"titular" poems
SpongeBob SquarePants is an American animated television series created by marine biologist and animator Stephen Hillenburg for Nickelodeon. The series chronicles the adventures and endeavors of the title character and his various friends in the fictional underwater city of Bikini Bottom. The series' popularity has made it a media franchise, as well as Nickelodeon network's highest rated show, and the most distributed property of MTV Networks. The media franchise has generated $8 billion in merchandising revenue for Nickelodeon.
Many of the ideas for the series originated in an unpublished, educational comic book titled The Intertidal Zone, which Hillenburg created in the mid-1980s. He began developing SpongeBob SquarePants into a television series in 1996 upon the cancellation of Rocko's Modern Life, and turned to Tom Kenny, who had worked with him on that series, to voice the titular character. SpongeBob was originally to be named SpongeBoy, and the series was to be called SpongeBoy Ahoy!, but these were changed, as the name was already trademarked.
The series was previewed on Nickelodeon in the United States on May 1, 1999, following the television airing of the 1999 Kids' Choice Awards, and officially premiered on July 17, 1999. It has received worldwide critical acclaim since its premiere and gained enormous popularity by its second season. The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie, a feature-length film adaptation, was released in theaters on November 19, 2004, and a sequel is currently in production, with a projected release date of February 13, 2015. On July 21, 2012, the series was renewed and aired its ninth season, beginning with the episode "Extreme Spots".[2][3]
Despite its widespread popularity, the series has been involved in several public controversies, including one centered around speculation over SpongeBob SquarePants' intended ****** orientation. The series has been nominated for a variety of different awards, including 17 Annie Awards (with six wins), 17 Golden Reel Awards (with eight wins), 15 Emmy Awards (with one win), 13 Kids' Choice Awards (with 12 wins), and four BAFTA Children's Awards (with two wins). In 2011, a newly described species of mushroom, Spongiforma squarepantsii, was named after the cartoon's title character.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
fem in isms,
i imagine Sapphic eyes:
bad *** advert coruscates elite
fairness sensing slavish blind
in gestate calm affirm
in genders More numerous of Windows--
Superior--for Doors--
O harsh judgement foiled,
as a foil, as unknown truth
foil-doubles in the brow,
abject symmetry to systemize
a fertile lack of sterile barrenness,
i am a mediatrix rend,
nirwaan, hijra wonderment aside
from transemotion's ground swells
demeaning to be understood.
i celebrate and face the same
to be what paperwork tests being
normal being, freely chosen
atom each belonging moves
an asterisk of paths
of mutate art of nature social darwin maze.
i imagine Sapphic eyes,
ginko soft they pile up all cobble
memories themselves concretely
cloistered fame
spray of salty waves,
macho screams symbol
for dismissal ease
for tearing at an inner unsaid war
with lists offense of proper taste
to what posterity intends
an undulation womblike seeming nourish safety sounds.
