"whines" poems
for leather accrues
The miracle of the streets
The scents & smogs &
pollens of existence
Shiny blackness
so totally naked she was
Totally un-hung-up
We looked around
lights now on
Top see our fellow travellers
~~~
I am troubled
Immeasurably
By your eyes
I am struck
By the feather
of your soft
Reply
The sound of glass
Speaks quick
Disdain
And conceals
What your eyes fight
To explain
~~~
She looked so sad in sleep
Like a friendly hand
just out of reach
A candle stranded on
a beach
While the sun sinks low
an H-bomb in reverse
~~~
Everything human
is leaving
her face
Soon she will disappear
into the calm
vegetable
morass
Stay!
My Wild Love!
~~~
I get my best ideas when the
telephone rings & rings. It’s no fun
To feel like a fool-when your
baby’s gone. A new ax to my head:
Possession. I create my own sword
of Damascus. I’ve done nothing w/time.
A little tot prancing the boards playing
w/Revolution. When out there the
World awaits & abounds w/heavy gangs
of murderers & real madmen. Hanging
from windows as if to say: I’m bold-
do you love me? Just for tonight.
A One Night Stand. A dog howls & whines
at the glass sliding door (why can’t I
be in there?) A cat yowls. A car engine
revs & races against the grain- dry
rasping carbon protest. I put the book
down- & begin my own book.
Love for the fat girl.
When will SHE get here?
~~~
In the gloom
In the shady living room
where we lived & died
& laughed & cried
& the pride of our relationship
took hold that summer
What a trip
To hold your hand
& tell the cops
you’re not 16
no runaway
The wino left a little in
the old blue desert
bottle
Cattle skulls
the cliche of rats
who skim the trees
in search of fat
Hip children invade the grounds
& sleep in the wet grass
’til the dogs rush out
I’m going South!
40.3k
One more day is fading away
as we ride this bus to the city
The storm is coming nearer now
And your bliss will turn to tears
We've almost reached our destination
Countless parachutes in the sky
These mosquitoes are swarming
before your eyes,
Just a moment's time til someone dies
The skies are getting darker now
Not a shard of light in this room
You'd better make good choices now
Or meet your impending doom
I hear your steps from the other room
And I'm already locked and loaded
You'd better get on running now
Or I'll destroy what's left of you
I walk upstairs to higher ground
and hear your cowardly whines,
I look in the eyes of my colleague
And said don't move, this **** is mine
I've made my way to my snipers' nest
and my eyes are set to ****
I've got my sights on your head right now
To pull the trigger, you know I will
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC
I heard that he was insane
That his feelings were uncontrollable
I heard he committed suicide
It sounds so incredibly horrible
I heard he was seeing a shrink
I heard he thought he was fine
I heard he told him,
told him he could call anytime
but when he really needed him
He was declined.
I heard his father
he told him to be a man
He told him he couldn’t
and would never understand
I wonder has the guilt
swallowed him whole
I wonder will anything
fill his now empty soul
I heard his girlfriend she said goodbye
she was sick of the whines and all his cries
he said he didn’t need her
he needed no one
but in the end we all know he needed someone
I heard he did it with a gun
I wonder if it hurt
I heard he couldn't take it
All the pain and all the hurt
I heard he had a brother
a mother and a dad
I saw them at the funeral
they were bitter sweetly sad
I wonder does a tiger cry
when a brother loses his life
I wonder can you catch a tiger with a tear in its eye?
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 4:16 PM UTC
i fight to peel each moment
of pure stagnation
off of me
a tinnitus cacophony whines in my ears
as my dilapidated fan
keeps slow rhythm to the faucet drip
minutes drag like molasses
handcuffed to the daily lag
groundhog day
i escape into the forest
running, the breeze caresses my face
wildlife pries open my desperate eyes
a spider’s web bends and sways in the wind
fine strands of silver silk flow
soaring they meld in crescent waves
a butterfly glides gently by
befriending gusts of air
softly breathing in another tomorrow
the conductor of the symphony
with sculptor’s hands i cannot see
whispers ever graciously
life is not your enemy
drink it in and let it seep
drop your sword i’m molding thee
©2016janetaylor
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 4:58 PM UTC
Dark hair tied back.
Blue eyes pointed front and center.
Tats two on her back and shoulder
Black stocking satin strap.
Knee-high; hard to measure.
High - heels they just climb forever.
Spread thighs hypnotized his eyes.
