Long Spit out Poems
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The lady, the lion, and the deep blue mouse.
Yes, it was a sultry day, a sunny day, an s type of day.
The lady wore a pleated skirt that showed her legs off like an open house.
The deep blue mouse was jolly, upbeat, excited, happy and gay.
The villain of the story was a gray cat, an ugly cat, a cat with mange.
This cat was 9 foot tall, 453 pounds, and thought she was all of that.
Some called her sassy, others used rotund, I only knew her a second, and I called her strange.
This darling story is set in Oxford, Texas, a town full of balls, but only one bat.
It's a simple tale, a wives tale, a Chestnut eve tale, this tale of woe.
The lady was not whom she seemed; she asked that we call her Racko, but her name was Lou.
She had hidden deep blue mouse in her pocket, after plying him with dough.
Yes, my readers, you have guessed it, mouse was out, and did not know
Lou intended to put him in the large, corpulent tooth-filled mouth of Strange Cat.
She wanted blue mouse gone, for her daughter had fallen in love with Blue, and it made her mad.
Not the angry kind of mad, but the "I am certifiable and should be President" sort of mad, right McGirt?
The lion was Blue Mouse's best friend, and he had telepathy, so he knew what he needed to do.
He put Blue Mouse safely aside, and ate up the lady, but he spit out the pleated skirt.
Whisker Fever had suffered a really horrible, angry, bad day.
He had not gotten the Kibble he wanted. His master was way.
Creature he’s left him with was too prissy and stuck-up to like.
He would have pedaled away if he had been left with a bike.
“Oh, Whiskers,” she cooed, in a saccharine voice, irritating him.
She had a tiny bit of oatmeal stuck firmly to her left chin.
“Where is my big boy?” she crooned, like she was a friend.
If he had an axe, he would have given her a swift happy end.
“Where are you Honey?” she asked in a voice meant to please.
He hid in the smallest cupboard, a place his body could barely squeeze.
Tonight when she was asleep, he had a diabolically wonderful plan.
He would dump all her fish, watch them twist in his hand.
Then he would gulp them up and spit out their heads.
Their eyes would go buggy showing their last moments of dread.
Whisker Fever was angry as all get up, and wanted to leave.
But then she brought home catnip, and renamed him King Steve.
Marriage to alarmingly ballooning...
dramatically expanding spouse,
when adorning buttons
pop off undersized blouse
which spurs yours truly to grouse,
and ruffle mine tail feathers
while listening to Scheherazade.
Eats her weigh out of home and house
unsolicited feedback courtesy
quite doubtful, she could pose
for playboy and/or penthouse
returning explicit volley
of trailing appellations lobbed
expletive laced epithets
directed at her husband the louse
in lame retaliation deftly
sparring as he doth rouse
himself out of his vittle catatonic state
thus muenster ring cheeses crust
squeaks (me) meek Mickey Mouse.
When I did pledge troth
after courtship she would not abate
aboot two plus dozen years ago
(spoiler alert) wheezing
heterosexually straight
half heartedly accepting her
asthma wife sne...
snee...sneezing mate
even then, she exhibited
appetite for consumption
defying four foot eleven
petite size then, a score
plus quarter years ago lightweight
possessed cute figure.
Now, she eats
non stop while rocking round the clock
stationing, lumbering, burgeoning
girth casting dock
shadows analogous to
edge of night
donning humongous frock
to allow growing room
for extra buttock
vacuuming any/all
comestibles in sight
downing, emptying, gulping
refrigerator contents chock a block
nearly suctioning him,
who doth tongue in cheek mock
think apple pie, yet for
grace of dog ad hoc
anchoring spindleshanks laughingstock
skinny chicken legs (mine)
with knees that knock
worse than concentration camp victim,
(this gentile Jewish atheist gently pock
king fun without intent to rock
the casbah, nor ethnically clash
mainly innocent poetic schlock),
nonetheless chicken legs
repurposed to anchor lock
stock and barrel Matthew Scott
madly flapping wings imitating flock
of seagulls to no avail
this shabby not so chic flabby baby boomer
body, mum mama
(deceased eighteen plus years)
followed dietary strictures touted by
the late Doctor Benjamin McLane Spock,
no matter, I got hoovered
into maw of tee misses,
who instantaneously
spit out awful poppycock.
I've been served lots of unappetizing things
that simply did not please my palette.
Being force fed with bitter or insincere words
is unappealing presented as a crisp green salad.
I would rather be underfed and malnourished
than to feast on something too briny or cheesy.
I won't feast on a buffet of regurgitated foods,
like dill pickles offered as sour grapes... sleazy.
Nothing has more stench to me than rotten food.
As an example, mold spores inside blue roquefort,
and don't ask me to swallow one bite of sarcasm.
That would take far too much of my time and effort.
I'd spit out a spoon of any soup if in it swims a fly,
or if the spices were added by the hand of a hypocrite.
A warm peach cobbler would make a scrumptious dish
as long as inside there'd not be left on purpose... a pit.
