Long Clinker Poems
Long Clinker Poems. Below are the most popular long Clinker by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clinker poems by poem length and keyword.
SUMMER’S END
staying cool, in the pool,
where children are cruel,
on a very hot day—
Summer’s officially over.
from submarine fool,
fishy bubbling school,
plenipotentiary fuel—
a payload parade.
when the ping-pong jewels
surface - whirlpool
of fleeing ridicule.
afraid of riveting stool—
a flotsam snicker’s bar.
The worst part is the noise—
that awful fartastic that destroys
the floats, duckies, other toys.
it lasts and lasts…
it’s a spastic stinker,
a ferocious clinker —
it channels the sulfur pits of
Turkmenistan’s door to hell.
officially over,
the pool in deep cover—
no one hovers
near
the episodic rear of Summer.
9/24/2021
Fart-tastic
It’s been a day, brother, it’s been a day.
I’m ridiculous for lack of content,
All my plot holes are on display.
Am I doing OK? Am I having a day?
I can’t get a call back. I sat on a thumb tack.
It woke up my skinny white ass.
I’m mad in the morning. I’m angry afternoons.
I’m ornery as hell. I’m bloody pissed, as well,
And sick of the puddler’s stupid drama:
“We’re down by the bow and headed for the bottom.
There’s gonna be a ruckus, boys, so smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.”
Good lord, it’s just clinker and slag.
All the king’s horses are slovenly nags.
Nothing but losers and misfits
Posing as rakes and roues.
Like red beans in chili con carne
Causing gas bending over the blarney.
I re-organize the hectic and recognize the stone.
And yet, because my truss work was contrived
Of wrought iron, rather than steel,
It resisted corrosion while exposed to the storm.
Though I’ve been ghosted and gas-lit,
Led around like a halfwit,
I still miss Jenny Wren’s chrysanthemum smile,
And I'll always have a thing for Amber Rose.
So, I’m mailing my love to Azerbaijan.
Baka, Baku, it isn’t Shikoku,
But it sometimes makes me smile.
And I thank my clerestory windows,
They let in the light and vent out the heat,
Affording me the grace to do my job.
She Silently Reminded herself
---------------------------------
By: Aria Au-Contralto
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--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The words people most wish to hear when they already know something is wrong are honest, grounding confirmations that remove isolation and validate their reality----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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A wedge to separate
Her goals had been that
blatant and obvious
the dysfunction of newness
can have those seeking
something or someone
in a better position to gain
either the trust or possession
of the heart of someone
worthy of having.
Unrealistic Expectations believing
friends and folk in general would
magically change their behavior
to support you will someone
or have the decency to tell you
she's cheating
not playing some word game
but to just say it in plain
bone chilling words
Waiting for them to share
is how they usually start
unraveling and causing
the discomfort of putting you
in your place.A clinker or a clam is
what musicians call it when you strike
the wrong note darning a performance.
maybe she choose the wrong man might
the right one would find her.
Or she is overwhelmed by attention and
using her general knowledge of people
she thinks that she can keep things stable long enough
to make it through.
It must have been made
and rejected,
in night’s grinding gears –
a knobby irregularity,
a leftover of smelt and dross.
This is all there is
a gobbet of oven clinker,
but behind it I sense cracked teeth,
motes in a burnt eyeglass,
the thin singed bones
of fledgling flights into darkness.
Here it is,
a fragment long convulsed
from its own incineration,
an irregular rake-off, a detritus
dragged across a blind stone floor.
This tittle of slag once had to fit something
the rough rim of an iron door perhaps
behind which an old furnace
still cools in faraway minds.
A ferrous chip chiseled from a gulag,
or a souvenir from an SS campfire meet.
There is always something left
after the unthinkable
is thought upon,
always some spicule of irregularity
to explain or confound
as we toss it back into the fire again.
