"wallop" poems
Deep brown color, messy as it’s eaten.
Like something that failed to crunch.
Brittle yet soft, rough and delicate.
It can be fudgy, chewy or cake-like, topped with walnuts or apricot glaze.
A heavy horse failing to hike the high mountain of crisp.
Hard on the outside, but not as taut as chocolate-chip cookies, or M&M;’s,
A fragile strength that breaks with subtle touch.
Smooth and moist inside, melted chocolate held together.
Created solely for a royal’s mouth to taste,
Slowly dissolving, sea foam ****** by the damp sand,
A guilty pleasure I cannot live without.
The brownie becoming a beautiful bouquet blossoming
In my chocolate tinted mouth.
It cures whatever ails you,
The flavor empowering any mist of dullness or bitterness.
Forgetting about everything, as he mixed the batter
Creating the perfect combination of smoothness, sweetness,
And the creamy after-taste.
Our favorite thing to bake together.
Friday evening we scurried to the kitchen, creating our own baking contest.
His hazel eyes, swirling with the batter poured in circles,
His lips, whistling to the beautiful sight of brownies, plumping as they bake.
Days later, we would come back to that kitchen,
With the scent of freshly baked brownies still lingering in the air.
We would look at each other’s deep brown eyes
Like the brownies we baked and enjoyed together.
His lips, a wallop of sweetness.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
once in my sanctuary
it came in a loud gallop
followed by a wallop
my sorrowful lumbar
detaching the fear
of a clumsy blunder
shifted away from
the law of physics
an emptied vessel unmoved
like a sealed vacuum
certain a final curtain
pin drop in code of silence
light time alliances
whooshing me into
ethereal plains
a sublime hemisphere
of infinitesimal space, time
an indescribable beyond
gentle breezes
feathery light teases
soon a star-gazing eyes
darted through a
zero gravity galaxy of an
endless empyrean expanse
a’turnin spherical sight
orange white stripes
rosely red spot
churning roiling clouds
speckled dusty rings
what beauteous it shrouds
why am I here
a knowing voice appeared
melodically close but I
can only behold afar
of an ethereally existential
interstellar manifold
questioning mind
told of convoluted ways
as seen and heard
the rhymes and seasons but
for one and the only reason
mankind's whisper'd words
entrance to the portal
as did my dawned immortal
met a peaceful assembly
I lay in days, this rapturous gifts
what divine effulgence of
a truly cosmic lift
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 10:24 AM UTC
It had been one of those enervating days,
when officialdom and red tape paperwork
had ****** the yolk and marrow leaving only
a dullness that yawed the ghost ship of her frame.
She decided not to cook, as much as
payback for her ordeal by proper channels.
And so to the "Toilet Bar", cafe of choice
for malicious villagers, though rarely women.
The men folk hardly stared upon her entrance,
by now they knew those leopard skin boots,
that packed a wallop they grudgingly took
stock of, then returned to their cheese and wine.
This was her quarter of salt cod with cream,
prepared by owner Paula and daughter Carolina,
the only other women tolerated amongst the chairs,
that smelled of tar and testosterone.
Lacking collars three tumbled to the stony street,
drunken mechanic, one armed plumber, peg-legged sailor,
the kerfuffle amusing her, their wicked aunt.
Another Lagoan night that shimmered out to sea.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC
I was once God's Picasso painting
(the Guernica era).
Chuck Jones' illustration
of the tortured artist,
laid out like Wile E. Coyote
on a bed of scalding rocks
and a white flag screaming "SURRENDER"
clenched with both palms.
If it were feasible,
I'd have dove head first
into the smoky center of the sun
if it meant my audience understood
the shrieking woes I had to bellow through
to reach their overwhelmed palates.
But Tragedy is the sitcom foil
that has long outstayed its menopausal welcome,
and I would much prefer a haunting.
To Hell with those
who repulse the flies with
the vinegar of exploitation,
gawking as their spit seeps
through seven layers of collected scars,
who ventilate the wrists
to keep the audience comfortable.
Real aesthetic power
comes from a shower
of light hail on the spine,
the moments a ghostly hand
****** you on the finger
with quietly hidden truths
always whispered from a field away.