Deep breath watching her chest rise
Wide eyes she looks posterized,
long strokes that disappear deep inside.
Deeper sighs I can feel the vibes,
nail marks across his chest,
blood dried just follow the X.
Move slow make her want it more,
said wise speaking from experience.
Handcuffed cause she likes to be a deviant.
Lips sealed, around his **** like she’s practicing keeping secrets.
Hair tied back cause that’s how Sir told her to keep it.
Legs wrapped around his waist, at a right angle, so Sir can reach it.
open wide like Simon says, She reacts so, Sir doesn’t have to repeat it.
Firm grip on her waistline, but there is no wasting time.
Twitching hips, tighten his grips, as she whines,
in joy of the loving being deployed.
Toes curled the pleasure can’t be denied.
Slip slide the more she moves the harder he grinds,
smooth ride the way their bodies coincide.
Deep ****** they combust, as they collide,
come inside her, like a gentleman,
he gives her, a piece of his mine.
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 3:17 PM UTC
EᔕᔕᕼI ᑕOᑎT.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Lyn sniffles as Ainhara gives her a
handkerchief which she uses to
wipe her tears.
"Thank you, guys," Lyn whispers,
giving them a weak smile.
'Well, at least she smiles,' Esshi
thought.
Ainhara has a bright smile. "My lady,
your lady mother gave Bael orders to
make this soup for you. She instructs
that you eat this."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
When Esshi pushes the serving trolley
to her Queen's side, she lifts the gold lid
and Lyn looks at the soup; steaming
kale in a beefy broth with chopped
peppered sausages, lamb cubes,
onions, garlic, mint chopped potatoes
and carrots.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Kale, really? I hate kale," Lyn whines,
gently pushing the bowl away. "I don't want it!"
Esshi and Ainhara look at each other and smile.
*'Still acts like a child when her lady mother
commands she eats her vegetables!'* giggles Esshi.
"Your mother says you must eat it, My Lady."
Ainhara chuckles. "It will help with reduce
your stress and help relax your body."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Lyn sighs and mutters under her breath,
"I hate it when she does this! She knows
I hate the smell of kale! I swear, I'm going
to outlaw the vegetable!" She held hers
nose up and huffs at the end of her
statement, making Ainhara and Esshi smile.
'At least she is in better spirits now.'
thought Esshi.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 1:18 PM UTC
Who's comb-over looks like *****
Donald's comb-over looks like *****
Who scared us shitless election night?
Donald scared us shitless election night.
Election night. Looks like *****
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump
Who's got a tie that's long and red?
The Don has a tie that's long and red?
Who pays hookers to **** on beds?
The Don pays hookers to **** on beds.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.
Who's got hands tiny and slight?
The Don has hands tiny and slight.
Who spews lies out day and night?
The Don spews lies out day and night.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.
Who's got a vocab small and trite?
The Don has a vocab small and trite.
Who whines Fake News out of spite?
The Don whines Fake News out of spite.
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.
Who likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD?
The Don likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD.
Who likes a spanking when he's bad?
The Don likes a spanking when he's bad.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.
How many minions leave today?
So many so far went their way.
Comey, Priebus, Flynn and Bannon,
Tillerson, Spicer, Hope and Ryan.
Leave today. Gone their way.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 9:03 AM UTC
Now that you're older
It's not about hair,
Consider the here and now;
There's no fooling with the passage of time,
Birthdays now greeted with whimpers and whines.
If you stay out til quarter to nine
You've missed your Red Rose pour.
Should we commit you,
Or simply omit you,
Man, you're sixty-four.
....................................................
We're getting older too,
But if the truth be told,
Never as old as you.
Now you can't frolic,
Or party til two,
You aches and pains own you.
Scan your body daily for foreign lumps,
By mid-afternoon you still haven't dumped.
Bladder in turmoil,
Kidneys are weak,
I could mention more:
All your joints creaking,
I think that's you leaking,
Man, you're sixty-four.
Always depend upon your diaper to conceal and not reveal
What you drank and ate.
We'll leave that with you.
And carry ID, Jake,
You'll forget you're you.
Make use of posties,
And Mary-Jo too,
What's old may now seem new;
Indicate precisely what you'll do and say,
Memory's surely slipping away.
You're still an alpha, thanks to ******
Don't expect much more.
Should we just boot you,
Or simply just shoot you,
Man, you're sixty-four.
Seventy-four's at the door.
