"vaseline" poems
You're sitting across a table, in the next room- and it's the month of July.
And as the beads of sweat chip off your forehead
like a shank of butcher's meat,
your dorcel fin peaks through the sand where my toes peak through. The picnic table where I write letters; post cards.
I take photos, make reservations, and
even after I'm canceled on for walking around
downtown in my bright neon-pink underwear, I still roll to the
left side of the bed sit up and drop the cigarette I fell asleep on. You're just sitting, first entry: Stardom.
I don't have room for you in the corners.
The corners of this room, padded walls,
shifty vaseline sway- the white cotton stick
of a sucker pointing out of your mouth, its red numero forty dye shines
in the specks of light flicking
out of the horizon like a carousel ride
around and around.
I'm getting a bit dizzy, and even less honest.
If you want to see me spring,
like the silly string on my birthday, yellow silly-putty; molding the monster face,
I observe you through a kaleidoscope of dexedrine and morphine.
Your catastrophe with Xanax, passed out
in alien-green ******* at that party in the abandoned firehouse
on News St., how you could lay trust on me after that
(a daydream with sawing you called me)
sixteen-year-old mishap of an afternoon.
&
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:31 AM UTC
I said...
Ribbons lemon chewing gum
Daisies dandelion
Button teabag souvenir
Cheese cake Uncle Brian
Pepper buses diary
London *** Nantucket
Leaves carrot underwear
Ten piece bargain bucket
Raisins phone apple pie
Sock key Zanzibar
Duvet sausage dinosaur
Peanut bumper car
Mouse banana chicken wing
Fleas vermilion
Elephant soda stream
Stoat pavilion
Moose flower stickleback
Garlic salted butter
Taco dragon paper cut
Poison pizza cutter
Sandwich Batman coffee cake
Vaseline grape snow
Golf ***** haberdashery
Weasels tally-ho
:o)
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:07 PM UTC
Mary, plain name. Mary, mother of God
Mary, Queen of the Strip Mall
Mary, daughter of a King and a *****
Divinity in her blood, conqueror of lands,
Monarch of her body, kingdom of junkies.
Nails inlaid with pearls, mink lashes and onyx eyes
Indigo polyester wraps her 36, 30, 41,
saltwater taffy legs, **** and ***
Mary wasn’t a tall boy, Mary is a funnel cloud queen
Obsidian brazilian in velcro, soda can curls.
Mary has no titles, Mary is a ******* Mary is an exile.
Queen of cream stucco and neon and parking lots.
Mary has disciples, all named Judas.
She has Roy Cohn, the judge’s son, and Louis XIV on their knees in prayer.
She has **** Cheney, Little Richard, and Freud their knees in the bathroom behind the Tesco.
Mary doesn’t confess, doesn’t beg, doesn’t buy.
Mary the conqueror, Alexander reincarnate, she survives.
Body bathed in ultraviolet, cocoa butter, vaseline, and newport menthols.
Mary talks to God in the mirrors at the salvation army.
Mary is scared of dying, she knows she is no ones martyr.
Mary never kneels, left the Bible in the motel nightstand.
A graceful end, a unceremonious departure.
Trade rose petals for needles and styrofoam slurpee cups.
Mary’s mistresses, lovers, and wives, gave her a few lead rounds,
Left her in the strip mall mausoleum.
Mary, queen of the carnal, saint of suburban perversions.
Mary never asked God for forgiveness or a fix.
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 3:47 PM UTC
lil taffy two tugs would wake up to the dawn,leaping to his laptop searching sites for porn,thanking stephen hawkins, also mr gates,grateful of technology, while taffy masterbates.the boyo bashed his bishop, most of all his life,now pc world was better and cheaper than a wife,lubrication, change of hands, oil and vaseline,lesbians, fat fetishes, and threesomes on his screen,but poor ole taffy passed away, his family in disgrace,trousers round his ankles, a smile upon his face,but two tugs died so happy, while he had a vid on,undertaker done his nutt,,,,he could'nt get the lid on.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 12:37 PM UTC
Although she didn’t use these exact words,
What it got down to was:
“My **** hurts!”
Your age-appropriate **** buddy
Experiencing a profound lubrication deficit.
Vaginal dryness:
A legitimate topic these days for
Baby-Boom conversation.
“65: the New 30,” the slogan rings.
A Mel Brooks clarion call,
Harvey Corman doing Count Da Money:
"Don't get saucy with me, Bearnaise!"
For all our good friends at
KY, Vaseline & Astroglide--
As recommended by female OB/GYNs,
(Should there be any other kind?)
Sales projections are rosy for
Ottmar’s Coconut Cooch Oil,
Despite the economic downturn,
So, naturally, you commence your
Search for a young, wet—sopping wet—co-ed,
Running the risk of bumping into
Some UC Berkeley ****
Who digs older gentlemen, and
Knows your daughter, Gwendolyn.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
Donald Trump
will never make America great again.
The American dream is dead.
You are the one who killed it.
Dead with Lennie and the rabbits.
George is probably gone now too.
Depression. Couldn't live with himself.
Curley's wife never made it to Hollywood.
Still stuck in the bedroom,
with red ostrich feathers and ***** husband's
vaseline-filled glove.
His breath still reeks of rotten eggs;
only a matter of time before he gets sick - affluenza. Incurable.
Crooks isn't a man. Been diminished to nothing
but a shell. Hollow, and he believes it.
Candy and Slim, worked to death for minimum wage.
The American dream is dead.
******* by deluded denial.
Time to wake up and smell the rotting corpse of reality.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 6:37 PM UTC
It seems the only things that don't change
are music and the words written on the page
but the media changes minds and defines
what beauty is even though that trait is only skin deep
And Now to get brutal like ice cube on No Vaseline.
ahem
Okay first off **** "reality" Shows because all they do is objectify humanity and encourage men and women to become hoes because then you'll get A Tv show
**** Fox news because all they do is try to criminalize my skin tone or the way I express myself even though I may be trying to go ahead and spread wealth to the wealthless so ***** them for blindly supporting the wealthiest
**** Congress up the *** with no Vaseline or oil why did we vote those morons in if they weren't even thinking about anything but oil
**** Society and all the double standards because of one thing goes one way it should go another I know this anger is random but I had to get my feelings onto the page because I had to vent this bottled up rage
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
He cups the bowl
With a pocket bible,
Pulls in a few more short gasps,
Trying to fill every last inch
Of the fleshy air sponge in his chest.
He rises up, as his lungs expand,
And puts down the pipe,
Caressing the tiny bible in his hands,
Absentmindedly.
He smiles...
A gray-white rose unfurls from his lips.
He slides the pipe across the table,
I turn it down...
I am only twelve.
"Suit yourself"
He says...
His voice like vaseline on silk...
A hair mussing, makeup smearing,
***** tearing voice.
I think,
*'Man, I would **** to have a voice like that.'*
"Me...I love the stuff. That's what its all about."
He says.
"That's what what's all about?"
I stammer.
He smiles,
And I shiver involuntarily,
As if waves of cool radiate from that smile.
This guy was a small town demigod,
Mind you.
The coolest car,
The blackest leather jacket.
He was the front man
For a local rock band,
And all the girls wrote his name in their notebooks,
With little hearts, and declarations of their love.
"Life, man, life.
If you like killing, or kissing,
Smoking or ********
Do it.
If you do you will stay loose.
You stay loose , you be cool.
You be cool, the world is gravy,
You dig?
Life is a custom Mustang
Made just for you.
You got to ride that some of a *****
Until you run out of gas.
So always take the roads
that lead to things you love,
And forget what the road signs say...
Make your own detours."
Four months later,
He was killed in a car wreck.
He was drinking wild turkey,
While getting road head.
They found a half ounce of grass
In his hip pocket.
The girl walked away with nothing worse
Than a broken arm.
They couldn't repair the red and pink glass shredded mess of his face...
His funeral was closed casket, and I didn't go.
The next day I spent the money I was saving
For a ten speed, on a used, Washburn acoustic guitar.
After all...I already had a set of wheels, that I was born with.
I hopped behind the wheel that day,
And since then, I have lived my life, my way.
I've had enough downs,
To prove my decision making skills are flawed,
But I followed my joy, and the things I love,
And I have no regrets...
Hell, I'm still alive,
And I ain't ran out of gas yet.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 5:50 AM UTC
My knuckles look like coke and roses
The winter bit them hard; they cracked
I **** on them; they bleed their noses
I fear they are forever chapped
My knuckles look like milk and lipstick
Dressed in cream and Vaseline
I'm oiled up so says the dipstick
With pink supreme silk gasoline
My knuckles look like wine and diamonds
I deck them out most everyday
They never mind the crime and violence
I keep them moist with Tanqueray
My knuckles look like snow and crowbar
They finally just had enough
I tried to run; I didn't go far
My knuckles, unlike me, are rough
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 11:36 AM UTC
You shuffle in
from the kitchen
half stooped over
under the cover
of your nightgown.
Dry lips smeared with Vaseline set in a lazy frown.
Stinking of Vicks vapourub
and oxtail soup steaming from your favorite mug.
Eyelids heavy and more than a little dozy.
Hand reaching for a *** of tissue to blow your dribbling nosy.
With the mug in position you slump on the sofa
propped up with pillows, I've no choice but to move over.
Despite the max level of the central heating
I can see you are still shivering.
A fit of coughing erupts, raw and bone rattling.
There's a wheeze to each breath of your laboured breathing.
Moments pass and then comes the first snore
like an animal staking claim to its **** with a roar.
I carefully remove the mug and fallen tissue
Softly I kiss your forehead and whisper, “Get well soon. I love you.”
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
Yeah, I remember you
cherries popping in your mouth, my
cherries, fireworks, pop rocks in your cheek
citrus cream on your tongue, vaseline
on mine and the way the electrical outlet
looked up close next to my sweaty palms
with bobby pins embedded in my knees
fresh out of the shower, pear extract clinging desperately
trying to keep me clean
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 1:25 PM UTC
They had *** everywhere.
In the car,
Parked at Costco,
She teased him,
Bra-less under an unbuttoned shirt,
Her agile hand coated with a thin primer of Vaseline,
She stroked him slowly, precisely with a twist,
As somnolent sad faced suburban Sherpa,
Their neighbours and fellow citizens,
Hauled their apocalypse supplies
Across pristine acres of fresh asphalt,
Doped by fear,
Trapped inside the pixels of an infinite routine,
Unaware and
Unable to imagine life as a movie.
Out on the highway, as he drove,
She pulled up her skirt
And pulled down her tube top
Trucker’s horns roared their musical approval,
The benefits of a long haul driver were scant and skimpy,
Her ***** alive and anonymous,
Guilt free and aroused.
They ****** in washrooms,
Molested each other on escalators,
Texted friends while they copulated half clothed,
Shared their pride with angels dressed as ******
And counted their ******* like winnings at a casino,
Excited by the number and the game,
Their brains hot-wired,
Life a blur of alternating currents of sensation.
Death is constant state of ****** he told her,
When we leave this organic realm,
When we have finally turned the oceans into pudding,
And caged all of life,
When it is over,
We will enter into a cosmic stream of pleasure.
This is why the universe is expanding, he told her,
Pleasure is a colossal force,
The big bang was God’s ****** after all,
Her consequence the stars, the galaxies,
The dark palette of her entropy.
He was ******* her on a balcony while watching the moon
And waving to the woman with binoculars
When she asked,
Why is it so difficult,
Why do so many ignite pain and cant despair,
How did the curl and cling of hate
Take such deep root, she asked.
We fear death too well, he said,
And
Within the quick boundary of this moment
As they searched their waft and scent for clues,
They heard a whisper.
Inside the swell,
On top of a crest of acid clear thought
And without regret,
They forgave destiny,
Only to fly to the ground and beyond.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 2:28 PM UTC
In secret
Words prepare dialogue transporting emotions like pilots
With no mercy words turn around and get messy
Placing Vaseline on dry throats speaking levy
Lips on skateboards sniffing the ground for reality’s ride
Electrifying plots against blurry words with
no physical basic thoughts thinking dialogue cravings
Untidy tiding plots buried in baritones hurried to hire imaginary thoughts
With no mercy things get messy
Stainless inks get messy
Poetry comes in speed bumps
Never the less poetry comes in speeds
Bumping speed bumps
Bump all slumps
Bluffing word bumps
Bump all stunts
Puff them hard till words provoke gumboot sounds
Bump all ink pumps and thirsty thumbs
Speed bump conclusions jumping resolutions around
words spoken in gibberish gigabytes per seconds smelling leverage
Amplifying televised revolution on repetition far from average
Paralyze those walking eyes
Bumping rhythms
Dusty broken chests serving overcrowded greeting lines
On solo mode
Flirtalicious solo chaotic modes
Bumb connections around chairs warmed up by bums
Speaking the same womb and rhythms
Brothers and sisters chained up in pairs and bums
enslaved by messy word poetry speed-bumbs
Words get messy with no mercy on lip bumps
Those messy words camp behind bushy brains
Rail track through lips with no vibrating mercy veins
Affiliate with true bones
Crossbones carrying history's forgotten side bums
Instrumental bones
Stinking hip hop bums speed flossing word stunts
Words dig up chaos with no mercy
Armed with no rounds
Pounds stolen before two rounds
Sheriffs secretly scared of their own uniform sounds
Shortlisted words saving society's bums
Words are just messy and profound
a.s.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
your cell phone vibrates like a pixie on a train.
