"wiggled" poems
you asked me to come:it was raining a little,
and the spring;a clumsy brightness of air
wonderfully stumbled above the square,
little amorous-tadpole people wiggled
battered by stuttering pearl,
leaves jiggled
to the jigging fragrance of newness
—and then. My crazy fingers liked your dress
….your kiss,your kiss was a distinct brittle
flower,and the flesh crisp set
my love-tooth on edge. So until light
each having each we promised to forget—
wherefore is there nothing left to guess:
the cheap intelligent thighs,the electric trite
thighs;the hair stupidly priceless.
19.4k
My pink mechanical pencil
Is sitting right beside my computer
The brand and lead size
is worn off, from all the use
The eraser has been changed
Countless times
There is graphite dust
in a few places in the grip
My other pencil
the same but purple
Lost its clip
I wiggled my pencil too much
Which is why the purple one
Is out of order
When I'm bored
or anxious
I'll pick up my pencil
Spin it, wiggle it, open and close it
Take apart
and put back together
Anything that can be done to my pencil
Will be done
Thanks to my constant need
for motion
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 2:32 PM UTC
*On a bright and delightful Easter morning
A furry white rabbit, wiggled her pink adorable nose
Peeking through lush bushes
In a lovely and distinctive pose
And jiggled her cottony soft scut
Aiming into a vegetation
On this sunny day
With so much motivation
Quietly hopping into a blissful garden
Placing decorative filled eggs in pastels
With little time to rest
As she quickly inhales
Adding vibrant colours, to an emerald spiky blanket
And into a rainbow of unfolding tulips
Enlightening her way, like a dazzling carnival
For little peeps enjoyment, upon soft winds movement
Beginning in the latter daylight hours, as tots of all ages
Eagerly carried empty interwoven baskets, on their quest
Pacing through, as in peekaboo
And observing who competes the best*
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
I was dancing at a dance club
Two stepping all about
When my thumb, it found a belt loop
And I couldn't get it out
I shifted and I wiggled
I ****** my hips out front in time
I bent over and I shimmied
I was twerking on the line
Now, I ain't no Miley Cyrus
You can believe me now or not
I wasn't up there twerking
It's because my thumb was caught
I sashayed and I moseyed
And others got up too
My thumb was still encumbered
What the hell was I to do?
I was twerking like a mad man
Not knowing how, or why
But the pain in my one digit
Just made me want to die
Maybe now I know the reason
Miley Cyrus did her dance
She wasn't up there being slutty
She had her thumb stuck in her pants
Now, I'm through with twerking
And there's is one thing that you'll find
That unlike young Miley Cyrus
You don't want to watch me from behind!!!
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 6:33 PM UTC
These kinds of stories are hard to find.
I posted up in a bar between
nowhere and a town named Ida
(probably named after some
sweetheart, that old southern name),
and in the characteristic openness
that I can only find during my travels,
I decided to say,
"hey stranger."
It was early in the evening,
he was a traveler too,
but of the trucking sort,
ashen eyes and
pale breathy skin,
we got talking amid
electric neon glow and
the pale blue light
that shown in through the rain.
His name didn't matter,
I won't tell you his name,
but the truckers know thumbers
(there are 5000 or so
across the country
at any given time),
and so he told me of a thumber.
This thumber was in the thunder,
clothes torn and eyes wide,
and with a mind that was,
at that point especially,
oblivious to the solidity
of the dry towel that was
set on the solid truck seat,
and, what a mess this boy was,
so by appearance, I presume,
it was easy to ask,
"what in the hell happened to you?"
It went like this:
the thumber turned those
wide open eyes
(I imagine he was shivering),
and told of how he was
walking, backpack and all,
and of how he smelled a storm
approaching, how when he
saw the treetops bending,
he expected the rain and
pulled a waterproof cover
over his pack just in time,
it started pouring.
