"unbathed" poems
I never knew his real name and my youthful imagination named him uncle funky the peanut man as bagged peanuts burnt were hopefully sold from a makeshift stand now on this June 2013 morning my mind slowly opens the door of youthful memory and I see soiled pants turned over shoes old hat crooked atop long gray hair brown hands waiting for a dollar exchange as funk clings to the untended skin like fleas on a homeless dog whiffs released randomly would stagger a prime boxer the times changed with the town sweeping uncle funky away with yesterday and the past of bygone days and I wonder and it is"t a very pleasant wonder whatever happened to uncle funky?
ut to be sold hopefully from a makeshift stand now on this june 2013 morning my mind opens the door of youthful memory and I see clearly soiled pants and shirt old hat atop of unseen hair brown hands waiting for a dollar exchange as funk clings to the unbathed skin like fleas on a homeless dog whiff released would stagger a prime boxer the times changed with the town sweeping uncle funky away with yesterday and the past of bygone days but I wonder and it isn"t a very pleasant wonder whatever happened to uncle funky the peanut man?
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
How many mothers are aggrieved of themselves
Shattered by the heart of matters which they take part of the blame
No longer denying in their crying
That they too were made fools
Beggars yearning for a redo
To undo the terrible truths
Revealed and reviled
How many parents would stab their own heart
To undo the part they played
On any given horrendous day
And see the ones they lost
Returned
Unburnt
Unscathed
Unbathed in blood
By the horrors of the day
And whilst some cannot rewrite those dark nights
Perhaps they can pass on the lessons in wrongs
So other mothers can make this life right
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
It's the third week of summer and we've had nothing but gray skies
No sunshine
Quincy Valero is in a bad way these days
He's been dumped
She wanted a kid, a ring and a promise of a life time
He said no
She left
Now, he's searching far and wide for a new dock to make port
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out three likely candidates
One who has blown hid mind on multiple occasions, and quite a few others
Another who has been straight up stalking him and begging for one night of beastly ***
The last who if he got drunk or high enough she'd do anything, unfortunately she resembled an ugly spud
The firs girl was right out, she informed Quincy that since the last time they hung out she found a boyfriend which she is dedicated to
The second girl has been on vacation since the end of the semester and won;t be back until the next one starts
The third girl is seeing some one but said she would hook up with Quincy if circumstance allowed
He has fallen into a state on unbathed sloth
Staying up until six am
Waking up at three pm
And not going to the gym
He crashed his Mustang back in Ewing
He hasn't come clean about it
His father told me
Quincy tells me it;s just sitting back at his house down there and he's too lazy to go get it
He now goes to online dating cites in hopes of getting laid
What has become of the self-proclaimed Don Juan of Dumont?
I can only pray this time of depressing desperate sadness is temporary
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
& the Capuchin dances on a grand piano
Lit by a candle
I'm gonna catch that ****** someday
But he is good at hiding and bringing me
Baskets of dead flies
With a smirk that says he knows
Exactly how sick he is
Unbathed and starved.
Sheathed in stolen jewelry
the Capuchin
Mocks Salvador Dali hung up beside us
I attempt to strangle him but he knows better and wraps a necklace around my throat
& tightens in a boiling silence
Meanwhile the kettle is unattended
And hot and I can't breath!
I suppose I deserved this with how much I hated and dreamt of escaping this monkey..
But sometimes karma simply comes back around and
Shows you who the real fool is
The piano is terrified of losing me
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 12:25 AM UTC
the lines on your face tell a story i've never heard
nor seen, blown to smithereens, you're a broken bird
with your wings growing back crookedly
the first time you saw will be the last time you see
i've seen this fifteen times before
the sixteenth won't mean much more
you're awfully late to the game you started yourself
your eyes once looked my way
floating in ***** water, unbathed
thinking i'm headed for a watery grave
because, to your eyes, i'm a slave
getting better at your favorite game
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 9:30 AM UTC
* *I became invisible one Summer , a ramshackle empty home was my
safe port , the walls my confidant , my July bastille in constant danger of being overrun
Hostility answered in midnight dreams , a flea the mongrel couldn't reach , unbathed in reprisal and pain killer forgetfulness
I dreamed of my death , I entered a dark place , burnt musical scores to light my way , sang out loud to show I was not afraid , I dreamt the same nightmare everyday
I ran out of money , ate cornbread for five days straight , running out of "Oxy" was sweaty , demonic pain , on the eighth day a I heard a voice on the answering machine asking if I was okay
Pawned a decent guitar that morning , went to work the following day
I was at the crossroads that year and by sheer luck I just happened to turn the right way*
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 12:48 AM UTC