i imagine Sapphic eyes
past
debauched
meanderings
where hyster-clarity rejoins its titular
and reliable escapisms curl the lips
of maleness found
here and there smile sneer love
i imagine Sapphic eyes
linguistic pirouettes
congest that wisdom nonetheless
the moment passed on to a
feigning truth in pretty rhyme
ornamenting time with fine meter fine
vernacular chimes peter in
to juggle perspectival paradox,
redichotomize the twilight idols,
resolve the conflict like a dawn
Aurora,
i imagine Sapphic eyes
running plastic with Alaskan wolves,
toga floats to snow
to let us see the purest fairness form
a ****** circle,
Hypatia ascends from tenebrous grave,
Impregnable of Eye is pregnant now
with Wollstonecraft revered
in liberation's fount
families held exemplar gaze of
Taylor, ****** Cady,
Anthony resanctified
to vote entitlement's
empathic origins, waxen mold
of nascent categories,
narrow hands spread wide to panoply anew
the manifest evolve in true unknowns
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
genuine
so many ordinary bees in our vocab hive,
workers, important, but rarely seen,
some never, or rarely trotted out,
no-fresh air, we just must be too too, too
busy, busy
had occasion to employ said titular
queen word recently, a love story
that strummed a chord of the
randomness of good love,
genuine slipped out unexpectedly,
this word, a crowning modifier to a
love poem herein written
truly a word not used too often,
perhaps because we live in a time
when it is a quality rare, though
much celebrated, like so much,
has becomes a debated talking point
but genuine is not hard to be
uncovered, it has a warmth heater
generator internal, a signal signal,
that is hard to be disguised or
mistaken
but our sensitivities are dulled,
easily misled, by the shouting and
the latent bitterness that runs through
the veins of our ordinary conversations,
making it more difficult to believe our
five sensory discernments, to what is,
and what is not,
but love, perhaps, is a genuine genetic,
at a cellular level quality that has evolved over millennia, so easier to spot, it’s heated hot, and awhy a love story should be the focus causation of my happiness, that it
yet thrives, and functions and supplies
we humans, a chance to see, to believe,
that genuine yet exists, inward and
unwarped, within we ordinaries
Jan 20, 2025
Jan 20, 2025 at 9:19 AM UTC
According to William Shakespeare,
Poor Tom had wits
And was witless
All whilst in disguise
According to David Bowie,
Major Tom left our blue Earth
And got lost amongst the stars
Becoming the titular Space Oddity
According to Led Zeppelin
Poor Tom was the seventh son
He led a life of work and play
But killed his ***** wife
According to The Cab
Major Tom would sing along
Whilst chastising the dreamer
Or, perhaps, seeing himself in young love
According to all these men
This muse man named Poor Tom
This muse man named Major Tom
All suffered an ill fate
According to I,
Arrogant poetess,
I pose a pondering:
What if they were all the same person?
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 7:46 AM UTC
Faith is a funny tale,
Banging!, on no ones thought of what door,
Humming and cooing and my window jail,
and trudging at my pondering floor
To quicksand it desolates -suddenly-
from titular crown of metals to pallid birch,
All cones of mono roll down on a trolley
with the tetra floss that burns the torch,
Fate is a formidable foe,
Descend itself to morrows fort,
discriminating as it comes and goes
to what it justifies at court,
Stepping to festive cascades,
lying faintly on the tomb of beds
Where the harbinger harvest withering fades,
there it cuts the echoing threads
So we alone stroll at chrono's fraud,
Brooming dust into makers state,
Sack of pennies nods; smirks at prudent gestures sad,
That is when and then we go back to old date
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 5:23 AM UTC
One day I met a titular telepath
That made me do social math
After I took a brief bubble bath
Underneath his heavy hovercraft
That submerged my brain
Allowing no sign of refrain
Only the pain
Of the stain
Of his Rorschach test
Filling inside my crest
You cast a spell of thought on me
When you walk by so haughtily
I can't think
Only drink
Your Kool-Aid
Of a fool's blade
It should be considered a crime
The way you control my mind
I feel so pointlessly paranoid
And it's not the ****
You travel to an abysmal void
I just follow your lead
I live in a world of mass media
But you cut off my streaming
So I guess I won't be seeing them
And I can focus on dreaming
Of an amazing life starring you
And introducing happiness
I don't care how it's reviewed
The critics negate sappiness
I'm so afraid you will get rid of me
While I sit under your guillotine
That can't reach me in your grasp
But if I ever leave it'll be in half
I'm trapped in a precarious position
That I fear will carry us to collision
I put my ear to the ground and listen
For an approaching stampede
That will steal my cognition
Will those wildebeest thieves
Make a deadly incision?
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 7:57 PM UTC
Mal humor en una mañana de resaca,
reza así el titular.
¿Qué pasó anoche? Nada. Traición en la noche.
De expectativas, de miradas,
traición de bebida y de risas y roces.
Traición invisible en la noche;
mía, quizás. Otra vez.
—mala secuela, recibe 2 estrellas y la tachan de repetitiva—
Llegamos in medias res, lleva tiempo la cinta.
