Long Aftershave Poems
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Dragon polished his nails and admired himself in the mirror once again; a daily ritual getting so old. The one lousy hair on his chin, protruding from a small wart which he called a, “birthmark”; warranted a razor, shaving foam and aftershave or so he insisted.
He blew himself a kiss and turned with a smile; “Do you think my fangs need more whitening?” He asked. “Dr. Raine said the last time that he “Couldn’t get them any whiter, remember?” I responded.
“Humph!” he snorted; “I can’t go around looking like some shoddy, back alley lizard now, can I? Now that I’m a professional flutist, I have a reputation to protect.” With that he patted my cheek and said, “Ciao baby, don’t wait up for me.”
I watched him grab his instrument and walk out the door. “Don’t get that big head get stuck”, I muttered softly. Why couldn’t I have adopted a normal dragon? No, I had to have the cutest one; how could I not have foreseen that ego?
When he said he wanted a flute, I bought him one; he hated it. “That’s a beginner flute,” he remarked. I want a, Master Class instrument!”
I gave in all too easily and a hundred payments later, he was playing Vivaldi, like a pro. Ok, so maybe that was a good investment.
Every contest he’d entered garnered him another golden trophy; but, did he really need a tuxedo to wear when he received those baubles? My credit cards gained weight at lightning speed, as he grew. I passed his room; stuck my tongue out at that, trophy wall and noticed his vanity. Did he really need one hundred and twelve different bottles of cologne?
At two am, he awoke me with an anxious cry. I heard, “Mumsey dear, wake up…the concert was superb and the governor was so impressed, (of course, he would be…) with my playing; he’s invited me, me to play for his inaugural dinner! Can I have your credit card? I need to get a French manicure and have my scales waxed. Oh, and I’m going to need a new Tux.”
“You have twenty three tuxedos in your closet; why can’t you wear one of those?” I asked him.
“Mumsey”, he replied, “I have a reputation to maintain.” He tweaked my cheek; smiled at himself in the mirror and under my breath I muttered back, “I can hardly wait until his, ever-growing ego, gets him stuck in the doorway.”
To The Tune Of Christmas Wrapping By The Waitresses
Damn and blast ! Somethings wrong
My dog ran off down the freeway
I was away working hard you see
And didn't see him get away.
My car broke down, things got worse
I called the cops to help me
The perfect ending for me would be
To have car working and dog with me.
So that's - my grief
A broken car and dog not with me
Then the ' cop asked if I'd had a drink
"No" I said "The smell you smell is let me think.
The cop said" We'll have to check.
Step out the car if you please
And walk on straight toward me"
I did try but fell flat on my face.
The cops were laughing and so was I
Even when they put the cuffs on me
"What about my car" I said
One said "It's not going anywhere.”
Then they put me in the patrol car
And took me down to the station
Booked me in, put me in a cell
With some murderers and rapists.
"Not guilty" I screamed out
"Keep it down" a cop shouted.
"Want my lawyer" I said to the cop
"You've got no right to keep me.
Check my aftershave it's not booze
You'll find it's whiskey flavour."
The cop said "Pull the other one
You're spending Christmas in jail this year.
Not on your life, not on your life
I'll be soon outta this place
Not on your life, not on your life
I'll be soon outta this place
Not on your life, not on your life
I'll be soon outta this place
Not on your life, not on your life
I'll be soon outta this place.
Cop laughed and said" Santa might pop
in too
You'll get turkey and some tea"
All I could think of was my poor dog
Alone out on the freeway
Or worse lying in a ditch
Without me to help him.
Then the cop said "I've got news
Your lawyer's here to see you."
My face lit up I started laughing
About time he came to get me
The cell door opened I was free to go
He'd proved to the cops what I'd told them so.
My car had been fixed, they'd towed it in
And to my surprise had found my dog
So glad it was a happy ending.
Couldn't believe it was happening.
