Long Mouthwash Poems
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Coming off third shift, My brain in a haze… Feeling worn and ancient, Dragging through the day’s maze.
I got home exhausted— As tired as a dog. Reached for a drink— Spilled water in the fog.
Grabbed for a sponge… But what did I meet? In my sleepy confusion— A Rice Krispie treat?! ??
My knees were aching, And so was my back. Tried to brush my teeth— Dropped the toothpaste cap!
Rummaging for cereal, With hunger in my belly, Found a bag and took a bite— Wait... was that jellyfish deli?! ????
Ran for mouthwash To cleanse that awful taste— Gargled boldly— Soap?! I spat in haste! ??
Night crept back in. Time to get dressed. Buttoned my shirt… Gave it my best.
But outside in the breeze— Someone gave a yell. “What is that smell?!” I couldn't quite tell…
Then I looked down— One shoe was black, one was blue. And on one unlucky sole… Was the culprit of the pew! ????
As I strolled down Beaker Street
A neon sign flashed in front of me
That said "Only Serious Poets Need Apply"
(Blink) "Need Apply" (Blink) "Need Apply"
So it was I thought to myself
I can think of nobody else
As serious as a poet as I
I looked to the right and the left
Feeling pretty confident about myself
And decided to take a gander inside
The room it was totally dark
In the corner was the tiniest of sparks
I did a stately poetic stroll in that direction
Feeling I might have made a mistake
This thought occurred a little too late
But of course this whole scene might just be window dressing
A voice said we don't need a poet at all
Just someone dumb and gullible
That's the moment in my pants I started messing
Turns out it was a mad scientist
With a masters degree in craziness
What were his dastardly plans I could only be guessing
I was grabbed by a couple of ugly thugs
Who highly dislike deodorant and mouthwash
Tied up and flown off to the smallest of islands
Where they did unspeakable experiments on me
In the first, second, and third degree
All because to insanity they took a liking
When it was they were finally done
With what those nut jobs consider good fun
Don't know how many walls they had me climbing
Daily now I plan my escape
I only hope that I'm not too late
When the opportunity arrives I hope I don't blow it
I find it so hard to believe
That this all has happened to little ole me
And Why?
Because of me being such a serious poet
On Sunday I went to the movies,
A space that the theater now shares
With a church that was holding a service
On the second floor, right up the stairs.
As the clerk took ahold of my ticket,
I noticed the welcoming sign;
So a person who entered had choices –
See a movie or seek the divine.
There were mouthwash and mints in the bathroom
Which the church leaders sweetly supplied,
Though I have to admit I was baffled –
Would a gargle make virtue implied?
As I fixed on the coming attractions,
While relaxed on my faux-leather perch,
I supposed I was one of the sinners
To the worshipers up in the church.
Dear Abbieanne, my love life is in tatters.
All I seem to do now is blither and moan.
Absent a mate all my dreams have been shattered.
In spite of best efforts my prospects have flown.
I thought a good heart was all that would matter.
Indeed there are other traits I have not known.
Like brushing my teeth and taking a shower.
Plus shaving my nose so hair doesn't flower.
And using a mouthwash so breath won't offend
like a wealth of garlic and beer seem to do.
Or wearing clean clothes with no stains on my end
and watching my step so no doo's on my shoe.
And washing my hair. Deodorant's our friend?
All these endless tasks. Will I ever be through?
To my misery this letter will attest.
Very Truly Yours, Despondent in the West
Today is so mendy
But more a mane that covers busy days
In it I had enough repose
To attack the awaiting wakefulness
Defending the hit ground of possible mendicancy
Thou just don't make this known to my Teddy
For no dream will attends me of absent fantasy
I count the way of moon's disappearance
I recall mouthwash
The water's violence hush
Watching the stars' absence
As the chill of the atmosphere espies
May be the other; thou could recognize human
By what he hath on
Set out at midnight solemnly
To cool off the absent harmattarn triumphantly
And bless it to all prosperity
To compliment the hot spell mildly
I wish all winter back again repair
Thy gath the temple a rounded taunted hair
But all a sudden become far chilly fair
Seeming ambiguous and dull
Hath added me creditability mull
Agile and confidently in full
Let the night builds strength
Not to fight my breath
But hang upon with love, so fortunate
To set me on days singing by favors' consent
Zooming around the room in wheel chair-moves
our child greets us by his beeping toy’s cheer
allowing pets to bark and meow freely.
Gesturing to hush us midst vibrant shhh
our son mumbles his morning prayer list
murmuring our names, gasping in between.
Then he enjoys yummy breakfast crunches
gulping milk and slurping yoghurt gladly
thanking Mom for sizzling eggs served with bliss.
After gargling menthol-flavored mouthwash
he likes warm splashes in his awesome bath
concluded with spray of baby cologne.
His learning zest includes snapping fingers
clapping hands, stomping feet, and zipping bags
while perfecting oinking and quacking sounds.
He watches revving cars in racing spree
ecstatic with the frenzy howling crowd
screaming that blends along screeching vroom-vroommm.
In animal shows, roaring beasts startle him
but he’s glued to hissing asps, hatching eggs
and calmed by chattering, chirping birds’ choir.