Estrellas y personas flotan en la piscina.
Ella flota al lado de mí en la piscina
—sin verme—,
yo floto por puro orgullo en la piscina,
—aguas de fracaso—,
y él flota también, sin verlo yo a él,
—a su lado—.
Distraido por premisas inconclusas,
por un cielo de ebrias estrellas
en el que nos zambullimos por la noche...
por la noche distraido, y distraido por la noche...
no noto cuando
despega el dolor de pecho y estómago.
La noche no se para para mí
—iluso, eso está reservado—
pero bebo para aminorar,
¿quizás demasiado?
¿La bacanal fiesta se retrasa?
Tonto, empezó ya sin ti.
La estatua de dos, a lo lejos,
se muestra en un trago de verdad.
Toca tierra el dolor de pecho y estómago.
Lo noto.
A falta de pistola sirve botella en boca.
Se vaticina
mal humor en una mañana de resaca.
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
She has a name.
After all, she has a titular role.
Sometimes, she'll go by other names. My personal favorites are Anger, Sadness, A Filter, Pretending, Comparison, Expectations, Faking It, Perfectionism, and Silliness, amongst others.
But one day, she whispered her name to me, so softly that I thought it was just the wind.
"My name is Grief... my name is Grief" she repeated to me.
I cried at the weight of her words.
For I already knew her name, but I didn't want to believe it. But there it was, out in the open. Vulnerable and real.
Some days, I slam and lock the door in her face, ignoring her knocking.
Other days, I don't even bother to get up as she steps lightly into the room.
I hope someday to give her a hug and thank her for her years of wisdom and hurt, and how the two are inseparable.
There's something else too. She told me it the other day, under the too-long absent winter sun as I wept once more.
"I'm your sister... I'm your sister" she whispered, gently and lovingly.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 12:21 AM UTC
*heres your chance to become a supreme being
a dot in a circle
the point of imminent transcendence
the glitter of endless seas
a secure position
and a good job if you can get it
first assignment
develop a sense of place
hollow yourself out
to situate your creation
mix the ethers up
within your infinity of self
like witches mix a cauldron
good work*
GOD
HOLY HOLY HOLY
*now with the spirituous mist
populate your creation
from the astral*
i like to be called
YAHWEH
okay
GOD
*lets not get stuck
you can easily afford
not to be so small minded
whats with caring what your called
you and your multiple
titular names
wow
lots a pretty beings
dreamboats i'd say
like a bunch of colored balloons
pro-creative
mmmmm
very good so far
i really appreciate that part*
HOLY HOLY HOLY
next assignment
POWER OVER NATURE
*figure out a way
to sustain and perpetuate your creatures*
I AM WHO I AM
*what ever you say
can we move on now?
whats with all the
disease
mental problems
fear
hostility
and famine?
be a good*
GOD
*for gods sake
and amp up the happiness please
they are like bunch of sick cats down there*
NOT A LEAF FALLS WITHOUT MY WILL
ooooo noooooo !!!!!
*there not suppose to **** and eat each other
what the **** are you thinking
are you stupid*
OH HOLY ONE
THE UNKNOWN and THE UNKNOWABLE
*stop with the smog of hell
your creatures live in terror
living only to be destroyed
go sit in the corner
facing the wall
yes
the dunce cap too
your a bad*
GOD
*a *****
we will have to call your parents
for retribution*
HOLY HOLY HOLY
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 12:28 PM UTC
A gray-haired professor
Once harped on us about our titles.
I was sitting to the left of a cute brunette,
Brita.
We'd ****** the previous night.
And now, we analyzed stories --
Dripping in analogy and pretentiousness.
Our backpacks smelled of coffee,
They got a second-hand kick off the aromas
Of our hangovers and homework,
Completed in the coffee shop just off Harvard St.
I smiled over Janet's essay about a dead lover;
It was called, "Till Death,"
Which was apparently too revealing.
