"wub" poems
Cars, are's, bars, git-are's, oov-are's, dars and mars
With these I can construct a rooping Flargnar. Cigars.
And without these I am too **** in the far. Pooping in the car.
Now can I find the Kragar? Or have a lost it in Nar?
Wigga foug under the dug like a big bug in the rain, its all the same.
What a doog? Got a Spoog? Butter up your hands and put them in the dands.
If ever should have shooken my loog, then up-chuck all the poog! What a gwoog! Me!
But who else could it have been! In the long run no one but we.
We cannot it be, it was the glove who fell in love with that dove!
Show me the rub! For we need it to subsub.
Hrug, Hrug, hrug magug! shrug off the flug, please doug do a love for the bitter twub!
In the end it doesn't matter, I had to fub to wub it dub!
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 11:52 PM UTC
wub Wub wUb Wub wub
dubstep bass drops! shit's dank brah
wUb wub Wub wub wUb
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 12:44 PM UTC
Cold white numerals
from the Teutonic-honest dash:
9.5°C
Not so cold, I guess
but not the weather to press the button
for the windows to drop
I do while accelerating
too fast for the road,
the fresh air has volume
that angry-loves my tired,
house-cat skin
The wub-wub-wub pulse in my ears
has a cause I control
for once
as the next curve beckons
Feb 19, 2021
Feb 19, 2021 at 9:19 AM UTC
I've got my red dress on tonight
Dancing in the pale white light
Feeling the wub wubbing shiver against goose bump flesh
Driving down the night
Going about 99
Swaying that electric rhythmic catalyst beat
The smell of sweat and cigarettes floating on the stale dim air
Like magic my feet move to the silent song of youth
I am young
I am free
Dancing away to the tenor jubilee
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 1:06 PM UTC
10:00 am. How
is it still dark?
In a forest.
Top bunk. The hint
of apocalypse
In his sleeping face, the
world away.
I come down the ladder,
foot landing light on
the floorboards.
Cocooned in a blanket
as I head toward the porch.
There’s no roof. Only screen doors,
wireframes, a platform. Can’t
call it a house yet.
To the lake I go to meet the Fish.
The second I get there, it shoots out from the water,
Telling me,
“your clock is broken.” Then it plops back in.
I leap and return to our “house.”
With military precision and speed, I reach the top bunk.
But in my rush, I stop and see
His strange face, still asleep.
I ****** the clock from the wall.
I wind it back to 7:00 am. Then the sun
Comes up.
I go to him.
I lay with him.
I put my hand over his belly,
feeling it falling and rising
as they replenish with air.
He begins tossing slowly.
And I hear the growl.
The sandpaper breath.
The thing you do
to get the morning out of you.
And on cue,
his eyes open, seeing me. There is a moment
when he doesn’t recognize me. Then it registers:
I am a person he knows. We are in bed.
It is morning. This is the only place we belong in.
There is nothing to worry about. Everything is correct.
The hierarchy of details worm their way in shortly thereafter:
Weather—sunny. Temperature—a bit cold. Feeling—hungry. Taste—dry.
Soon the wub wub wubs heard through his grogginess
dissolves into clearer, more articulate ambients.
With nothing out of place, finally,
he looks at me. I can see he knows me.
I can see he knows I’m obsessed with his skin.
I want to eat it. I want to wear it.
I want to burn it then inhale it.
My lips glide over his chest;
his knuckles rub my ribs,
like police dragging their batons along prison gates.
Finally, he asks the thing he always asks,
a question I always fear.
“What time is it?”
I say what I always say.
“The time is right.”
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 6:05 AM UTC