Long Coughs Poems
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(Chorus)
You think you've got swagger but really you hobble,
you've got the jet lagger and you're drunk so you wobble,
don't start on me mate 'cus I will bring trouble,
to put it into slang words I'm Barney Rubble.
(Verse)
I will ruffle trouble
'cus I'm on another level
that bombs with the base
and stings with the treble,
I'll strut face to face with any ace rebel,
and put them in their place with their constant bull.
When I rhyme with my contortionist wrist
it expels a mist that sits around my fist,
I spell magic out on paper,
I'm playing with danger,
Mr. Wizardry the word selectionist,
squiggling fiction at speeds that feed friction
into rhymes that are non stop hot and cool,
so flames don't flame on the table top,
journey with me to witness the plot,
the earth shaker creator of perfected hip hop,
starting revolutions so that mumble is forgot,
dislodging the rust and rot it coughs that clots
and instating my Barney Rubble at the top.
(Chorus x2)
(Verse)
That last verse was just a small handful,
a sample of something that you cannot handle,
a scan like a bar code,
so lets open up the road and I'll unload these words,
I can't conceal this skill that rolls like wheels,
a Rolls Royce wearing heels,
in fancy halls doing dancing drills,
with golden walls
to an old skool beat treat.
I wont get signed up by any record label,
but I'm still rhyming better than mumble's able,
just admit you're tapping your feet to the beat
while my rhyme sits on top solid like concrete,
with the dancefloor crammed full,
they're pulling at all angles,
making the memories
that'll last 'til they're O A P's,
they think they've got swagger
and they're like Mick Jagger,
they're more like Sepp Blatter
but a little bit fatter.
(Chorus x2)
(Verse)
You can call me Trimendous and true,
you thought I'd flew crashed and was screwed,
but I took it back to what inspired my act,
an old skool hip hop sick rhyme attack,
I rhymed in flight with this write
and its smile's wild with sublime delight,
there are no poetic rare words
and I don't need swear words
in this dictionary spared verse
with airstream rhythm you can't burst,
I'm wearing this deserved set of words
that pilots and surges to my re-emergence,
a certainty that was never urgent
and not an encore from behind the curtains.
(Chorus x2)
Its sundown, the day’s been reduced to a crack of lavender and fiery pinks along the Massif des Maures mountains. This evening we’re sipping cocktails at “Les Toits,” the Hôtel de Paris’ rooftop restaurant. The French would call this a lounge.
Les toits translates as ‘the roofs’ and its stunning view overlooks the provincial rooftops that slope down the foothills to the gulf of Saint-Tropez and it’s world-famous beaches. The well lit boats are settling down and dropping anchor for the night as we complete our orders and get our second round of drinks.
This has been the best vacation. I think we’ve all reclaimed our calm after a tense freshman year. We’ve been at the beach for 10 days. Leong and Sunny are actually tan, Lisa and my hair are half a tone lighter and Bili’s black skin has taken on gorgeous, purple-ish highlights.
I’ve known Lisa now for ten months, but we share a deep connection that seems older. Lisa’s lovely, brazen, and naturally flashy, without trying. Unfortunately, though, Lisa draws men like a keig-light draws moths - whether she’s looking for them or not - I don’t envy her that. Young men, middle aged men, old men.
Lisa said it started when she was 13. She’d be in a store or restaurant with her mom or dad and a lady would introduce herself, “Hi, I’m with the Ford, or Elite, or IMG, or DNA modeling agency, has your daughter done any modeling?” And another business card would be wasted. Her mom nodded as she recalled this sordid past.
Attention just shifts to her, the party comes to her, she can’t seem to avoid it. About every 30 minutes some man comes over and introduces himself to us (to her). This man owns a local night club, would we (she) be his guest? (He’s looking at her like desert) This guy owns a yacht - “that one, there,” he points it out, in his Russian oligarch voice - he clicks a fob on his keychain and the lights blink. Oh, sure, join a strange foreign man on his yacht, what could go wrong?