smooth as a glass baby's
loose Blue Tooth
in Vaseline
you were miles away from my empty pail of rain
a watermark on the moon, maybe
you knew every
thing ?
maybe you do, maybe i'm drinking my lunch.
you amuse the air i breathe through my skin
like a pearl soothes an oyster
in a bed of nails
and spring.
your ******* are amazing.
you are vishnu at harrods. an airy gorgeous.
a gourd of palpable kiss.
you are the meaning of senseless joy
and the engines
of yes.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC
How disconcerting…
Brace for a fight
Lace up the gloves
Vaseline the soft spots
Turn corners on two wheels
Arrive and
Kick in the doors
To find that
The Enemy
Is no longer in existence
Already vanquished
By an even greater enemy
Leaving in its wake
A pitiable thing
Arousing in a decent soul
Compassion…and
Prayers...
For one’s self--
Strength
And for the other--
Mercy…
Nothing honorably left to do
BUT pray
For one ’s self---
Only that God notices
This quiet sacrifice
Cuz there will be no
Forgive-me’s… or
Thank-you’s…or
I-love-you’s… or even
Closure
When one unlaces the gloves
Washes the face
Rolls up the sleeves
And returns
For cruelty
Compassion
For ill will
Tenderness
For Indifference
Clemency
And for Unkindness
Humanity…
And pray
For the other---
Only
Mercy…
Have Mercy…
Have Mercy Lord…
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 3:34 PM UTC
The first was taken before we ever met.
My sister: curled beneath insulated blankets,
a pink bow vaseline-glued to her bald head,
glassy infant eyes turned in the direction
of a picture of me (red striped shirt, my favorite overalls,
velcro shoes). Mom taped it against the outside
of her incubator; so she would know her big brother
even if I wasn’t allowed to visit her yet.
The second shows the two of us at the back door
of our house on Circle Slope Drive. Her palms and nose
pressed firm against the glass as she peers out at Whitney,
the cocker spaniel who became an outside dog
after knocking her over one too many times. My hands are tucked
under her armpits, and I’m using every ounce of my
three-and-a-half-year-old strength to make sure
she don’t teeter back onto her diaper-cushioned ****
The third, a candid from the family trip to Islamorada.
She and I are walking down the pier, on opposing sides
of Ganga, each holding one of her soft grandma hands.
She was our buffer for those eight days,
and years following the trip. We face the sunrise–
electric pink sky dotted with periwinkle wisps.
Later that day, my sister asked me to come look for seashells
with her; I told her I wished I had a little brother instead.
The final, from my college graduation last May.
My sister and I are laughing in the arboretum.
As excited as I was to never again sit in Hamilton 100
or bubble in a Scantron, I was already missing
eating pho and reading poems, making her matzo ball soup
when her throat hurt, and trekking to the taco truck at 1 am.
Neither of us knew then that I would have this job and this desk
with these four photos, and room for more.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
I can't seem to get my head on right
But for a moment my mind, a beacon of light
I could see, think and expound truths clearly
Thoughts turned to words once passed through me
But I have become a dim light bulb
No matter how much amps or volts I gulp
Even if I hammer this desk with my head
Does no good, the hamster and wheel are dead
However, I will not allow myself to be undone
I must again alight my mind like a sun
I'll make a gasoline and Vaseline mixture
Something along the line of ****** I'll procure
Add the concoction to the end of a Q-tip
Let it soak for more than a sip
Light it on fire by striking a match
And to set ablaze my brain thatch
Ram the flame deep into my ear
Nothing to lose, nothing to fear
I must do this before I become a vegetable
Point in case
I can't think of anything that rhymes with vegetable
Nothing that isn't completely nonsensical
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
No doorknobs exist on this floor.
