"wooly" poems
Who Am I?
Well,
I must be
that ******
the one
in the black hoodie
***** sweatpants
and an uncombed eye,
that's always wooly
scratchy,
bloodshot
with searching for
my stash spot,
that ******
in your peripherals
that you keep your eye on
because he's
not
in a polo
looking nice,
talking
"well-spoken"
and
not
a threat
to your beautiful
lily-white daughter.
Because I grew up
fixing myself
ramen noodles
and
lifting the welcome mat
after school,
I must also be
that ******
whose father wasn't
in the same house
until he was age 13,
and when I tell you that,
you weren't expecting it
because "you're not a racist."
but
you weren't surprised.
You see,
I must be
that ******
a stand-in
for all other *******
I must be that ******
who represents
all *******
not because you are racist,
but because I'm the only
******
you've met
who doesn't talk like
dis, y'know whatmsayin,
and i talk like
this, do you know what I'm saying?
I must be that ******
In order for you
to feel okay
being around me
I must be that ******
who goes to college
does the right
thing
the white thing
and gets a job
a nice little house,
a nice black wife
with a nice
new england
clear
dialect,
(what I was
trying to get at
earlier
is that ****** dialects,
by their mere intonation,
denote stupidity,
right?)
and doesn't say a word
when his white friends
make ****** jokes
or talk in a ****** dialect
mocking some Aunt Jemima
they heard at Walmart.
But,
I also must be that ******
who doesn't step out of line
and say
"WHY IS IT
THAT IN EVERY SINGLE
ENGLISH CLASS
WE READ
ONLY
TWO
BLACK AUTHORS
A SEMESTER,
AND THAT'S
ENOUGH,
JUST ENOUGH
TO KEEP THE
****** PARENTS
HAPPY."
And If I happen to be a ******
I,
by all means,
must not be that ******
who had a white girlfriend,
and
this girlfriend
after dating
a ******
tried to date a white guy
she liked,
and when she told him
that she had dated,
loved,
and yes,
******
a ******
he had said back:
"I can't believe
you ****** a ******
Then again,
I must be that ******
with the big swinging ****
able to destroy
a white girl's ******
with its pulverizing
power.
And,
please,
If I am going to be a ******
don't be the one
who writes a poem
about
having to be
that ******
because those
kinds of *******
are being
over-sensitive,
those dashiki-wearing-motherfuckers
who think
"Da white man dis."
and "Da white man dat."
Because
I am not one of those *******
descended from the first people on earth,
your brother,
not in the ****** way,
but the familial,
species way.
Why am I even writing
this, ****** isn't a main operative
word anymore.
Search and find ******
and
replace with
"Black Guy." That way it becomes
a joke.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 7:22 AM UTC
Cuddle me sweet lover,
under warm and wooly covers,
towards you my body hovers,
and with bodies intertwined,
there is nothing but you on my mind,
we could be free from this world for a time.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
*The cold wind greeted
the hoarfrost that
evening as white
butterflies started to
fall from the dark sky.
Soon the pearly blanket
was spread across
the whole land.
It sparkled on the milky
moonlight, giving the old
willow tree a wooly gown.
Covering all the roofs,
the fields of corn and wheat,
the tall grass on the meadow.
But then she appeared,
sending fairies to dance on the
frozen lake thus melting the ice.
And with every step that she took,
snowdrops began to bloom.*
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
no use in wondering if you saved my letters
or still look at photographs of me and sigh
because at the end of the day
when i’m wrapped up in sheets and blankets
wearing wooly socks and thick leggings and flannel
i’m still cold
and you’re still
so far away
in so many ways
and i miss you, i miss you, i miss you
i miss you
but i can’t tell you
and i won’t tell you
because even if you miss me
like i miss you
i’m the one
who tripped up the stairs
and even if you offered me a hand
(you didn’t, that’s okay)
i couldn’t take it
because i need to clean
the cuts on my knees
and wait for the bruises to fade
on my own
so while it seems that you’re fine now
with taking the stairs two at a time,
i’m still trying
to stand on my feet
and i miss you, i miss you, i miss you
i really freaking miss you
and i’m trying so hard
to be strong
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
My beautiful blue skein of yarn,
Here in my bag you sit,
I'd love to pick you up to knit,
If only for a bit.
But clothes need washing and babes need baths,
And food needs cooking too,
Besides, I'd have a hard time choosing,
What to make of you.
You see, my stitches were not even,
My gauge, no one could guess,
My beautiful blue skein of yarn,
You would not have been impressed.