There are 8 of us girls at the table with Charles, our escort and confidant. He’s a 50-ish, red headed ex-NYC-cop who just sits there quietly and sips his drink like James Bond. He seldom says anything. I lean in to him and say, “Maybe they think you're her pimp?!” Leong coughs in her drink and Charles gives me the same, serious, “behave yourself” look I’ve gotten since I was 9.
She sees herself suddenly as a small girl
bare feet on the cold black and white tile
little toes curled
sees the white porcelain tub and
how pretty the light blue water was
so deep it almost came to her chin
as she climbed in
For hours she'd play with her dime store sailboat
loving it though it would hardly float
always taking on water
listing, never level
her wet skinny back hunched over
shoulder blades like primordial wings
every few minutes she'd have to shake the thing
Trying desperately not to break the spell
of pretend
and when
it was time to let the water out
she'd always stay to watch the water drain
weighing the emotional pain
both fascinated and horrified,
as the suction intensified,
by the force of the water
the unstoppable slaughter
waiting for the inevitable rotation
to begin
the dizzying spin
Slowly at first growing faster and faster
a miniature cyclonic water disaster
The dime store boat of course on its side
circling faster in the relentless tide
Then the drain would give a horrible belch
much satisfied with itself.
As she grew the tub got smaller
with shallower water
less and less room
for pretend to bloom.
Years later, dime store sailboat long forgotten,
life having been mostly rotten
working with the most cynical of cynics
ER nurses bitter that it's more like a clinic
runny noses and coughs that folks thought were urgent
working hard to save those who were truly emergent
Hearing from them the phrase: "circling the drain"
memories suddenly flooding the brain
almost able to feel herself as that young girl
watching the sailboat beginning to swirl
Feeling the blood drain, face going pale
she sees vividly the boat with its bright red sail
yellow hull and blue plastic deck
fine hairs rising on the back of her neck
She realizes now the fatigue of age
is from fighting the pull with defiant rage
The closer you get, the faster you spin
and soon the dark whirlpool draws you in
With a knowledge that seems to be purely primal
she now understands the downward spiral
And she knows that she will not put up a fight
she'd rather go silently in the dark of the night
And the dime store boat comes to rest on its side
so it's all come full circle at the end of the ride.
SADNESS
©Danielle White
Author's note: This is an epic length poem that will have to be split into parts and will be serialized in successive posts.
Part 2
act three
in the third act delirious
the laws of physics etc.
he coughs his lungs out
in wheezing jets
internal combustion is internal combustion
his bed of wheels begins to roll
first one wheel then the others
cough cough cough
his wheels roll the length of
NEURO WARD 4's corridor
to the NEURO elevator
and its NEURO music
by now familiar to you
as that song in the head
cough cough cough
3 2 1 doors open out
upon the concrete parking lot
out to Lucille the Oldsmobile
they recognize one another
why no one knows
this is an orphan's tale
composed with the licensed use
of Orphan Guild secrets
raised on the back seat
suckled by giant oranges
weaned on foot long hot dogs
at the nation's roadside
Musella my injection!
act four
in the 4th phantom of the opera
the tank hits empty
his lungs flat and black
as a piece of big rig recap
in desperation piles bricks on seat
heaves bricks back onto concrete
salutes au revoir to the mirror's horizon
and rolls onward
propelled by what is equal
what is opposite
according to St. Newton
the law of the motor
what goes in must come out
seriously Lucille rolls
upon the concrete gridway
steering herself autonomously
everything left to chance
we now know any nightmare
propelled by what is equal and opposite
will roll through the divider
and off the bed-road
Musella vacuums up the glass
and sorts out the tubing
our fugitive lays low by his radio
signal up full
awaiting the footsteps
and stethoscope of Tex Amphora
the archaeologist cowboy surgeon
took my case in a bar stool wager
betting on flesh made perfect
the fool the angel
5 minute intermission
they taught me how to act
onstage I mean in stages
strangers said I'd grow out of it
friends said I'm gonna die from it
there comes a time in a youth's youth
when he discovers
that the machinery on the interstate
can play the sound of skidding wheels
on a Steinway
so
a much needed musical interlude then
acto sexto
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
http://tinyurl.com/nhfk6dr
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.site11.com/
when she gets home
after working a ten hour shift
he is sitting in a chair in the living room waiting for her---
on one hand he wears a white glove
it is still clean,
and he smiles at her,
telling her that she has passed the “glove test” once again---
yes, she was able to dust the rooms so thoroughly
that when he traced the corners & all the nooks & crannies,
not a smidgeon got on his pristine white glove---
she did well,
and this is the man she swore to live the rest of her life with.
she is told to make dinner &
the dinner she makes for him & the baby is different than the one
she is told to make for herself---
his, bears flavor & taste,
making nourishment a joy---
hers, is all part of his “strategy”
to make her thinner,
to make her look like she did before the baby,
to make her appealing to him once again &
she follows his “program”
because he hasn’t touched her in a year---
she hopes that if she gets thin enough,
that he will.
she is permitted exactly four hours of sleep a night,
because she has to be up early to take care of the baby,
as well as make his breakfast &
her breakfast---
if she coughs, kicks, or even makes a sound while she is sleeping
in the same bed with her,
he tells her to get out of bed
until she can sleep right,
“like a normal person.”
he came from a strong christian background
which is one of the main reasons she found comfort in his presence
after a ballistic first marriage that
did not produce a child,
and therefore, as far as she is concerned,
did not produce a reason for her to stay---
having given birth to his son,
she knows that there is no way out,
for her own family,
her church & all the community that she
functions in,
would cast her out into “hellfire,”
if she believed any different.
and she remembers the night that he told her
that after his son turned 18
that he didn’t care what she did,
that “she would be free,”
but that he would never give her a divorce---
he would never allow her to escape the feeling of
psychological possession.
all the while,
the watcher learns how to be a man---
at age two and some months now,
the little boy sees how his mother is treated,
he sees how his father treats her &
in these precious, vital
formative years,
the mold has been made---
there will be another.
In a dismal old fashioned cell at our ancestral home,
Wherein coconuts, new and old, heaped like a hillock dome;
Kid-butterflies, we're often asked to pick some for curry,
Finding phantom-forms we ran as scared as rabbit bury...
Ghosts of the dead, cloud-looking, appear before the living,
Like quirky grey fogs, smokes, or polar creatures, fear-filling!
Great buffets - Necromancy holds - of hosting for the ghosts;
Thirst of restlessness of souls could be quenched- animism boasts...
My logician friend, at the name of ghosts, like thunder, laughs,
Scared, like a mouse, at celluloid ghosts; impulsively coughs!
My alienist neighbor mocks at the poor ghost-affected;
He, in anger, shouts and yells, like a spirit-infected...!
Returning home from Saint Jude Shrine, my grandpa narrated,
Ghost - a monstrous muddy vulture - flew after me, dread spread!
Helpless, like a lost, at that odd hour of snoring slumbers,
I genuflected; made signs of the cross, countless in numbers...
Ghosts got into human beings, like, termites in the wood,
Jesus, chasing them away, their cruel power, withstood;
He worked, as on war-time haste, erasing, greatest evils,
Did the traditions allow him to nail down true devils?
Merchants and money-makers bake ghosts- cakes and sell gently,
Spreading tales on ghost-havocs, they hoax humans kindly;
Holocausts, burnt offerings, and slaughters they delight in,
Cannibalism, for ghosts-sake, in their eyes is not a sin...
Fire-walking, hooking the flesh, live animal wedding,
Cow-trampling, hanging in the air on hooks, hand-hair plucking...
Goety, Bruja, Lamia, incantation, witchcraft...
Aren't all such mountainous magic and myths great ghosts-updraft?
Phasmophobia, like death-knell, is a fright alarm,
Like illness of body, it hurts the spiritual realm;
An equilibrium of body, mind, spirit, and soul,
Could free us from false fears, molding us integrally whole...
Humans are ghost-angel amalgamation in nature!
Loving and hating themselves and every common creature!
Each thought, word, and action can turn into a ghost in life!
When morals derail from the tracks of existential strife!
