"waggle" poems
I let go too soon, of these three fingers
pinning a white dress to my knees,
such a strut they possess, and psychic
for the waggle I do on my tulip-days:
mama said that the lace came from an
elves’ head, I could not wear it.
I put it in a dresser drawer, as I lost
my appetite for marriage and friends.
She said that father wanted to see it,
I should parade my red, pulsing veins.
A torpedo, it became, cowering until
liftoff and glory hallelujah first kisses.
Was it not funny when I, poor chap,
kept garbage in my teeth and laughed
when you slithered your tongue inside,
like Friday penetrating the weekend?
You are a Leo; I am far from such, but
I understand why you may be insulted,
as mama garbs turquoise as the sky
and all our daffodils burn like rubber.
Each says it is because they love me,
railing cat-scratches with a stitch –
but I do not want that, see earthquakes
that hammer on our tulip-days, dear.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 5:22 PM UTC
I am with you
here in this place
scanning with cool
and radiant eyes
Causing silver haired women
to pantomime
The Thing Thats Wrong With Us:
their heads shake
and their thumbs waggle in the air
like worms.
Our thumbs irk them,
patience wearing
thin as their lips.
They are so sad for us,
for our murderous stupidity.
They know
what is wrong:
because our empty carcasses
litter their living rooms
the busses they ride
the classes they teach
slumped
in the seats where we left them.
Heidegger said
that attention creates access to the world,
And we've crept away to the edge
dangling our attentions over the inviting precipice
like the sorcerer's apprentice
unsure
of how it all takes place
but certain
of it’s awesome power.
The well overflows
and we are swept away
as the women look on
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
Thrums the bee waggle-dance in a haunt of Indian horsepaths,
Or the shaking leaf one second past the strike of galloping rain
/ Parsimonious lightning, thrifty in its jagged stalks
Against this night of heavy-hearted oaks /
Then the hay-fringed bale of sleep, rolled into a valley of slowed breathing,
Through parting cloud-diabolique, poison-peers the wet toadback of Autumn,
Glowing moon-gristle in the bosky wolf’s beard with its wireframe of teeth.
Sep 30, 2021
Sep 30, 2021 at 8:19 PM UTC
I’ve been told by a friend to wait here.
As long as I stay here, you’ll be back past five o'clock.
I’ve waited—you came and opened the door.
It’s true; now I will dedicate my nine lives to you.
"She drinks her tea by midnight and lulls herself to sleep. You should waggle your tail and lie beside her. Every day except for Saturday." My friend laughed rigorously when she finished that statement.
“Why can’t I play with her every Saturday?” I asked her, trying to grasp her evading eyes.
"Just because," she shrugged and tried to climb the tree.
"Wait!" I hissed, but she’s nowhere to be found now.
I did everything she told me to do. Eat my food past lunch, play with my worn-out toy, and wait for her to be home.
At the exact moment the cruel sun rose and the light hit my body, I waggled my tail and lied beside her. Unfortunately, I forgot it was Saturday today.
I called her name, distinctively meowing in a weird manner. I cackled slightly; she wouldn’t understand. Biting slowly with her calloused hands and licking the side of her face, she still won’t wake up.
And I meowed until there was no sound left of me. My dear Celia, wake up, for you have to give me food now.
You still need to bathe me and play with me at the park. We’ll still wait for the night to come and watch TV.
Oh, Celia, I’d still spend my nine lives with you. Where have you been since I slept last night?
I’d still wait for you here at the table, near the window. Where the trees dance the delicacy of their sickening leaves. Oh, how we both hated the crispness of those brown leaves.
Oh, how you knew how much I hate autumn and how much I undoubtedly love the breeze of winter. The screeching of the winds and the snow falling onto the ground, where we both scrutinize its unique aspect. We were the same.
How you were covered in snowdrops, and you’d throw me inside the snowpack. I’ll hiss, and you’ll laugh.
"I told you not to play with her every Saturday," my friend whispered, almost with a faint cry. There was a hint of longing in her voice.
"You haven’t told me the answer, Ong."
"She grieves in her dreams, my friend. He visits every Saturday, spends a day with her, and goes home at exactly midnight. She’ll wake up tomorrow, bud," she answered in agony.
Who's he? " I turned to her, but she vanished once again.
Celia, I will love you for the rest of my nine lives. I’ll wait for you tomorrow. It’s okay to grieve for now.
I’d still wait for you here at the table, even though it’s autumn. We both got to accept that winter is already over.
It’s my first life with you in autumn.