So was Brita's blouse.
My essay was "Black hoodies and blind intersections"
And it tackled grief, fate and the dangers of running at night.
It, too, was too revealing.
Unlike the hoodie it discussed.
I never got the titular lesson,
But figured I was more of a poet anyway.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 11:57 AM UTC
A mirrorball sits deep in his chest,
Unreadable, but throwing light onto
The ceiling, making patterns and
Twisting with each step and ripple.
Bending through grey sinew and plasma,
Refractions miss neither orifice nor opening.
Unbound by skin or upstretched ligament,
Green replaces red and flickers on.
By the light you scan his bookshelf;
A titular knowledge of the man himself.
Emerge, resolved to delve inside
To see reflections shine and shadows dance.
And meet your own lights,
Form new shades,
Casting secondary colours onto the white above.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 10:56 PM UTC
insert body here
it was not you
that told me to
that wanted me to
but i did
i let you go
simultaneously seizing you
you belong to me
and i
well i
belong to the abyss
once upon a time
i gave myself to you
whole heartedly
like the hearth to a cold room
an incessant addition
to an empty craving space
crazed by desire
inspired by devotion
alone within ourselves
and i digress
only to weep
endless puddles of hope
empty holes of common space
my eyes burn
vision blurs
you know its' at its worst
when your hope is for tears
pull (pool) back the waterworks
spare the salty sea
mimic the madness
otherwise
you're falling to fate
i bide time
reproach destiny
(ir)rationally regress
something that should have never been
the fallacy that is not reality
takes hold
my throat is bruising
as i gasp for air
suffocation struggles
and then
well then
i realize
suffocation doesn't seem so shabby
the perfection of peace perceived through peril
freedom is like my ears
it rings
like a ******* headache
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 6:35 AM UTC
This teetotaler turns to tea
torquing temptation
towards tippling
thankfully, though
that tremendous tugging
teasing tendency thirst *******
thru teaching this totally tubular
toothless titular Texan thuggish tyrant
(titled Tsar Terry Troutman)
transcendental theology
tenets taught transferring
torpedoing, taming threatening
titanic tsunami tempest
tastefully tickling temperance
testing trying taut tenacity
together teaming (troika)
triumvirate torchbearers
*********** therapist
(Tony the tiger)
tough trailblazer theoretician
toady treacly Tory
(Tommy Two Tone),
thence thirdly Theodore
"Tornado" Tornetta)
themselves trained to tamp
twerking tremens triggers,
their tripartite treatment told
tattooing thorny transforming
took this then truant teenage turtle
through time traveling
to those truant tumultuous tragic,
toxic, tipsy twitchy, touchy, tetchy
typhoon terrible two times two
times two times two tantrum
throwing, thieving, threatening
taxing textured teen tinder times -
tossing, tilting, taking tankful tolled
throaty, thoroughly,
thickly telltale temblor
toured terrible tournament
testing taupe tumbling termagant (Thaddeus)
tangling (Tangoing) tiny Timothy,
the treacherous tarantula
tying tussling travail – tata!
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 6:31 PM UTC
interlocking Complex(cities)
a fortunate mixed complexion
comprising of liberating schemes.
the unnatural routine
followed by beings with hindered genes
i see them upload themselves in a virtual scene.
i look up to them, twice
binocular vision
remix the visuals with binaural beats
to keep me levitating
before breaking into a fragmented
piece.
they’ve preached their nuisance to me
i’ve definitely caught an anomaly
i’ve heard them fabricating speech into something humble and noble
i’ll wait till it’s my turn to be
insidious
i’ll spit radiation like Chernobyl
to obliterate the ever growing regime.