I took a long drive down to Harbinger Row
Where the grass is all dead and the flowers won't grow
Where the people and their pets are now long gone
And an icy cold wind whispers till the dawn
On certain nights you can hear the spirits cry
Under a pale-blue moon or a blood-red sky
They suffer and anguish for all that they've lost
Their hearts have run cold like a cold Winters frost
Their souls are so twisted, dark, vile and deep
Where the air has grown foul and the dead never sleep
Devoid of all light, all mercy, all love
They spit out their anger on the living above
Now standing alone beneath a blood-red sky
A figure in the distance soon caught my eye
He came into focus but then disappeared
But I still felt his presence as his spirit neared
He spoke to me then in a voice soft and low
What brings you down here where the flowers won't grow
Is it fortune or fame or knowledge you seek
What brings you down here from the land of the weak
You'll find no diamonds, gems, or ingots of gold
All you'll find today Boy are hearts that run cold
And of all the dead hearts, mine's the coldest of all
You can hear my shrill cry when the coldest nights fall
The fortune or fame or knowledge you sought
Your pitiful journey down here was for naught
For now that you're here, you never can go
Forever you'll dwell where the flowers won't grow
Your spirit is mine and mine all alone
Your body, your flesh, your blood and your bone
No sunlight or mercy or love will you know
You'll suffer in anguish in darkness below
Now I'm shackled, I'm weak, I'm ten dungeons deep
My bones crackle and creak and I can't fall asleep
But the dead never sleep cuz there's nothing to dream
I could hear his voice laugh as I heard my voice scream
So if you travel down here but you don't know why
Under the pale-blue moon or the blood-red sky
Just another lost soul with no place to go
Where the grass is all dead and the flowers won't grow
Have you done enough
so far, to build
an everlasting legacy?
How would you like
to be remembered?
How do you think...
people will remember you...
years, decades
after you've gone to glory?
A century from now?
Do you think folks will
smile and say...
"God bless that gem of a soul!"
when they reflect?
Or do you think...
they'll spit out in disgust
and curse your name?
How much impact
do you think you've made
on people with whom
you've shared
pieces of yourself?
Do you really know?
Most importantly,
have you lived a life
worth remembering?
Take a moment...
to cogitate.
Food For Thought Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Silent One (Winner: 3rd Place)
Date written and posted: 01/04/2019
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He wears Bluetooth like a crown,
taps *sigils into glowing glass~
his spells are updates,
his *familiars pixelated.
The old grimoires gather dust
beside a stack of dead chargers,
while he murmurs incantations
to routers gone rogue.
His tower isn’t stone,
but a studio apartment
where the microwave hums
in harmonic resonance
with his coffee machine’s demonic gurgle.
He doesn’t turn men into newts~
just cancels their subscriptions,
hexes their algorithms,
and once, drunk on mead
(ordered via same-day delivery),
he made every printer in his building
spit out nothing but
YOU HAVE BEEN CURSED.
PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER.
The neighbors don’t complain.
They just assume
it’s another outage.
*A sigil is a type of symbol used in magic. The term usually refers to a pictorial signature of a spirit. In modern usage, especially in the context of chaos magic, a sigil refers to a symbolic representation of the practitioner's desired outcome.
Familiars are supernatural entities or spirits in European folklore, often depicted as small animals, that assist witches and cunning folk in their magical practices. They were believed to provide protection and guidance, and could be seen as either benevolent or malevolent depending on their association.(Source: Wikipedia.com
Hormones make the Endocrine System work
They’re always around, they always lurk.
And they do so many things
And to the body the blood always brings
So many chemicals all over abound
Each only binds to specific receptors found.
Sometimes they’re high, sometimes they’re low
And hormones always absolutely go
Via the blood until it finds,
Its special receptor, where it binds.
And no matter what you think you knew
There’s only five things they generally do.
Membrane potential, a hormone can alter,
And so a cell’s function will never falter.
When they alter membrane potentials we know
And that always means information will flow.
Protein synthesis, too, gets involved
And making large molecules soon gets resolved.
They can cause proteins synthesis in the cell
By turning on genes that work so well.
Enzyme modifications are also the norms
They can activate second messenger forms.
And when it does, it can certainly cause,
Enzyme activity or enzyme pause.
Secretions, too, the cell will spit out,
Due to the hormone, because of its clout.
And what is the importance of what the hormones’ issues
These cells spew out substances to affect other tissues.
Then there’s the last, reproductive in nature
Mitosis and meiosis, both important in stature.
Both types of cell division are obviously affected,
Another example of hormones, reflected.
We gaze
The rock star serenades us
With platitudes
Neither near or far
Though only attainable
Appreciated
By submission
By admission
That you will never be
Never wander
Never wonder
For they've performed the
Magic for us
Catapulting rage into
Sweetened sirens
Alert
Only to string us down the toxic path
Of misty false alarms
Yeah
Our fists soar
We're with them
We're one
We're them
The cautionary whispers
Lyrics to technicians
Desperate for form
Blow sullen, sticky tidings
Caught
Slurped
Swallowed, not spit out
For the glaze, the grandeur
Coats our throats
With lusty love
Tingly, tangy, tortuous
Love
Shared among all, we
Receptacles who vanquish
Their minds, souls and ids
Obliging
Harmonic, aural orgies
Prudence withheld
For acceptance is aligned
With the suspension
Of societal diets
Well-measured
To trick us
Trick all
To believe that
Scraping, scratching
Toward maniacal horizons
Somehow cannot be human
Though they've never
Once
Flickered
Abandoned
The self
To marvel
Manifest
Into a glorious whole.
(1/20/04)
cold ogre universe
engulf tender stars
spit out the bones-see the sparks...
everyone looks toward the sky
says how pretty they are
complimenting the slaughter
how endearing and naive.
Pot black sky means the ogre is idling,
fattened by star fillets, it sleeps.
New stars are born,
honed with their shine
but when the ogre awakens
the bone sparks will fly
once again-
Birth and slaughter
hungry and satiated
pinwheels of time
turns oasis to wasteland:
This is the natural course of things,
purity always ravaged
by green-toothed savage
while the masses chew on
the cool glass
of indifference...
whispering bloody-lipped to the ID,
"glad its not me."
how endearing and stupid
can these IDiots be.