our dog
Who had wandered into these woods
A few months before when she’d sensed her time was at hand)
Where it sat silently for a couple of days,
Refusing food, water, or any other succor,
Simply staring at us with a searing look conveying a hatred
Which transcended species, language,
Any and all experience a child may have been privy to,
As, in those fresh-scrubbed, clean-linen days of youth,
I had nothing of the hawk’s knowledge of cages.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 9:21 AM UTC
Are you feeling caterpillars in your stomach?
Will you give me a wedge of religion to chew on?
Is it possible, two weeks after moving in
to a third-floor apartment on the outskirts of town
I’ll discover hairs in the sink
like skinny black maggots,
wounds on the couch from a spilt glass of red?
Are you going to comment on my skin,
am I going to do the same to you?
Will we share baths together,
watch our fingers wrinkle
as we volley stories to each other
like we did when we met?
Or maybe you’ll thwack me with a pillow
if I begin to snore or drool,
maybe I’ll crank my voice up a notch
if you whine about work
and we’ll sit in different seats
with the TV turned down.
Will I be just too boring? Is that it?
The whiff of my aftershave,
the shriek of my knife against
the plates we’ll buy from IKEA,
all those things will bring about a moan.
Am I going to have to dine on politics?
Would you hate it if I checked the scores on my phone?
The *** might be so disappointing
we won’t even bother to undress anymore.
We are thinking the same thoughts here,
we must be.
Are we doing the right thing, darling?
Will it ever be time for the right thing?
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
A collision!
Everyone frantic
All worried about
The people
Are they ok?
The damages
How much to fix that?
The traffic
How long is this gonna hold me up?
But maybe...
C ould we all just stop for a minute and
R ecalibrate our priorities to truly
A ppreciate the incredible variety of
S ounds joining together in perfect
H armony as the cars smash into one another?
Go ahead
Call me calloused
But listen:
Squeal Screech Honk Bam Boom Smash Bang Clank
Wham Crack Thwack Rattle Whoosh Hiss Gasp
But mostly
That unmistakable
Hauntingly mellifluous
CRASH!!!
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 10:14 AM UTC
You pick me up when I'm in dark times
The squeaking of shoes, the thwack of my racket
My mind goes blank as I read the signs
Of where the ball will land.
The deep chemical scent of the *****
Intoxicate my senses with joy
I can feel the power throughout my body
As I swing with all my might
My mouth open with a shout
I swallow the yellow fuzz
And slam my eyes shut with disgust
Horror dawns on me of my mistake as the ball zips by me.
I feel my heart come into my throat
As I congratulate him at the net.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
Shadows
No longer mere figures following me
Developing minds of their own
They seek liberation from the commands of my feet
To fully manipulate me
Roads
Morphs into labyrinths before my eyes
Entrapping me into the darkness
Its unceasing modification disorients me severely
A thriving attempt to hold me captive
Stars
Lose their jaunty sparkle in the tenebrous sky
Turning into prying eyes whose gazes burn my skin
They observe me like a peculiar specimen
I am not alone
Songs
Begin to sound discordant to my ears
Reverberating vociferously across my room
Strident tunes thwack my skull mercilessly
Unable to think
Mind
Fails to function properly
Unhinging the helpless one
Its thoughts are chaotic, and in shambles
Another man is lost
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
When the rain came
he liked to watch it from indoors,
clouds, distraught,
dripping their tears down every window,
filling every drain
until they overflowed with woe.
When the fog came
he liked to dissolve into it,
pretend he had faded from existence,
strolled into a new life
where everything was coated
in the most brilliant shades of rainbow.
When the hail came
he liked to hear it on his roof,
bang, thwack, smack,
fill the plant pots
with frozen white spheres
like pearls tossed from the sky.
When the wind came
he liked to stand in the garden,
let it swim through his hair,
make it a mess
and wonder what would happen
if he flew up, away, and gone.
When the snow came
he liked to jump in it,
make a haul of snowballs,
throw them at no-one
and scour for footprints
that looked just like his.
When the sun came
he liked to smile a little,
only a little,
look at the view
and see the painting blend
from Prussian blue, to peach, to marigold.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
You told me I could fall asleep
Laying on your chest,
The rise
And fall
Of your breathing
Urging me to rest.
The unearthly zephyr sang stridulant verses
Transuding through the window
The hibernal ghost couldn’t touch you or I,
Underneath our lullaby.
Thwack.
Awake.
You wrapped your fingers around my neck
The skin red and raw
You screeched to me, questioned who I was
The only word that escaped was ‘more’
The concavity of where you laid
Was warm under my heavy skull
My thoughts drifted
To the beat of your feet
Silently
Inevitably
Creeping
Away.
The light bled through the pullulating slit
Where you disdained me a final time
You left without knowing you’d left a thing
Call it forgetting.
Theft.
Crime.
Where was this cryptic noise conceived?
I wondered that a while
It was your flesh
Your bones and blood
Your heart and soul
Your child.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
Outside, the house looked dank and grey,
A pipe had sprung a leak;
The paint was peeling off the wall
From some old daubed graffiti scrawl,
Yet on the path were bales of hay
And someone with a beak!
Rita bustled up with pride
And set about to work;
She took the hay and laid it straight,
She mended pipe and fixed the gate,
And when she'd done, she went inside
But still she didn't shirk!
Plucking feathers from her back,
She tied them to a stick;
Then with her new self-fashioned broom,
She set about and swept each room,
She lifted rugs to give a 'THWACK!'
And dusted every brick!
When the day came to a close
She lay on sheets of foam;
Beneath the glow of candlelight,
Most everything was clean and bright;
She settled down for her repose,
So proud of her new home!
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
Boogie oogie oogie man
flashing, grinning,
dancing man
bearing teeth
gnashing, gnashing, gnawing meat
SPOOK-y man
with your grin that holds ten thousand teeth
and your chin from which
red blood drips sticky and sweet
BOO!
Boogie oogie oogie,
Mr. Boogie man
Dance with limbs that
twist and bend
and snap and crack
and thwip and thwack
Snap--
your fingers, Mr. Boogie man!
And slap your thighs
And clap your hands
Won't you join me in this dance?
And won't you stroke my face?
And kiss my cheek?
And bite my neck?
And drink my red blood so sweet?
And won't you,
with your ten thousand teeth,
devour my heart
as you feast, feast feast...
Oh, Mr. Boogie oogie oogie man
Let us dance the night away!
Your broken fingers can hold my back
as my snapping bones
go thwack, thwack, thwack
And I'll wipe the blood from my eyes
And I'll wipe the tears from my heart
And we'll boogie oogie oogie
Til death lets me part
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC