Long Phlegm Poems
Long Phlegm Poems. Below are the most popular long Phlegm by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Phlegm poems by poem length and keyword.
Sunrise and already the water
is being seared with a glow
as if under a grill.
You can feel the heat building
in the morning air, the sand
still warm from yesterday.
The tide has left the creature
stranded on the beach,
its frilled sail glistening
and rigged with blue tentacles
clumped menacingly beside
its motionless body.
The sun will soon cook it
to a dried out bladder.
This drifting marvel of murder
is now no more than sea phlegm
coughed up on the crest
of a wave. It looks so pitiful.
And yet it still
has the power to inflict
a painful sting. Venom
waits for one last desperate
chance to snare some poor
careless prey.
My fingers seem possessed
with a will to pick it up
to see how it feels without
being stung. I hover somewhere
between head and hand,
stranded by indecision.
Footnote
This is one of a series of poems
that have the shoreline as the
backdrop for the exploration
of meaning in things washed up
on the beach or in the experience
of being in the moment.
Paul
Positively Preposterous Puckheads...STILL!!!
Boy! They sure don't drive no Coupe DeVille.
My wife dragged me here against my will,
I just, Touched Down! in Palookaville!
Her Uncle Buck, buck-teethed and busted bunions,
Always smelled just a bit like onions.
He'd cuss me out while eating Funyuns!
Yep, that Codger's one big Curmudgeon!
Aunt Tildy, wore garters with lace tassels,
Bought lavender soap by the passels!
Had dreams of Knights at White Castles,
And she tells my wife, I'M the ASSLE!
Cousin Clem, I call him "Phlegm," ain't right in the head!
He's thirty-five! and still wets the bed!
And his folks still wonder why he's not wed!
I don't care what that Doctor Phil said!
Last, but not least, is that beast they call Boo!
That cur must be older than...Twenty-Two!
And bowels!...Man, that mutt sure could poo!
As luck would have it...he spackled my shoe!
Damn! Sun's setting, they're sweating, and I'm stuck here...STILL!!!
Oh Lord, please send me that Coupe DeVille!
I might as well start writing my will!
There's "Nightmares Galore" here in Palookaville!
watching people go by
footprints of carelessness on my existence
two pancake corndogs, two hot dog specials, and a fruitopia
plasma donation money, wet hiking boots, and tired legs from endless walking
metabolism and starvation....images of homemade cheese grits and a bacon and cheese omelette with mushrooms
at the library constantly looking at cookbook pictures
imagining the way i will eat the art on every page
swallowing my saliva mixed with phlegm and pretending
my gonads are even shaking and yearning for nourishment
my legs are damn near jelly and i suddenly break out in a strange type of sweat
thoughts all over the place till abstract insanity
my eyes are bouncing balls devoid of real world time
....as i watch people go by....living life like regular with no hint of inflated flatulence
his mind had entered a state of confusion
numb blank and befuddled on one hand
with walls in front
and verges closing in behind
enclosed in a mixture of discomfort
and pressure to move
stand still for a moment
a voice quietly whispered
with a chorus answering
run for your life
polarized messages
a Jungian way of saying
only uncertainty is clear
he coughed up some phlegm
a mixture of nicotine and discontent
and tried not to give too much importance
to the dreams he had had
maybe there was an aperture
in the partition in front of him
there was a chance that the blind alley could see
not a through road but rather a simple conjecture
that could be refuted with patience and time
three things he knew was that he would not
turn back on himself in anger nor sorrow
that an imprisoned state
could serve as a prism
and reflection would eventually
lead him through darkness
19th February 2023
This or that volume 16 cul-de-sac
sponsor Edvard Ibeh
The total bummer of our wasted Test summer….ahem
Does jar well below par no cigar not even a cafe creme
After another dafter dumber and dumber apophthegm
The tedium of this charlatan medium saying carpe diem
Couldn’t be any glummer still will take Baz to the ATM
Laughter him on a whim mending a forlorn torn hem
We pleaded tree needed to go not the Root but stem
Pretending will be happy ending Bazball’s Bethlehem
ECB & Key glib in tandem fib as random as a Lib Dem
English cricket’s viral spiral now coughing up phlegm
The gory gashes from Ashes lashes will still condemn
Then Stokes says that’s all folks was absolute mayhem
Jokes he’ll back in the 2027 eleven it’s us versus them
After hoax new Kiwi bloke evokes masterstrokes a gem
No longer going for broke a stronger bespoke requiem
Will coax the magic unlike the tragic Bazball "La Boheme"
No superhero cloaks as from acorns grow oaks says Flem
Limited by our senses
Limited by smells, sight, sound
Limited by tastes and touch
Yet somehow
We sense there are mysteries ...
beyond them
A sixth sense
Embedded in our brains
The Pituitary gland
A doorway to the imagination
Where there’s a revolving door of neurons
All juiced up on Angelic power
A gateway of ganglia
Blueprinted from ages of DNA evolution
All up in our business with revelations
A continuous reconstruction zone
Especially created to regulate growth
Both literally and spiritually
The philosophical phlegm
That secretes like God goo
Inside of me
Inside of you
Inside all of us
ew
(Probably more a short story than free verse
In any case it’s true,
seen through my eyes as a child)
He was a heavy smoker sat by the fire
Coughing and wheezing hacking up phlegm
spitting it into the blazing hearth,
that hissed back contemptuously upon contact
On a rare occasion when he’d miss,
the dog would lick up the gooey mass
with a determined exuberance
A filthy habit I heard some say behind his back,
but he was always happy,
didn’t care less what others thought of him,
a real character,
anyway my whole family and I liked him
He was our uncle from rural Ireland,
we visited him and his wife
on their small farm a couple of times each year,
probably more so, when my Dad had a car that worked,
My sister and I used to make grossed out faces
at each other when he expectorated into the open
hearth of the fire,
we thought it was pretty cool, and grotesquely funny
One spit in particular is legendary,
he spat out a stringy length of gunk
but needed his fingers to help pull it away from his mouth
and direct it towards the fire,
some actually made the distance,
amazingly the dog raised his head
and caught the rest of it, happily wolfing it down,
I mean come on!
we were still in tears laughing, on the way home in the car
On later visits it seemed bits of his face
were disappearing or bandaged,
still he never complained,
his voice was almost gone anyway,
and most unusually he wasn’t smoking
I was only a kid and in those days
you weren’t supposed to ask questions,
but it didn’t stop me asking my dad,
what was happening to uncle?
He told me uncle had cancer of the mouth,
and part of his tongue and lips had to be cut away,
warning me never to smoke,
even though he had one lighting in his hand
Innocent me thought uncle’s face would grow back
and he’d be ok,
but unfortunately he died pretty soon afterwards,
Damn I used to be spellbound
watching him trying to catch his breath
and hoofing viscous gunk upon the fire,
even more so when he missed
I tried to copy him on a visit to my aunt
just after he passed away,
of course I missed the fire on purpose,
The dog never budged
My sister shook her head
I was truly ashamed!
By
David Kavanagh
I dreaded it when I hit the age of waist band stretch.
The choices I have are butterflies with glitter; they make me wretch.
Can you spell dumpy and frumpy? Because now I can for sure.
Fashion designers have excused themselves from old women mature.
Sure, we are slower, but are we less wise in the head?
Do we want to wear navy and black for years ‘til we’re dead?
I look at my choices. Where are the oranges? A purple or pink?
The fact is that in woman’s world, my options pretty much stink.
I see the size two’s and three’s and fours, and I want to wear them.
They are colorful and sexy, I think as I cough up my phlegm.
I see no linens, no waists, nothing fitted or smart.
I leave the store gladly, exiting with a well-chosen fart.
I want something sensual, colorful, and fashionable too.
The best I can do is a two-toned high-heeled shoe.
Where are the fashion designers for women of distinction like me?
I walk to the next store, where the selections are identical, I see.
At times He shouts to clear his throat, AHEM!
We are the phlegm.
Puffs of dandelion dust,
ignoring life, allowing hearts to rust.
Each day we rush upon ourselves,
shelving more decisions,
piercings and incisions,
in the side of eyelids, nose, and tongue.
unknowing victims, of
what we know not from.
beaming like returning martyrs,
blown to Kingdom Come.
matter splattered, gut ache or remorse;
no age is better for it; no age worse.
it’s what we choose to look at now;
it is our Holy Cow.
maybe sin is in the looking,
maybe in the not,
eyes averted;
disaster flirted with,
Mr./ Mrs. Smith,
composite couple;
doubling our efforts
to keep up, win the cup;
get the bowl;
satisfy a never-filling hole.
Our procedure is to marry;
double-feature of our troubled futures;
sutures for the wounds inflicted
in a psyche so conflicted;
we sit for hours and hours
hours and hours, paying folks
to analyze the guiltiness of flowers.
We simply grow, didn’t you know;
afraid of what we have created.
Frankensteins,
so overrated, - tall,
but not so unrelated after all.
After weeks of vegetarian snacks
a part of him was still searching city dumpsters
for chewed-over Big Macs.
Then in a moment of weakness
at the County Fair
he purchased one greasy Irish pork sausage
so sweet and thick -
it was on a stick.
Deliciously it licked his tongue
with a fulsome,
sweet succulent fried meatiness.
H actually swooned
over its savory, lick-able tenderness.
That night in restless dreams
he slow-cooked two more of them,
pork drooled, dripping from his mouth
- a kind of porcine phlegm.
Night long he slurped
upon the suet of his soul
only to awake
hangry and left un-whole
for those pork bangers
were still banging in his sleepy head...
and so he arose to deep fry
a large, peeled turnip in almond fat,
and sadly sucked upon that, instead.