"wart" poems
I know a very old art
that is close to my heart
those who don't get this are too smart
It's difficult from the start
but very easy to impart
like a careless whisper or a bogart
A beauty that rhymes with ****
To some, it's music of Mozart
sadly to most, it's ugly as a wart
but who cares, let them dart
it's way out of their charts
for you and I will never be afart
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
hist whist
little ghostthings
tip-toe
twinkle-toe
little twitchy
witches and tingling
goblins
hob-a-nob hob-a-nob
little hoppy happy
toad in tweeds
tweeds
little itchy mousies
with scuttling
eyes rustle and run and
hidehidehide
whisk
whisk look out for the old woman
with the wart on her nose
what she’ll do to yer
nobody knows
for she knows the devil ooch
the devil ouch
the devil
ach the great
green
dancing
devil
devil
devil
devil
wheeEEE
10.3k
Belated Cousin my Younger Cake gives
Forgive my Busy Bee to Greet you well
Since both we in Tune to the Yorker's, lives
Are what a few Dollars which I can sell
Now, how was your Day? Special as it seems
That the Early History our Links blur
Perhaps I was Young to sort out the Reams
Forgetting that Paper, Pink would occur
Overall, such a Worry-Wart I am
To think that you have Stones in my Basket
Realising that our Blood's Strength it can
Revive my Love's Story in your Pocket.
Greatly wish, Manang, my missed Uncle bears
Take his Candle; And put it in your hair.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
Peter, my closest friend,
Worries.
Name it - he worries.
Shows it too,
In everything:
*Cause I worry
Bout everything,* he frets.
What advice can I offer:
Don't use Compound W.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 1:29 PM UTC
.simone biles (the gymnast)...
miles davis (the trumpet guy)...
must be black privilege;
wasn't there a movie...
starring
woody harrelson
and wesley snipes?
you sure?
i thought it was
called: white men can't jump...
sure as **** ****** can
sing church gospel!
how's that for
privilege?
if you're going to
culturally box, and repeatedly
punch below the belt...
you're quiet likely going
to get a reaction...
i have an acne wart growing
on my *** the size
of a cauliflower,
it's itchy my brain,
it's differentiating between
agitate and: lying back...
i guess the excess of...
look... you may have
the excess melanin...
i have lactose tolerance...
we're even?!
no?
so how come some smurf,
some European hobbit
shackle your N.B.A.
Goliath(s)?!
explain that one to me...
if these people were so
cock-unsure...
how they **** did they
tame the Zulu Apache Goliath
bodybuilders?!
what the ****
i already said, and it was proven...
IQ...
i don't like it...
but i'm pretty sure that
the whites **** more people
in terrorist attacks than...
camel-jockeys...
it took 3 or over three...
to perform the Bataclan Massacre...
three... the third of the IQ
that required a Breivik...
130 in France...
dissociated among 3 attackers
that gorged on testicles after the spree...
fun, fun fun fun...
like: you're trying to say that without
irony...
and how many in Norway?
77...
i only look at the IQ of killers...
so... what's the ratio?
77 / 1
130 / 3 = 43...
like i said... low IQ...
you really want your little
racial insurrection?
you'll have it, don't worry..
i'll just the narrative...
must be black privy...
if you can mash up a jazz compos.,
right?
crackers read from
a prepared script...
you ******* just, "improvise"...
rapping contra talking...
**** come to think of it...
******* boys took it too far from
your Oreos...
like... too much drums...
not enough wind, or strings...
too much drumming...
pulverizing the ears
with drum & bass and what not...
if i wasn't deaf prior,
i'm deaf by now;
******* boy to Oreo woo-oo-oops
boy;
same **** different cover.
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 9:42 PM UTC
It’s All Hallow’s Eve and there’s little sound,
Except for a few goblins dancing around,
An old witch creates another evil spell,
Summoning demons from down in Hell.