Sep 9, 2023
Sep 9, 2023 at 3:10 AM UTC
pick a word, let it lead you astray, then (soil)
a poem to exclaim, refracting the sun rays emerging
from the curves of your chested heart, the waggle of
ten fingers conducting your inner song, the baton first
waved swipe to earth pointing, let us commence there:
think of yourself, entirety, as soil, you the potter,
what has been planted by others, nourished by others,
along sides of your ingestions, you the grower, seeded
anew, each word, hybrid edging with existing vocabularies
the sun from without, the sun from within, the rivulets
of water, the arterial pathways, feed the treasure chest,
and you, farmer, planter, grower, picker, plucker of the
produce, serve us, baskets grown on the fruited plain of
poems’ soil consisting of the writings grown in the
unique you,
all of you,
body & soul
Aug 26, 2020
Aug 26, 2020 at 11:01 AM UTC
I've been going right on, page by page,
since we last kissed, two long dolls in a cage,
two hunger-mongers throwing a myth in and out,
double-crossing out lives with doubt,
leaving us separate now, fogy with rage.
But then I've told my readers what I think
and scrubbed out the remainder with my shrink,
have placed my bones in a jar as if possessed,
have pasted a black wing over my left breast,
have washed the white out of the moon at my sink,
have eaten The Cross, have digested its lore,
indeed, have loved that eggless man once more,
have placed my own head in the kettle because
in the end death won't settle for my hypochondrias,
because this errand we're on goes to one store.
That shopkeeper may put up barricades,
and he may advertise cognac and razor blades,
he may let you dally at Nice or the Tuileries,
he may let the state of our bowels have ascendancy,
he may let such as we flaunt our escapades,
swallow down our portion of whisky and dex,
salvage the day with some soup or some ***
juggle our teabags as we inch down the hall,
let the blood out of our fires with phenobarbital,
lick the headlines for Starkweathers and Specks,
let us be folk of the literary set,
let us deceive with words the critics regret,
let us dog down the streets for each invitation,
typing out our lives like a Singer sewing sublimation,
letting our delicate bottoms settle and yet
they were spanked alive by some doctor of folly,
given a horn or a dish to get by with, by golly,
exploding with blood in this errand called life,
dumb with snow and elbows, rubber man, a mother wife,
tongues to waggle out of the words, mistletoe and holly,
tables to place our stones on, decades of disguises,
wntil the shopkeeper plants his boot in our eyes,
and unties our bone and is finished with the case,
and turns to the next customer, forgetting our face
or how we knelt at the yellow bulb with sighs
like moth wings for a short while in a small place.
2k
In the jingle jangle jungle
When the jumping jackals jive,
All the leopards like a-leaping
And the lions look alive;
Watch the wary warthogs writhing
As they waggle and a-wiggle
To the drumming disco dancing
Of the jingle jangle jiggle!
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
i call my ambition, sergeant giggs... don't ask; i also call my left foot lady cantona, it's just regarding the manchester united dream team from the mid 90s.
oi! oi! that strange perfume in my garden
has come back!
i don't like it! i know i'm growing garlic
and rosemary & mint & jasmine in it,
but i'm not liking the eerie honey ****
of it, that i might liken to female genitals,
no!
**** off!
get these gnats away from me!
feed em to the bankers!
point being, if i were ever an islamic
martyr, and i'd get to the "sacred" gardens,
much akin to the hanging gardens of babylon
and i'd be like...
wait a minute, i didn't ask for solomon's
gym routine, i didn't ask for *******
gym membership scheme!
i said, i said that i wanted 72 watermelons!
who said that 72 virgins is a reward?
where are my 72 watermelons?!
i want my ******* 72 watermelons!
1 woman is enough! enough as in:
one too much!
yes, i know nature it cruel, and it proved
that by providing more women than men,
and that when an ****** hits their egos
and shatters them all hell breaks loose...
no! i didn't sign up for a gym membership!
i want my 72 watermelons!
take your virgins and shove them
into fairy-airy stories, or up my ***
how could 72 virgins ever be so appealing
as to take the lives of others?
i asked for heaven, not a gym membership...
idiots are going to be hating the notion
after a few hours:
well... gotta **** 'em all...
otherwise the ones not ****** will go straight
to king solomon, with his permanent
****** **** fusion...
just give me the 72 watermelons and ****
off with your "promises"...