molecular regain
they speak up to my senses
to attain the consent of the
eternal and beyond
with an upright movement
momentum i gain
from forthcoming sonder
while wandering down to the streets
you’re listening to city dreams
lean back, chime in
with psychedelic scenes
peripheral context
sidetracked to prevent hindrance
from the beings that are of obscene nature
i’ve seen a lot of those
nurturing themselves
by ******* onto the future
still stuck up on the yet coming past
trying to get grips on the titular concept
there’s authority with the ones who kept it flowing
rugged strength no guffawing
headed straight to the delirious ends of the rope
always falling but never out of hope
the stream that quenches the guilt of those
showing up with guns just to pinch a loaf
exterior combats
come back to the present
im here to steal the philosopher’s stone
getting ****** just to soar
above the stratosphere
i went straight out of the blue sphere
where i got to see the blues that fill up the majority of the crust
****** back to my grounds
the velocity burned my rust
thats a leap higher than the nukes
you trust
get to my location
ask the Everest where im at
it’ll point up to me and i’ll wave back
but there’s a truth thats yet to be told
i held the meeting of gods that weren’t sold
nobody showed up
neither the young nor the old
except avowed fakes that claim to be woke
Sep 1, 2020
Sep 1, 2020 at 1:19 AM UTC
I am lost by the wayside of a corner table that sits amongst the pine needles that have fallen from the trees. Life sings songs of silly sadness that rearranges the waves of water wafting through the thick night. Instant karma descends from deposited decorations dissolving in dark patches on the sand. Sixty sounds surround my crown of impeccable solitude. I, me, you, us, we, together, in another reality. Scorned by the slightest touch of temptation tickling my tiny feet. Fell from fathoms upwards to the surface. If you would only try, I would send the darkness away for good, send the darkness away for good, send the darkness away...You left like a lioness on a slinking slithering sight seeing tour. I, I could give you, give to you, things that the others could only imagine in their sick, twisted, unhappy fantasies of ******* false facts. Open, please, open the gates the rake in my rafted soul sinks slowly towards the top of the titular hill, where you remember the ghosts grab the living, send them descending into the under-realm where we last forever, always, together, you. Basking in the blocking blackness of not hearing your voice for fifty five days, away from you this sadness turns blue like a clue into the ripples of my heart. The tearing apart of a dream, a lost lark that thinks thousands of thoughts every single second. I—I told you once, the one thing that matters most to me. You.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
The self proclaimed writer
Jerking himself off to exhaustion daily
(Never touched, never connected)
To play roulette with his circadian rhythm
And turn an otherwise docile daytime delinquent
Into a nocturnal creature's fear
All to avoid the cliched train wreck of a family
The alcoholic mother
The never proud father
And the always beyond reach sister
Yes yes, feel the waking nightmare
This insomniac desperately craves sleep
As the titular picturesque life
sobriquet to family cat
Is slowly causing his dormant degeneracy
To blister and boil the brain
And he feels like he is losing his mind
In this otherwise ideal world
This grotesquely pictersque
Fevered upper class dream
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC
Dream sequence engaged
And this is how it goes
Accepting all of me in your arms
Lengthy yet comforting like your gaze
I have been only
I have been lonely
And I enounter the turmoil in your mere presence
Arguing inwardly, reasons running out
Of why not and what not
Defying the definitions and avoiding titular restrictions, I only love
Love you from this perch
Where I will continue to watch you smile
And study the crinkles in your eyes
Counting my heartbeats increase
The unrequited rejection has rejected me enough
I only dream of astounding bravery
And waking next to you
I only wish with eyes closed
Moving on and moving forward
Taking a deep breath I say it out loud
In a practice round
Only a sad little secret
Only a glimmer of hope
Only me
Only you.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
I am Becoming Not.
Wasting away with the singular,
Empowering, He, the titular
Man of Wisdom.
Thence denouncing the God of Reason
As Thy transformation rip Thee
To pieces of never ending conformity.
Abandoning the mind,
Raising the soul,
Through which, the pain of loss,
Drives He to convince,
Conceive, and deceive
The prior aspirations
That once supported
The search for understanding
Now Thy sit and wonder
What is most important?
Not Becoming?
Or Becoming Not?
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
If you harbor spite
For the perception of it in others
But lack the strength to investigate,
It's better to refrain from assumptions.