Twas fortnight before inspection 2021...,
Not a human creature stirred, nor seen
throughout Highland Manor,
property carpeted in lush green
gently hilly terrain,
(a deathlike stillness descended un keen
quiet and quite cool April 26th,
deux thousand twenty one).
Vicious rumors circulate wrenching
hammering, and drilling psyche
where mailer demons invade,
that immediate hell fire enfilade
natural hair color made
gray follicular shocks amply pervade
instantaneously turning
Janus faced with Machiavellian
mean streak inlaid
(how word some would say)
"stern", any previous
housewarming aura
experiencing welcome spiel,
nor iota of politesse present,
but Trumpeting her entourage,
asper self important capering escapade
taskmaster known to abrade
even the most stalwart macho,
gung-ho, brave heart appear afraid,
thus oft time tis most
advantageous and optimal
prospective mutineers betrayed
Princess Ja***n Ge***r
harridan de jure ushering tirade
akin to a petit grand mal one
woman banshee masquerade
hoop puts on be preyed
upon switching pretentious airs
dead ringer give
away (immediately
points gnarled finger
sentenced to clinker visage),
non verbal charade
hence unstoppable mounting
anticipatory anxiety manifests
as disabling, impending,
oppressing fate
cannot be delayed
if insubordinate tenants
try with futility to evade
officials with truncheons flayed
doth rarely give surcease
renters passing grade
she, the consummate
de facto grande heiress
of Gr***e & Qu**e
inherited plum deal,
where lifetime employment,
and generously paid
analogous as born
(that way) portrayed
maintaining poker face
into royalty made,
now as single mother
to biracial heir
purportedly inhabits castle
abode with parents,
thus no child
care costs paid
expectant heavy foot
falls getting louder,
(oh...no that jist
my heart pounding
whence approaching raid
so please inform this jade
did troubadour if privy to let
(me and the missus) aid
i.e. a safe and sound
place to call home
with this hole in the poetry wall,
I would immediately
make thee a fair trade
in lieu of living, where
mercilessness doth parade
expenses property upkeep,
teaching (two
door ring) English,
or even employed
as a mister minute maid.
Who Beside This Atheist Doth "say" Thar Haint No Angels?
Two fatal head on
deadly automobile accidents
in quick succession at
Zieglerville, Pennsylvania
poetic traffic circle
killed me twice today,
this communique notated, recorded,
and transcribed adieu "say"
je nais sais quois eh
by divine angels, who aided
this deceased jay
bird, said winged
saviors didst sashay
in mine close proximity, this lifeless
badly damaged body
sprawled on the road,
when just by the "FAKE"
skin of my...er...dentures,
I whiz invisibly
whisked toward unearthly safety,
and (just in the nick
of time before corpse
of mine thorough lay
underwent aught top say),
this generic organ
donor and eBay
trader found himself shunted
into an expansive
cerebral, cerulean,
and celestial heavenly
gate atmospheric quay
king cosmic arena,
where Cupids practiced play
ying getting strangers lovestruck
when rehearsals debuted, yay
nearly finding this
wordsmith spell bound
yours truly with a may
zing starry eyed,
and stir craze zee,
the first female
(coincidentally, a head
over heels teenage crush)
aye didst yip pee
mon decaying flesh
felt WOWed, cuz she
never looked better re:
eternally sleeping with her
stone face, prithee
one, where death be
not proud did justice,
yet rules forbid fraternizing
with deceased, nee
(repudiating no exceptions
against gender bending
strictures) amidst soul asylum,
could witness punishment, nay
saying of guilty party landing
squarely into jailed
into the absolute
worst hellish clinker
back to the future as
joining every other
mere mortal upon Earth,
next best option offered
aside from (undying soul
reveling in immortality),
would be fate offered,
by Scott, sans the blimey
(hen pecking) road
less traveled me
disappointing fate,
where alternative possibility,
chosen minus collisions, and
absent adolescent
post mortem inamorata.
dear god or whatever
you can begin me now
begin me on a whiteboard
a blackboard
anything that can be erased
my cookie was baked with bad blood
begin me again
as if I were a fish
on an alien shore
gulping impossible air
i took myself to the edge
my chicken heart clutching
a chicken-hearted prayer
i am resurfacing
maybe drowning
only ducks and whales
can speak of this
upwards sinking
there was a time
a no time
when a magnificence
consumed
only to put me down
half-eaten
now all is washed over
by the before & after
what is left over
is this ort and tittle
this residual prayer
a clinker of dark & light
now seen
now unseen
dear whatever
i got stranded
Many British Thermal Units needed...
To heat these lovely bag of bones
more so than required to generate clones
aging musculoskeletal physique groans
kvetching synonymous nsync with exactly
indistinguishable among where generic
garden variety alter kocker and/or like
mummified Pharaoh moans.
Hence, I will beg, borrow or steal,
as profound philosophical thinker
oh no... no... no, this
non smoking bandit, nor drinker
will explain to police officer,
that me willingly doth plead
guilty as freshly showered stinker
without spectacles yours truly
can only blinker
if nabbed do time inside
state of the art clinker,
where ample heat warms hoodwinker
covering mine rickety musculoskeletal,
while escorted to attend requisite
appointment with headshrinker.
Token Doubting Thomas here
resorts to life of
petty crime without fanfare
for this common man
dirt poor bloke who doth air
(not that anybody
will rat's a$$, nor care
a jot regarding me
squalid financial welfare),
but analogous to Scrooge
grossly dislikes Xmas time of year
not always the case, cuz as lad din
Southeastern Montgomery County
one cute little boy with
short cropped hair,
(a 'curse unbiased
opinion), aye declare
Santa Claus and shopping amidst
madding crowd no living nightmare
like today December eighteenth
tooth how sinned nineteen
bajillion people angrily glare
with livid rage expect
whistleblowing thru air
courtesy bull-let-in aiming crosshair,
whereat vendors pushing merchandise
hooping he/she can scare
up brisk business, hence
caveat emptor i.e. buyer beware
aside from aforementioned
hypothetical scenario - won't ever
occur within glorious land
of bilk and money
America, the home of the free..., where
distribution of wealth very unfair.
Yukon still enjoy of beauty,
this po' witless can bet
dollars to donuts without
spending yourself silly
garnering mountain due of debt
subsequently weeping
(think guitar coming
unstrung at every fret),
thus... ya gotta get get
aware simple pleasures
experience mindfulness, such as
zipping across globe on private jet
hobnobbing with rich and famous,
then swing by utmost secluded un convent
chin null monastery, and meet...
nun other than one cell bated abbott.
Rough hands upon her,
not near, there, or where,
nor the seashell tip of a fingering care
or other
lack-lustering lapping's
but the groundless clubfooted grasping
of long incoherent passions.
A clinker of desire hammered anew
by the forceful hands
of mist shrouded Nibelungen;
a dross now forged bright
into red-eyed gleams of flame.
She who bears the weight
of such a slobber-lipped changeling
covers his paws
with a tracery of spidery entanglements
the softest spell-binding webs
that break his knuckles;
refining hot bones
into phantom kisses.
For her satisfaction (and hers alone),
she captures that clumping stray
caging him deep,
and he left with no hands but hers.
It must have been made
and rejected
in times grinding gears –
a knobby irregularity,
a leftover of smelt and dross.
This is all there is
a gobbet of oven clinker,
but behind it I sense cracked teeth,
soot seared across burnt eyeglasses,
blackened bones,
for after the gas came the flames.
Here it is,
a fragment long convulsed
from its own incineration,
an irregular rake-off, smithereens
dragged across a blind stone floor.
This tittle of slag once had to fit something
the rough rim of an iron door perhaps
behind which an old furnace
still cools in faraway minds.
A ferrous chip chiseled from a gulag,
or a souvenir from an SS campfire meet.
There is always something left
after the unthinkable,
always some spicule of irregularity,
detritus to explain or confound
as we toss it back into the fire again.