I can't find any outlets.
The belt that lady--I didn't mean to
disappoint--bought me is coiled,
surrounded by Tupperware walls.
A nurse checked herself in. No
affect; asking for charge; reset.
I'm twenty and letting down my dad.
My belt used to live at JC Penny
and has navy-outlined bass on it.
One of the counselors is black,
from Africa, was adopted, moved
here to be raised by two JP Morgan
lifers, played collegiate soccer, married,
got pregnant, lost the boy--which he said
he had a feeling it would have been.
So, he can relate.
No doorknobs exist on this floor.
I am twenty and this exists in the past.
Wheeling in due to an inability to walk
--totally her brain's fault; a real former-
controllable, current-uncontrollable thing
that her mind pulled on her, on account
from the cold, Vaseline touch of a relative
--this redheaded girl pretends to smile
before apologizing for pretending to smile.
Our black counselor, former soccer player
and father says to not apologize and that
we are all pretending, all the time, even
when we don't think we are.
I find this strangely comforting.
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 3:09 AM UTC
Biggin it up fer jesus,
When a gilded man with pearly whites
came a knockin on ma’ door
said; " hey there bro,
d'ya care to know what this
ere book is for,
well, 'taint for puttin on display
or keepin vampire teeth at bay
oh no bro no bro, not today;
come listen what the good book say."
now he sure looked pretty in his stay press suit
n Vaseline slick back hair,
with his easy style n godly guile
was biggin up his good lord’s prayer,
but fragrant molasses made up myths;
man that ain't ma thing.
I'm a sixties child whoo that's wild,
I'm a ****** up ding a ling.
I got Dylan flowin through ma veins
Martin luther in ma gut,
so I need no ancient prophet claims,
-- n god can kiss ma ****
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 9:02 AM UTC
Six:
standing for prayer
the corner of the school desk
thrice daily finds me
flatness and hardness,
and the fluorescent lighting
heavenly verses
it’s tuesday morning
forgive us our trespasses
and I’m told to chant
Nine:
*horseback riding is
a wonderful thing for girls
it builds self-esteem*
trail rides through the scrub
learning skills in the outdoors
Palomino flanks,
hard leather saddle
rolling, dazed, back and forth and
sweating in the heat
Twelve:
vaseline vignettes
of slick and dewy couples
raw, tanned romance, all
in rapid Spanish
the love in Latin Lover
is jacuzzi steam
all we can do is
laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh
and laugh, and watch them
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
Oh **** I lost it a gain
Time to spend a good forty five minutes looking for something I had a second ago.
This *****
Oh Shucks,
I stepped on a thumb tack, grabbed my foot in pain and fell on my back, Now I hear a crack.
This is so whack,
maybe I left it in my back pack,
Today is jack, I need to bounce back, and get on track.
Did I leave it by my stack of magazines,
I wish I could put some vaseline in my memories so the answer would slip out,
my mind is in a drought,
Im not even in route,
Im loosing this bout,
Beginning to doubt I ever knew where my phone was.
Im tearing my room apart,
take a brake to ****
That wasn’t so smart,
Now my room smells,
Hells Bells,
My nose feels like it swells.
Give the bottle of Febreze a good squeeze,
Start to wheeze,
I shouldn't have cut the cheese.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
The guy just kept swinging his lunchbox
and it kept hitting Shakira
in the stomach.
I had to say something.
So I did, I told him to watch where he swung
that ******* cooler.
And his boys got into it.
And they wanted to fight to.
And we were near the beach.
And the clouds were edgeless.
And the sun was pastel.
And I just wanted to **** all of them.
Shakira held me back.
My girl held me back.
And then I felt something sinking
cold, deep down in me.
I sat on the beach
and almost cried;
depression hit like peppermints.
And I'd never felt so afraid in my life.
On the beach, all those people laughing
and their fat ******* kids running into the surf,
I just wanted to **** myself right there,
I was so afraid and scared.
I'd never been scared.
Or afraid.
I'd gotten my nose broken
my jaw bruised a few times,
and I knew to put vaseline on
cuts over the eye,
but I was scared
and I can't explain the kind of fear
that's made me weak.
I've gotten into fights since then,
but I feel fear growing
everytime.
My fingers go crazy with twitching
and after it's over,
the ball gets bigger inside of me.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 10:05 PM UTC