"wallows" poems
They brought them
from the hollar
to the barge
to the field ~
into the wallows
in prayer
skinny little pinkers
cropped by ivory gates
buzzed with hot wire
hooked on bug worm
whistling dixie
around scrummers
and **** pen
peckers squawk
down eden lane
(nipping at jean lint
and fraystring)
deep in the hollows
a mad crow
(with steady tap)
the snouts high
on grunters
and squealers
stomping past
the feather pack
folded fingers
on the gatekeeper
(an engineer by
trade they'd say)
pigtails and
slack line
down the dusty lane
a snap of the jawbone
and lawn chairs settle
(facing north)
the bold script
and chimes
uneasy
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 1:11 PM UTC
In the dimly lit chamber, we set the scene.
An owner and his pet, a game of primal and prey.
She kneels like an eager dog, a collar around her neck.
He stomps his feet and keeps her obedience at play.
The owner, like a magician, keeps tricks up his sleeve.
He wants his pet to learn— to be his student and please.
Commanding her to crawl, to fetch and beg.
Waiting for him to call her a good little pet.
She barks and whimpers, a puppy in passion.
Spins three times and licks her master’s feet without a whine.
The pet surrenders to her master’s might.
She delivers his sturdy leather boots in a straight line.
With a flick of the whip, the pet curls in elation.
Her master chuckles at her sounds of temptation.
Submitting to the cynicism of ******* and discipline.
She is flogged like a plebeian, forgetting she’s a citizen.
Pet and master, a bond so strong.
The two are bound by zeal, craving one another.
She wallows in the comfort of her belly rubs and treats.
And runs around with a rush of red in color.
She goes through treacherous training.
And yelps if she’s ever caught complaining.
Waiting for a tasteful gift: the eternity collar.
When she is ready, he puts it on with honor.
Jun 16, 2024
Jun 16, 2024 at 6:25 PM UTC
It feeds and grows within the host;
It stretches the skin and swells the belly;
It dwells as warm as buttered toast,—
This toothless pulp of genes and jelly.
It soils the lair in which it lives
And wallows there within the waste;
And not a single **** it gives
That *** is an ever-present taste.
It sickens her and spends her strength
And causes her, the host, dismay,
Till it outgrows its den at length
And exits in a dreadful way.
And where the creature takes its leave
Is almost too terrible to believe.
O.O
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
the rat ******* has been re-purposed
(conscripted in a somewhat fodder task)
brandishing irons
and quarter lines
coiled and unwavering
insidious and cunning
pent up and fired
in his dripping shoes
and peel back skin
wheel bug and hookworm
are stolid in his wake
(all bursting grossly at the buckle!)
the heel on task;
slithering and rogue
merciless and coy
resolute and contemptuous
with his cotton mat
and quick ready quill
pungi and clapper
raise the clever snake
(croker sacks and wicker backs
dot the gasoline rainbow)
carnival barkers and kraken
(lewd in the distance)
taunting and vile
with their red beakers
and deep purple hearts
cicada and louse
high on alert
(ready to wreak havoc in the hog wallows)
the perverse cornered rat
snapping and soiled
foaming and inflamed
lurking and primed
inside his carefully crafted plan
easels and cover alls
suit this jackal well
(keefer’s little helper or so they'd say)
pickers running rough shod
all stirring up the stench
***** and conkeys
poised
and ready
to lime this cornered slug
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
I’m falling again.
The falling where
my mind wallows
with my heart
till they combine
and the pressure
becomes too much,
so it leaves me numb.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
Please don't misinterpret what I have to say
But you're a killer.
What I mean is- You've killed me.
Though I may walk, talk,and breathe
I do not smile. I do not laugh. I cry.
Baby, let's not lie. I'm not alive.
You've murdered my soul
Slaughtered my emotions
And left only grief.
Which hangs above my head like a storm cloud
Waiting to rain on my parade every day.
And you're the cause.
I hate you
You've made me smile. You've made me laugh. Then you took it all away.
I hate your guts
He no longer dances with pride. She wallows and sobs all night and day.
Her heart no longer beats.
He no longer cares.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
Mind - tripping eyes subconsciously getting lost in grandfather clock.
Thoughts frolicking through fields that time could never stop.
From a lotus flower shinning bright from rejuvenation.
Born to all things new, putting the past in stagnation.
No matter the hardship, there's never a need to let petals start wilting over time elapsed.
Grandfather clock never stops, there's only so much vitamin d the day allows to grasp.
From this it's learned we must water our own apple blossom, one commonly missed,
As we search for the perfect bouquet of eternal bliss.
Yet it projects good fortune and releases hopeful vibes.
Grandfather clock couldn't let memory forget it, even if it were tried.
Apple blossom in hand, into daisy fields memory wallows about.
Holding tightly to what’s left of innocence, youth cannot run out.
What a gentle smell carried through the breeze, the sun with warmth to share.
When grandfather clock strikes a certain time, reflections will take me there.
When time is due, a valley is to be embraced.
Within which lay a single lily, in which happiness is grace.
Grace can be given all around, especially to those closest.
Even when you’re the only bud bloomed, the only lily floating on the surface.
In fact, the lily of the valley is grandfather clock’s key.
The only one to break through the surface; the code to set time free.
With not much else around, we work with what we’ve got.
But happiness doesn’t exist so give it another shot.
Happiness is something we must create; our own bouquet of eternal bliss.
So as grandfather clock tics & tocks…. tic…. tock…
I toss a single black rose at twelve on the dot…time stops.
Farewell may be forthcoming, but rebirth has already been assumed.
Thanks to you my bouquet has been created, my blissful soul has bloomed.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 1:22 AM UTC
These Great Reviver’s wild reforms
Now sound like all Hot Air,
Narendra Modi’s new India
Still bogged down in despair.
Shinzo Abe’s revised Japan
Still wallows to stagnate
And China’s Xi Jinping’s grand scheme
Continues to deflate.
Collectively they stumble
In their plans to stimulate
Asia’s great economies…..
But have failed to shut the gate
On the Shadow Banking industry,
Their vague structural reform
And the fossilized grey politics
Which resemble, now, the norm.
Rhetoric is their keynote here
Real action’s in decline
With their mandate clearly squandered
There’s A BIG CRASH DOWN THE LINE!
M.
Auckland
23 August 2014
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 8:24 PM UTC
Creaking and cracking,
shaking and rattling,
the skeleton follows.
Hanging like a shadow,
or like a dead man in the gallows,
the skeleton follows.
With a blank expression,
that's quite frankly depressing,
the skeleton follows.
Just a memory,
of what I use to be,
the skeleton follows.
It aimlessly wallows,
with a body that's hollow,
the skeleton follows.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
For what event shall lead
And what event will follow
That the mockingbird song consist
Of only its own joy and wallows?
Mirrors around the mockingbird song
Shall it disappear for its false ownership?
Mirrors around the mockingbird song
Shall it grow louder in the ears of those who trained it?
If the mirror no longer had light or we no vision
Would it become of life? Grow a soul to show?
And if the mockingbird had no ears or we no sound
Would it learn its own voice? Gain an identity other than our own?
For what event shall lead
And what event will follow
That the mockingbird song consist
Of only its own joy and wallows?
Show him his blood born to imitate
Show him his colors false to himself
Mirrors around the mockingbird song
Deathly that it see itself
Will it disappear?
If existence is to plagiarize words
And existence was of one alone
Vanish- will existence?
Or become a spirit of its own?
Jun 27, 2011
Jun 27, 2011 at 7:28 PM UTC
Wherein without a mouthful of air,
He spoke of materialism with
a judge’s
Merciless verdict.
His eyes so glazed yet passionate,
He threw his thoughts to the ceiling,
Like rocks in a plastic bag,
To see if it could make a bang
And his speeches are so angelic
Amongst the ignorant giggles
And the frayed songs of yawns,
You really had to give him credit. For, you
See, he stares out at a whole different cosmic
Sect in a wanton orchestra
Filled with red wallows of
Flags and pride.
Scared jumbles strewn like flowers across this dying opinion-land,
He’s seen it all despite his accent.
He’s strummed cold and excited to be here.
His life is a rusting metal scrap
Tossed to the side of the masterpiece from whence it came.
He thinks that everybody must have been a spy…
No, wait, two quirks tossed in to
Hear the Man talk. It’s all a
Meandering walk from where
The toads squat.
He describes it as a war for the value of academic standards,
Which are now expiring before his eyes, and how we’re all
A bunch of rotting worms dying as we speak. The hope is
That the people from your life will be defeated by you,
Right? That’s how it goes in the war of everybody
Against everybody. He desires to make all of life
Into a dream… but that would result in economic
Impediments.
Give him the $1 million, also known as “the cool mill.”
Everybody must have been a spy.
You couldn’t look for this logic
Beneath a rock
Or stuck in your lover’s hair.
He’s depressed because he is not asleep – he’s acutely aware.
He speaks like rapturous nuns,
throwing themselves on to the cross
And begging me to ready the nails.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 11:42 PM UTC
Your hands became a
raft in the river bend:
once rode with fury,
slowed down with their stories,
then crashed into your end.
Wallows
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC
Descry the glittering sand,
Every coin is vestal, unused.
He cast unto the well,
Uttering a spell
That dwindled on his aching lips.
Amiss, his voice does not graze
Her conscious divination.
A thousand times again,
He strives-
Just for a spare thought.
But the fool, consumed, controlled
Wallows in the walls
She sculpts around him.
He begins to work away the vines
Of her honied tendrils.
Yet, each finger twined of gossamers,
Drenched in delirium.
Nay, she rejects his presence.
But grants her endless visitations
As a specter, with a Faustian kiss.
He drinks of her,
To parch his arid throat.
Remote, he holds the seed
Which festers within.
Forever.
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 9:00 PM UTC
He's tiger eyed
He's lion hearted, he's wolf spirited - so mysterious
Serious Black couldn't be more devious
Genius as a genie in a bottle, their wish is to follow
No wallows in sorrow, not a bottle swallowed
The boy shined so bright, ever wonder where the stars go?
He shouted in San Diego, they heard him up in Chicago
He goes maps edge to chase what he's pursuing
Viewing his world that they ruined, he knew it could never be new again
Old is his soul but is fresh as the meat to these vultures
War in his peace is the key to his sculpture
Pulse no longer lasts, nothing left in his mass
Fast to the black, left only legacy to pass
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 1:16 AM UTC
Life is not worth living without love.
We squander our lives, yet search for substance belligerently.
The world wallows in indulgence, hunting for some sweet ecstasy.
Desire situated in our hearts for a thing extravagant.
What’s in a name? Not known in full, not yet complete.
Abandoned innocents, love pledged ‘until death do part’ reveals not faithful.
Is there another dirt road? An alleyway? More faithful
than the sun to go west-bound, love?
Does such simplicity exist? Revived, whole, complete?
Cries lift and salt-stained drops fall belligerently.
What is assuredly, magnanimously extravagant?
What is the original ecstasy?
Was it walking in the garden with you, this ecstasy?
With you, who, to me, is perpetually faithful?
Is it from you that that bliss bubbles over, so extravagant?
Of you, is there an undeniable, unfathomable fountain of love?
We bawl out for reply, until the abdomen aches, so belligerently.
Scars mark this world from its pursuit of the complete.
Peering through the mist, our knowledge is six feet underneath complete.
Redemption, we learn by stumbling, is the finest ecstasy.
On our toes, the paroxysm. We press in belligerently.
To raze and desolate, the swing of the wrecking ball is faithful.
But countering this, a sloppy, passionate kiss of love,
grace so abundant, so extravagant.
Trust steady, hope unswerving, love extravagant,
will be my three until the steam is wiped from my lens in the hour of the complete.
Deeply grasp though, the best of these is love,
from which comes all and any ecstasy.
Know that from the ants to the mountains, He is faithful.
So seek and swallow with all your might, desperately, belligerently.
Therefore, “what do I live for?” ask yours belligerently.
Dwell not in leisure and comfort, but in the painfully extravagant.
Zoom out, turn the merry-go-round. You will find him faithful.
Shake your tree of knowledge, an apple might fall, find yourself not complete.
If you speak silence, you will find no utterance of ecstasy.
I call upon the name, let be known this love.
The sweet surrender, the blissful brokenness, the captivating complete.
Find your absolute identity in this encompassing ecstasy.
Know that what has been done for you, is what is indeed, love.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
The lost causes never remember
moonlight matters
it's tapping at your window
Sounds of baby peddles and November
The looming causes fail to comprehend
loneliness lingers
It's ebbing at your elbows
The best of beer bottles and dead ends
The loose causes refuse to acknowledge
Ignorance ignites
It's gnawing as it follows
Daily articles and unrefined polish
The least causes lose sight in the daybreak
blossoms bittering
It will fade as hearts hollow
Graveyard backyards and bone aches
The lone causes acquiesce to uncertainty
pages punctured
It is freeing as it swallows
Sunsets red and abrupt against afternoon purity
The loaned causes shatter against the bribery
Coins cascading
It is a vision as she wallows
Lipstick Luscious and cultivating calvary
The last causes shall never translate
Sculptures scalloped
it is swallowing in shallows
Hoarded hearts and breakup dates
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
Deconstructing a Kafkaesque
amphitheatre of the absurd,
Easy wallows she in their hypocrisy,
Son of a gun grabbed on
to the gold that fed his infant
self, doesn't dare let go, won't ever,
Dev breaks the bottle he hits,
scrounges, discards the last scrap,
the rat scurries in, devours, heads
back into the smoked corridor,
the auction goes on, so does he
showering petals and pity upon the
middle road more travelled, bumpy,
potholes full of acid and bile,
the stupidity of the tyrannical majority
and an underwater civilisation consumed
by mind-numbing, mildly shocking TV,
undercurrents of power drowned under.
Uppercase Him, uppercase He,
they hoist a red flag, set it afire,
stomp out the flames, wave a black
rag till the ashes turn to naught,
the Dionysian petit bourgeoisie proceed,
spew, ***** spew, repeat.
The voyeuristic rat has front row seats
gaze fixed, piercing centrestage
auction-house by day, amphitheatre by night,
the bids shall resume when
the morning bells toll, till then,
Dev's hungry for more,
the rat enjoys the show.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 3:20 AM UTC
Forget the school children
of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
Or the 1,000,000 dead in Vietnam;
60,000 dead in Iraq;
30,000 and rising in Afghanistan.
How many by our proxies
in El Salvador, Nicaragua,
Guatemala, Chile?
Forget the millions dead
in nameless civil wars
or of preventable
poverty and disease
in various hell-holes
around the globe.
The rest of the world
may be sorry,
but not shocked:
they have come to know
the smiling murderers
we have become.
20 dead of madness
in Connecticut
and the US wallows
in drivel, kitsch,
hollow words,
self-pity, and
media frenzy.
A little arrogance here?
Oh, we love our kids,
(just no one else's),
so let's put black ribbons
on our cars
and call that enough.
Again, the culture
of selfishness, greed,
shallowness
and patriotic stupidity
rears its
predictable head.
No country that murders
the world's children
with a shrug
should be surprised
when that violence
turns inward.
"I am Vishnu
Destroyer of worlds
My name is Death"
You can't have it
both ways.
"We must love one another
or die."
mce
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 6:04 PM UTC
Ghosts hide behind her eyes
Joyfully burning in violet flames
They make her chest quake
And her hips shimmy-shake
As she tosses and turns in her sleep
In the morning she bursts into the daylight
Fleeing the urgent shadows of the night
And spins into the wind
Which dances around her body
And wishes it weren’t invisible
As it glides across her skin
She wallows amidst the verdurous grass
Bathing in the eager warmth of the sun
That permeates her sheath of clothes
To the soft shimmer of flesh underneath
Her dark curtain of lashes flutters then closes
As she breathes deeply while her mind floats elsewhere
She dreams of lace around her wrists and
Rubies falling from her fingertips
She wears a mollifying grin
On her tender strawberry lips
Surrendering to the rapture within
The earth splits open
It craves to reclaim her
In all her ripe and resplendent glory
Her fingers curl themselves in the dirt
Violet eyes fly open
A fierce gnawing hunger
Has been ignited in the pit of her belly
There is a pomegranate tree in the distance
Its branches heavy and voluptuous with fruit
On lithe legs she dashes to the tree
Plucking one gently from its cradle
Once broken open
Its swollen vermilion seeds gush forth
To fall about her feet
With a sigh she bites into the milky white meat
Sticky sweet juice cascades past her lips
And along the curve of her throat to tinge the skin pink
She is filled to the brim
Inflamed and engorged
She blushes
And lets the ravished pomegranate tumble to the ground
There is laughter on the wind
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 7:22 PM UTC
short-sighted vision
complacency
a dangerous choice.
prototypes in my mind
fill the vacancy
fill the silence.
silence the needs
pretend like i die tomorrow
but live like i died today.
motivation for desire
stays and wallows
in it's comfortable rut.
change clings to
concentric circles.