For play time, he’s popping balloons with glee
jingling keys in counting one up to ten
as well as ringing old phones and gadgets.
Mindless of pattering rain upon roof
he conquers boredom with clanging cymbals
Strumming ukulele till he gets tired.
Needing rest, he expects my humming mirth
of sweet lullaby against clock’s ticking
as I thank God for heart that throbs with love.
There’s one special moment during your day,
When you can be honest and open and true,
And that’s the moment after you roll,
With your one special lover and you,
And your words should be coated with honey filled love,
And then luxuriantly spread,
But in that moment with peace in your heart,
This is what you might whisper instead,
“Do you still have that concentrate mouthwash,
I think you should go to the doc,
And where’s the closest taxi rank,
And I hear you’ve been ‘round the block,”
Also, “I think the condom I used just broke,
And what was your name again,”
Just beware, you should not say this,
Between you and your most intimate friend.
I have rituals
for the first day of class
like a superstitious athlete
they get me into a good frame of mind
where I feel like a juggernaut who has total agency
and I don’t need to seek validation
It’s a moment in time
I have all my books—stacked on my desk
they look serious—very nuts and bolts
I’ve beaten the syllabuses to death
to try to figure out where my power lies
learning is all energy, it’s a marathon
it’s hard to sustain that for the entire semester
so not switching off, now and then, is unrealistic
Still, I’m comfy in in a classroom (I’m a senior)
Good students are just a little weird.
I say hello to the moon so she won’t feel alone
I say ‘cheers,” before taking a shot of mouthwash.
If I lose my ID, my lucky pencil or something, I call out, “treasure hunt!”
When treating everyone to grubHub I ask, ‘the usual?’ When we’re done I ask, ‘how was everything this evening?’
If I see a random girl looking fabulous, I tell her, because if I get complimented, I think about it for a week.
.
.
A song for this:
Thetan by Single Gun Theory
Daylight is greeted with the horrific stench of food chunks
swimming in stomach acid, dribbling onto bed sheets.
Accompanied with the embarrassment of
brown syrup puddle stains.
Head is pounding
like a hammer - hammering nails into the skull.
Cumbersome movements drag drowsy flesh to the mirror,
as bloodshot eyes with yellow hue, glare in reflection.
Exhausted hands rub dense stubble,
as heavy eye lids struggle to stay open.
A cocktail of coffee and a cold shower
comfort this somber slumber.
Mouthwash and mints help disguise
the fragrance of yesterday's session with Bourbon.
Continuous sips of water, attempt to quench sultry thirst,
but the blandness cannot douse untamed flames.
Especially as days consist of sitting
surrounded by monotonous blank walls,
and staring at cracks on a vase -
silently watching wilted flowers crumble.
Struggling to defeat temptation from fermented demons,
summoned by cravings for that burning sensation,
the tongue cries for mercy.
Infiltrates the mind luring it to
lust for sour liquid passion
that infuses the bloodstreams.
Hands trembling, parched lips quivering -
only golden nectar can ease the pain.
No need for a glass, as bottle is devoured,
with momentary pauses of 'aaahhhhh.'
So begins the daily quest,
to suffocate every sorrow.
To feel numb upon request,
with no care for tomorrow.
Favouring fantasy over reality,
each drop kills the pain.
The bitter sweet taste is a lethal injection,
but the numbness helps to feel perfection.
In a place where nobody notices -
alcoholic symphonies lead to intoxicated sympathy.
To deal with being alone, to forget the world,
to forget the name.
Envious eyes can be a crime,
leading to jealous tendencies.
Hiding secrets can lead to becoming a victim
to a self inflicted demise.
An empty bottle leads to remorse.
Bitter sweet tears roll with shameful giggles.
Now the cracked vase looks perfect with flowers blooming.
Inebriant melodies mock the mind.
Attempting to dance, legs stumble and crash to the ground.
Laying there on the floor - laughing.
Then crying hysterically.
The heart has no desire to be sober,
only to remain intoxicated until death.
The Silent One
20 October 2017
Hobgoblin in the gutter under canopy of midnight,
magic brew of muti without rein.
Shadow figure torchon, darting half-light dare.
Spine chilling droplets wobble slowly down drains,
rusty copper mouthwash at the edge of jagged chutes.
Eerie urban soundscapes frame,
a sneeze or smothered cough.
Drone of vagrant motors probe, the flyby ink-black abyss.
Youthful laughter echoes over back streets,
as nearby lamp posts cast their bloodshot rays.
Night owls chinwag over Onion Bhaji,
raucous babble buried in a saffron whiff.
Strains of ragtime jazz and sleek arpeggios,
shrine or vinyl monument ahoy.
Hobo’s lonely whistle on an empty pier.
Urban jungle cast-off ghostly lurch,/
Burakumin patsy in high dudgeon.
Spooky timelines relish every moment of suspense,
swallowing the hush with ghoulish glee.
Quasimodo bell ring vaults a broomstick,
setter of alarm and wanton panic.
City wall clock twiddles on its hourly thumb,
scene plotter’s endless play denouement,
wee small hour dialogue without a script,
waiting for the dawn to take it’s baton.