It's far more bracing,
the lump in the throat,
not the electrical gasp of shock.
It's a far greater sign
of a forthcoming apocalypse,
the angel weeping in pain,
not the footsteps
of the wailing banshee.
The wisp
over the wallop.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:56 AM UTC
Going Off To War (a/k/a Washing The Dishes)
When its time to wash the dishes,
I make proper preparations for this serious business,
I strip down to my skivvies (shorts, in a prior generation)
Cause there will plenty blood and gore afore too long
Soap and water flying about, the ceilings and the walls,
Not to mention big, big puddles on the floor.
Multi-colored sponges of sizes varied,
Some Brillo-sided, like extra armor on a tank,
By Dawn's early light, turn the clear water
Into a heaving, breathing soapy concoction.
Woebegone and woe betide, dried and sticky maple syrup,
You are no match for super-strength orange dishwashing solution,
Of the Greeks did praise, a single dollop packs a mighty wallop!
Ain't afraid of any stain, decomposing, half chewed, culinary rejection.
Don't even bother with rubber gloves, cause that's for sissies.
The dirtier the better, cause I love the sounds of
All out war, the rushing water, the futile screams of
Grease departing this world, down the rabbit hole,
My gleaming, victorious sinking of the enemy shipping
You think I am the first to celebrate in verse
This storied fight of right over dirt?
Recall please this famed couplet, for now be known its true inspiration!
"Oh, say can you see by the Dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?"
Though Men Like to Load the Dishwasher (You Didn't Know?)
Is another poem of a similar ilk, when technology is unavailable,
It is fact verifiable and unassailable,
That if you give a man some room and some privacy,
Ignore the shouts and war cries from the kitchen emanating,
Male aggression can best be expiated,
When playing war games in the kitchen, a live action movie,
A video game that never grows tiresome,
And violence is necessary, for the enemy's complete annihilation.
Thank you my dear, no medal need be awarded,
Scored this poem as my just reward.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
I got them 25 dolla bills in my pocket *****
gonna make it rain make it rain on yo ******* quick
pyrex raf simmons drippin wit the real swag
smashing bottles of that grey goose
all the ****** gettin loose
gonna make it rain
make it rain
make it rain
make it rain
make it rain
make it rain
make it rain
.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 7:49 AM UTC
They chase them down
through field and town
intending then to eat em'
with plastic forks
and champagne corks
they wallop and they beat em'
They chase by day
and most the night
though I can't understand em'
through thistle grass
and snowy pass
with knives they roughly brand em'
With Caber tossed
and y-fronts lost
these skirted men assault em'
big burly men
with beards yer ken
you really cannot fault em'
With claymore sharp
and Scottish harp
they catch and set to roast em'
with whiskey ryes
And blood shot eyes
these hunters fair do toast em'
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 6:19 AM UTC
driving along in my auto mobilemy baby beside me at the wheeleverything right, nothing seemed wrongrevealing her thigh, a glimpse of her thongteasing and pleasing, live action pornparty in pants, one wheel and two hornscrash, wallop, bang, cos i did'nt seepolice car in front, but he felt mea fine, six points, coppers new bumperthump her? or dump her, but wanted to **** hershouting mad rages, the constable rantswho stunk like a sewer.......he'd **** in his pants
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 10:37 AM UTC
Isabella stood alone outside.
She was in the garden chasing snow.
Her nose felt the chill, her fingertips too.
The tips of her beautiful delicate toes, were fast becoming blue.
In the corner under the trees, she'd made a snowman.
She swore she heard him sneeze.
He wore a lovely tartan hat, a purple scarf, a pair of soggy bright red gloves.
She thought, perhaps he needed a lady friend.
Next to him on his right hand side, she created a very chilled girlfriend, made from fairy snow.
She built a buxom snow mamma, with a plastic gem in the middle to play the role of mamma's nose.
Isabella found an old Alice band and popped it round her soggy head.
Between the three of them they discussed having an infant, a snow child of their own.
All three of them got ready to discuss the coming child.
Isabella started building snow person number three.
A pretty little snow girl, with strands of straw for yellow hair.
She wandered indoors and pinched some precious pebbles from real mama's plant ***
Isabella gave her snow girl bright blue shiny eyes.