A thousand weeks til eighty-four.
At ninety-four get ten more....
In good health.
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 11:47 AM UTC
a bottle of scotch had bad dreams.
bullets twitch, junk sick
in 3 inch thick
mustard ****
toe nails clipped from yeti
lay strewn about the **** stained corpse
of a motel six dixie cup -
root canal trophy,
next to
a black fez
with scab tassel
upended.
down in it. belching apnea
propaganda
and belladonna
waiting for curious george
to find a shotgun
and a yellow
hat
and a brick banana.
blowflies inhale the rank damp
of a fresh ****
the odd dog whines
like a clown in -
a blender.
[ the ]
house wins
with a marked card; jabbing fat fingers
into acned rosacea
bloated with sleep lack
and mortgage
back stab
chasing twenty ******
with a hollow point
pull from an acid
flask
while hailing a black cab.
tinsel sutures
stitch eyelids as a mercy
shattered bone knit
hand-grenade
cozies
old glory, at half mast
half wasted
fifty stars, no light
dragging on
the grounds of immunity
to do a line
of coke stock
with a basset hounds'
finesse.
your taxes at work
in columbia,
hiding from a lost farm
in Idaho
your american dream
turning tricks in shanghai
for a counterfeit
egga roll
your meme, devoid
like an ice cube
tombstone
your freedom, parking cars
for italian escorts
smoking skin flutes
for ferraris
and white teeth.
your integrity, sold to a hedge fund
for astroglide and a pez dispenser
packed with prozac
pressed by ' Jose the butcher' s abuela
in a narco slum
that ain't seen radio
since cinder blocks
had wings.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 2:40 PM UTC
Wind whines and whines the shingle,
The crazy pierstakes groan;
A senile sea numbers each single
Slimesilvered stone.
From whining wind and colder
Grey sea I wrap him warm
And touch his trembling fineboned shoulder
And boyish arm.
Around us fear, descending
Darkness of fear above
And in my heart how deep unending
Ache of love!
4.4k
The melodious voice, her silent voice.
Is nothing but a harsh reality of your choice.
Shutting her up and putting her down,
Doesn't give you a wise man's crown.
She who out of love performed every act of abnegation,
She is the one, the true sensation.
How could you be so insensitive to not hear?
So much she said through the eyes in tear.
For love and respect today she whines,
Despite your ruthless nature, with her love, you, she binds.
Maybe you don't know,
Even in dark she can glow.
She can extend the unforgiving minute,
Her strength and purity has no limit.
She standing on earth has reached the stars and sky,
Still in misconceptions you are high.
Open your eyes, your heart, your soul!
You're nobody to charge on her life any toll.
Do not underestimate this silent voice,
Her unsaid is heard even in the noise.
When this silent voice will come out of its shell,
Will that be the time when you'll ring a bell?
Today the voice is silent.
Tomorrow, my friend, it might be violent.
One who has brought you on this earth,
Don't dare to consider her as dirt.
Silently she can give you the pain of your life,
She is nobody but your mother, daughter or wife.
Her silent voice is loudest everywhere.
Her absence you won't be able to bear.
So from today, begin to care.
Wise man's crown then you'll wear.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
365Nectar #60 Devour Me
Fri. November 22, 2013 9:18 P.M.
Devour me...
A provocative passionate pouring
of pillaging and plundering...
A pleasing prowling
of a piercing plunderer...
A lovely, limp nymph
laid upon a sizzling alter...
Smoldering...
Awakening all the senses
a choking of lust
unleashes exhilarating
and
envelops you...
Effortlessly evoking ethereal...
a sinister seduction
seductively seduces
and hungry hips
breakdance with hysterical
Stimulating a surreal surge of a sweet seeping...
waiting...
impatiently...
For you to chisel
an unimaginable devouring...
S slow steady climb to the summit
of the ultimate ******
Time-
Time-
Time... a tool to employ flamboyantly...
immediately...
eargerly...
Expose my conquered heart
that leaks
of streams
of cream
of succulent sensation...
Expose my tamed moistness
that whispery whines
as you build a legacy
of torturous licking....
Seductively...
Slithering in spicy spirals
of stirring screams
from stormy shivers
of steamy anticipation
of your redefining touch...
Suddenly...
drowning in the sticky sensation
of all that is us...
A tender luscious love liquefying flesh
and penetrating souls...
We blend in blazing bliss
tapping taboo for titillating thrills
you rock a rowdy ravishing
inside me...
