"urbane" poems - Hello Poetry

bespeckled, blotched & blokey feminine in aspects only little ****** hair patches two chins, or rather a sloped one the front evenly declining to the middle of the throat a gradual slope from the tip, for juices to run if his manner and situation allowed him to be as casual and sloppy as his laziness chose, torso without form, so there was no curvature on the buttocks or the fly region. a mass a blob of bulges on spindly legs he leans on the wall stubby in hand he balks (he means jovial but unintentionally he vocalises mockery) at the suggestion that the Pies will do better & that Eddie is a clever man due for thanks, who has done his club well (apparently a straight Aussie arrow tried and true!) the man ***** his head back & cackles (the trebly popping bubbles of a gala crackle outwards as the man cackles) & decides his arms need a rest, (a long day of up and down they have had indeed, they deserve respect, or rest (or a benching)) so he places his beer down on a sloped surface, & therefore it slips down…. he sees it plummeting, he stretches toward it's tragic trajectory, …..but he is too slow it smashes on his foot (the shards) the beer bottle it transfigures, and the shards they impart their misery on his toes. The shards they intrude on his relaxed state of wellbeing, they intrude on the security sanctioned within the casual footwear of a man at a barbecue; taking it easy. he swears and hops, reaching in indignation for his bleeding toes he holds the wound cursing; resisting the impulse to begin convulsive throws (an oscar worthy performance from a usually suburbaly urbane individual) the moisture feels degrading (as it would within a man's pants) the pain from the cuts it is worsened by the smirking gazes of others about he hobbles, disregarding his thong in the wreckage of the scene off to retrieve a band aid to mend his ego and his foot simultaneously

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Mar 18, 2013

Mar 18, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC

aj-robertson

the barbecue

bespeckled, blotched & blokey feminine in aspects only little ****** hair patches two chins, or rather a sloped one the front evenly declining to the middle of the throat a gradual slope from the tip, for juices to run if his manner and situation allowed him to be as casual and sloppy as his laziness chose, torso without form, so there was no curvature on the buttocks or the fly region. a mass a blob of bulges on spindly legs he leans on the wall stubby in hand he balks (he means jovial but unintentionally he vocalises mockery) at the suggestion that the Pies will do better & that Eddie is a clever man due for thanks, who has done his club well (apparently a straight Aussie arrow tried and true!) the man ***** his head back & cackles (the trebly popping bubbles of a gala crackle outwards as the man cackles) & decides his arms need a rest, (a long day of up and down they have had indeed, they deserve respect, or rest (or a benching)) so he places his beer down on a sloped surface, & therefore it slips down…. he sees it plummeting, he stretches toward it's tragic trajectory, …..but he is too slow it smashes on his foot (the shards) the beer bottle it transfigures, and the shards they impart their misery on his toes. The shards they intrude on his relaxed state of wellbeing, they intrude on the security sanctioned within the casual footwear of a man at a barbecue; taking it easy. he swears and hops, reaching in indignation for his bleeding toes he holds the wound cursing; resisting the impulse to begin convulsive throws (an oscar worthy performance from a usually suburbaly urbane individual) the moisture feels degrading (as it would within a man's pants) the pain from the cuts it is worsened by the smirking gazes of others about he hobbles, disregarding his thong in the wreckage of the scene off to retrieve a band aid to mend his ego and his foot simultaneously