Mummy let the dog out, he ran around the garden.
So happy to be out and free, crash, bang, wallop.
Knocked Mr Snowman to his knees.
Isabella built him up again.
Mr and Mrs Snowman and their daughter were her friends.
She kissed them all.
Bade a goodnight, to one and all.
Isabella went indoors.
It was nearly time for bed.
The morning sun ripped through the blinds.
She looked outside to see her friends.
They'd gone.
Perhaps they ran away.
It was a little warmer today.
In the garden just a slushy puddle.
Wearing a tartan hat purple scarf and bright red gloves.
(C) Livvi
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 4:02 AM UTC
I walk down the street whisked by the fragrant aroma of a ***** floating above the clouds
Encased in venom but dismantled plumes of disembodied hair gave her a shroud
I saw in her minced reflection the swindled lust of a happy conclusion
To years of isolated rebarbative delusion
To serenade with penultimate swaggers as though I have been fully swooned
Too soon to aim my praise at an adoring moon
Tugging on mutual hearts entwined with the summer breeze
Trying to garner the summer heir and the summer flair
A panache to clothe every armed bear, disarmed by a propitiated care
A crisp lament crashes the party as a heckler gouging for blindness
I clinch a ****** anger as a riotous engine crafted from wineskins
Belonging to an ageless agelast scurried in dismay
I warp the warbled marble sleet a craven disarray
Then I clamber, risqué in fleeting moments a criminal repartee
I wallop the emerging consensus as the 16th hands me over dumped tea
And a ****** tree laughs as the whitewashed sanity of sanitarium ******
I swerve away from the indecency of a pepper enclosed in chosen wax
A gibbous shackle crumpled on a concrete semaphore
An erratic blithe minatory metaphor
Saturnine clout sweeps the dusty apron from the desuetude of homespun lethargy
Rampant clovers distilled from a dreamscape a raspy sea
Trespassing whisper surmounts the lambent alpenglow of a newborn sun
A sleek potter’s spell encumbered by a lapsed pun
Doors ajar and vats wed with an aimless spar
I finally see the fullness of majesty adorned as a breathing star.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 7:42 AM UTC
Got some hair upon my head
looks ok some girls have said
but if I stoop or look right down
wallop my bright gleaming crown!
A heli landing pad she says
and laughs at my next grumpy gaze
well knit me a wig, or maybe a hat
or cover it with a piece of mat!
We do felt making that could work
no I would look a ruddy berk....
Colour it in with a magic marker
do my grey so I go darker
Stop it all I've had enough
hirsutism proving way to tough
stick with what is clinging on
enjoy what's left before it's gone!
Jan 15, 2011
Jan 15, 2011 at 7:48 AM UTC
Sometimes I only watch
the waves tumble
as a blue rug
over a flight of stairs,
other times I want them
to pummel me,
wallop into me like boulders
and smash against my ribs
again and again
and again,
feel my digits wrinkle
like a rotten fruit,
feel the water splash on my lips
and know it's alright
if I dunk down
surrounded by swathes
of aqua satin,
hear a rattling,
an amplified burble in my ears,
aware it's just me and the sea,
the sea can have me,
I'll allow it.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
Toluene
He is a truly sublime being,
his "I love you's" like
sticky notes, stickers,
every embrace leaves
an imprint on my arms,
every kiss clings to my tongue
until I taste him again,
His love, an adhesive,
a sudden wallop of rapture
flowing through each
cremation chamber,
making my heart hum hum hum
a little faster faster faster
love knows no punctuation
- Crimsyy
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 9:16 AM UTC
As the vivacity of entourage seeks to proceed
For the rivalry of no lead;
As it cleaves through the restated deeds,
And then, the attributes come to hold no chore.
As the dusk flees over the sediment and
Over to the sheets that cloister not,
The promise of another wallop seems obsolete,
Because it clings to a phase of no strike.
Once a thread back than, goes for the thrice,
And solely rebels;
If the desultory crowd lies between the creaks,
And If not,
A breath still teases for too much.
And as the rivalry becomes the leading act,
the day is made of the weavers,
and the night after that,
Seems to simply appear.