This time the thumber,
he said he knew he had to
keep going,
he said he didn't like rolling
dice, no, he said it was a cheat
because if you knew enough
about throwing die the die
land the same, they land
the same enough.
So,
listen, have you ever
walked through heavy rain?
You get dizzy, but
in some deep part of your mind
in the spray, the insurmountable
lukewarmness stealing
a little with each blow,
you lose yourself,
and that's what I imagine
happened to this thumber.
At one point, the thumber
knew ground no more,
that's all he said. He said
he landed one county
over, that's all he said.
And by the jingling
of the die hanging
from the truck's rearview mirror,
one of the truckers laughed
and said ********
as the story of the thumber
came around,
what in all hell else could
you say?
And the thumber wiggled
his head and gave a queer
sneeze.
Against the neon glow
I peered at the trucker,
you can't tell an honest
man by his eyes but
you can tell it by his breath.
I shook my head and said,
"that's a kind of story that's
hard to find."
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 8:00 AM UTC
I wrapped the suicide note around my throat,
It came in the form of a noose.
But before I knew what I wanted to do,
I had somehow wiggled loose.
The stool's too short for this overpowering court,
"Back to my old resorts."
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 7:34 AM UTC
"do you wanna do something?"
"of course."
"like what?"
"let's start walking and see where our feet take us."
"sounds good."
she slipped on her boots and planted a kiss on my forehead as i tied her laces with a double knot. her hand found it's way to mine and we waited for the click as she closed her apartment door behind us. she wiggled the **** locked. the keys jingled as she tucked them inside her shoes, creating music with every step.
"come on feet," she said, as we ran down the stairs. we both looked to our shoes. "take us somewhere special."
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
They float they soar bursting
Warmly on her nose, she giggles
At The sensation felt, at the
Feeling of happiness that now
Grows as they drift along.
They were her little wings,
Gliding through a flurry of
Rainbows, shimmering light
Glances of perfect bubbles.
Kaleidoscopes Bouncing
From one to another as little
Wings let bubbles Play with
The wind, a wonderful sight
To be hold.
She looked at this little wings,
Awe struck upon there creations
Upon the beauty of this dragons
Two. She wiggled her fingers
Playful towards them both
As one licked upon her digit
Then kissed her on her nose.
Flurries of laugher, innocent
And true, were followed by
A cloud of bubbles, shimmering
In the clear blue. She would
Always remember this day, as
She played with her little bubble
Dragons. Do you want to play in
The garden with me, bubbles,
Dragons and you.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 6:42 PM UTC
sorrow found me when i was young it stood over me in my crib, as the fire burned , as dad shouted and dean carried me out of that house, as i cried for dean when dad left us alone, as i begged dean for lucky charms instead of beans
sorrow waited for me as i grew up he watched over me like a guardian angel little did i know that the shred of doubt i had in my mind was only going to grow as he watched me carve my name with dean in the impala, as i watched dean die over and over, through every demon i killed , every monster i slaughtered , every mistake i made and every slip up
then sorrow won he took me at last using Lucifer as a distraction as he wiggled into my brain and fed on all my thoughts until i was nothing no that's not true i was something, i was ruined, i was empty ,i was nothing but sorrow and despair and the worst part of that is i knew it was there all along shadowing me hunting me like i do monsters waiting for me to give up fighting against it
sam winchester
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 7:03 AM UTC
What a wonder, it must be, just to fly.
Henry had thought, not so long ago,
As birds, looped, swooped and soared,
Flocks of starlings, offering a show.
Jen and Olly, were Henry’s best friends,
Three ghostly bunnies with nothing to do,
Then Olly twitched his wispy whiskers,
Until large mushrooms suddenly grew.
Mushrooms so nice, they sat upon them,
And despite what they had been taught,
It seemed, within this, imagination world,
Creation occurred, with a single thought.
Jen giggled, wiggled, her delicate nose,
And three pink kites appeared overhead,
Swooping and soaring, just like starlings,
But held from a silken, gossamer, thread.
