"unshowered" poems
Saturday alone on a love seat
for two with my roommate
plucking away at twisted nickel
across the room.
Unshowered, unmotivated,
a maybe Monday.
My clean laundry's a footrest
for ***** feet fresh off the
almost autumn asphalt.
Come visit us.
Be unshowered and unmotivated
on this maybe Monday.
Don't worry, the door's unlocked.
There's just a few hundred
flamingos waiting to get in,
but they should move
at the sound of your unshowered,
unmotivated, maybe Monday footsteps
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
Room yawn nothing do. Waiting
for release for the release of
waiting longer between. Slick
unshowered, silk undressed,
heavy credit card and lighthearted
humour, I called you 'funny' and
let you chuckle away to the nether.
light as a feather.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKPEOfybQak&feature;=related
*Remember his name when you look at the night sky.
- the Toe-cutter*
You are the Night Rider,
a fuel-injected suicide machine,
a rocker, a roller,
a no-controller,
yer a cop killer,
the mighty weird hand of vengeance
come to smite the un-roadworthy.
You, Night Rider,
clearly unaffected
by the state’s urgings
to “yield” and, perhaps,
“soft shoulder”.
You are the Night Rider,
sleeping in on a Tuesday,
performing your masculinity
in unshowered, unshaved machissmo.
Night Rider,
won’t you come to your senses?
Nobody enjoys maniacal laughter
anymore.
It makes us think of ****
covered in fleas, bedbugs,
whiskey ****
or Janis,
and the last moments of an American Saigon.
Ahh… Night Rider,
we share your machine lust,
your fetish,
your hard-on for the muscle-bitch,
the suped-up hot rod,
the last of the V-8 Interceptors
(1973 Australian Ford XB Falcon GT).
We, too, like a nitrous kit,
a roof and tail spoiler,
we likes our flat black:
………....................our murderous speed
………..........................has driven daddy to drinkin’.
We ride!
Night Rider, we understand.
We get the lurid infatuation,
but, **** yer a hick-weed,
all these roads lead to jail
–how have you not grasped this simple truth?
The highway is not freedom,
but a circular slave song.
Oh, rider of the night,
why all the re-runs of Seinfeld?
And cheese bread?
You’ve grown a belly, N.R.,
and while it might be glam
to be young, dumb
and full of ***
or all muscle
in butt-less chaps at 21,
you’re 45, Night Rider,
and no-one cares anymore
about your straight-line revolution,
about your road to freedom,
about it,
about what kind of future
you and Floosie would’a made.
The kids are alright
but
they ain’t never heard
of you
nor your last,
wild-eyed flight.
As the Lord Humungous has indicated,
no one
gets out
alive.
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
I can't wait to get my tattoos.
I'll get the lyrics of all my favorite songs and poems
on my back
even though they say it's
not cool to get them where I can't see them
but you can admire them and trace them and read them
and kiss them
Will you lick my skin?
How do I taste, late at night
unshowered and covered in the day's breath?
If you promise to kiss every tattoo I get
I will get every inch of me inked
Every inch
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
Blood shot eyes making contact in the mirror,
pleading with the bleeding brain not to think, not to care.
Impaired and unshowered.
Denial runs deep.
Wide eyed and disheveled.
The only thing you ever commit to is drinking yourself to sleep.
And while you slowly ****** yourself,
I toss and turn, dissecting your thirst for freedom
and my adoration for all things unattainable
I try to be more like you; you're talented at being numb
Just how bothered would you be to see our similarities?
And how do you justify acting so different as to yesterday?
Would you be surprised to see that we're both sabotaging ourselves in such noticeable ways?
And how do you sleep at night **knowing you could've had me there**?
Do you wake up to the memory of my smile and pour another shot, let the alcohol repair?
Or are you convinced that, in me offering myself to you, I have served my purpose?
Am I yet another sentimental soul that fell for your twisted ways and was left feeling worthless?
Please, tell me, am I still myself after you've worn me down to sagging shoulders and blackened lungs?
Not enough strength left within to hold you up on your pedestal
No matter which disguise you wear
No end to confusion, but it's time to stop asking for answers
or for you to care
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 10:40 PM UTC
I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem.
burning behind my temples,
I drove this far today to be alone.
Such a long mess of a day; I swear I’ve grown,
but I’m too old- crows feet perched above dimples.
I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem
If I yawn and stretch my lungs any more I’ll decompose.
I’d trade a kidney for a long shower to **** these road pimples;
I drove this far to be alone.
My eyes glaze like shivering chrome,
tuckered out from scanning lousy stanzas full of samples.
I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem
But I’m still packed and unshowered, staring at memory foam
And now, sitting with this pen in hand ain’t simple.
I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem;
I only drove this far to be alone.
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 7:28 PM UTC
1.)
I came home from a marching band event, (I'd call it a football game, but in that little tent on the sidelines, the whole football team gathered and watched their 69-0 loss.) I barely ate and went to sleep.
2.)
I scrolled through Pinterest and saved dank depression memes.
3.)
My unofficial girlfriend called me a GIRL and I've died inside.
4.)
I didn't complete that assignment, I just sat there filthy, unshowered, and called it depression, instead of calling my therapist.
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 6:45 PM UTC
I'm alone and my eyes are on fire from the brightness of two on a sunday
I wonder what I look like, unshowered, abused by the wind that strangely doesn't affect the tree branches but sweeps up the tiny Chinese lady on Myrtle.
Presidential?
There were no mirrors for a while
People sat shiva until they figured out how to bathe and polish metal
Before the Greeks or Romans
I didn't look in the mirror this morning
But it's more than that
How often do I really smile?
You see, this is why I can't stand
hearing my recorded voice
Let alone see myself in a video
I'd never be able to do that
Without feeling equally ashamed and dissociated
But half of me eggs it on
The mordbidly curious half that likes seeing gory horror films
Come on, I want the cold hard facts.
I want to know the icy truth
Just like the Sunday afternoon wind.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC