If I see that dog again, I fear,
with goop exuding from his ear -
if that ad again shows up,
I swear I will throw up,
but I'll never buy Ear Clear.
Arising out of
The primordial poet
The poetry soup
It's not what evolves
As each writer creates on
Tabula rasa
Like a phoenix does
Dancing in the skies above
Using silly words
Like spelling goop in
A bowl of poetry soup
Alpha and beta
And rising out of
The poetry soup, a group
Best quill and inkers
Let me try to fill you all in on the scoop
There are some poets that write like they poop
Though most are out there
You must be aware
There are some poopers that stink up the soup
To all the poopers that stink up the soup
I'll say this to keep you into the loop
You too... be aware
There are poets- here
That will try to poop you out of our group
And if you do get pooped out of our group
Go somewhere else to spread out your goop
So, you and your sack
Must never come back...
to write your poopy in PoetrySoup
RAND-
y po-
TAto POets taste
tart but not 2 FART-
y TEAspoons of
grown wild goat
bot goop.
Tony's
enclave was
saved from
construction
by an
elf-select-
ed goop
of tainted heavenly heads cas-
ing
joints out of time enough to curse
ever
spiteful sets of
Twins born
right on the cusp
of Virgo and a li-
brarian's back-
water
wishing
village.
The
other eighteenth
centurion was rewired to beat whip-
ping cream by trans-
ferring it to one of free flood plain car-
rier amigo acid barriers and then em-
BARK-
ing on his var-
ied
own
creep dis-
cussing raw plans in a goop text where he adds
a spam
and melon
ball twist to a clutch-
ing figurine piece depicting
an angle between those sidewind-
ers required for
hooking spouts
with ambiguous traces of lawful fake
muse bots
spread-
ing
gas unrest using automated pest practices
that
put real intel-
ligence to sleep behind the Wheel of Miss
Fortune's even
grey-
er and darker than usual
Legion of Heavy Petting Metal Maniacs.
Kaleidoscopes in my muscles and bones.
The lighting surrounding old pay phones.
Old candy wrappers by a vending machine.
Make this hospital feel serene.
I think space rocks make up the difference.
I sold them due to indifference.
Sold my stuff to the tv out there.
Make believe chairs scattered everywhere.
I have muscles and bones for a body for now.
Sold my brain like a slimy cash cow.
But my mind was falling out of its socket anyway.
So might as well get a payday.
They handed me a wish for that old bucket of worms in my head.
I wished for another taco bar instead.
It curdled.
The landscape.
Goop.
The notion the I might get that degree?
Whoosh.
Revving up to a wasteland.
And live in downed wires.
I really might have graduated.
If my organs didn’t curdle.
People look at me like I have eyes that care.
Or gratitude.
So I wailed at notions and old sticky notes.
And my soul that didn’t study enough.
In half.
I left therapy with chewed up gum in my mouth, tastes like my own brain goop.
I took my luggage which was really the “not sorry,” in that room.
Jump started.
Brushing my teeth with that therapy gunk.
It tastes like the crust of what a bug spit out.
Those busted up words and tears.
In half.
And both halves are as alive as the inside of a planet lightyears away.
I left therapy and my jaw started tasting good as carrion-gum.
I left therapy.
With an alive secret.
Re-organizing my life feels like re-organizing a pile of putty
Like draining the swamp but you can’t throw it all out
There is no tool to drain the swamp better than your fingers
Over and over again I scoop out gunk looking at past trails
Goop pour from the sides of my hands as I curl back the scoops
Every third scoop I thrust back creates another extra scoop
I begin to laugh at the insanity of this scooping paradigm
Am I really changing the swamp or just shuffling it?
Faith beams into my peripheral and clarity sets
This dance of muck is going exactly according to God plan.
I’ve been disabled a long time.
Tides with trombone sounds.
Whisked around.
Whisking sounds, coming from an implosion.
Disability is not some catastrophe.
It’s just perforations everywhere but nothing is torn ever.
I’ve been a person for a long time.
And when you’re a person, you receive person hands, person feelings.
A few times over, the goop and grime got to me.
I think being disabled is ok, not horrible, like a boat, or a sea creature.
Disability is not some catastrophe, I said.
It’s just like walking on a super nova.
The creaks and splotches.
Make me wonder when.
I got swirled up like zucchini noodles.
Jumping up and down with a pile of rice shouting.
Saying hi to everyone and tossing a talking apple to them.
Ruined everything like a bubbling casserole.
Like a trampoline, nothing holds on.
Or even tries.
If they had cameras, I was crying and stuff.
I don’t like it caved in!
I got slammed, smushed.
Like a pie that chooses a hard life.
I got swished around like algae goop.
Turns into a sea monster really.
I really like food, things, and grime.
Couldn’t tell you much else.
I got chopped up, scrambled, and zapped.
I’m a buzzing seaweed, soup, slop.
I take my meds whenever.
Just like endless piles of cheese cubes.
Depression is just a head of lettuce.
Crinkled and ruffled.
I have empty space.
And a cross armed feeling.
But my toes aren’t right.
There’s layers.
Scooping out goop.
Depression is just a head of lettuce.
All green and good on a sandwich.
Also not good at all.
Crickled and ruffled.
Washed in the kitchen sink.
With that weird washed feeling.
And a laugh track like ants sprinkled throughout.
Depression is just a head of lettuce.
Can’t hurt me.
Spoils too quickly though.
I shouldn’t have waited.
You may think that caffeine is one of those things.
Taps on your shoulder, feels like goop.
But every once in a while you get tangled in seaweed.
Become a seaweed monster.
You might not know that the cameras could descend at any time.
Eat the garbage that got scattered around.
And the cameras will see you as if they are real people.
Letting go like a bite of candy that is unexpectedly crunchy.
I have tangled feelings in the doorknobs of my house.
And extended periods of the fans being on in the winter.
You may think that caffeine is one of those things.
That makes you eat dust like carpet fibers.
But you don’t eat dust anymore.
No coffee mug with stains on it exists.
Just collapses in my mind.
Like the seasons wreck me.
Then fall came around.
And a seaweed monster is unseasonable for now.
Whew…
There is no such thing as caffeine or bad things.
Shaking but it’s not caffeine.
It’s just winter, we don’t know how months became months.
I don’t drink coffee anymore.
I don’t think I ever knew how.
What I would call the street today,
As kids, we’d say the gutter.
It was a place to play for some
And moms would often mutter,
“If you’re not home on time, then I
Will see you, in my mind,
Lying dead out in the gutter
And your body they will find.”
The gutter also was the place
You took your dog to go,
For pooping on the sidewalk
Definitely was a no!
I never knew about the gutters
Meant to channel rain.
I have those on my roof right now
And cleaning them’s a pain.
But yesterday, I did just that
And as I scooped out goop,
I heard my mother’s voice call out,
Like she was on the stoop:
“Be careful near the gutter!”
Yet this time, my fear instead,
Was that I’d fall down while cleaning them
And crack my foolish head.
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