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 7:15 AM UTC
Seems to me that the man who doesn't Shine his Shoes, Might Not have remembered to change His Socks ! If you only half-way stop at the Stop sign, Must you also wait for the light to turn Fully Green, Before you GO ? Do Ants really like being in OUR company...OR..do they Simply like the trails We leave? If streets are paved to keep down the Dust, Does that mean there's never any Dirt on our Vehicles! Since cars have battery operated Starters, Should Humans have to be Plugged in overnight ? If Floss is used to clean between our teeth, Would it be better to do it More Often, So as to have a Better taste for things ? Some folks sing out Loud with Joy, Some folks show their Joy in their Face, Some in their talk, some in their habits, some in their attitude.....WHAT is Seen in Their Mirrors ?? If a Road Hog wallows in Width, does that mean we should dig Deeper to keep from falling into Pits ? If Truth is seen in the Light, How long of an extension cord should WE carry around ? If DUST is something to come from, It's sure nice to know, that You've got something firm to stand on! Was that Wind blowing thru my hair, OR was I just running to Fast ? Aha, there's a bench, I'll sit down and wait for you. Looking forward to that LONG Chat , Aren't YOU ??
May 16, 2011
May 16, 2011 at 4:14 AM UTC
It's here,
Across her gaze.
Under the flora,
The grey grim murk on the perch.
The swallow song no longer heard
Over rap-racket from the stereo,
Hardening ear lobes.
It's here,
In the shallow pits of the room,
Where one wallows in part-pity
And shameful surrender
To the mic’s mild embrace.
It's here,
Hiding in the hollow,
Glaring wistfully into nothingness,
Gliding in undulating vistas
Across light and dark
In the dark and light of head-space.
I hold the rim of the coffee cup,
Clasping tightly until it drops
On her clammy clad,
The iris eyes me dangerously.
My final resignation.
Now I am here.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
Her name is Catherine Eddowes
and it rhymes with meadows
of green fields and moon's shadows
but in the street she wallows
in the darkened danger that swallows
through the London fog that follows
her every movement and her sorrows
Oh Catherine, my dearest
come to call in nights severest
of pain and pleasure without rest
strike you like a luckless jest
you are who you are, that's your best
I am looking at you and memorizing
your ****** features that are tantalizing
I do not hear if you are coming or going
But I never want to hear you crying
Her name is Catherine and pray,
do not forget
She is far away now,
much to my regret
I miss her but
I must not be upset
Someday ,perhaps, she'll
grace me with her presence
she'll look at me with no pretense
she will show me emotions intense
I'll smell her perfume like
fragrant incense
Hello and goodbye,
dear Catherine Eddowes..
a name that rhymes with meadows
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 7:53 PM UTC
Twenty strolls by the canal
out without followers
,pleasant by night
walk slow and around
fast thoughts
changing fireflies with the mouth
while angst wallows out with the wind
by the shore sifting every other passer this way
who never wanted life beyond a couple years
,except
we all just have dreams
and mine
are all eyes to Moloch now
for he streams dark giants
and quiet interplay with water-lights
and I am brought to tears
If I could...for every *******
misfit, and geek
chasing trains past bedtime
and seeing green in society’s streets
just tapping steps in the dirt
who cared none
about father’s scrutiny,
who worried less
confronted in the night
with all ceaseless
horror and inviting fear
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 5:22 PM UTC
he wallows in the slop,
seemingly unable to stop
alliteration is his biggest sin
grimly gripping grand and grotesque lines alike
rhythm and rhyme are somewhere
deep in the heap of crap
he cranks out
similes are his favorites
but parsimonious as desert dew
when he hunts for one
that's new
metaphors bounce beyond
his reach, on harder ground
than the pen he shares with hogs
doubtless the domain of dogs
far bigger than he
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC