Best Lubrication Poems
A welcomed soaking, blessed lubrication
Priming the gears of fertile production.
We can label them, but only She designs
Them, in counsel with our nurturing God.
Genuinely!
I've not been the most frequent on this pen
But there are men and women, boys and girls
That have used it to walk on the shores of emotions,
Showing conviction to inspire an evolution
Using Compiling lines that demand admiration
Making this art beautiful and thought provoking
Invoking sensations of humor, love, sorrow, inspiration
They have gone the extra mile
Moving people and spreading innovations
Poets are philosophers
Campaigners of a world controlled by the mind
Creators of nations where reasons and feelings are combined
Inventors of spheres where dictions and connotations are aligned
In the only art form that knows how: Poetry
It's a lubrication to our souls
A beeline route to the heart
It's array of imaginations obligate consciousness
With verses of heavenly adoration
Poetry push motivation into dying bodies
Like doctors healing patients on life support
Conveyed through comedy or romance, activism or insight
Just the right words in just the right ways turn poems into vitamins
nourishing our fading bodies with endless possibilities
By connecting ink to paper
Poets through poems
Highlights the most extraordinary factors of life
Into the most ordinary style possible
The raw use of vernacular makes this art spectacular
They're ideas without frontiers
Lines fused to mold our dreams into entities
Verses and imagery construct poems into precisely powerful printings
That have touched so many lives
Having the greatest effect on me
And this is Phenomenal!
The mechanical components, the valve that pumps my heart
The reactive nerve endings that serve a sensory stimulus
The tear ducts that latently only lend lubrication
The silly little practical necessary body bits, pieces and parts
I yawn & it reminds me… I should probably inhale & exhale
I smile because it is simply facial muscles that need exercise
I do mechanical muscle management to strengthen & maximise
Biomechanical body’s like mine don’t simply go frail..
My skin surface is stimulated, & sympathetically constricts.. it must be cold?
My mental function set to maintain a neutral base
My muscles, skeletal system, ligaments, tendons & bony structures
Encapsulated by a mechanised myofascial web, complete the outer mould
Organs operate internally as a well serviced engine, its all systems go
Emotions just pesky little hormone imbalances, from a time long ago
Where we as woman once needed in order to reproduce
Will evolution shrink our ovaries as they have outgrown their use?
My tongue embraces words, my tongue the sharpened sword
I trip stumble & fall and my senses heighten
My pelvic floor constricts & I feel it twitch & tighten
I massage the distressed muscles & release multiple rewards
It’s my body, it’s my temple, my vessel my machine
Not some sensitive, high strung weak inferior copy of a male
It is supple, soft and silky to the touch, all curves & contours
It’s my body, it’s my temple, my vessel my machine……
Being an American in Australia isn’t easy,
but I’m trying to integrate;
I’m trying to fit in.
Just one of the boys with all the right expressions
under my belt, like:
pasty glut
cosmetic spring roll rut
five o’clock shadow cigarette butt.
I mean, I’m trying to integrate;
I’m trying to fit in.
I try to talk about the good ol’ U.S. of A.,
and I’ve never mentioned Uncle Sam once,
except to suspect he lives inside Colonel Sanders
who also gives me a big pain in the ass
with his mysterious suppository herbs & spices;
cos I’m trying to fit in, see?
I’m trying to integrate.
Okay, I can get nervous about women,
and cover it up under muscle and toughness, O.K.!
Say: “All sheilas are made fer ****in’!”
while dreaming:
leather cock thrust
beer lubrication
violet steak lips!
Say: “All poets are poofs!” and
beat my balls around fields of green
with wooden sticks so stiff and clean, screaming
semen icing power
spread on scones of breasts!
Bloody hell! Can’t ya see?
I’m trying to integrate,
trying to fit in.
Like wearing high-heeled snow-shoes
and roller-skater shirts;
doing al the expected things, even tho’
my Balinese sarong trips me up occasionally.
I’ve got a sun-tanned *******,
and I’m keeping me nose to the ground,
no bloody fear! I’m integrating, ya see?
Trying to sit in.
I’m a tough-fisted slow-sauntering grog-pissing
knife balling tit watching ***** hating self-deceiving
regular visionless mate of no matter:
Swallowed by deserts
and the fear of ******s;
Tortured by sun
and the freeze of lost passion;
Murdered in business;
resurrected in wages!
Enslaved in the cities and
imprisoned by FACTS
that stretch from my body
in steel rails of tracks I ride on,
I hide on:
I’ve lost where I’ve been.
But I’m integrating
(yeah, INTEGRATING!)
I’m just fitting in.
The big 'R', do you actually know what you're doing
To our week nation,
Absolute panic stations, feckin banter deflation, endless duration
Eternal damnation the foundation, our country's creation.
No shortage of hydration in any location,
Sure isn't Patsy livid, the crops are bad, explicit gyrations.