Perhaps you're picking up
On something that isn't real,
But a fiction of your imagination.
Perhaps they weren't serious.
Unless you have concrete evidence,
Something that confirms your suspicions.
But then, without cross-examination,
That's just another assumption.
Feb 13, 2025
Feb 13, 2025 at 2:33 AM UTC
Thought first begins in
mouth
Tzara
a Sun with a slow metabolism
excreting sterile doves
or roses in machineries of crimson
I feel the same inflammation
when thought first starts in the mouth
and ends a derailed train: penetration
in an alley of locomotives
this titular token of the grave sorrow of the World
sinking in your sleep a dagger
or
simply a
promise
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 3:22 AM UTC
Te entregue un libro naviero,
un florilegio de todas mis experiencias,
que guiara tu pensar y entendieras mi biografía,
ya sabiéndote educado, juntos recopilar una nueva antología.
Intempestivo es tu lamento..,ha finalizo el cuento,
se escribió la última página, y, no llegamos ilesos.
Se acabaron las palabras, la tinta se agotó,
las letras, que mi amor le declamaba,
a tu corazón roñoso e impiadoso.., tu alma no cautivo.
Te entregue un libro abierto, autografiado en su interior,
con la tinta de un pasado, que en tu pluma, se firmaría con sonrisas,
en la certeza del presente, ¡titular tantas trilogías!
en la esperanza del mañana…completar una historia con rimas.
Mas ¡olvidaste leerlo!
El polvo fue arruinando las páginas
y a corolario de tu abandono..,
hoy están esas hojas amarillas y manchadas.
De esa historia solo quedan;
letras amarga relatando una historia..,
talvez ociosamente narrada,
talvez mal trazadas,
talvez, ¡quizás! fue una visión,
fragmentos de una viva imaginación
y tu personaje es una entelequia-
que categoriza mí libro como una lírica de Elegías.
Ya las hojas vuelvan al viento, con ellas,
palabras relatando mi bendita soledad humillada,
un amor olvidado en estantes literarios
y un lamento por no poder cambiar……el final de este jácara.
LeydisProse
2/7/2018
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse/
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 11:45 AM UTC
A jack of all trades
But a master of none
How many can I claim
Before I’m done?
Titular titles tumble from my tongue
Mumbling by mere menageries
Of often overlooked and occult occupations
Professional practices performed profusely
Waiting out the rain
Slumping through the pain
Perfecting nothing but aversion
New things tempt me like a ******
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 3:42 PM UTC
----
Titular:
"Nowadays, it means that you
are an empty, non~deserving of
whatever title you take for granted"
A poem,
but if be untitled,
if it be a titular,
what are we to make of it?
the title is the 🔑
but to be untitled
is
an acknowledgment of
defeat
the key to unlocking
the inner-est construct,
from within, or without,
is the title.
without
which
the poem cannot
constructed,
deconstructed,
and then
reconstructed
it is:
the clue
the hint
***** it,
it is the soul insight
that leads the reader's eyes
to the water,
to the enquiring,
the scent of
mmmmm,
that!
is worth investigating,
that fresh baked,
right out of the oven,
you know it when you
smell it, and your tracks,
suddenly stop, turn around,
cease the scrolling,
go back,
get ****** in,
and roost within,
exclaiming,
**** that title,
that came from the right in,
not a glancing blow,
more like a right hook,
Happy-attached to a line and sinker,
and the poem that leaves you forever
thinking,
cannot ever
get enough
of that fresh bread aroma,
and the great brioche
the bravado
of one of those,
{who knew, who knows?}
that the nexus of
the next intriguing title
of the
next poem,
and the next next poem,
is not
an empty
unwashed titular,
of the
un
en~~titled
an yet,
more a tease
to our curiosity's
cat,
to the
as of yet unimagined,
it is in
that invitation,
for your preparation
to be
astounded…and advantaged…
Oct 6, 2025
Oct 6, 2025 at 2:54 PM UTC