I'm so happy, I'm so happy
Now I'm full of Christmas cheer
I'm so happy, I'm so happy
Now I'm full of Christmas cheer.
wishing he had sung his prayers last night
from both ends to the middle
fell to the ground in adoration
tore a wake through the ink stains
but not from satisfaction
plastic Jesus hold my head
a round of applause for once
or even just a soft murmur
from those in your employ
parked way out in Kokomo
my interrogator professor Zworykin
said quietly we want information
I knew I was up **** creek
without an assault rifle
with various blunt objects
aimed at what was left of my head
initiations with disfigurement
so have a melodic answer he encouraged
yah well the Third Reich fell from bad music
I spat like a backwards vampire
the swelling is an obstacle
I added for evidence I mean emphasis
the King of the Scarabs was neither mollified
nor inclined to use less aftershave
a great rectum of a situation
which is a poem in itself
I got in a few imaginary hits
before he called in the hockey franchise
with their many novel effects and manifestations
such as hugely distended penises
not at all like the computer club
fart gigglers and Balaam anointed
who sang as they worked
that's how we laugh the day away
in the merry merry Land of Oz
always a help to morale in the trenches
to use a dirty semaphore
for the male power hug
cracking walnuts with hydraulics
the Scarab King was a backhanded guy
strung out on endless platitudes
this is a spit shine day men
do your regimentation proud
they wavered then cheered then wavered
when the going got tough
and it seemed to often
for your present narrator
they allocate security personnel
in my case a comic endorphin gigolo
the hand of a spell upon his brow
good lord not another eccentric botanist
bedecked with the fabled Trinkets of Mouthgate
traffic fines double in poet zone
former servant of the hypno-avatar
with his blemish free goats
and his tunnel vision paparazzi
hI I'm Joe Product family friend
half con half circus half fury
screaming on the rack
my one line in the play
whatever will I do now
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
In days of old when men were bold
And they didn’t use moisturiser....
They shaved with a sword,
slapped whisky on their chin
And didn’t use aftershave in an atomiser
The scraped the dirt off with a shell, they reeked a good manly smell
They combed their hair with the jaw bone of an ass...
Not now oh no, their hairdryer is so big
You need a drying license to use it
there’s even an exam you have to pass
They broke their nails with hard work
A beer or two they do not shirk
But now it’s a wine bar and a manicure...
Oh where are the days when a man was a man
And not a female male that’s for sure
We woman must share the blame
We wanted equality
But then we took it too far...
Now we’re down the pub while they cook the tea
And we are the ones having a jar
There was nothing as nice as a man opening the door
To let a lady walk though
Not today’s man we find,
we have to stand behind
And open and hold the door for them to pass too...
When men were the ones we looked to for help
They always came through for us girls
No now I’m afraid,
they are busy at home
Baking cup cakes and tying ribbons for little girls...
In days of old when me were bold
And didn’t use a consealer
Proud to show off their scars
And not refuse a date,
To use their face mask and their skin peeler...
Girls we must shoulder some of the responsibility
We wanted to be more equal to our men
Now we get the tattoos,
Drink pints and pints of booze
Wear jack boots, party till dawn and even then...
Bring me back a real man,
I’ll do all that I can
To keep him happy in his manliness...
I’ll work at it hard and teach him well
Even if I have to I’ll pick out his dress…
© ~GG~ 28/12/2012
Please do not be upset all you men out there I was cleaning my bathroom, I have to grown sons and a husband. I was moving all the products while I cleaned the shelves and out of 15 different bottles and potions I found three were mine and one of those was my toothbrush. I borrowed my son’s hairdryer to dry some moister because I wanted to re-grout behind the sink. I had to ask him how to use it because it was digital…………….dah xx
“THE POEM MY MOTHER LIKED”
smoking a cigarette in the bathroom
at 4 p.m. I wonder what my son is doing;
I wonder if court will run smooth. I sit in
the midst of my greatest trial, trying to
keep from losing it. my son knows I’m gone,
I know if he could talk, the fight against the
darkness would be clean. you sit and
notice the things you never saw:
the toilet paper hanging, the deodorant,
the razor, the aftershave, the comb,
the toothbrush and paste, the ray of
sunlight tunnel visioned on the center
of a wall rarely paid attention to. everything
you used daily because it’s always the same.
then you look into the mirror, you don’t
know who you see. you’d give anything to
go back and confront the moments of
darkness but you know they weren’t dealt
with out of good intention. the road to Hell
is paved with good intention and yet, we
continue to be as naturally good as we can be.
Bukowski said: “You can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life sometimes. The
more you learn to do it, the more light there
will be.” I guess that’s why I’ve prayed more
than any other time in my life. waiting and
hoping God will respond in my hours of death.
if God could talk, what would be said to me?
time will only tell. as I sit on the floor,
my son waits for Friday.
I wait for God to respond when I’ve only
known him to be unresponsive. will it be
through my voice, a judges voice or my
son’s voice? will it be through paperwork,
through nights in jail or through her when
it catches up to her? I don’t know. I wait…
what choice do I have? I sit in the bathroom
with this cigarette, smoking, praying,
all while dying. three days away from 3 p.m.
will remind me why God hasn’t taken me in
all these years. with God in that reality, I
wonder if me being here after all these years
is His response.
who’s to say? I know I’m still here though
because I’ve asked God not for happiness,
just a little less pain.
By: Chicano Eddie
7-28-2016
I could never really understand
Why some women
Won’t give me the time of day
And seem to look the other way
Or I feel like I’m being hunted
And I’m their prey
I just don't get it.
I get so confused
You either win
Or
You lose
And it seems I don’t always have the right
To choose
I’m not exactly George Clooney
But sadly
More like
Micky Rooney
Sometimes when I go to town
I get the feeling
I’m being followed
Around
Maybe it's a deranged psycho killer
And once the huntress spots her prey
I always know what’s to come
They stick to you like barnacles on my bum
Every time I turn around
There she is again
Giving me the eye
But I never caught it or took it
I didn’t even try
Is it my aftershave
Or the way I walk?
Maybe it’s my wallet
In my back pocket
Or the smooth way I talk
Or they're blind short-sighted
I don’t know.
I thought my Mother bless
Was my biggest fan
She taught me to be respectful live life and have fun
But she never warned or taught me
About strange women and about barnacles, on my bum
When I was younger I’d go drinking out in town
Another thing I never understood
Why boys would go outside
To fight over girls
While I was inside with the girls?
They can make you feel like a rockstar
Or make you feel like a falling star
Then it becomes a shame
When they don't even know who you are
Or even know your name
Usually, I take life as it comes
Of course, I like women
But I only want that special one
And not one after my money
I turn around and she's gone
You can go to bed with Priscilla
But without her makeup in the morning
She may look like a gorilla
I like to get to know one
And have a choice like some
But not like those pesty
Deranged but sweet
Barnacles on my bum.
Peter Dome©2024.
failing to see which road would be best,
not knowing how much i've really been blessed-
too much time on my hands with too much fear,
wishing you, my father, were still near
cramped in a box without room to breathe,
needing more than this life can believe-
my constant friend is gone like the breeze in Spring,
as I hear the sparrows in your birdhouse sing
my reason for good health has been taken away,
little to do with the words that they say-
not living as I should when on the road that you led,
thinking of you lying gently on your death bed
i remember your aftershave in the morn,
before work in your suit---(now I'm tattered and torn)
afraid to go forward without you by my side,
wishing i could run to your loving arms and hide
a father, a friend, too much pain to have to bear,
i'll always wish we had more time to spare-
loving and dying and crying without you,
fearing my sobriety will somehow fall through
but i sit and watch your sparrows create a family,
remembering how important you are to me-
i miss you and wish you were holding me in youth,
hoping that you can hear my truth
a porch swing to feel the breeze whisper a secret,
knowing it's a gift- (and i shall always keep it)-
living so that you can be proud of me,
i miss you, dear father...
for you're the sparrow in me
_____________________________________
to my dad- who every year watched the sparrows mate and create a family in his special birdhouse on his porch. I heard them singing and wrote this poem.
Love you, dad- I pray you are listening to the sparrows in heaven with Karen...
love,
your little girl
-luloo
7.23.21
To never see your face again
To lose the map of your body
To misplace memory itself
For example
Today I lost your nose
I couldn't remember which nostril
Was bigger
Last month it was your facial hair
How it felt against my flesh
I still hold on to your aftershave smile
But the hair on your forearm
is still vivid
Brown red and black
An earthly pallet
Like ivy climbing up you arms
You hated your bodily hair
You shaved it every month
I begged you to save it and love yourself
I recall diving my face
Unto your chest hair
It got warmer
The deeper I dove
those lazy afternoons
How the fog transcended us both
I took naps on your stomach
As the cats watched us
Remember when you punched that guy
And he tried to strangle you
I clawed his face
His wife pulled my hair
That was our honey moon
You called the police
I called my mom
And cried
You visited me in the hospital
With guilt dripping from your eyes
Words flew like poisoned darts
Others wanted us apart
But we stuck
Each carrying their cross
Were we ever Heroes?
Doubtful
We were the fools
Laughed at by the children
we never birthed
I wanted to say goodbye
But I was too angry to realize
That goodbyes are a formality
When your soul suddenly dies
We will never have Paris
We hated it
Instead, We will each cry
In a separate house
Until one day
Not far
My face becomes elusive
Your face turn muddled
What is left
This emotional leftovers
Is the essence of what once was
-----
Manar Ammar
Cairo, 2015
Barreling down the mountain of forgetfulness,
I raced to Wal-Mart for that last minute gift.
We’ve not seen his children since Christmas.
Despite their quicksand of un-thankfulness,
I want him to have something for this Father’s Day.
His son has been in a swamp of discontinuance
lost in that great, lonely desert called New York City.
His daughter has sprouted sharp thorns of bias
since their mother’s death and dad’s remarriage to me.
Arriving at the store early Sunday afternoon,
I did not expect such a thunderstorm of confusion.
On the trash heap of heartlessness,
clerks were already marking down common items
like ties and shirts, aftershave and desk supplies.
I moved past this obvious marsh of misery
to a safer spot and found myself in a fog.
I spotted an older woman I recognized.
In a sea of hopelessness, the two of us, ended up
sharing doughnuts and expensive coffee in Starbucks
(cave of debauchery) in the front of the store.
We indulged over footholds of remembrance,
the gifts our kids had given us when they were in school –
piles of hand prints, bookmarks, flower pictures and
homemade cards, simple, treasured, special gifts.
Abandoning my valley of sorrow caused by events
beyond my control, I quickly sped to the grocery aisle.
Racing back home I enjoyed fixing my best friend,
a Father’s Day Supper that he would remember,
complete with his favorite foods and dessert -
a gift totally given to pleasure, both his and mine.
August 16, 2019
BEING LATE
Here we go, I’m late again, and I’m going to miss the bus
I won’t get to work on time, and there’ll be the usual fuss
The alarm forgot to ring, or else I pressed the snooze
A semi-conscious, sleepy state, I’m dazed and I’m confused
The water’s flippin’ freezing, I’ve got shampoo in my hair
The bathroom towel has disappeared and I’m dripping everywhere
I’ve cut myself whilst shaving, and it’s stinging really sore
Because I put on loads of aftershave, which brought me to the floor
I’m hopping round with one sock on, because I stubbed my toe
I fell and woke the wife up, and she told me where to go
I’m pulling on my jumper, now can things get any worse
My heads stuck up the armhole, it’s no wonder that I curse
I’ve stood on something sticky, it’s an aul discarded chew
I want to scream my head off, but I’d wake the child up too
My shoes are on the wrong feet, I can’t take it any more
My zip’s stuck on my underpants, as I stumble out the door
As I finally reach the bus stop, I discover I’ve no phone
I’ve also left my wallet, so I have to go back home
I say good morning to the missus, now she’s up and about
She asks me if I’m going to work, with my trousers inside out
So wake up and get out of bed, or you’ll be in a state
And that crazy morning ritual, which happens when you’re late
Nothing ever runs quite right, when you’re running late for work
So set the clock and don’t sleep in, or you’ll drive yourself berserk