Sure no wonder there's emigration by the dozen every week,
Has given or society an ugly mutation,
Gets lubrication each day thanks to you.
There's a sad wet dog in the station
Contemplating rotation.
You rain on our frustration, wash our sins for we have
Offended out of hatred and vexation,
All we're looking for is some compensation.
Rosary beads in homes nationwide and Bridie is saying the rosary
For a chance of salvation, god love her she's my relation.
The forecast gives us the temptation to believe,
Subtle touch of authority has us buying flip-flops, frustration.
We have brain cells you know, we give into temptation,
Because in this situation we can find our own destination.
Just sayin aviation is our saving grace from drowning captivation,
And there's as much chance getting compensation
from you as we are from a cheap flight cancellation.
Rain we've had enough, because we're ready to make a revelation
And through your bitter tears you'll hear our declaration.
We're out for palpitation then leave you to your desperation,
Because as a population, it's our dedication, inspiration and vegetation
That are emanating through your drops of dislocation.
The Wicked Witch was Tin Man’s fantasy
He'd never seen such a beauty as she
It rained and his joints seized
Left poor Tin Man quite peeved
Every step that he took was misery...
They stopped at Yellow Brick Rd gas station
Asked the pump jockey for lubrication
He sprayed Tin Man with grease
So, he could move with ease
Tin Man jumped up and down with elation...
He held the witch’s hand but wanted more
But didn't foresee what fate had in store
Something hadn't been greased
Tin Man wasn't too pleased
When his rusted man thing dropped on the floor...
To dwell among the ruins;
littered with broken bottles and flattened plastic cups,
stamped out cigarette butts
Cast off lottery binges,
crushed ghetto dreams and empty syringes
Poisoned by so many stings of inequality
Flickering opportunities ...
shed your skin, and perhaps poverty
will become a molted nightmare
I stand amidst
a people in a narcotic induced stupor,
their drug of deceit is a false sense of identity
They want to believe so bad
in their adopted society
Still slaves to orphaned naiveté
My feet of clay are bruised
on the shards of this shattered glass menagerie
A ghetto cage with rusted hinges,
creaky freedom that depends
on intensive mental lubrication
Trapped souls within tend to not have enough strength
to swing open the cage door
I stand amidst
a people with weeping desires
of soaked happiness wrung dry
Shuddering in cold urban projects
left ill-heated and unfinished
We who came here with nothing ...
stripped of everything --- our heritage, our dignity
Then subsequently told we are not entitled to anything
I fall to my knees
in the midst of my people's pain
As the dagger of disillusionment
is plunged into our collective heart
again and again
We are assimilation's spitted out bitter raisins
Dry skin caused by frozen winter winds
Caused by over washing
Too much caution given to cleanliness
The rough ridges distinctly defined
Will soon go away with care and time
These epidermal deserts
Are greatly in need of an oasis
Some lotion for lubrication
To make the redness in the deserts turn to tan
And now I wonder, why?
Why am I writing about my hands?
Separation only looks so sweet,
And tantalizing, when I slice your meat.
Romanticizing crimson glistening,
You plead to god, but is he listening?
Crazed focus guides me down your curves,
I live for giving you what you deserve,
A rough spank, and a yank on the curls,
You're not one of those material girls-
your life matters, so I'll make this sweet.
I've got in store quite the torturous treat..
A light prick is all you'll feel at first,
I'll numb your pain, but the sound is worse..
The sharp grinding of a saw meeting bone,
I grow erect by the vibrating tone.
I wipe your tears, post-fornication,
your fingers will need lubrication...
I move your hand -rather, my hand now,
Across your breasts, then I caress down,
extend two fingers from your severed hand,
Then slide them both into your **** gland.
To think, you could've just at stayed home,
But no, you'd rather walk the streets alone.
Your pretty, pampered life became a bore,
You wanted thrill, and now? You're still my whore.
You saw me sitting there all by myself,
It was too easy, in my lap, you fell.
You weren't impervious to my sly charm,
We wined and dined, I never raised alarm.
My nervous smile left you quite disarmed,
You didn't think that I could do you harm.
I kissed your neck, and you tilted your head,
Just enough to weave my needles thread.
I caught a glimpse of vein in the moonlight,
Your reaction was a lustrous sight.
You flopped and kicked but it was far too late,
So now you're here, on this endless date.
Don't worry darling, I never make haste.
I won't let any of you go to waste.
Some of those closest to me
are concerned my poetry
does not rhyme
every time.
I do not complain,
but try to explain
that total symmetry
is not important to me.
The meaning of a verse
is, for better or worse,
the point of a piece.
Rhymes are just grease.
Mental lubrication to let words slide by,
while I try
to impart a certain feeling,
repulsive or appealing.
This frees myself and my reader from the
tight restraint of what seems sing-song.
But maybe just this once,
I will kind of go along.
"I can't get it up" I cried
She replied "try more lubrication"
"I can't get it in" I cried
She replied "try more lubrication"
"This thrusting is making it sore" I cried
She replied "try more lubrication"
"Now its really red raw' I cried
She replied "try more lubrication"
"The pain I suffer for you" I cried
She replied "try more lubrication"
"Its in and gliding nicely" I cried
She replied "no more lubrication"
"Fixing these pistons by hand really hurts" I cried
She replied "try hand lubrication"
"This cream really soothes" I sighed
She replied "I love lubrication"
Written 9th March 2014
This life fell apart at the seams
His wife met the part of her dreams
Enraptured hearts elucidating
Her captured hearts hallucinating.
With a poetry sweeter than pillowtalk
To know me and follow my walk
I'll lead you astray
Every conceivable way.
My restless bird with wings so clipped
My loveless world in you dipped
I lap it up you swim unbound
I'll wrap you up your limbs around.
I'll set you free to get with me.
Heavens chains and burdens you hold my key.
Who paints the wall the whole town Red.
I'll make you fall we'll roll round bed.
We lived on Love, we ate our rhyme
We didn't rush, we take the time.
To find you through the monsoon rain
Reminds me I, can't lose you again.
My light upon this starkness
Thy Butterfly among the moths
I'd like to see you starkers
I'll hide all of your cloths.
Those headaches dear
That trouble you so
Would soon disappear
As our Love does grow.
The right sequence of stuff none too soon
Bright beacons of Love shone through the gloom
Smile on my face, heart all over the place
Passions they race as wild Lovers embrace.
To hold you near until your dead
Be bold my dear, I Love You Red.
You'll moan and quiver for my touch
As Love delivers the greatest rush
The sparks we throw from a Love that's made
The dark's overthrown it needs it's shade.
The times we share they could be fun
In rhymes we dare to let Love run.
But only if you come to me
If only you come to me.
Floating gentle on the wave
only felt within the brain
hidden from the sight of those
wondering why the need exists
a delightful fuzz that consumes
agitation of the mood
always there beyond the veil
responsibility that must prevail
damning all to turn the wheels
creating thirsts of the soul
asking lubrication to extend
to the balm of troubled woes
a comfortable numb with regard
for the depths of agony
escaped at last in the waves
dependence spun from craving’s needs.
I've got a medicine cabinet
doubling as my bedside table
to where I'm able
to store my Bacardi white rum
in case I wake up
teary-eyed and screaming
in the middle of the night
from a dream
I wasn't preferring
My heart's a shot glass
that no one wants to take all of
so they sip me
and I burn them mercilessly
leaving little time in this
'pour me another' romance
for intimacy
So if a shot glass cracks
as it struggles to keep up
with the names
to the all the lips it touches
does anybody care?
Or is it just
a morning after
mindless answering machine message stare
into one more window
that shows fractured life
through chipped glass
And if a shot glass
falls off a table
shattering on the floor
in an empty bar
three hours past cut-off
does it make a sound?
Well
I set my alarm for
four a.m. after a heartbreak
and I put a pitcher to my chest
to check and see
and yes
a shot glass does indeed
scream when it's smashed
But it also has the capacity
to laugh
and it particularly purrs
when it's led
by two loving female fingers
to a VIP room
And later
my body interrogates it
about the experience
because the heart
always feels things
a few seconds faster
than everything else
So a shot glass
glowing alone
on a neon bar sign lit table
is just reporting
the days news
to the extremities
And a pitcher
is just another way
to say
'I'm still alive'
And a medicine cabinet
is just a place
to keep secrets
that keep you that way.
And your body
is only the bridge between
real, emotional, and spiritual
Making alcohol the lubrication
to which we use
to slip in between two opposite lives
And planning to leave one behind
would be like begging
for our shot glasses
to cut our lips
with mis-matched romances
and flowers playing themselves off
as people pretending to be
'forget-me-please's
It's too bad the glass
can be both half
of empty and full
simultaneously.
Enough of golden daffodils, romance and paths not taken
Let's lend poetic airing to a subject quite forsaken.
An opportunity's emerged to give a little plug
To that much lambasted creature called the common garden slug.
Though snails have stirred the poets' muse on many an occasion,
The slug has been subjected to a poesy evasion.
No poet worth his salt would waste much time on this intruder;
A slimy, homeless gastropod and shameless gunge exuder,
Repellent garden wrecker with a squirming gloopy tail
Which lathers lubrication in a sticky winding trail.
But just to be contrary have you ever stopped to think
How an absence of these creatures would create a mighty stink?
They go about their business eating signs of plant decay
And help the ecosystem in a beneficial way.
The hedgehogs, frogs and badgers, salamanders birds and shrews
Would view their disappearance as quite catastrophic news.
So next time you are tempted to dismiss them as a pest
Take pity on the homeless and give naked slugs a rest!
20.05.20
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