But oh how I've practiced, how I've improved, I'm sure you'll find it so,
My stitches fly right off my needles and sit in pretty rows.
My gauge is constant, my edges neat, now I am ready for you,
But still that nagging question comes, what with you will I do?
Maybe I will make of you a felted wooly bonnet,
And everyone would stop and gaze and cast their eyes upon it.
I'll wear you on holiday, we'll march in a parade,
I'll prance so proudly, show you off, and say, "yes, you're handmade".
Maybe I will make of you, a purse, like those I see in Vogue,
I'll put in you my favorite things, and then, we'll hit the rode!
We'll travel round the city, and everyone will see,
How beautiful and remarkable a skein of yarn can be.
Maybe I will make you gloves,
My baby's hands to cover,
And everyone who saw her'd say,
"her mother must really love her".
A hat, a purse, a pair of gloves, your beauty for all to see,
But, only if I stop and knit,
Now look what you've made of me,
Your potential's not all I see...
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
The wind wants to comb my har but gets tangled in its snare.
my wooly bend of kinks and bends has now got them all to stare.
i didnt ask for this texture but its the only one i wish to be next to.
i can braid it , blade it, grow it hide it show it , its always there.
right in place , it doesnt fall into my face.
my barber is the best barber he can cut it into shapes.
i can tape it fade it wear it long shave it.
but it will always be my **** ***** curls black hair.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
I let you go
to Philadelphia
I let you go
thirteen goin' on “life”
to your momma-- (God rest her-- and keep you
--from wherever she is)
to your father in Philly
outa the picture
Sheepish in the doorway of my classroom
back again
one last time--
Say good-bye, kid, to your short stay in Scranton
a town that can't rhyme
whose name falls over its own misery
No use for outsiders
“Where's your book?
Found your binder in the rain
Soggy protest to school's demands?
Of course it's yours
I checked, ya know”
"No way!"
Desk's been empty, three weeks now
Still, gotta ask
“Whacha doin?
Where ya been?”
“Khmir,
I'm sorry for your loss....”
Thirty seconds shares our grief
Thirty seconds for your future's-- all I got
“Listen to your teachers!
Do your work!
Please-- be okay?”
Khmir
in your wooly black coat-- like a bear
like a dare
shruggin and dancin in the doorway
of the “show”
Homework? Aint happenin'
But one paper, though
on why--
YOU-- should be president
and I almost vote for you
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
(1)
There’s one thing I must get off my chest
that’s bothered me now
even 50 years on
with the passage of time –
my English teacher then
she always told me when I grumbled
homework was too difficult,
she’d tell me: “That’s a piece of cake”
And I’d go home discombobulated how
anyone could eat paper
or homework
and she said this not once, but every time:
“It’s a piece of cake”
(2)
And my parents and I looked at it
every which way and from every point of view
and concluded in our Perfect Ancient Native language:
*“This English teacher is a loony. She is wooly-headed.
She is the lamb Mary lost, silly and muddle-headed.
How can homework be a piece of cake?
Anyway, we don’t eat cake – we eat samosas.”*
(3)
And yet the English teacher would put her nose
up in the air
and remonstrate: “It’s a piece of cake!”
Oh yeah, would you like tea with it?
Now, my parents, bless their Ancient Souls,
have gone on into the next world
And I’m left wondering about the secret madness
of that English teacher
who’d ask me to eat cake when I expressed genuine concern…
Well, my parents have passed on, as I said,
and I’ve moved on
as is plain and radiant to see
to master idioms and vocabulary
Punctuation, the catenative verb and Usage;
and, as for that wooly-headed English teacher,
I’m sure she’s moved on into
a comfortable nuthouse
where the staff makes her eat her cake,
and make her think she can have it too -
cos that’s what they do to nuts, and such instances
(4)
And now that I have got that off my chest,
I can comfortably resume memorizing
Volume 3 of theOxford Dictionary
as I perambulate
and copy 100 entries from Fowler’s “Modern English Usage”
as I victulate
which is all part of my nightly ritual
since she told me to do so some 50 years ago
(cos I happened to look at her Union Jack knickers
when she sat high on the table, and I stood up *****
cos that's what they made us do in the cinemas)
- and that helps to put me into a state of dormancy, to hibernate
till the sun ushers in a new day for me –
and a new cake for that wooly-headed English teacher,
she, I can presume with certainty,
elegantly reposed and superannuated
Now, I’m glad I’ve got this off my chest
and mastered my idioms and phrases
and I can go eat my samosas
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
I have left, pig-mudding drunk,
having sipped from stock to stock on fraying cheer, stages.