I whisper wet whimpers
and beg for bitten breast...
Our wrestling hips
hug, ***** and groan a hungry growling...
Pounded into saturated submission
I linger in lubricating dreams
for you-
to...
devour me.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
He's coming down the tracks, grinding all the gears
The cold steel rails he runs, inflexible, no fears
Engine whines and steam combines, so screams, and disappears
Down the highway of conviction, the past, now in arrears
More coal, more oil, into the furnace, as boiler glows, it seems
All of what he has, he is, is poured into his dreams
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 8:32 AM UTC
Trump STILL can't stand the thought
That Clinton won the popular vote.
In efforts to cause a major distraction,
He's keeping the voting fraud rumor afloat.
Clinton received two point eight
Million more votes than he--
Votes from voters physically present
Or votes from those voting absentee.
He says that he has evidence
Of widespread fraud. We can surmise
That he has his "alternative facts"--
A handy euphemism for lies.
It's a preposterous, baseless claim,
A mere BELIEF that he maintains,
Another false conspiracy theory,
An insult to people who use their brains.
Voting fraud is an issue
That Trump loves to keep in his sights.
For him it's a very useful excuse
To go after voting rights.
If there was so much voting fraud,
The chances of which are very slim,
Does Trump ever wonder how many
Fraudulent votes went to him?
The more he whines, the more he harps--
He's even driving Republicans mad!--
The more he loses the smattering
Of credibility that he once had.
- by Bob B (1-24-17)
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 8:48 AM UTC
Who's comb-over looks like *****
Donald's comb-over looks like *****
Who's scared shiteless on election night?
Donald's scared shitless on election night.
Election night. Looks like *****
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump
Who's got a tie that's long and red?
The Don has a tie that's long and red?
Who pays hookers to *** on beds?
The Don pays hookers to *** on beds.
*** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.
Who's got hands tiny and slight?
The Don has hands tiny and slight.
Who spews lies out day and night?
The Don spews lies out day and night.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.
Who's got a vocab small and trite?
The Don has a vocab small and trite.
Who whines Fake News out of spite?
The Don whines Fake News out of spite.
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.
Who likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD?
The Don likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD.
Who likes a spanking when he's bad?
The Don likes a spanking when he's bad.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.
How many minions leave today?
So many so far went their way.
Comey, Priebus, Flynn and Bannon,
Tillerson, Spicer, Hope and Ryan.
Leave today. Gone their way.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 7:07 PM UTC
Oh! The poet in me,
a werewolf is he!
He likes to come out
when the looming moon,
shines it's brightest beams,
down.
Awoooooo!
Down,
to disturb my daytime dreams.
Coaxing howls,
and whines,
injected with subjective lines;
predatory metaphor,
tapping at my chamber door!
Only hollow howls, to those
who don't hear the instinct growl
to this canine condition;
those who don't spend their days,
thinking, or wishing.
Predator of poetry,
prowling over prose.
A beast of the blue moon syndrome,
after the curtains close.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC
I will drag my knife along your skin,
sharp blade down into your fragile, shaking canvas,
incising an increasing beat of whimpers and whines.
Please hold still. I promise this will hurt.
I will expose your clattering bones,
rip out your chattering teeth,
erase every impugned utterance
you muttered against me.
I will carve my letters slowly
on your unzipped frame,
sliding the burgundy blood across to
blot
clot
dot.
This is only preparation for what is about to follow.
I will puncture your throbbing organs,
slash your stretched cartilage
with an unwritten script.
Before I press further,
I’ll assure you, you are still alive.
I will twist each phrase,
haunt you to believe it is your fault,
force you to beg the slightest escape.
I will permanently etch my name
deep in the frozen chambers
of your quivering heart.
I will open up the blueprint as a demolition expert,
remove whole fractions of your fractured soul,
leave you a horrid wreck in the abyss
of a mess you just made.
You will not get rid of me,
though no trace of evidence is left behind.
My hands have been clean from the start.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
In a forest, where bird songs are silencers to a pistol and their feathers are scattered hopes, like broken dreams are to fantasies, I sit.
I stretch my arms, wide enough to fit grief and happiness in my muddy hands that I use to bury unspoken apologies and eulogies for days I have not yet lived.
I begin to stare aimlessly at the sky trying to spot the night moon. Its silhouette, that I trace with my finger.
I've drawn
And in the folds of the night, I hold you close
like day does dawn.