17 October 2021
(Missed the Contest)
In the padded cell of my confinement I think and feel and slide
Down a slope of reason and emotion dressed in gloves and mask
I am rebel but in times of these I learnt to follow orders and abide
Though staying sane other than my normal lunacy remains a task
I am a rubber ball in stagnant motion bouncing back inside four walls
A ricochet master in training who gathers speed in pinball fashion
Take out my slingshot and ponder where when and if the rebound falls
No prisoner restrained by mental shackles and full of uninhibited passion
Immured and isolated as an island's rock I gather humility and gratitude
Because I happen to have the privilege of a home to be locked up in
Play with marbles in my mind sorting memories that have been skewed
Throw socks and knickers from my afar bed straight into the laundry bin
Boredom is just another word for lacking ingenuous fantasy or inspiration
The price of segregation and detachment is very small if one has shelter
With fire place and running water well beyond most people's expectation
When the so called global village is euphemistic for chaotic helter-skelter
Playing darts the arrow of injustice flies straight into a bull's eye's scream
The chess board that revives my tedium contains a set of weary pawns
But I am fortunate to be locked down or up together with my Fairy Queen
My lover soul mate best friend ever who shares my moods from dusk to dawn
How could I dare to complain about my situation of comfort in such quarantine
It's easy to dust the shelves when reading every book before you put it back
Not to mention rather tongue in cheek that I have loo rolls and my own latrine
All I have to do is stay at home and write my poems during the virus' attack
Duress of incarceration with washed hands and coughs into a healthy elbow
But cubital hygiene so to speak will not affect my articulation for any length
I promise sincerely that my words will not be sanitized as I condense my flow
Times could be better but rising to a challenge concentrates one's real strength
02nd March 2020
Quarantine Poetry Contest
Sponsor Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
Scarecrow Addict
Gritted and dusty
Powered by flack jacket eyes
Bootsteps through grey puddles
Flotilla of cigarette butts
Trash kicked aside
In a desert of litter
Seeking the soulless of death
Chattering on split lips
The grimy irk of air
Festoons the rink and rack
The floating black
Sucks unbidden
Horses into battle ridden
Scream through his lungs
Broken weapons
Filled with empty bullets
Enemies in their colours run
Demon angel
Of the iridescent metal
In the bars of sculptured hell
For the hot choke of alcohol
Has squandered his nights
And burnt his will
The vengeance of mirrors
He cannot defy
He has become
The man with the gun
And rabid dog bark
Is the music
The fang gangster rap
Chews on his pride
Coughs back and spits
Too many drugs
To fill his hate
As he seethes through the alleys
The ricochet sound of poverty
Slaps hard at the cold
Whistle through the doorstep
The vicious snide crack
Scavenges his chest
Scarecrow buckshot
Trammels his lungs
And coughs up plastic
Iron girders against shattered walls
Where the whole world threw up
His sick
Chokes on the disgusting chuck up
Of need
So full of promises
But still lets in the freezing winds
To whined up urine stained
In the pallor
The colour
Of his sky
Bandit warrior and loser
This brave young man
Watched this driven and ploughed memory
Eat away
By iron vice drag
Devastate his pale haired wench
Leaving blood trailing on her breast
Pimped
She was
And hate in grey battered uniforms
Drove the callous on
And lifted him from the reeking cans
Of his desolation
Bled him through nights of sweat
And cold turkey chewed regret
The plaster wet billboard and pealing advert
Have no idea
What they have unleashed
Brittle as long dead bones
And screaming head
No longer hates
But still sneers revenge
In tattered loose rags
He staggers from the vomiting pit
Emaciated wolf
The grinning scarecrow eyes of merciless
And the jagged teeth of candle lit
The reek of vendetta
Hangs ever about his lips
And woe betide the gun smith
Woe betide indeed the needles
Wet prick
Nothing left to fight for
Other than
A long dead
Lover
Tough
Your back is brittle, like time-greyed oak,
Curved like a bow,
The string constantly tight and ready.
The glare from your eyes:
Like cold steel.
The things that you do,
Always securely perfect and correct.
Your voice strained
Like a muted trumpet
Except, for when you get irritated,
Then, jarring for my ears
And thorns in my gut.
Your criticism is like sharp scissors
That cuts through silk,
But you never learned to sew.
And “join” “patch up” “repair” “sorry” “kindness” and “response-ability”
Are long gone from your life-dictionary.
You walk like a string puppet soldier,
Held, controlled and moved
By the invisible wire
Of your rigid up-bringing,
Conditioning and beliefs.
But sometimes, even the best machines:
Break down
And then you spend days in bed,
Sick with poisonous coughs,
Or thundering,
Heavy and oppressive headaches,
Or mysterious pain in your legs.
You view these “lapses” with impatience,
As indications of weakness
That need to be scrubbed out
Like an annoying stain
On a spotless white tablecloth.
You don’t see the blinking stars,
Or hear the constant, but faint whispers
Gently attempting to coax you back
To the road you abandoned,
Which still longs for the unique print
Of your feet.
Sometimes I glance at you and wonder:
Was the laughter and naturalness
Beaten out of you?
Or, all the warmth and juice
You must have had,
Freezed and squeezed away,
Like a once succulent plum
Is now an unrecognisable prune.
Or so shamed,
That the mask and costume
You took on to survive,
Grew roots into you,
And became like ivy that smothers a tree,
Making it almost unknowable.
You think you are strong?
Yes you are tough,
Scarred and shaped by the battlegrounds
Of the life that encircled you.
But strong Men know how to weep,
Bleed,
Give,
Shake with panic and fear.
Yes you’ve learned a lot,
Your intellect and knowledge
Could fill a bookshelf.
But your fertile, green valley
Of gentleness and vulnerability,
Has been ignored, over-looked
And forgotten for so long now…
That it is choked with weeds and thorns
And beyond recognition,
How sad.
Sangeet Portals October 2022
Mommy had a cold, now Dragon has it too. Oh woe is me! Woe to you, too!
Fire’s dribbling, fluidly from his eyes, as lava flows, in a nasty watery goo.
Coughs shoot in fireballs, as he coughs, with a non-tiring, and bitter croup.
Even his little bum, found itself, with the same un-erring problem, it’s true.
OH… ME… OH… MY… WHATEVER ARE WE TO DO!!!!
The house has finally imploded, so we have him floating on our big lake.
Hoping to bring his fever down, the water’s boiling, heavily in it’s wake.
So we’re now hosing water, from the shore, to cover him, in a soothing flow.
But now, the lava’s building an island of floating fire, in a bright red glow!!
OH… ME… OH… MY… WHATEVER ARE WE TO DO!!!!
But Mommy won’t be stopped from comforting her widdle, bitty Dragon Man.
So I rowed out sitting in an ice filled boat, as we had a brilliant, big, game plan!
I waas putting ice on his forehead, as others are trying to row out more, to me.
But the ice was instantly catching fire as it hit his forehead. Oh NO!! Woe is me!
OH… ME… OH… MY… WHATEVER ARE WE TO DO!!!!
Surprisingly! Singing to him, has put him soundly, and amazingly fast, to sleep.
So now I called the Vet, to save my widdle Dragon Man, as I soundly weeped!
But much to my surprise, Grandpa Troll and the Vet steadfastly, did totally agree.
Dragon’s in no trouble, for you see, fire is a kinda, Very Normal, Dragon Thing!
OH… ME… OH… MY… WHATEVER ARE WE TO DO!!!!
WHAT! You’re kidding! I said in Alarm! He’ll be fine? So just let him sleep?
But NOW he’s blowing fiery bubbles that are floating off high, into the air!
And every time he hiccups, they’re getting bigger! Do what? What did you say?
Get a gun!! OH, to shoot them from the air? And he should be fine by morning?
Honestly, a Momma’s job is never done, as the fever did finally pass at dawn.
As we exhaustedly, all took Dragon home. Well, to what was left, of it, that is.
But Momma had her widdle baby Dragon back, and that was ALL we did want!!
My prayers were finally answered! So Dear God! THANK YOU!! and AMEN!
Written by Carol Eastman 4-8-2016