May 17, 2020
May 17, 2020 at 2:47 PM UTC
Buried hatchets and gateway drugs
Third wheels in search of two way streets
Manic compulsions are my hobbies, I need closure
The bad news bearer has me pegged, I'm still unsure
The bad guy still harbors feelings, drowns in his thoughts
Use you foresight to see that you need
To do the breast stroke to win
But in hindsight I guess you shouldn't have made that last brushstroke beforehand
Clog my toilet with a dollop, you hoot and holler, you'll get a wallop
Rebuked and cold cocked, so despondent kick rocks at their glass house
Goose eggs make green house gas
Do or die, cardiac arrest
Life's calling
The call is dropped
You're unfit for this
I'd like a life line
It's survival of the fittest
-Tommy Johnson
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
When summer came in 98'
And the eyes of the momentary
Eternal swam into the Canyon Lake,
It was then the sway of skin
Took me to the place hungry eyes
And kids seeking stimulation went
To cool themselves off.
Under sky bright
I saw her with hips of light,
A second beer and I was grown
Into a man worthy of any woman.
No adults with experience
To guide my ill advised tactic.
A smack on the ***
At first she turned in complete anger,
Her curves had stiffened her body,
Combat mode and my buddies
Giggling in the backround.
I saw her beautifully frightful hand,
Her slap before we met eyes,
It was mighty and meaningful,
But when I turned from the wallop
To my face,
We met eyes once again,
The most timid of smiles
And a soft apology from me.
She smiled and slapped me once agin,
It was then I knew....
It was then I knew.
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
down the ups of the very backs of streets
just skirting the very edges of napes
the cities slightly tickled little hairs rushing
up it's thighs, colluding thickly bushy
barely about it's "ooch!" it's "ow!"
it's youth rimmed slouching pocket
hollow fully bursting. empty so crowding
tightly packed cheeks, clumps of giddy
gurgling songs pumped lazy chords
they sickly punch the nooks and crannied
edges flourishing the rainbow bright
chatter of lungs that taste the air so
healthy and so long. "Tonight, as the day
goes 'Wee!' over the ******* wallop
we"ll higgle wiggle in it's corpse
our skulls and merry bones to
frothing jowls overwhelmed with boisterous
young hearts supping it's crudlicious
pillow, supple and rotting gums
the large lit teeth of whom bust
right to heaven while we fling about
their oblong towers our shales
of *** and magic;
May 24, 2011
May 24, 2011 at 11:37 AM UTC
I've struggled between life,
And my own.
Who hasn't though,
When the world has it's own twisted insanity.
Sick minded, I lived to wallop people on the streets.
I intend not to eat but to satisfy my own belief.
Gasp I do as I see you walk by,
Hurt full of shame I neglect whats really right.
Shadow of the darkness creeps before my feet,
The gentle soft touch of light from the sun,
Removes her rays from me.
Twilight zone hits now its time for me to run.
Run from the darkness,
Tell me which race has already been won.
Freaked out from the mist,
And the intelligence of the dark.
It has its own intellect,
I hear it converse from afar.
I'm lying on its rack.
©
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 8:14 AM UTC
Then it slammed on your skin,
right in the kisser,
the leathery wallop
ski dd in g m a d l y t h r o u g h y o u r m o u t h .
Next came the blossoming pain,
a stinging ring
where the fist made contact
and you stagger back
in a muddled shock.
It was an accident;
I was getting into it,
thumping your left,
your right hand, fury
brewing inside me from somewhere
like a bonfire beside my heart.
I kiss you where it hurts,
the tingle of your stubble
rolls along my bottom lip.
What have I done?
Did I mean to leave
another burn on your face?
You don’t even blink,
a lingering black stare
and whisper with your eyes
what was that about then?
A chuckle skitters into the night.
Thought it was nothing
but now seems it’s something.
Let’s keep going.
It can be forgotten.
You jam the glove back over my wrist
and I’m ready again,
maybe, just a maybe,
hoping that I miss.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
Take a carney ride
at high noon,
or at midnight sky
under the moon.
The moonlight says,
the night is a good deal,
and the night says,
the moon knows
that we are here
to pack a wallop.