i wasn't promised **** all upon
birth in this world,
but the promises of 72 virgins in the "next" world
seems more like a curse, than honey-dew;
i'd rather worm through
a library of books worth-the-reading,
than a bunch of girls: "worth-the-fuck";
well yeah, "the" oops;
muslims: monkey mentality, even after death;
me? i was imagining it as:
a brain in a pickle jar;
then again, i'd love to chat with 72 prostitutes,
gone down the train ride of waggle waggle...
plus the drinking helps...
less gym orientation mind you:
the already exhausted ***** 'elp a 'ittle.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 9:09 PM UTC
It’s not easy to be a bee
Our crowded view of life
Sometimes the only thing I see
Are trouble, toil and strife
We search to find the source of food
Then hurry to the hive
We hype the others in the mood
With waggle dance and jive
The queen, protected and aloof
Not like all the others
She is the sign and living proof
When smoke comes and smothers
Work and waggle, my daily chore
Then search a place to hide
Being a bee is so much more
When dodging pesticide
I’m a worker, and not a drone
I hope that you can see
When you harvest sweet honeycomb
It tough being a bee
Jun 10, 2022
Jun 10, 2022 at 12:33 AM UTC
Tube worms hellish creature
Centurion of pitch and isolation
No internal altimeter
Pressured to bake and cook life
Take energy from pressured light
Press and push and valve and close
Entrenched, in line to another world
A planet a dot, a dot a spot
a spot a rock, a rock a dot
Wiggle waggle struggle straggle
Life and death, dream and cot
It is hot down here
In passion of dream
and the brain can easily
Overheat
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 6:03 PM UTC
I somehow feel that life isn’t real.
There are fragments, I see them separate from one another –
Yet they’re all so obviously intertwined.
Apart apart apart.
Everything is set apart.
Connected yet not.
Perhaps a tree has fallen across the lines?
Its blocking the signal.
Interrupting the charge
Yet at the other end people still hear it-
Oh they hear it alright.
But it was passed on without my knowledge.
Passed on without any inkling, or desire, from my part.
And the effects are there -
Perhaps a spark jumped across just as the tree came crashing down?
Perhaps.
The other end heard the call.
They heard and they picked up.
They responded accordingly.
So when I stumble in, ready to deliver the news -
Or not deliver, to dance around the subject-
They grin and say “oh, we knew all along!
Did you think that we’d approve?”
Shocked, I stammer, pretend it’s fine
As though there was nothing wrong with that line
They giggle behind their hands in evil glee
And proceed to talk of someone other than ME
“Did you know; SHE’s pregnant?!!”
They haply yap,
Merrily waving at the poor chap.
So apart - yet so close!
The parts of my world intertwine
And sadly I glance around
As their mouths flap and fingers waggle
Oh! What marvellous company I have found!
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 6:44 AM UTC
By-the-why, Joker
I know your gaming.
Making sidewise rules
You waggle the stakes.
Shame, shame on your head
And to your careless smirk.
You’ve gnawed and ground
Until my outline’s blurred…
Sisters, pull me up!
From this deathly fairground.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
Waggle dance of the honey bee plays in my mind --
Insect intellect tipping and tapping on toes;
Music monomentality swivels the swarm
‘Til the sweet sum of floral fecundity flows.
Sep 24, 2011
Sep 24, 2011 at 8:58 PM UTC
After the painting by Henry Stacey Marks
Lady penguins I am told
Flock together to chat and scold
(usually about their husbands and boy friends).
They always have so much to say
You wonder where they find the time each day
To stand about and nod their beaks,
Flap their flippers, waggle their wings
(such small things - they cannot fly),
Though in the water, my oh my !
They are the greatest swimmers yet,
Gold-medal birds let’s not forget.
It may be gossip on which they thrive
But you should see them swim and dive.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC
"Are you deaf, Father William!" the young man said,
"Did you hear what I told you just now?
"Excuse me for shouting! Don't waggle your head
"Like a blundering, sleepy old cow!
"A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town,
"Is my friend, so I beg to remark:
"Do you think she'd be pleased if a book were sent down
"Entitled 'The Hunt of the Snark?'"
"Pack it up in brown paper!" the old man cried,
"And seal it with olive-and-dove.
"I command you to do it!" he added with pride,
"Nor forget, my good fellow to send her beside
"Easter Greetings, and give her my love."
1.4k
Pins in a haystack
Needles in the cushion
A knack knick whack-a-patty
Push n tha' tooshin
Waggle wiggle bumpin thump
hungry hippos roast a ****
Candy apple, hide-n-seek
Count to ten, you best not peek
Wormy wiggle, rigga ma roll
rat-rug boat-tug sac-de-Cul
Almost done, have words with fun
Yup giddy yup giddy, "Run Forrest Run!!!"
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 11:43 AM UTC
Borrowed Time
I wouldn’t say I am one for sitting on bar stools
in empty ***** bars studying time, but here I am/
all alone/ staring out a stainless glass window
watching life happen and wondering about
the sublime.
So many heartbeats out there strive for greatness;
so many dreams colliding while searching
for possibilities hidden inside shells of moral
capabilities. Some lead with eyes wide open/blind
to the finely crafted ******** of rhetorical motivation
and some are the followers who waggle
just slightly behind inspired by historical innovations
and there are some, who drink alone/like me,
who search for truth in a half empty glass
of optimism slightly buzzed.
It’s funny how when you are drinking everything
makes a little more since.
Sometimes you need the alone time
to hear what your thoughts are saying. Sometimes
you need to be away from everything out there
to understand the true ideals of individualism
because we are fascinated by difference
even when we think we are afraid
of not fitting in. We seek shelter in handcrafted
cliques just to delay the inevitable of standing
on our own.
We all embrace that maybe tomorrow entitlement
of procrastination, that daily hesitation that makes
everything around us happen….eventually
and maybe I’ve just had too much to drink/swirling
around ice in a empty glass once filtered by Tanguary
and a twist of tonic while still studying the sobriety
of a drunken society of hopeful prosperity.
Life makes a nice drink
because it is a bunch of nonsense we intake
until we’re intoxicated in the mind and stumbling
just to stay on our feet/stuck in time; a time that ticks
slowly when we’re in pain
and fast when we’re entertained
but at times, like now, it does pause
reminding us that we are on borrowed time
sipping on life with imitations of the sublime.
© 2012
Tarringo T. Vaughan
http://www.tarringovaughan.net
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC
**** all the children get a chance at the sandpit... only the dog collared ones attempting wrestling matches of biceps tonguing rhetoric touring waggle get the pulpit... kinda **** if you ask me: said sir sacrifice-a-lot when sir lancelot married; but all the **** happened after the ukrainian ***** it was the russian bourgeoise one... you forget you dim-witted bolshevik... the russian one... the russian one! not the ukrainian one! ah crap... too late, the crimson lunar eclipse from edinburgh to st. petersburg gave me mythological charisma; endeavour of the readers who can’t remember my tourism earning the year 2007 as distinct: i can earn an awareness of lying about the jealousy i have for the century of being a musketeer defending louis vix; ja athos! ein athos! i’m athos.... wrinkly & masturbated ******** toss! hey ** hey ** we dig dig dig dig dig, it's what we like to do... coal mine.... coal mine... coal mine... with a millionth diamond... we dig dig dig dig dig... hej ** do lasu by sie szło... high ** high ** unto abreit macht frei we go.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
Twirl- twirl twist
As whirls your hands
And swirls your head,
Jump – jump leap
To bolster and strengthen
Your scrawny knees,
Jiggle ~ Jiggle Waggle
Move from side to side
Wave to and fro
Mar 30, 2011
Mar 30, 2011 at 9:31 PM UTC
(a quid pro quo plug for zaftig women)
women that tip weigh ling needle to spin vicious circle
akin to puppy chasing her/his tail
or require digital scale,
at the extreme alt right registering heavy
ba Jill 'en Jack knifed pail loads
whether young or old ought to be appreciated
not waifer thin self starved as a rail,
instead they suffer unfair injustice
like a trapped quivering quail
thus this fatalistic, generic,
and holistic landlubber
wanted to point head lee
hammer home one secure
heterosexual ******* stronger than
omnipotent Marcy's Playground
weather beaten pail
Trent Reznor's sixty 9 inch rust free steel nail
into the coffin of bias
against bevy of beautiful babes
within the mind of this male,
who inherited genetic predisposition
for being average, hearty and hale
yet feel compassion for those engaged
in an ongoing with battle of the bulge,
hmm... perhaps hiding ample *****
akin to milky sopping wet grail
or accepted unequivocally themselves
without envy of lithesome women,
who seem to possess flair with nary a flail
yet possess much love to avail,
and tis wise to love oneself unconditionally
despite premium aesthetics considered svelte
which mass media accentuates de facto spelt
definition of femininity aka runway models
donned in faux animal pelt
whose deliberate self exhibition
prompts madding crowd of man
to waggle tongue with slack jaws
as if ready to melt
or at instantaneous signal telepathically felt
drop drawers upon removing blackbelt.
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 6:03 PM UTC
Someone put an
asterisk
in the Constitution and the
Declaration of Independence
when we weren't looking.