I have stood in foreign basements; sweaty cellars of youth;
begot by attitude breeding spaces of the hip;
drawn circles searching for love in recreating nonsense:
a silly pupil, moon-eyed, out of breathe.
I have heard them quack, reveal their cords;
heard them whisper a thousand and one secrets,
heard them deconstruct their circumstances as pilgrims, penniless and sick.
I have their memories now, an image of a depressed,
ass-imprinted pillow soaked in liquor and a feeling of nausea
where ribs sleep on this couch tonight, every night.
I have heard one refute the weight of living, ******
on the banks of his best friends hospitality, and thought
How much is it worth?
And I have envied every **** greasy pored hipster,
the ones fixing on makingitnew now kind of clan; stared blankly at fashion,
a culture back door where pink fish scales sparkle high from runway halters
to the tops of grown men, bearded and chesty.
And your mothers pearls sit, not your mother’s pearls but your mother’s, mother’s pearls,
that old world clout ornamented around those hairy *******
Oh yes, I have seen men become peacocks, charmed animals of **********
seen them teeth at discourse in the noise they create, wide-mouthed and pointed;
I have seen them masked like frantic felines: wooly bully cats trying-to-roll their own meter,
their tobacco stained black charcoal over soft bricked lips quiver to their beats:
those painted lemmingings, without a parachute: kamikaze felons.
I have desired absolute sterility: white china,
in the egg of a toilet bowl I spewed out, shut-up my exuberance for the night;
sorry-pleaded my resolutions to gag out the naughty nouns in my life.
I have quit; turned in my lust for performing the lioness, paw-licking,
snarly creature: the predator of my youth, and now,
I am pretty-headed, tamed in bath oils and schedules;
a spotted fox, in plain view, one medium-sized mammal getting by.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
Dusk!
With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings!
Bats!
Glowing red eyes and glistening fangs,
These unspeakable giant bugs drop into view.*
Fibrous wings furred like a moth,
Big ears are just a membranous extension of antennae.
Flying in search of a flower’s pollen laden froth,
Silent except for the hum and squeak of echolocation.
Trap bats in attics, butterflies in nets.
No rabies feared, no bedbug bites to itch.
Clawed feet ****** and grab like praying mantis pincers;
Bloated stomach slopes like a pudgy beetle.
Jaws manipulate like an ant, excise like scissors;
Soft hair rustles like a wooly caterpillar.
They live in darkness, centipedes do too,
Come out at night like cockroaches tend to.
Skittering through the night like daddy long-legs,
Noses snubbed like bumble bee faces.
Wind turbines endanger bats,
Like fans endanger lightning bugs.
Only one percent of bats are vampiric,
Like only a small percentage of spiders are poisonous.
Dawn!
With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings!
Bats!
Bats are bugs, aren’t they?
May 4, 2010
May 4, 2010 at 5:04 PM UTC
"Son can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet
And I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"
Billy Joel lyrics from
"Piano Man"*
~~~~~~~~~~~~
when I was very young
I wore Levi jeans and white
Hanes cotton T shirts
my mother bot me,
my feet, Ked clad, red
from the kid's "department" store
on Central Avenue,
the Main Street of my small town
when I was a young lad,
I wore workingman's cargo jeans and
white Hanes cotton T shirts
under red plaid
wooly shirts, itchy affairs,
that I bot for myself
in a real Army Navy store,
desert colored suede boots,
laced up high,
upon my feet
when I was of middling years,
my jeans were khaki pants,
Gap supplied,
and my Gap T shirts,
faded like me,
a non-descript color,
made in a gap of pale pastel colors
from Bangladesh or Vietnam,
pale pastel, like me
so as I slide~decline into
my nursing home years,
I wear unbranded jeans and
white cotton no name T shirts
with matching white disposable slippers,
that the Purchasing Department
bot for me, cause they know,
I like,
a younger man's clothes and
the memories that play all day
lost in day dreaming of a life
well dressed
2:01am
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
There is a sequence of small events, signs; that as they occur point us in the direction of the mid-winter festival. This morning: the first snow; iced rain, not the soft down-like floaty stuff, but hard crystal-shaped foot-crunching shards. Yesterday, it was on with the wooly hat, the padded waistcoat and a more than just sprightly walk in a park of leafless trees. Everywhere, a damp coldness.
Sitting companionably after the meal, a fire spitting in the hearth had brought a glow to her cheeks. She was replete with glowness, her speech dancing too and fro after the family phone calls of a Sunday night. Outside, the sound of wind against the house.
Settling herself against him, feet tucked under his reclining body, she tells him about her niece, a birthday girl just two last week. This little one was touchingly innocent of what happens on a birthday. She knew it was coming, next week, soon, then tomorrow. Imagine her the night before: just think you'll wake up and be two! And that's what this birthday business is? She wakes and there is something special in the air, her sister smile-full, bouncy with expectation. Her parents’ voices are louder than usual, there are bigger hugs and longer kisses. Birthday, birthday, birthday. Her grandparents arrive. More hugs. THEN her father appears with a cake! It's only just after breakfast, but the large people are having coffee and there's her juice cup and a cake! Birthday, birthday, birthday shouts her sister. For me, a cake for me? My cake? Daddy lights the candles! Oh, oh, oh. This is . . . and something wrapped in pretty paper is being handed to me. Her sister, being wonderfully sisterly shows her how to remove the wrapping. A book! Read it to me now, now, please. It's my birthday, now.
This is a sign he thinks later when in bed she folds herself to him, arranges his arms and hands to hold her into sleep, still glowing a little. This is surely a sign. A child's discovery of the birth day. The joy it brings, the way it lights up our lives. And never again will her father see quite that measure of surprise and delight in his daughter's face. Next year she'll be full of expectation, know all about birthdays . . and be three.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 1:56 AM UTC
Walked through a field full of llamas
Wooly babies, papas, and mamas
But these llamas were purists
And spat on this tourist
Turning excitement to trauma
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 11:38 PM UTC
Because I could not draft for Ice,
it did kindly draft for me.
Does the Ice make you shiver?
does it?
Pay attention to the chill,
the chill is the most shivering fear of all.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the chill,
Gently it goes - the chill, the trembling, the unsteady.
A thawing, however hard it tries,
Will always be Melting.
Does the thawing make you shiver?
does it?
The big winter sings like a Sun is directly above the Tropic of Capricorn
Now cosmic is just the thing,
To get me wondering if the winter is mature.
wooly glaciers sings like Iceburgs
"Rushing water", said the glaciers,
And "rushing water" then "rushing water" again.
How happy is the frozen popsicle!
Does the popsicle make you shiver?
does it?
The freezing that's really crystals,
Above all others is the frost.
Does the frost make you shiver?
does it?
Because I could not draft for Ice,
it did kindly draft for me.
Does the Ice make you shiver?
does it?
Because I could not draft for Ice,
it did kindly draft for me.
Ice, Ice, every where,
Yet not a drop to draft.
How happy is the cold surface!
Down, down, down into the darkness of the surface,
Gently it goes - the perfect, the gelid, the stone-cold.
Pay attention to the floe,
the floe is the most Dence ice mass of all.
Floe, floe, every where,
Yet not a drop to drift.
The thawing is like a gentle voice,
it tends to cause significantly.
Does the thawing make you shiver?
does it?
The athletic game that's really zany,
Above all others is the hockey.
Pause to assist, like the hockey does.
It does assist, it does draft,
Should it also induct?
Why would you think the snowfall is gradual?
the snowfall is the most sudden downfall of all.
Pause to last, like the snowfall does.
It does last, it does accumulate,
Should it also range?
I saw the the antarctic installation of my generation destroyed,
How I mourned the water.
I don't like the fact that it,
learned to reside before it knew how to flow.
You can reside, you can flow, but can you supply?
Because I could not draft for Ice,
it did kindly draft for me.
Does the Ice make you shiver?
does it?
Because I could not draft for Ice,
it did kindly draft for me.
Pause to draft, like the Ice does.
Don't belive that the snowfall is small?
the snowfall is big beyond belief.
Never forget the braggy and large-scale snowfall.
Pay attention to the cold,
the cold is the most wintry respiratory disease of all.
Are you upset by how springlike it is?
Does it tear you apart to see the cold so frozen?
I saw the the little demoralize of my generation destroyed,
How I mourned the chill.
Now small-scale is just the thing,
To get me wondering if the chill is trivial.
An iceman, however hard it tries,
Will always be cunning.
Are you upset by how adroit it is?
Does it tear you apart to see the iceman so attractive?
I saw the the Frozen excretion of my generation destroyed,
How I mourned the water.
Never forget the sleety and unchangeable water.
Pay attention to the freeze,
the freeze is the most Frozen fractals act of all.
Does the freeze make you shiver?
does it?
Because I could not draft for Ice,
they did kindly draft for me.
Do Ice make you shiver?
do they?
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
valley mountains high,
cattle there to serve us,
rugged men are men,
sheep are very nervous,
megan's dentures in a jar,
pug face snoring porker,
drove llambo to his wellies,
the mountain mutton stalker.
valley commandos camouflage dress,
headband, wellies, wooly string vest,
llambo llewellyn up to the test,
heads for the hills searching his quest.
english may laugh,
and label us sinners,
while we **** sheep,
they eat them for dinners.
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 11:57 AM UTC
We plucked eyebrows
from the clover.
Caterpillars
contracting as
we pinched each one
between our plump
baby fingers,
expanding as
we lined them on
each other’s arms—
wooly train cars.
They would ripple
blindly, segment
by segment, scoot
across the floor
of the rusty
coffee can we’d
prepared for them
so carefully—
braided hairs of
grasses, flowers,
twigs, stones and all—
a crude and cruel
imitation
of their clover,
but certainly
better, somehow.
We were sure.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC
snow comes early this year
in southern climes
- records broken
radio man talks
of a warming globe
- a broken record
seas have risen
many, many times
and frozen, too
- in southern climes
have I shown you
my wooly mammoth tooth?
it's very old.
r ~ 11/1/14
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
Swaying,
Heat pressing into my skin,
The same winged creature circling my face and then landing on the very tip of my nose,
Air thick like a milkshake.
When the rain comes,
Landing with a thud,
Like a bag of sand dropping from the roof of a house,
The animals can breathe,
I can breathe,
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh,
Even the crickets let out a sigh,
Pounding like a drum,
Pounding like the same dream every ******* night,
The capybaras and wooly monkeys with their hunched shoulders and squinting eyes,
Let the branches and leaves heave around them,
Verdant,
And flashing,
A globe of bubblegum,
The rain always comes.
Oct 26, 2022
Oct 26, 2022 at 11:12 AM UTC
“Cold snowflakes upon my arm
the winter shine peeking through a crack in the blinds
a breeze of ice engulfing the room through a window left ajar
a land covered in a shiny white blanket.”
Winter has come. Cue the thick padded coats and the parkas of every color of the rainbow! Behold the sleds and skis and the beautiful Siberian huskies who pull them. Await the closing of schools and the temperature drops, keeping people in and making children everywhere euphoric as ever. The time has come for skating upon rivers of ice, and joyous dinners in warm wooly sweaters as families gather around to indulge in the tastiest of food. Fireplaces shall again be lit in all households of old, and stockings hung up early in preparation for Christmas. Happy smiles all around, engaging in snowball fights and the building of snowmen.
Ah but winter is as winter does. As numbers reach the negatives, heaters are turned up to the warmest possible, insulating the beings in a home and using electricity. What about those without a home? Those who are confined to the streets of the city, waiting for the cold to eat their bodies up and leave them in a state of rigidity? They are left to waste. Left to succumb to the bitterness of winter, with no sustenance whatsoever or any form of water to soothe their burning throats. The cold will conceal them in a cover of white death, a prison of snow. And in the early mornings of every winter-filled day, a machine is sent out to collect the bodies of those who have been imprisoned by the winter. The one operating the machine weeps silent tears for these ice prisoners before bringing their poor souls elsewhere.
Winter is two-faced, and she is both beautiful and terrible as the morning and the night.
(lunarlullubies)
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 9:22 AM UTC
dimble dumble,
caught a, thimble thumble
of precious morning dew.
dimble dumble, took his thumble thimble,
full up to rimful.
on his nimble rambull
wooly stu,
careful not to lose,
a drippity drop
of the delicious dew.
they flimble, flambled,
up and overed,
down and undered,
till dimble dumble,
with his thimble thumble, filled to rimful,
on the wooly rambull... came to stumble.
his face a crumble,
as the rimful,
roamed and overflew,
the thimble thumble walls.
a dribble drabble did scribble scrabble,
down the rambulls hide.
dimble dumble
chewed his bottom lip
and cried.
"do not fret my little pet, look there is still enough inside"
wooly stu decried.
"i'll be more staid,as we ride our fortunes, soon will be made."
so,dimble dumble
and his rambull crew,
with thimble thumble recovered,
from the tumble.
on they skedoodledaddled. being careful to protect the remaining morning petal's dew.
after a while, time,
flew with dove like grace and dimble dumble,
with his dudes came
to the the very place, of the rimble romble rumble
and royal rapture rap parade
dimble dumble
and rambull stu on bended knee
and really humble
presented their
thimble thumble
not quiet full to rim still
but delicious and felitious morning dew
to the king awaiting
his purchase and perview.
before its spoiling,
it was boiling,
his kettle singing,
songs a ringing,
to the beauteous,
but not so bountious, morning dew.
dimble dumble
watched the
thimble thumble steam
and bubble blip away.
hands flipping flapping
nose jinkling wrinkling
as the fog blew,
his way boiling dew,
tea leaves darjeeling
with daphne blossoms
was the flavour of the day.
dimble dumble
with thimble thumble
empty now
and too, wooly stu
caught a peek of teacups platinum
holding royal blossom brew before the butler,
with a silly stutter,
sent them on their way,
with dimble dumble
all a fumble,
with a thimble thumble
of goldenboldens,
as his hard work's
reward that day.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
Skinny is a feeling.
The feeling of a necklace scrapping protruding collarbones,
The feeling of rings slipping off thinning fingers,
The feeling of sharp cheekbones slicing into skin,
The feeling of hunger scratching stomachs,
The feeling of jeans becoming baggy around pencil legs,
The feeling of bald patches covered with wooly hats in summer,
The feeling of sharp ankles balancing on scales,
The feeling of needles in arms,
The feeling of hospital blankets,
The feeling of cold.
But there’s no feeling in death.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 5:59 AM UTC
You bought me some good presents.
Some lasting presents.
A lasting presence,
Now that you are gone.
You always remarked on the light
And now when I see sunlight,
I think of you.
You took me to the beach,
Now when I see the beach,
I think of you.
You bought me a coffee machine
And every morning as I get my hit
I think of you.
Winter scarves and hats
Are wooly thoughts of you.
Smoking out the window -
Naughty thoughts of you.
Trying not to smoke -
A thought for you.
Marmite on toast -
I think of you.
A pretty girl -
Some other you.
A naked girl -
I try not to, but...
I think of you
So much more
Now you are gone
And I'm not sure
If I will ever
Not think of you
Again.
There's only one thing
That could stop these thoughts -
To be with... you again.
Just you.
You.
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 10:02 AM UTC
the plantation that housed both my body mind soul had fallen on hard times.union soldiers had plundered the crops and taken every thing worth stealing.when word spread from plantation to plantation that president abreham Lincoln had something called the emancipation prolimantion that set us fre and we were no longer enslaved . able bodied and once docile slaves ran of in all directions but I stayed behind with the old and spirit weary faithful who seemed dazed and listless.my mistres was the only white face among us.i still wore the faint imprint of the daily chains worn like bracelets .that spring day in the kitchen while preparing black coffee and biscuits the little left for mistress and me I felt eager white hands on my breasts,than the cloth shirt hiding my nakedness was ripped away as pink hard manhood invaded my insides.the intense pain rocked all senses and tears flooded out like a dam unloosed.my screams bounced off each enclosed wall.yet no one came to make it stop.as he rode the waves of his personal pleasure my shut off mind could see visions of running through creek beds and swimming through rivers with a knapsack with two linen shirts two pairs of pants one jacket one pair of shoes one pair of socks parting gifts from my mistress tied atop my wooly head and most of al being able to sing with a loud free voice a song yet sung.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC
The Marshmallows decided to have a top Party
Dressed gaily in white, pink, red, green and yellow
They mingled and floated around looking arty-farty
We're going to dance in town not partying in a garage
And guess what, We won't invite Toffee he's not like us
Go melt and burn says Toffee with rightful disdain
who wants to party with a bunch of soft silly buffoons
Overblown and presumptuous you lot melt in the rain
Nothing to you all but egging and hot air you poltroon
Who wants to dance with mixed up softies with no brains
I am Toffee hot and hard and always ready for the bite
You can't lick me in a hurry and I take a while to crack
I am brown with brawn and brains and ready to fight
Got rhythm with the moves, tastes and flavours top whack
Not some boring twirls or stumps gathered together tight
Come try me if you dare and see me squash you down flat
I'll go into you hard your softness yielding like knife on butter
Can marsh you with my strength till you're nothing but mellow
Or stick to your puffy wooly state and squeeze you still flatter
Till you beg and squeal your surrender showing you're shallow
I am not like you and don't think, see, look or taste like you
I am brown and sweet, hard and chewy and I really don't care
For emulsified vain brainless no substance marshmallow tools
Who can only be brave and big when all packed together like
So go party and kid yourselves softies I don't party with fools
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 8:34 AM UTC