Henry’s turn, so smiling at his friends,
He performed a funny ‘bunny-like’ hop,
Creating a bracing, fresh, gusting breeze,
Making their ears go, all-a-flippity-flop.
On mushroom seats, ghostly bunnies sat,
Their minds twirling with kites, so high,
Henry recalled thinking, not so long ago,
What a wonder, it must be, just to fly.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
Children scurried ***** as rats
From the long dead smouldering
of rocks and boulders
To watch captivated
Enraptured by the sight
Of tiny parachutes floated from the sky.
Tiny handkerchiefs of hope
Descended as gently as leaves in a breeze
As the candy bomber
Wiggled his wings
And presented sweet things
Packaged as hope
Delivered with love
To let those know that though
They may be woe begotten
To some at least they were not forgotten.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 5:50 PM UTC
A crazy ************
got in my face
the other day.
"This is my shop!,
I put the work in this ************
see ya'll young people come in here
trying to mess up my shop,
this is MY SHOP!"
"Mmhmm," a fat ****
in the corner affirmed.
Crazy *************
are often your
barbers.
He's pulled this **** before,
I've seen him do it.
He'll just throw the clippers down
and get in somebody's face,
while they flip dumbly through
Sports Illlustrated.
It's funny as hell.
He had spittle
in cakes at the corners of his mouth
that wiggled
like eggs on an unbalanced beam
and fat lips that looked
like rotten peach slivers;
all brown and ugly pink.
He's in his forties and stumpy.
But all he ever does is yell.
I punched him
right in his lips.
His teeth were hard and scratched my knuckles,
but he backstepped,
gave me one of those crazy people
"I might just cut your head off" looks
and walked to the bathroom to clean himself up.
Crazy *************
think
they're the crazier than everybody else.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 9:28 AM UTC
He awoke at four that morning with the sunrise.
"Time to go, babe, get ready," he said with a smile,
Thinking I had been asleep, unaware
I lied awake all night, waiting anxiously.
I wondered if he thought it rather strange,
His little girl wanted to deep-sea fish.
He hand-made ham sandwiches with cheddar cheese--
(Because he knows that cheddar is my favorite)--
And then forced me to take some dramamine.
"It keeps you from puking your lunch," he teased.
I didn't fuss at him for giving me the **** pills.
I was ready to catch my first Atlantic shark.
Florida's early mornings aren't that warm,
So he gave me his old jean jacket as we drove south.
The dock was full of average sailor types--
Our captain's name was Anderson, I think.
Anderson looked just like his boat too,
Weathered by the wicked waves of the ocean.
The boat would swerve and I would sway so awkwardly,
Unbalanced like a newborn giraffe.
Dad gripped my shaking shoulders and whooped,
"This one's gonna be a beauty, you can mark my words!"
I snatched, tugged, and reeled violently--!
The beast finally surfaced with the tiniest plash.
She wiggled on the hook, to my mild astonishment,
Slippery, slime-covered, and small in size.
"It's a white snapper!" Anderson boomed.
She was sixteen inches and diamond white,
Glistening in the sun like the greatest treasure.
Dad patted me on the back, chest swollen with pride.
Catching Atlantic sharks didn't matter now.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 9:15 AM UTC
I lived a childhood of dirt:
my beginning and end, my friend, my
frontier. Dirt was the reason why
when other kids were always sick, my antibodies
made me a demigoddess, a mud-pie,
sand-cookie, dirt gourmet
crunching lightly-rinsed carrots wiggled
straight from the ground.
It never hurt, never hurt at all.
Warm dirt under my knees and hands,
my nails blackened, feet buried like I
could root myself in the soil -- I was lettuce
with dirt at the center of each lacy skirt.
Horseradish, deep in the ground and bitter,
wanting to become something sweeter, a new
tree or rosebush or better yet a veggie,
like the wild dirt-skinned potatoes
I dug up in the yard.
But tubers don’t have moms who give
***** looks and shake their heads,
examine your hair and your nails.
She sighs at the dark stain of your
feet, and banishes you
to a white tub, where she scrubs
the back of your neck, muttering
“Dirt, dirt, dirt,” as if
she doesn’t know what you are made of.
So give me the dirt, because I know my onions.
Always digging for gossip, flipping up
the neighborhood skirt, curious whispers
the way cornstalks share their childhood
tales before being tilled down,
becoming rich, dark dirt.
Ashes to ashes, I recognize some
for what they are, just fertilizer
for the imaginations and vibrations of others.
I may be half dirt but don’t
treat me like it, full of grit and
covered in sand from my hands to
my elbows. But what I am won’t
put up with your ******** Dirt is
a mother, to feed and flourish, dirt
is a woman much like me, and you
will never know the dirt under my
fingernails the same way I do.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC
I awoke this morning with all my
nanoseconds whizzing by—
spiraling, they broke for their exits,
they disarrayed my sky.
Each now and now and now
seemed a face, flash color,
many worlds. I could not sense
their place of start or stopping.
Morning sun peeped blue curtains.
I tried my usual breath, felt
heartbeat, wiggled foot.
My dog, he stretched
and bumped my bedframe
with his chest.
Against my fear I placed and pushed
messages of gratitude.
I thanked all things changing
and all of changing time.
Rather than elsewhere, I was here.
Instead of dead--
alive.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 7:35 PM UTC
Aubrey took in the dame
in the red dress, her hams
moving under the tight cloth,
her ringed fingers showing
as she moved her hands, the
pointed dugs like small noses
pressed against the redness.
He took in her hair, noticed
the colour, the waves, the
highlights. He sipped coffee.
Cappuccino, white froth on
his upper lip, wiped off with
the back of his hand. She
stood window shopping;
stood moving her legs, her
hams in **** motion still.
He leaned back. He eased
against the chair. She had
stooped forward. Her eyes
price gauging, hands behind
her back, holding a hand
bag, rings showing. He
settled on her neckline.
A necklace, silver, a cross
without a Christ. She turned
and gazed up the shopping
mall. She sighed. He watched.
Sipped coffee. The waitress
who brought it walked with
a wiggle. Tiny backside, tight,
she thin as if some Modigliani
dame. She walked by holding
an empty tray. Wiggled, head
level. The dame in the red dress
turned and faced him. Their
eyes met; green on brown;
hers on his. She looked away
taking nothing of him. He
drank in her eyes and mouth;
lingered in his darkroom mind.
He sipped again. She folded
her arms, handbag hanging,
eyeing her small gold watch.
Aubrey took in her legs,
the hairlessness, the silk
smooth suntanned legs.
Younger he may have
drooled; now he just
gazed and gazed. She
looked up the long mall.
He sat up and downed
his coffee. Her Romeo,
if such, arrived. They
embraced; he swung
her around. Excitement,
bright eyes, smiles.
They walked off. Aubrey
watched her go, not
unhappy or ill, he'd had
his sight and had his fill.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 10:10 AM UTC
My ***** felt a feather heavier than iron
As I’d opted for anything other than rollover
Whilst puking up that, “nicer,” guy.
The drink’s a ghost. The scold’s a mixer,
Soured on the rocks, Shaken, not stirred,
Stirred, not shaken,
And without a sliver of, “he,” who’d opt
Accommodate or acquiesce.
Call it, “transcendence,” I guess?
Born a realization that this world’s,
“DOG-EAT-DOG,” or,
“GOD-EAT-GOD,” or,
“GOD-TEA-DOG,”
And should I not comprehend
This very simple reality,
I’d be a doormat unto my own grave.
So I fail, I’m frail, and all for one tail
Prior the act that’d ever invoke,
“Leave;” even atop the eve of beggary.
Resolute? I’d opt for the longer life, perhaps,
Not that I’d wanted to live to long anyway,
But I’d made a choice,
I’d arbitrated one cardinal direction – elliptical.
I’d acted, placated, satiated, intimidated,
Decimated, defecated, wiggled my right pinky
And culminated a prayer atop altars, “godless,”
To never knock upon that door again.
And so, but one question remains,
“Did I?”
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
there's this 1945 jacket that i have, this military-grade thing, and it has these white paint splatters on it from probably 1968, or at least i hope that's when they're from. i like to think this jacket that i have has seen the revolutions i missed, on the shoulders of a soldier that i knew in his white-haired days, whose nose is feminized on my face--it's too big, but it's his, and so i like it there--and who learned to walk a second time without flinching, whose goodness never needed flowered language, and whose goodness i take with me where i go. and then on the shoulders of a soldier's son whose legs hyperextend like mine, who falters unforgivably and breaks what he loves like i do, and who also loves wine and music, and who loves the best he can. there are all these pockets in this jacket that i have, and these rows of buttons that take forever to line up, and a little tiny hole in the elbow, and strings all at the wrist. i pull the strings like i pull up grass and i pick at what's healing and when i was a little girl i wiggled my baby teeth before they were ready to fall. i forget that 1945 was a long time ago and every string i pull is one string less for the next soldier, or soldier's son, or soldier's son's daughter who tries. one string less for the next revolution, one string less for the picturebook wedding, one string less for the girl-on-the-side. but this jacket that i have, it's still stoic, and it's still good. the soldier that i knew in his white hair is good still from where he is, and i can still see his blue eyes in mine, and i can still see that the soldier's son loves even though he falters, and so do i. i try to pull out fewer strings, and i try to be a soldier--a good soldier--i always try.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 11:28 PM UTC
Tangerine splintered the pitch
& coffee lifted spirits,
hard
bold
aroma
wafted the hallway,
a cool breeze whistled
& wool tickled my chin,
each piggie wiggled
to remind them of existence.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 3:28 AM UTC
Somewhere between night and day,
she wiggled from side to side
then pushed and stretched
until each petal was opened wide.
Painted in beauty
she's a symbol of grace
gently swaying in the breeze
planted firmly in one place.
Waiting....
waiting
to be plucked
and caressed
full filling
her passions need
waiting…
waiting
in beauty's pose
with ancient secrets of old
blinded by her sight
she is....
The Fire and Ice, Wild Rose
~
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 8:49 PM UTC
Pandora lived within her box
Listening to the noise outside
Every time she sneaked a peek
You guessed it, another freak
So she held the lid down very tight
Slept alone every night
Her friends would share a laugh and joke
Thou Pandora had no hopes of love
When one day whilst out the box
She wiggled her toosh and didn't know
Her toosh was seen to wiggle past
A quite delightful site in fact
Off she popped and closed the lid
Nothing more was ever said
One day a stranger, a curious type
Thought the lid was far to tight
He opened it up to peek inside
Pandora startled with surprise!
Hot and bothered red in fact
That he had dared to even try
The cold that she had made her world
Was melting and she was quite perturbed
So once again she closed the lid
Warm inside she couldn't think
A tingle here a giggle there
Pandora now was really scared
Now Pandora isn't locked away
She just made the choice to be that way
With good reason to with all the freaks!
The choice is hers to stay or leave
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
Remember
Back in the day
When those parties
In Venice
That say would have 25 people or so
Walking through?
Now they were
Too big
Over-packed with
50-200?
With frat boy vibes?
Dana Rick and I
Arrived at one
And I thought a
At the sliding glass door
Oh God
And quickly escaped to the kitchen
Cutting through the living room
Where there was the make shift bar
Nothing much in the
Fridge
Anyway
I made my drinks
And turned around
To cross back
And somehow Dana was there
In front of me
She raised her hands
And wiggled through the bodies
While I
Said
NO
I will dance
When I feel like it
I choose
So I began to follow
And every elbow knees hip and arm
Reached out to touch me
Knocking all the contents out of
my little plastic cups
And though
I got to the other side
Contemplatively
Looking back
Empty
The three of us
Went to stand on the side of the house
Safe
By the water meter
And I laid down my cups
Laughing
So the moral of this story
Although I think it’s obvious
Is to
Go
With
The
Flow
Mar 28, 2021
Mar 28, 2021 at 3:05 PM UTC
why did - somename - do that? ******* *****
nearly knocked the mirror off my
honda civic when he wiggled like a missile into
my lane. getting in front of me so important?
somename's father is having heart attack in the
hospital.
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 9:05 AM UTC
We followed the girl with the flossy blonde wig
like she were the march hare- late late late.
I was in an art deco trapeze top and size 3 blue jeans,
Lord & Taylor boots I bought with a 100 dollar gift card.
15, freshly single, pregamed,
and ready to blend in with the co-eds.
Flossy Blonde was short and thin- in a red number
walking way fast to the apartment I think we were invited to.
The crew I was with was incredibly drunk and incredibly gay
and I couldn't wait to go to a real party.
Flossy Blonde disappears into a doorway-
with generic flashing dorm-room lights
spilling out of it
along with cigarette brigades
of Tweedle dee
and Tweedle dum.
I didn't know it then,
but those seniors couldn't escape expectation.
There was a pole installed in the middle of the room.
A caterpillar man in a tiny suit and bow tie, big hipster glasses,
was grinding to Gaga on it,
There was no tea-
but everyone was equipped with
jungle juice that made them bigger or smaller.
Flossy blonde was there getting her drink on,
throwing her hips around.
Her cotton-tail wiggled a little.
Passion red lights flashed on her outfit.
I danced with her, and this
what would now be called "bro"
but then just an unavoidable deterrence
with a fractioned hat.
My vision was getting blurry-
must have been the kool-aid.
And now my memory is, too,
because I keep thinking
The Queen of Hearts was there cheering us on-
Because a purple cat meowed "We want to see you kiss!"
And so I gave Flossy Blonde a sloppy one-
and the room erupted with lava loudness,
ruckus and applause.
She giggled a little-
as we sat on a love seat,
I proceeded to exclaim,
"I kiss way better when I'm not sloshed."
and then I woke up under a tree.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
Quickly, now
Before I forget
Before the cold rain washes this soot from my body
I need to remember
It kills me to remember
Was it real?
True? Honest?
Real, even so
So real in so many ways
It's not your reality that stains me
I slid through a slime covered door
Wiggled in through the mirror
Unsure of what I would find there
I thought I could handle it
This cliff edge
I was in an unfamiliar room
Taking in all I could see
My eyes like camera lenses
Strategically placed on the floor
Bound to the spot like tethered dead weight
I could have stopped it
I could have
I could have stopped it
I could have
I could have stopped it from tainting my soul
I could not have stopped it
From happening
As it
Had
Already happened
And so it happened
Real for them
Real for me
Real to the world
On every level a ****** up reality
And it chipped away
It tore chunks from part of me
Demolished a part of me
That I didn't even know was still there
That I would have kept to my dying day
Powerless to stop
Only stare
Judged guilty
By an unwillingness
To turn away
To turn away
Not so hard to do
Close my eyes
Squeeze them shut
Tightly, tightly
Only to be consumed by
The sound, the noise
The muscle and skin-muffled bone
Absorbing the shock
Of a wooden floor
Like a fish out of water
Flipping and flopping
Held down by the bigger fish
Gasping for water
Teased, destroyed then released
Puncture my ear drums
I cannot stand these
Terror, helplessness, anger, loss
I cry for you
I cry with you
But I cannot cry for myself
Tears won't fall from these open eyes
I cannot squelch
The echoing memory of your brokenness
That resounds and repeats and courses through my heart
Through my very existence
Changed forever
By an impulse
To
See
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 6:53 AM UTC