They added terms and conditions,
the ones nobody bothers to read
until they're ****** by them.
We live in the 'Land of the Free', asterisk.
We have the right to free speech, asterisk.
We can practice any religion, or none, asterisk.
We have the right of Life and Liberty, asterisk.
Rich, white, men know that the asterisk means
'for me, but not for thee," as they smile and
waggle their eyebrows at one another.
We live our lives surrounded by asterisks.
Truth lives in the asterisks.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 12:48 PM UTC
Of course we’re born sad little creatures!
To be born, we had to have the picture
broken & bursted—for, being born, we’re
fragments of it. (But not just us born—all
of it that’s born…all of it’s fragments.)
Us, though, we found out about the pieces
(and that we’re them) so shock-hearted and
weary-eyed we joggle ourselves around,
and waggle and babble (because we can move
and talk to the other pieces, like you) in the
sedulous task of trying to see what picture we all
formed before we were born and to see
if we can’t form it again while born and living.
And, also, inexorably, to see like fateless
naked goggling chicken-children what part
we have—is it a sun’s ray, a cloud’s feather, a
grass blade, or is it just the indistinguishable
shade of unctuous bole that’s laid there
almost smeared in between? I’m not quite sure,
our tabs seem flexible enough, and to add
we’re whimsy little interlockers, so no wonder
we’ve been going on billions of years now.
At this point it’s probably give-up or never-end,
and both options, frankly, seem quite abominable.
I wonder if that’s what it says on the box,
right above “meant for children” and “small
parts dangerous choking hazard.” But the
question is what to do when you’ve realized a
piece has been missing, always been missing,
and probably more. (Oh, and for after, you can
ask if it was never put there in the first place,
and why)—do you just imagine, then? I mean,
just that—just imagine the whole thing, after all
the fuss been going on to hold hands and make it out?
I’m telling you, I bet the sucker is something else
entirely, like something I don’t even know what,
but different—crazy different, I bet. And it’s
probably why they didn’t want to include it,
those ponzies—we wouldn’t choke on that one.
Not that piece. Still, though, I hope it says on the box.
I hope it at least tells you something on the box.
Wait, where’s the box? What box?
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
At school, poetry was anything but cool
Reading Shakespeare, Dickinson, Austin and Hughes
Writing essays on the Capulets and Montagues
Every time that subject came up my brain went on snooze
Call it what you want, the ignorance of youth
Like maybe my young mind was too uncouth
It just didn’t feel like they were speaking the truth
***** waggle dagger’s just too long in the tooth
Although one day we done some knowledge on Poe
Some lines that man wrote made my interest grow
It wasn’t what he said it’s how he said it
He didn’t even say anything to me, it’s how I read it
It made me wanna write down my feelings
It felt healing, exorcising all my demons
As I wrote I could feel all the heaviness leaving
Giving my brain a spring cleaning
It’s very therapeutic to take an experience
Wrap it neatly in a metaphor for convenience
That’s one of many reasons I love the bard’s art
A bird tapping a man’s window was the start
Ever since then poetry’s been knocking
At my chamber door but this is no Lenore
Poetry shall lift my soul forever more
Forever more
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
- Stay away plagiarizers - (ß?)
and who the **** would want
to plagiarise you?! i'm guessing nobody,
let's become serf-like ignoble,
let's keep this capitalism afloat....
oh, got the feelings awry?
can't mix the Koran
with capitalism... someone's
bound to suffer with, or without
the Royce Rolls...
you better be awake
when testifying for Moroccans
as equivalent of Napoleon
taking a **** on the throne of thrones
and tongue waggle and **** to boot...
as the Led Zeppelin immigrant song,
i just keep conjuring Genghis Khan...
and we're done when the horde erects
a cranium pyramid of skulls at Baghdad....
we didn't come to these islands as *******
we came here as Williams...
the Muslims could teach donkeys a half trot
to what we were establishing,
and it wasn't pretty, we were disgruntled with
expectancy lost along the way...
the Muslims could teach them post-colonialism,
so they agreed, crafting a new India
and prayers for the Hijab preserved...
they teach me one more ************* time
i'll start preaching with agile pursuit, duping
their endeavours for an Ian Fleming novel and why
spies have no regard for a C.V.,
never mind the hope for a person who might provide
me a suicide vest:oh sure i'm tickling
the authorities... i want them to spy on me...
i want them to become paparazzi:
when the two parties mingle we get comparative swoons:
Lucifer and Icarus.
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC