Long Toothache Poems
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Have you heard about the Norwegian trolls with:
Three heads - Six eyes - Three noses - Six ears - Three mouths
Three heads with headaches, poor Troll
Six eyes that will look in different directions
Three noses that smells both good and bad smells
Six ears that can hear in all directions
Three mouths talking louder than the other
How many teeth have a "Three Heads Troll" ?
Imagine getting toothache in all of the teeth
It's not nice to be a Troll with three heads
26. August 2012
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
We love our jails
They got it made
Three hots, a cot
And lots of shade
No need to work
Nothing to save
No need to bother
With pesky names
We love our caves
So dark and cool
We know the score
We know the rules
What’s real, what’s not
It matters none
Forget the outside
In here’s the fun
We love our chains
Like all good slaves
Say “yes” and “please”
Always behave
The sun is hot
The field is vast
Take solace in
The numbing past
We love our pains
All thru our days
The endless toothache
The bowels ablaze
Complain and wallow
That is our niche
Never to summit
Never too rich
We love our myths
We tell them well
A misty heaven
A murky hell
And if we lose the
Way back to one
We’ll just invent an
Utopia
We love our deaths
Attending wakes
Inventing credits
That no one takes
“Such a hard worker,
A real good friend”
But all the same is
Dirt in the end
We love our failure
Our frailty, too
Maybe our dreams are
Just residue
Maybe it’s true that
We are mistakes
Nature is laughing
God’s taking breaks
And what of freedom?
Who signed that screed?
We learned some stories
Ones who were freed
But who’s the conqueror
Freedom can’t beat?
Thy name, remember:
Security
From the poems point of veiw
in each and every aspect
it's the writers obligation
to create and ochastrate
to provide indepth and create
interestit's ones aspect.
like a song with great dtail
and hreat sounds
and lyrics
the right performer
the right song
and situation
details the whole perspective
it was a fiction that united us
with a lack of details that divided
our interest
it's as sutle as a toothache and as
tame as a fluffball
did you hear the story of the guy who gathered
fluffballs and told the world it was his pet
the ball got so big
it ws something we could never forget
the fluffball would roll it was cute whenit
was small
but the bigger the fluffed up bvall got
the harder it would roll.
well one day while packing new fluff to the ball
the ball rolled
the guy could stop it it was to big and to tall
it squished the guy
there he laid underneah
until his wife came home and said
c
good greif
she pushed and pushed
suddenly the ball took a roll
it rolled over the floor
and then through the wall
I guess you get the understanding and point in such detail
control your passion
use good sence
let your charcter provail
Written by
The Poem
Scoop dew we e boop!
The poor child groaned
while his mother moaned
''Ah, he's possessed,
oh, he's been
bewitched'',
Superstition bemoaned.
To the witchdoctor she
sped
and was back with
murky potions
such yucky stinky lotions
those mythical
concoctions
The woman obeyed the
wily witchdoctor
Placed belief in that
traditional healer
and the poor child still
groaned
but his mama no longer
moaned
After two days of
treatment
and no lessening of
predicament
she thought he needed
something more potent
When all it turned out to
be
was a toothache dent!
But she would hear of
no dentist
Like all quacks her
witchdoctor
had fooled her five
senses
For his spells and his
chants
held her too in a trance
Quite a weird weirdo is
he
Beware the medicine-
man!
Beware that vodoo
magic and witchcraft
That survive on the
gullible and daft.
A dead boar, a terrible Ram Rajya, a crippled grasshopper—
A toothache-stricken sky—you, I,
The frustrated Jampui and Bhuban Bru.
My twenty-first lover—Bhuban Bru,
He had two hands, a brain, and a dozen or so bidis.
He knew how to cook well, and he could eat too.
One day, he made a broth with a wild boar and my blood—
Eating it, I felt like sacrificing my entire body to the cooking.
I even told him so; he didn't agree and sat down to write a poem,
The poem was titled Soil—
'Soil is nothing but the saliva of a spider
Soil means some deaths, soil is just the spider's own spit...'
Those memories come floating, sinking and rising in the Manu River,
I keep staring...,
Then someone comes and covers both my eyes and says—
'Tell me, who has come! '
Have you ever seen a horsey grin
They've got humongous amounts of teeth
Their dentist bill must be atrocious
It's almost beyond belief
Whenever they get a toothache
They feel it right down to their hoofs
You can hear their screams over in China
They just about hit the roof
Really feel sorry for these equine types
They're usually such amiable sorts
They never complain if you're 300 pounds
They're such amazing good sports
Named him “Toothy”, this friend of mine
Tell him, “Brush those dentures real good!”
The cost of a plate of false teeth for horsies
Is astronomical in all likelihood
Sending the tending to an unfriended ending,
yet somehow suspending from rending a newly offending recommending.
Logotype monotype linotype,
overripe stereotype,
teletyped an unripe heliotype.
Guttersnipe snipe,
stipe snipe ripe,
a wipe type a tripe,
unleash a withering hype.
Dip snip,
nip lip,
slip skip,
rip the apple pip
over a battleship Chip.
Clip,
airstrip,
blip,
scrip,
gyp,
flip,
dip.
Unsip, blue clip,
A warship, weathering stick.
To miche an itch,
to stitch a witch.
Rich a quitch,
Hitch a flitch.
Gabrilowitsch,
the grand son of a *****!
Pitched a ditch to flitch a niche.
Made a rich hitch lich.
The Thia tie thy tried to untie an unshy,
Spied a sny sty,
He ascribed a bribe tribe,
to dib drib, lib and sib.
A death pale,
dwaled and engrailed,
enjailed and bewailed.
The cocktale turned into a,
ginger ale stale.
A hobnail.
A pale kale.
The whale waled
a veil of wail.
The stale air,
railed the quailing sale.
Dipped the snip,
to pip the tip,
and baled the avail,
to the flailed snail.
Attract extract reenact,
saddle backed and subtracted,
the tact the pact
an unmistakable fact.
Swag the unsage,
the wage of the tutelage.
A coffee break
a bit of a cornflake
cupcaked the cake of the devil's flake.
Draked the fake fruitcake,
and hake the jake on the mellow lake.
Mistake the overtake.
A pancake sheik,
cried spake of a toothache.
Ack Ack!
Back, Bootblack Jack.
Pack the Pontiac rack,
sack the Hackensack,
hijack the leatherback.
Offtrack the outback,
rack the sack,
smack the stack,
stickleback the tictack track,
to the umiak Union Jack.
Twack the whack yak sack,
A mystical one eyed zodiac.
Bready a speedy,
deedy the weedy,
Reedy to leedy.
Unheedy indeedy.
Leda, Vida, Theda.
Sketched an etch,
itched a hatch.
So speechless,
breathless,
toothless.
The socialist,
the communist,
the theorist
the terrorist.
Bedded the bedding
in a dreadful beheading.
Weeded the weed,
leading the lead,
tended the teed.
The ready read,
the reedy reeded.
The seedy seeded.
The end is Ending.
I past my mouth over the cheesecake
The streamline and grand toothache
oh, my mouth hurts
Whatesle is for dessert
Whose pie is that? I think I know
This here girl I know I affectionately call her Pudding Girl
It's baker is quite happy he made more
Full of pie and cake
I give her glass with a strawberry shake,
And laughs until her belly aches.
The only other sound's the break,
She may shout out where's the cupcakes
This here girl I know I affectionately call her Pudding Girl
Of distant waves and birds awake.
The HEART is streamline, grand and deep,
But she has promises to keep,
After cake and lots of sleep.
Sweet dreams come to her cheap
This here girl I know I affectionately call her Pudding Girl
With thoughts of kittens in her head,
She eats her jam with lots of bread.
Ready for the day ahead
Where's grams peach cobbler and sweet potato pie
Now her and I our stomachs in a whirl
This here girl I know I affectionately call her Pudding Girl
4/11/19
you're a grease-fire film
attached to drywall like salt
s p i I l e d
over a cracked, unwashed shoulder,
the dull toothache
throbbing
through a 3 a.m. call,
growing older, sharper, colder...
get out of my mind!
you aren't some gothic ghost
in a tragic shroud,
but a raw static hiss on busted station;
a sagging weight ,
a stationary,
stubborn-as-a-mule cloud,
a parasite
fattening on my hesitation...
get out of my mind!
like orange rust,
nibbling at a clean steel blade,
the bitter, permanent
ink-stain you've made;
no velvet darkness here,
no weeping willow,
just concrete bricks
in my chest, and grit on my pillow...
oh, xanthippe....get out of my mind!
Truth lies in the moment--
it is not trapped by words,
nor engraved on stone pillars.
Truth is not what we believe,
not what we may die for....
It travels not on the wind,
nor lies at rainbow's end....
Yet it is always with you--
with every single heartbeat,
every breath, every thought,
and waits quietly, patiently,
for your light to reignite after
every blackish night; for truth
is not always beauty: at times
it is harsh, brutal, ugly. From
toothache to heartbreak truth
will never be deterred: gross or
golden, it will always be with you,
every moment you live... then
afterwards, yours for eternity.
(Revised April, 2017)