I let your depression stain my cheeks and see it drip between the gaps in my teeth,
sting my gum,
and so your language interweaves itself upon wounded scars on my tongue, so when i return back home, i return with the same cuts identical to your tongue that you hung
I don't want to sound too much of a stranger to you when I talk thus tonight, I’ll choose to tie happiness to things that have asked for no such burden
and stictch my lips silent to silence our silent violence.
My eyes bounce back at the hazy sky as if it’ll tame your inner broken and mould it into a less wild creature
more civil, more mature
less aggressive, less of a spirit
Your spirit appears in the bezels of my mind
my trachea catches fire burning deep into my whines ,
my breath disappearing into a silent hymn in the dull light
and watch my tongue chameleonize into a trillion hues of white
until my tongue becomes a graveyard for all my white lies
Until pain becomes a part of my diet,
until I'm able to chew the residual images of a broken girl, until her sadness becomes the air I breathe
until her inner warrior becomes the battle field never fought in
until I'm able to swallow sadness when chugged down my throat,
until I'm able to befriend your wild.
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 7:47 AM UTC
The pages dripped,
As so the time of the lover.
What seemed so pure,
Gone the distant time another.
From tears to blood,
Pleased and fitted the seeking lines.
This writing love,
Above all the pure soul he whines.
Somberly eased,
One seeks a fine place to rest on.
Of all chastised,
Left a soul requited and blessed.
Run forgiveness,
Placed heavenly upon his chest.
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
a duet
Palestine and Israel
To the tune of Home, Home on the Range
(Palestine)
***Oh, give me a land where no Hebrews stand
where Palestine could live and shine
where seldom is seen a Rabbi or ‘stein
and Jerusalem could be all mine***
(chorus)
***Land, land without Jews
where Palestine could live and shine
where seldom is seen a Rabbi or ‘stein
and Jerusalem could be all mine***
(Israel)
***You don’t understand, God gave us this land
where Palestine would hate and whine
where seldom it seems, peace is a dream
and Jerusalem should be all mine***
(chorus)
***Land, land of the Jews
where Palestine still hates and whines
where seldom it seems, peace is a dream
and Jerusalem shall be all mine***
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
Death patiently files his nails
And smokes a casual cigarette
Grinning and eyeless
He says so calmly
"Catch you later
Brave little dreamer"
Despite such brittle certainty
Men and women build
Despite such small mortality
Every space is filled
In the midst of death's destruction
Men and women build again
Fear, like a cringing bowel
Exudes an acrid stench
And whimpers and whines
Simpers and cries
"Don't you dare
Don't you ever dare"
Despite this clinging dread
Some will need to dare
Despite the bursting head
Dreams insist on birth
In the midst of our stupidities
Something wondrous strives
By Phil Roberts
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 12:08 PM UTC
I could tell what you were thinking
********** me with
Lust-filled eyes
Drowning me with naughty thoughts
and an animalistic desire
as you crept closer,
licking your lips seductively
like a lioness moving in
for the ****
I don't think you realized how bad I wanted you too.
The little whimpers and whines of want
you would secretly secrete in my vicinity
made my heart maniacal
because I knew I would not
have you that night.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 3:41 AM UTC
"I want to be a boxer" he said
Stomping his foot, his face red.
Angry at God for not making it happen
Now! Before his resolve does slacken
"I've got the skills for it." he whines
He neglects his practice half the time
He doesn't realise, it seems,
The difference between a hobby and a dream
"I've won many a fight!" he shouts
Those brawls with friends don't really count.
He did once won the junior championship
And into each conversation, he lets that slip.
"I can make it!" he says, His gloats, incessant
His actions, childish, His views, arrogant.
“Life’s so unfair!” he always cries
Though with all his heart, he never tries
He’s chasing the rush of winning a battle
But at the thought of war, his courage rattles
“If only I could follow my dream…” he muses
One day perhaps he’ll run out of excuses
His wistful eyes gaze at boxing rings,
Lost in the visions of glory they bring.
“It’s my calling.” He brags, unable to see
The clear path leading him to his “destiny”
On self -made hurdles, he always trips.
It seems on reality he’s losing his grip.
In this mind, there is ample confusion
On the difference between a dream and delusion
As time passes, one day it’ll be clear
That all that stopped him was his own fear
But until then, he lets the truth be unheard
For isn’t it easier to keep blaming the world?
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 1:38 PM UTC