The old hag stirs her boiling stew,
Adds eye of a newt, and another shrew,
The cauldron bubbles over the roaring fire,
The smoke rising up, higher and higher.
A black cat watches and suddenly screams,
It’s enough to haunt anyone’s dreams,
The old woman smiles an evil grin,
Her wart covered face personifies sin.
Looking around the spooky room,
Perched in the corner is a wooden broom,
Later she’ll get on it, and will take flight,
As she rides off on All Hallow’s Night.
Somewhere another victim will await,
Helpless to control their coming fate,
Another body that will soon be cold,
Another life that will never grow old.
Just another night’s work for an evil crone,
It’s what you do when you’re bad to the bone,
For another year, she will take leave,
And be back again next All Hallow’s Eve.
11-01-14.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 3:04 AM UTC
In the coven’s cavern
Dark and dusky
Wart and Weird
A potion are planning
Boiling and bubbling
The cauldron they caress
Eye of emu
Finger of fiend
Mutter and mumble
Hair of hare
Claw of cat
Splash and sparks
With a wicked whisper
A **** and a poke
A whip of a wand
Silent strangling smoke
Covered beneath her cloak
A vile vial full
The murderous magic made
A dead baron as bade
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 5:08 AM UTC
"They laugh at you because you intimidate them"
So young and naive you did not know who you are
confused your worth for being used for pain
oblivious of the fact that you are a shining star
entrapped by these ideologies of steel bars
you are told you are too weak to make it to tar
Dragged and beaten, a passion still lives that will take you far
brave enough to search for your soul, you'll soon found out who you are
As you have been made to witness death
Failure has been your tail and has shortened your length
For you have been bewitched by a predator that feeds on your strength
watching your loved ones hammered and stabbed to sudden death
you resort to camping where heaven has a tent
you have seen all you knew crumbling down like a stack of cards
before your eyes the fires of hell have been shooting like darts
your friends have laughed at your downfall and called you a ****
chances and opportunities gone leave you a worry-wart
this is the walk of shame,
***** up and they preach your name
do good and they praise your fame
unaware that you are a beast hard to tame
and the women weigh your accountability against money
you can be sweet but can you buy the sugar and honey?
you share jokes but she sleeps in the arms of another man, it's funny
you're smart and craft sharp ideas but your ***** are left blunt, you dummy
Don't you know that you lie to keep them from running?
and that the truth and being yourself keep them from coming
the walk of shame would be your fame
as they laugh at your faults and lames
if they see not a fault they'd nail and frame
leaving you wondering where the true ones are, the sincere friend and fair dame...
So you rise and it is news to them
For they only saw soil and not the seed that'd stem
They were unaware that you're being polished for your term
uninformed that they're killed, tired and drenched, by the lazy worm
that you're the deepest element that swum when they swam
the coolest bell that tingled ring and softly rang
the one impaired during production but forms in time, ***** and span
alive and upright, a driven and passionate man...
Your walk of shame astounds them then, shame shem shem.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
To run after material fame
Counted not rich sensitive game;
Among wealth, *** and love affairs,
Character is above all arbiter.
As adorn ornament each bridal's limb,
An artist make active clumsy-wart-stone;
Company bear trophy by aggressive troops
Oblige character graceful at distress grown;
The character die seldom minus bloom,
Yet en-lights personalty fade in gloom;
Usually left little paid proper care,
Although always seen inclined sincere;
Certain place customary said temple
Where almighty's statue noted install
Estimated body deserving only when;
Thermal of character never fall;
Effort need to build the character
Honesty and endurance are weapon mere;
By effacement total thought rankle
And block pulse hide egotism perennial;
Good name lost can regain later
But character pleases rare if blot;
A richest jewel survive human tread;
Turn soul ill, fret, spiritless on rot.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 7:00 AM UTC
the new cat litter box
sits alone
in the corner by the door
where you last left
for good
with your shoes
and your cat
and some potatoes
I cooked for you
I am too neurotic
you said
thoughtless and rude
the perpetual thinker of the
unimportant
obsessing over how big a one cm
canker sore is and is it maybe cancer instead
and it's true
I worry constantly
for the past ten years
while we played out this game
of cat and mouse
I worried I'd never see you again
never have you here
never feed you
never laugh with you
never hear you tell me
don't worry honey
my little worry wart
you are okay
don't worry so much
I'm here...
but the truth is
you are not
you were more annoyed
than amused
more angered than empathetic
more certain than not
so you took the cat
and my dreams
and you left
at some point
I'll clean out the litter box
and crawl under my bed
to find the little stuffed white
mouse
I bought for Billie Holiday
and I'll put it away
save it somewhere
to find in a year or two
on some quiet gray Sunday
afternoon
and maybe for that moment
forget to worry about anything
at all
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 9:06 AM UTC
A troll sits open-mouthed, awaiting the spoon
that stirred the porridge; this ritual has been
ingrained in its brain – a sloshy, lifeless fossil
that stores villas of pain and ineptitude.
There is no water under its bridge, and all wrongs become
manifest as an attention-seeking wart on his soiled skin;
he wishes he could shed it, as this losing game of
snakes and ladders is beginning to wear thin.
Day by day he rolls the dice, but can’t take his move,
confined by an undying dread of slipping and sliding
on the loose gravely ground that he dreams of climbing;
and whispers of chiding.
Neither a sanctuary nor a prison, his home is a waiting room
on the Styx; from it he hears the echo and call of spring lambs
as they cross to taste the apples on the other side,
which a child impetuously picks.
Searching aimlessly for his reflection in the stone wall –
grey and every type of cold - proves futile;
he turns to his shadow asking his name,
shoulders slouched and mouth wide open all the while.
Seeing only darkness in the silence, control is lost -
he pictures tearing down that wall, but is unsure;
Self-muttering eases the certain fragility, and calming down
he tries counting to five - he can only count to four.
Nov 10, 2010
Nov 10, 2010 at 2:47 PM UTC
The footprint of this place
is a freshly razored face.
Mother Earth’s been ‘beautified.’
trees, grass, roots, shrubs,
stubble shaved from the chin,
neck and face smooth.
Underneath this house.
The whiskers have been shaved
she’s dolled up
But in gruff’s stead
there’s a wart on her face
A fossilized, mortared blackhead.
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 3:11 PM UTC
Jacob likes Star Wars his wart is bleeding people are screaming but I don't know why its probably because of his eye lets go chicken!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
This afternoon, I smell like a hungry gardener
a green thumb with a wart attached:
both perfumes of a rose are discernible. The soil, the falsetto sweet
reaching up onto your nostril fur as monkey bars
until it can scatter seeds, some wild and collected by fruit.
Mother asks why my knees are shaded.
I have been on them, I say, breathing life into green berries.
Free them from that cage, their wire straitjacket
and breed breed breed:
this afternoon, everything I touch will stay alive, including me.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 6:51 PM UTC
Never forget,
Neither your scale,
Nor your mirror,
Should ever, ever determine
Your self-worth.
Nov 24, 2019
Nov 24, 2019 at 9:47 PM UTC
“Yo con stik yer O.T. Gaffa
Weer the monkey stiks his nuts.
Dost think I’ll fall fer that agin
No questions ifs or buts?
Fer fore ‘ears now I’ve werked me roe
Thru blood and sweat and tears
And all fer such a measly dough
Werk overtime no fears.”
The Gaffa looked me in the eye
And stood his graernd real firm.
“Wust be better on the dole
With missis on the gurm?”
Cust see he wart in mood fer messin,
He wus beetroot red in ferse.
An I war gunna mess abaert
So I gor on his curse.
“Yo con insult me till cows come um
But yoh wow insult mar *****
Gaffa or no Gaffa mate
Yo’ll end up in six-foot trench!”
He must a thought it tad absurd,
It war achieving any gud.
So, he said, “Time an a third?”
To this I said I would.
He ay bad Gaffa after all
It jus needed consultation.
We both walked off I dun confess
With mutual admiration.
“Oh, wenst yo wont us in?” I asked,
Cust I didna ear ya say.”
“I’m sorry I fergor ah kid,
Yome in on Christmas Day.”
Dec 4, 2009
Dec 4, 2009 at 9:12 AM UTC
Just out the window
On the passenger side,
Past the sign of red and
Yellow.
A wart climbs from
The mouth of hell
With the grace of
A bewildered elephant
Far from the warmth of
Home and
Picking Cheetos out of
The couch like bugs in
A chimp bonding ritual
Anatomy of
Chubby nubs and
Hulking stumps
I feel
My key *****
Is a pink octopus
Pulling tightly in my chest,
Pumping ink. Now I rest
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC
Her mom has a wart on her face that grows
How that thing got there nobody knows
I looked to my wife and said,
"Poke it I think its dead"
She said, "Stop it!, that thing is her nose"
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 12:13 AM UTC
I wish I could drive a fossilized Cadillac
right through an arid desert
in the middle of Arizona
so my desolation can have its own landscape.
I’ll ask the grains of sand
rocketing in swirls around the wind
if they've seen my talent running by;
I’ve been calling it for months now.
The citizens of Earth are not cold.
It was just my eyes that gave them frostbite,
my mind that morphed their faces
to resemble the hideous change within.
I’m not sure if that’s a truth
that fate has put on layaway since birth,
or perhaps a rumor that’s been force fed
like wart-ridden frogs to the purest of tongues.
All I want at this point
is to be a center of a desert’s mushroom cloud,
leaving with a new look at the sky
and a bit of dry skin.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:47 AM UTC
the wart, at first
was mostly ignored;
like in the case of squint eyes
or few strands of untimely
white hair.
though it created
bit of a complex,
thought merely as a nuisance
(what else, was the
thinking of those times)
the wart persisted,
and consistently spread
attracting attention
of almost every one
revealing how our people are curious.
so found the need
to be operated
(no big deal, the doc said)
the papoma virus shouldn't be
given a chance to go out of hand
on the surgeon's table
a discussion ensued--
many possibilities
were brought to the fore,
the pattern was striking
an opinion was sounded
it in fact, is
out and out natural body art--
isn't it?
see, how ' found art' emerges !
art of the persistent wart
was illuminated and realized
the wart with a striking ( ancient?) motif
was saved from the surgeon's knife,
thanks to the timely 'wartistic' thinking on art.
life springs surprises before us
but we take it as something else,
what other reason we need for the
failure of human race?
some one, (a nurse?) near
the surgeon's table rationalized,
none could say anything, but shake their heads.
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 9:30 AM UTC
First stage
Man and wife are equally blind
Not a single blemish comes to their sight
Like Cyclopes they are one eyed,
Each feels a love like theirs is hard to find
Every now and then they chant the litany of love
They are on an exciting expedition
Explorers rather than fellow travelers
And thrilled at every new discovery,
They stick together as two magnets,
Moving in a high powered circuit
Second Stage
They begin to taste life’s bitter juice
Between them grows a stale familiarity
Which on their face they carry like an ugly wart
Now they become Argus eyed
Nothing escapes their notice
Distance creeps into them
Tastes differ, arguments prop up
Sometimes they holler at each other
Even minor differences of opinion
Can end up as a high voltage drama
Third Stage
Both grow equally frail and infirm
Differences are ironed out
Their talk always verge on their ailments
Constipation and insomnia often surface up
In looks, they grow more and more alike
As though the long years
Have made their features blend and bleed
Even they smell similar
A mixed odor of dried cuticle
And the smell of some balm or ointment
That they liberally apply
On their aching back and stiff joints
While walking, they support each other
Careful not to slip and fall
Has the lost love come back?