But the stars ignore
the moon's stolen light
knowing that they
will soon be dust,
while they spend
wistfully useless hours
wondering if
the only reason time exists is
so everything
doesn't happen at once,
then, all at once,
they are able
to leave well enough alone.
© copyright 2012
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 9:49 AM UTC
I so often yearn for the brilliant freedom
children exude at the public pool--
in their Tahitian orange board shorts
swinging like mudflaps against youthful
legs covered in fine, blonde wisps,
girls in lemon sorbet one pieces
standing triumphantly akimbo
at the water's edge with small
protruding bellies for no other
reason than to be, beauties
much like wildflowers, lone columbines
or other pale fauna--
evenly evertan or milky white,
beet sunburns that creep down the sharp points
of shoulder blades, barely held in place by sheets of taut canvas
leaking water and blinking rapidly
beneath oily fingers smeared with sunscreen and diluted
peach creamsicle--fresh glass blades pressed and dried to
little feet as if they were pages out of a wriggling book--
slapping wetly against pavement so hot you could
swear the children sizzle , leaping over bathers--teenage
girls that flinch and scoff--as if they can fly and we are ants,
them, giants who we cannot touch. Whose droplets barely
graze us, whose enveloping warm wind we ignore or
reproach.
If we grow dim and colder as we age then these are still boiling, still
utterly reactive to any and every substance
every limb a curious proboscis, mercurial temperaments and
tiny hearts that flash like switchboards and wallop against
caverns heavy with discovery.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
Take a carny ride
at high noon,
or in a midnight sky
under a crescent moon.
You can hear
the moonlight say
that the night is a good deal,
while the night says,
the moon knows that we are here
to pack a wallop.
But the Stars ignore
the Moon's stolen light,
knowing that they
will soon be dust..
while they spend
wistfully useless hours.
wondering if
the only reason
Time exists
is so that
everything
doesn't happen at once.
Then, all at once,
they were able
to leave
well enough alone.
end © 2013
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
When I crack a smile the whole world breaks into laughter, the
afternoon is the best time to wallop a punch line and grin as the grins begin getting wider and wider and the world is beside you and laughing along.
I saw the night watchman a Scots man move on a ***** who then tramped down the street and his feet beat a tattoo of pain and dismissal although his shoulders held square and his hair well kept and windswept told a story of a proud man and the watchman had gone,
no one in Argyll cracks a smile about that.
Some always get moved on
can't get their groove on and
they spin down the spiral or
fall through the crack and
laughter's not the same when you're flat on your back and down on your luck.
Anyway, before I crack a smile
I crank the engine and idle a while
and
give a thought for the ones who
have nothing to laugh about,
the war-torn, the still unborn,
the refugee,
the ones who have less than me and
sometimes the laughter lines are not laughter lines,
but are the scars that tell a different story
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
Take a Carney ride
at high noon,
or at midnight sky
under the moon.
The moonlight says
that night is a good deal
And the night said: the moon knows
that we are here to pack a wallop.
But the stars ignore the moon's stolen light,
knowing that they will all turn too soon turn to dust.
The stars spend
wonderfully wistful hours
wondering if the only reason that time exists
is so everything doesn't happen at once.
Then, all at once, they are able to leave well enough alone.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 12:19 AM UTC
‘She’s but a waste,’ some might say,
The antiquated demons perched
Atop her ***** shoulder,
howl those words effortlessly.
Oh, how they mock her; a doomed admonition-
A pitiful, wretched villain
Incapable of standing still.
‘She’ll rob you blind,’ they might whisper,
From the highest peak of their
pedestals and podiums,
Scrutinizing her wiggles and writhes, ruthlessly.
Oh, how they taunt her; a mirrored representation of ego-
A reputed captivation ****** sober but for now
Idly biding her time
‘She’s insane!’ they’ll declare,
Lounging in their Queen Annes,
Finalizing her score, most offensively.
Oh, how they wallop her; casting pebbles from their pristine form-
Upon the ribbed web of her spiritual coop
Faust, lying in wait.
‘aha!’ they’ll proclaim
From the rusted thrones of purity
Tallying her blunders to the nth.
How they scream through bitten tongue
Into that, what is left of her vitality
Cascading into degradation
Feeding her indignation
Gripping her last temptation
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC