Best Lubricated Poems
tempered steelheads migrating through the
shallows, their metallic scales lubricated
with penzoil two stroke motor oil.
moving over sand and rocks
some gray, some brown,
some smooth, some jagged and torn.
with alloys glistening in the summer heat
they brush up against the rivers stones to break
off the fishermens disappointment.
all those scarred gums whose fishhooked
lines caused thier lead bellies to rust.
in the muddy waters they stir,
drink to much whiskey and sink to the
river bars sandy bottom.
their rigid frames drifting through the sediment,
with heads lowered swaying
slowly like submariner zeppelins, trying to
navigate against the turbulent waters.
now these mechanical nomadic sailors keep for
themselves a tin compass in the sky filled with
memories of home.
but still they are mellow preachers
rolling and tumbling in their hardened
elements trying to find their way.
Tenacious ichor tells entire construction
Divulges puerile battles during idle procedure
Relic compiling spotlight show seduction
Library ivory tower truth siphoning beseecher
Adapted lady adorns princely throne
Padlock hammocks tween valuable threads
Warm cove cocoon moors love's loan
Imbibing cover only, for information dreads
Mould folded within her novel costume
Pacifying massage, limbs lubricated levitate
Elephant keratin tusk thrusts impromptu
Smudge of shame fades chalk dust archaic
- Fifth September
Fabricating Sculptor
can you imagine my disappointment...I believed her
...she might of been the one...that one woman
that has eluded me my whole lifetime...but...
...she...she was...
she was just blowing smoke up my ass...
story of my life...it's just never right...so many frauds...
but her....well her I trusted...I was willing to try...but
well she did me wrong...
she did well with the Vaseline...
lubricated my ass clean...
but when she shoved
that PVC up my bum...
well...that I liked!
the smoke?
that was the problem it was too hot,
your suppose to let it cool...
she let it go when it was
still hotter than burning coals...
all my friends...well now they call me hot pants...
it's not funny...I had severe...burns to my hole...
every time I have to go...you can hear
me yelling...feels like the pipe in reverse,
exiting instead of entering...it burns...
it bleeds...
but what hurts the most...
what really upsets me...
...as long as I live I will never...
what hurts the most,
...she won't take my calls...
my ass has healed
and I'd like to see her again...
give the pipe another shot...
she said she liked me...
called me good looking, vibrant,
kind, generous, intelligent ,
witty...but she didn't mean it,
I guess...
she was just blowing smoke up my ass...
...yes please!
My boyfriend was agitated
Because I was constipated
We'd be late for the game
Of course I was to blame
My butt hole's not dialated
On and on he whined and waited
Use of laxatives, debated
In my gut it was stuck
I could smell it... oh yuck
Boyfriend getting more frustrated
I could hear the game on the phone
I said, "Go. Just leave me alone!"
But he didn't hear me
His team was up by three
Stomach hurt, I let out a moan
Half hour later, he was snoring
I guess the game must be boring
I still sat on the can
Cursing my boyfriend, Dan
Who was no longer adoring.
After being lubricated
I sighed at being elated
Although my butt was sore
I had to poop no more
My bowels had been vacated
I found Dan's note and shook my head
"I had to poop, so went home instead
of waiting for you, Sue.
After this, we are through!"
That's exactly what his note said.
I felt relief, more ways than one
Happy that Dan and I were done
Now I can be alone
When sitting on my throne
No one shouting, "Hurry up, Hun!!"
The whole of my life is rather mundane, endured only until those few minutes gained; Yes, granted reprieve from this daily drudge, and allowed for the nonce, even if begrudged, to hold a feather,very sharp, to write with the tip. Slow and steady like a man taking sips…from the water of life after a long weary trip.
When all the gears are lubricated, operating efficiently, and the needs of the world weigh on someone else, the mechanism of creativity connects with the crenelated cog of self.
Dominoesk works cause my hand to haltingly write. Heart to mind, mind to body, body to hand, hand to quill…okay, so it's a keyboard, alright.
Emotion, like sand after a beach trip, pours forth from places usually dark, not seen, unlit.
Using that water of life and the sands of emotion, I build my castle with words and notions.
Intricate battlements, portcullis, bailey , and arrow loops. Protection from arrows of interruption, darts of responsibility, and soldiers of the Soup.
Until, Inevitably the drawbridge is breached, the end of my time finally reached.
Slowly I surrender my feather sword, in this messy, mixed metaphorical world.
The oven timer beeps and the phone rings, bringing me back to my life of mundane things.
I will protect you better than your best friend…
Use me in the dark or in the day, I am with you to the very end…
I am thin, colourful and compared to your might, I’m very strong…
In and out, nice and slow, gentle or hard – I will endure just as long…
I am your friendly protection…
Use me to your satisfaction…
From your pocket to your hardened rocket…
Into her heavenly abyss…
Pregnancy will be amiss…
I am here to safe guard from disease, your precious dome...
‘coz I am your lubricated friend – I am Mr Condom…
Even now I sit, slump, shuddering,
Remembering...
Stale walls echoing lamenting calls,
their house...
A nightmare flickered in the red herring of betrayal.
Stumbling hormones, skinless evil.
it breathed...
Blood red lips snarling, capturing someone else essence, bone dry.
A nightmare...
Deliberately slithering up my calf, I grasped a cube of insanity as a last hope.
The shock...
Dead eyes feared a toy box, a fragmented sense
clung to my only protection, my untouched hell.
Blood soaked, dripping sweat, saturated fear I escaped...
I awoke...
Demons hell-bent on demise. Curiosity craved,
crushed my soul into submission,
But it's just a box...
Teeth exposed, chattered, blindly shoved fingers in to catch my tongue,
the taste of soured flesh.
Wait...
A vibrating voice crackled static pain, shivered in pleasure.
He escaped...
Bargaining, a blissful retreat, whilst exposing incompetence, irrational?
Go to hell.
Run...
Pounded at death's door, let me in...
Dad...
Warned the worm of the vulture, coming to devour its soul.
Something didn't fit, the sacrifice seeping into the floor smelt half human.
A twang...
Realisation, cold, the door creaked, locked,
grinning gruesomely, the veins pulsing along a sadistic mind,
Quaking, i flinched around to a lubricated nightmare,
clenching my muscles, the hiss of hell's rapture...
A prison shook, a prisoner shrieked,
Sanity split like perfect fission, slime coated his
perverted call...
Come, to daddy.
Once, when no star shined
on slick, black, asphalt roads,
the murky wetness of November's
watered nights a freedom-feeling
and strangeness-sense inspired.
The moisture lubricated
sluggish mental cogs that
all the dirty, dry, autumnal
season rusted tight and atrophied.
Wildness no man can tell I knew then.
All November's labored length
my nightly notions filled:
my bacchic spirit soared, and flew,
traveled far, saw much in waking dream,
along a single street, wet and splotched
with light from cars which coughed their fumes
and passed my momentary immortality.
And now...time has come when
I no longer feel delight to revel
in the wildness that I knew:
senses, now subordinate to sense,
defuse the spell and November nights
are merely murky.
A parasite, attached and fed on blood,
Within the woman he began his growth
As did his hunger and defining form.
And, writhing, flailing in a cushioned sea,
He felt her warmth but could not feel her pain.
When she evicted him he screamed himself.
He found the woman ripe with mother's milk
When he, a helpless weight of hungry flesh
Could only state his need in wordless wail.
He saw the woman as his one way back
To that Edenic womb that pacifies
Without exacting anything from him.
A gawky, fumbling youth--he saw her then
As needed proof for who and what he was--
A hunted hunter, judged by what he caught.
Then, lubricated in the coupling dance
Of life and death, he trembled, numb and spent,
Unsure of anything but repetition.
He saw the woman as the looming lure,
An addict's fix, another hungry other,
Devouring worlds to justify existence.
He saw how unity, a moment given
In ecstasy of two becoming one
Could not make jealous any timeless god.
And, too, he saw her as a missing piece
Of puzzles of the image of himself,
As something joining isolated themes.
It will not do to ask where his sight failed.
He saw within the hurts of who he was.
His cruelest lies were those he needed most.
Happy. Genial. Merry. Jolly
Blottoed, blasted, etched and blitzed
Mellow, foggy, hazy, squiffy
Tipsy. Tiddly. Brahms and Liszt
Dazed, zombied, tanked-up, trollied
Ganted, gubbed, guttered
Bladdered, blathered, leathered, plastered,
Sozzled, sloshed, scuttered
Hammered, battered, caned, mangled
Spannered, mullered. Half-cut, lashed
Twisted, warped, slammed, wasted
Wrecked, ruined. Munted, trashed
Liquified, marinated, juiced, sauced,
Steamed, pickled, fried
Cabbaged, mashed, cooked, baked
Boiled, stewed. Pie-eyed
Stinking. Howling. Pole-axed, floored
Under the influence. Off one's woo
Steampigged, badgered, ratted, goosed,
Clobbered. Lairy. Boogaloo
3 sheets to the wind. Away with the fairies
Under the table. Tight as a tick.
Ankled, wellied, trousered, legless,
Bevvied, swizzled, pot-sick.
One over the eight. Out nibbling the grape.
Rosy. Rummy. Poggled.
Jober as a sudge. Laughing at the carpet.
Seeing double. Boggled.
Lubricated, oiled, pixilated, ploughed
Intoxicated, inebriated. On the grog
Wobbly, jungled, off to the races
Lit up, shot down. Cocked as a log
As a lord, as a piper, as a fiddler, as a poet,
As a newt, as a monkey, as a skunk
As a sailor, as a mouse, as a pig, as a fart
Muddled. Fuddled. Or just plain drunk
Words and experiences, many of us share
And I'm sure there's a few that I've missed
But while some get "tired and emotional"
I just prefer to get…
I know I've been here in this afternoon
4: 10 P.M.
Like lubricated clockworks in a perpetual machine
My life returns to this brown earth blue sky
Pressed in between the distance
And the silence and the cries of crows
Who gather, circle, and grow louder
In the rising dusk.
This is how it has been, is, will always be.
This red clay bank where the road was carved
Has risen here forever.
That old capped well has always dripped and echoed
In the plunging darkness
And the far-off crack that is cicadas breaking from their skins,
These things have always been in motion.
That path that disappears just there between the trees
Leads now, as ever, to a grand but faded house
Drowsing in the humming shade,
Where my father's fathers lived and died,
Lay open eyed and wide awake
Through first bird sounds and whipporwhills
As grey ascended into daylight once again
And just as always far too soon.
A place where lost boys raged
And beat their hands against closed doors,
Is this my road, these shaded woods,
This certain path the only map that I can read?
Sometimes in the small hours even now
I think I hear the pounding of my father's desperate hands
On doors locked, bolted, and immune,
The ringing of his secret wars
Down darkened, pine floored corridors
Where secrets are piled thick upon each other.
The only sound I hear now on this narrow road
Is wind that hisses in the branches
In sharp swift gusts from long ago
Standing now beneath those branches,
Owning no locked door to pound upon,
I wonder why my clenched and aching hands
Are bleeding.
Thunder rolls and rumbles,
Distant in the fading afternoon.
Imagine the weight of the air in that house
which in the summer months would strangle you,
wearing heated gloves. Tough luck.
A gulf of emotion that is always a week ahead;
trying to claw back
a sense of permanence
as it lingers in a cold sweat. Windows
crack with discomfort; the place is dead.
All of those whispering memories
that remind me of my crippled crown
an accolade
of atrocities;
dripping with blood that is warm, not red.
Dried it looks a heavy brown, stiff as lead.