Or is it all just a survival mechanism!
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 6:29 AM UTC
(Puh)
“The power to perceive something impossible persuades me. I must pick a place.” The Clairvoyant Gulch.
This person pounds the ground with persistence. A penchant to procreate perception. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
Passing away into peach fuzz and polyandry. Pretty Polly plans to participate in the process. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
Princess Penelope ****** on Polly. Paczki the predator penetrates the preposterous Polly.
The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The President of the Polyandry Psychics proposes: let Polly go but only with the presentation.
The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The Polyandry People peer and pry for what will Polly present. The poor prissy presents her ***** The Clairvoyant Gulch.
She placidly plucks the ***** to pay the People. But she then panics and pours pomegranate red over a *** The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The *** then becomes an urn so precious that the People pray. Polly feels penitent of her peccadillo. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The President points to the urn. Paczki the predator places ingredients into the *** pig’s tail, pesto and plantar’s wart. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The Polyanderthals round about and puke into the *** Polly prepares a peyote dish that will pause time. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The President and People consume the *** It tastes vile and profane, they puke again. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The Polyantherhals turn around to find Polly unpresent. They **** and pant in confused anger. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
Polly is passing the time, possessing a power within the Earth’s core. Her polyethylene pants protect her from the core’s melting point. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
As for the People, it was not practical for them to be presented such profane magic. Their perception of the universal paradigm had been inverted in perpetuum. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
As for the Polyanderthalic *** of ****** pomegranate juice, the President sold the item through Paypal to a polyandry professor living in Piccadilly. The People never practiced polyandry in perpetuum. Ever again.
~The Clairvoyant Gulch
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
Down on the bayou water
Cats riverside peddle their airs
Black stars wrinkle to implode
My heart is wart lined toad
Oh my babies gone on without me
I don't seem to have a single care
Oh my babies gone on without me
I don't have one old care
I said I wasn't not the man you wanted
I promised I was the only man you'd ever need
But now your frowning like its some kind of dare
I thought we were looking for some kind of peace?
Ahh' but now your gone baby
Your gone gone gone
Ahh your gone now baby
And I'm without a single care
Try to control me try to show me
The way that you want it to be
Take away this heart of mine
And shackle me never to be free
Ahh now my baby is gone
And I don't have a single care
Oh oh oh she's gone now
And I know life ain't supposed to be this unfair
When the times get too hard
And your looking for a brand new start
Just remember where you came from
Or you'll break down and start to starve
Ahh my baby done gone and left me
And I don't have a single care
Yes my baby done gone and left me
I got no riddle so I got no dare
I cry in my pillow tonight
Like I cried the night before
She whispered to me in a dream
Like she was the ripple atop a stream
Ahh my baby has gone and left me
And I don't care to have a care
Yeah my baby has gone and left me
I'm playing poker but I got no pairs
I told myself it wouldn't be easy
But I always knew I was a liar
Listen to me when I say this to you now
Love is true only if you believe it
Yes my baby went and left me
And I don't have ********* care
Yes my baby went and left me
Like a pear tree without any fruit to bear
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 6:05 AM UTC
Please don’t move to Blackpool
You’ll only waste your time
These are things that I’ve found
To make you change your mind
I spent a year one day in Morecambe
A dreary night in Rhyl
But there’s nowhere worse than Blackpool
And I believe that still
A bunker out in Baghdad
A tent at Calais port
But there’s nowhere worse than Blackpool
The Fylde coasts ugly wart
A cruise ship full of Covid
A plane about to crash
But there’s nowhere worse than Blackpool
It’s ugly & it’s brash.
A cell in Bangkok’s Hilton
Chernobyl’s poisoned land
But there’s nowhere worse than Blackpool
This place I cannot stand
May 24, 2020
May 24, 2020 at 6:01 AM UTC