Bill prodded his sebaceous cyst
‘Twas massive the size of his fist
It spurted green pus
His wife made a fuss
“Get treatment NOW, I must insist”
Blue lighted to the A & E
Huge spurting cyst medics could see
Bill’s livid butt boil
Made doctor’s recoil
Needs lancing now, they all agree
They bundle Bill onto a table
“Don’t sedate him” said his wife Mable
I will succinctly put
He’s a pain in the butt
I’m leaving him when I am able
The medics gave Bill’s boil a prick
Green gunky pus splurts, it’s so thick
Poor Mable was heaving
She said, “Bill I’m leaving
Because you’re an ignorant dick”
“You wouldn’t seek treatment for years
Your constant moans left me in tears
I’ll file for divorce
I’m leaving of course
I’m going to live in Algiers”!
Bills visage turned ever so pale
His final breath he did exhale
The cad passed away
There’s no more to say
I’ve finished the end of this tale!
Parasites
there is a tiny mite
that lives on our face
but does not bite
it is a species of arachnid
that’s so small it’s outta’ sight
it bores in to our pores
and only comes out at night
it dines on our sebaceous oil and ear wax
and on dead skin, for dessert, it does delight
they are with us from birth to death
so, no use putting up a fight
each time you look in your mirror, just remember
you are looking at their campsite
they have a very short life
they live no more than a fortnight
if you happen to see some specks
they might be those nasty Demodex!
Pale moon in the sky have you lost your way?
For your realm is night, not the bright of day.
Your face is white, are you sick, not OK?
Your healthy skin brown tanned - hides your pocked hinterland.
Scars of sebaceous gland - the pimples picked by hand.
But in the light of day, all can be seen.
The crater marks simply gleam, glow obscene,
On your pale moon face, to shame and demean.
So my dear pale face moon - your fans still want to croon
To bay, howl, not at noon - but in midnight's dark gloom,
So dear moon, please keep away and don't stray,
After a one-night stand onto the strand.
For you risk being labeled a has-been,
So starkly pale, in the bright light at noon.
How long is a short time, a hairs breadth above never
Seen within one eye blink, the lash will move forever
Perception throws curveball's, upon prismatic minds
Yet outside double slits, life-forms live completely blind
And voracious appetites, strip eyelashes of girth
Feeding on sebaceous oil, dines parasitic birth
Nibbling away, watching reality slip from sight
Getting up close and personal, with demodex mites
Making much from little, aiming to create new worlds
Eyelashes warp under pressure, turn inward and curl
Scratching the surface, observation now semi-blurred
Eyeballs driving us crazy, itch cannot be demurred
Lice-like creatures, slither up and down paying no tax
Using eyelids as havens, in remorseless attacks
Recombobulating dead skin, not the stuff of dreams
We rip earths orb to shreds daily, in monster machines
By
David Kavanagh
16x13
[bard1]
To wit, sans pearl, mere grit and sand,
an irritant, sebaceous cyst,
expressive as a mongrel’s gland,
self-seeking randy churlish tryst!
[bard2]
Eccentric heel’s ethos raised grand,
eschews finesse, rough skewers gist,
a numpty dumpty, brillig panned,
thou frontal lob, now dully bris’d!
Always Will Wonder What If
I always had wondered what if,
When we were to take a whiff,
Of who;
Maybe you;
Can cruddy smell nock us over cliff.
Jim Horn
Have Been Told By Bernie
What we have been told by Burnie,
Best if Trump hire another attorney,
Gland sebaceous,
Being voracious,
Or get lost while on a long journey.
Jim Horn
Must be Buick looking for a lark;
Near street corner trying to park;
Around spin;
Dark again;
Saw Trump raving mad while stark.
Jim Horn
With color names I get the gist;
Pink colors are for girls like, “Mist”.
But what about the men?
Every now and then
Pink could be “Sebaceous Cyst”.
HYPERGRAPHIA -- "STARECASES"
twisted as wrought iron spiraling down
surveying top gears stark dark regalia
holdhigh on tight here comes another
maniacal express spinning
HYPERGRAPHIA
dying I throw down a key in a sock and sing all the way up
bowing forehead to ground to catch thermal updrafts
grabbing more sky to do the work hanging plump like a plum
disease that confirms even normal is an unreachable entity
lofty orphaned kite out of touch out of sight that never
smells gender kissing mouth that swallows hurtful pride
crack open the gaze of sleeping animals… I am one and so are you
experiencing life with our blunted truths I would keep you open all
night even if it hurt us as we choke on the intensity and
move and cry through all life’s lies
then.. push our headboard when bored out to sea
sailing out of earshot past you and me so thoroughly
you distracted by the crease in my accent
I by your crown as the waterfalls drown your caress
to make a noise from your mouth with the
radical skill of my hands and sebaceous glands
as we free-flow our thoughts
© Kim van Breda—28 December 2015
Each poem must have a purpose;
Each verb, each certain noun, fawning adjective,
needs a place, a form, a hole, to fit.
Purple is not a word for a poem, it has no place.
"No rhyme?" say cat/rat/bat,
"Outrageous" say sebaceous/herbaceous.
So purple is resigned to prose.
Purple must have a partner, a pair, a comrade
To be worthy in the poem.
Everyword must be accounted for.
"But oh" says Purple, alone, "I am not alone."
Look, see my face adorning royalty.
See my majesty, my set-apart/set-aboveness.
There is no one like me, and I am enough.
Cat/bat/rat squirms at his feet.
This old heart of mine meets quitting time,
cringes in a cage with no way out;
concurrence with occurrence of spurs jabbed in the muscle,
bright pain shines a sacristy of black light shreds.
What arrives will go in the undertow
of variable waves of loathing and fear;
currents grasp feet below the tidal ripples,
dragging downward to fathomless oyster beds.
Driftwood tossed, located, lost and drowned
beneath sebaceous trauma of the reef;
sails disease on seven seas of distalgesia,
until the shore recedes, no knowing of where she lies.
Whoever may weep as I take sleep forever,
and would their tears bleed sentiment sincerity?
Who goes there, who alone would care in reality
for driftwood drifting slowly from their eyes?
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