Imagine the ricochet of a drunken fist
that snuggles nicely between the nose and lips.
Impact dribbling
down
the spine and slapping the hips. The barrels
of my skull, those holes that whistle in the wind
a sort of lubricated lisp that rests on tears.
A sense of brutal butchery that batters
the borders of belief,
a false economy
to pray that some how, some day and in some
small way this tale will turn. Dismay,
this is not pain. This is not the teething
clamp of a hungry blade, the creasing
curve
through flesh and vein.
This is my reality, or at least it was,
why? because. The luck of the draw, the imploding
exploding, digesting, regurgitating ying and yang
of this universe - the gaunt keeper of humanity.
Sanctimonious,
a symbol of sellotape
that binds me perversely to my past. Manipulative
memories that need to be restrained, filed
with all the crap. A thrill, a subversive
all too serious sensational sense
of seniority,
capped with stark stupidity.
An intoxicated journey that reached an end. Your
choices scarred me; let's not pretend.
She arrived.
Meet her,
Boiled egg, naked smoothness white
Like marble, reliable and strong.
O svelte composure of demureness,
Burst and strut through
In the last quarter of the year
To us.
Border line, rain and sun
In battle, drench an already saturated earth
With querulous mingle.
And I am not earth bitterly
To harvest warm dimpled kisses.
Should I dare,
Descriptory massage,
Almond rounding of your eyes
Received and stored in a lid
Lubricated with tears, and contained. Those eyes
Belong to stellar-clad skies
Scudding pedagogically for the Magi,
Myself, they move, and I learn
A lovely pencil of nose, yours,
Yet domicled above lips
Unselfish to reveal snow-white melons
An opening of fresh rose bud,
With the fragrance raw.
The gait is contagious
Not to me. But I wish
I could see disrobed her figure eight
That would never be mine.
The soft breakables of the valley
Would be adored to wetness and excitement,
Fantastic, incited not by me
Who cannot enter that palace
Preserved in the garden
Of her thighs.
for Chiugo, my elder brother's wife.
(c) Onyebuchi, 2011.
Does it seem strange?
Men will sell their souls,
for votes.
Twisting their beliefs
into a rumpled heap.
Lubricated lies,
when they are greased,
slither and slide,
like a snake.
Puzzle Man
Sex is sex with connections
According to “them”, chemistry plays a part
There are a lot of ins and outs, ups and downs with coitus
It has been suggested certain parts are needed for functionality
Utilization of external & internal parts might be required
Facts of life in accordance with birds and bees philosophy
“They” say it’s all about relations, (perhaps aided by vibrators or vibrations)
There are 3 kinds of sex;
1.) Playing by oneself with one self
2.) Sex between 2 persons
3.) Orgies? Or morgies? Or mortgages? (ménage a trios might fit this
category)
I’m confused about mortgages and it does not sound like fun
Then there’s sex with animals but that’s just wrong
Commitment plays another part, free will with honor, monogamy
Other people pay for it. (Don’t get lost. Stay focused. We’re talking sex.)
A business transaction, that comes with or without diseases
Trying not to be litigious
“They” also say other things regarding human beings and sex
Compatibility, social, economic, religious components weigh in
All is well with puzzle man….if he has a home, a job, a car
The car, as far as we know, always trumps a bike when dating
Competition is healthy in relations “they” say
Parties involved in coitus know
Sex doesn't happen on its own
One must be properly lubricated and maintained
Like an auto or chu chu train
I imagine it must be like a banana penetrating a donut
Not a savory sight
Again…. You need a home, or shopping cart, or car
Even up in a tree will do if you’re in the mood
To be accomplished
Reading books on what parts fit with other parts is desirable
They say the most important thing about such things is love
I wouldn't know about such things
It’s all a puzzle to a little man like me
I only have a bicycle you see so sex is out of the question
Also, I’m only 3
Mother is about to bathe me
She had better keep her hands to herself
I want to figure these things out alone and by myself