A fresh, hefty heap I left in the box.
You scooped it away into that flushing abyss.
A crisp, satisfying sound echoed—
Music to my ears.
Phew. My poop was gone.
Are you a wizard?
Four long years passed.
Then, the human assumed the form of a serpent,
Devouring a long, green cucumber.
Slathering my poop all over it,
Licking away the giant, pungent stink
With a satisfied tongue.
And then, trying to seduce me
With a terrifying truth:
"Here’s Churu for you~"
"I’ve got another cucumber, you see.
And I made sure to spread the poop extra thick and salty this time."
"Eat up."
Ah, was I that hungry?
Did you pretend to throw away my poop all those years,
Just like a magician hiding a trick?
I passed out.
Overcome by your dark truth.
How on earth am I supposed to look you in the eye tomorrow?
Meddling Maude has a dangerous belief
that she knows better than others
she can raise your child and discipline it too
whatever you do, probably needs tweaking
and she is glad to be the tweaker
She does not see any benefit to keeping opinions to yourself
Maude shares her brilliant advice with people she encounters
strangers on the street are given tips and tidbits
About what they are doing wrong
And how they could do them more right
Maude rapidly makes snap pea decisions and judgements
Lavishly slathering these ideas and suggestions on
her family and co-workers
She used to help her “friends” out too
But most of them have shunned her
They do not respond to her texts.
This does not stop her from leaving her ingenius deas
as to how they can improve on their answering machines.
I was wondering what a painting about one of my poems look like
Grimly gathering of gnarly letters
So take this one would it
slipperyness of eels in heels
Would my light one haze of neon faze
Would oil slick inks hint of tyres hanging cliff
Stuck between being and bee spell
Check one Czech too
slathering like squidwards tongue
Could you imagine if an artist paints your words
Would colour be redily available
Tones scared of the zones
ReaDy this inbRed distuRbEd if you
CaRED imploRed deRavED REaD
ErR closED follow the road
Penguins in trees with silk people sleeves
Peppered with sir and the gents
Belittle a little be
I mean we’re
would ewe start
I was wondering what a painting about one of my poems look like
Grimly gathering of gnarly letters
So take this one would it
slipperyness of eels in heels
Would my light one haze of neon faze
Would oil slick inks hint of tyres hanging cliff
Stuck between being and bee spell
Check one Czech too
slathering like squidwards tongue
Could you imagine if an artist paints your words
Would colour be redily available
Tones scared of the zones
ReaDy this inbRed distuRbEd if you
CaRED imploRed deRavED REaD
ErR closED follow the road
Penguins in trees with silk people sleeves
Peppered with sir and the gents
Belittle a little be
I mean we’re
would ewe start
I happened upon the tiniest snail today, it's spiral patterned shell caught my eye.
Not thought of fondly by many,
would turn your legs into jelly,
would make the keenest of plant lovers cry.
An interesting truth, they have many a tooth.
In fact 14,000 of these.
They chew through your berries and flourishing plants.
I'd Most definitely prefer to keep bees.
Now, some people would take a different approach and find them a delicacy.
A hint of garlic and slathering of butter.
Voila! Escargot for tea.
But that powerful snail and it's slimy trail has a weakness that we have been taught.
If you are squeamish,
this may turn you greenish.
All you need is a sprinkle of SALT
The quacksalver’s quicksilver cure--
slathering a salt salve or quaffing mercury--
might sound like quatsch, a bad wine
of qually quality, but remember a time
when faith aligned with alchemy,
before the querical became the enemy
of the clerical, the quisquous nature
of faith mirrored that viscous commodity;
when quiddities were not quisby oddities
and to quop and quob before mysteries
did not portend holy querimony
but recognition of the quintessence divine.
So much anguish
So many tears
For no good reason
We look her way
Knowing she is the cause of it
Wishing she could be different
She chooses her own meanness
Slathering it on like honey butter
Rolling in the aftermath
Sadly, uncaring about what she is doing
Many do not understand it is not something they have done.
It is her unique way.
The future holds no premium
For a person brawling with their past.
There are no birds in last year's nest.
There are no rememberings to unmask.
Memories are the fruits of our existence
Where some bloom and some may die
When exposed to an aura of understanding
Life's lessons shall provide.
'Tis Human to learn from our mistakes...
Making bold of life's infections
Slathering a healthy dapple of forgiveness
As we sinners surmise a new direction.
We should freely right past wrongs...
Banishing past transgressions to the night
As the journey may task our very soul...
So it's best to travel light.
I no longer fear a backward glance
Or the breeze of yesteryear.
I have made my bed and here I lie
With a spirit crystallized and clear.
I ignore the minions who dredge my past...
Casting forth their hellish stones...
As I eagerly embrace one of God's greatest gifts...
Which is a future yet unknown.
The End
There is such a smile on her face
Yet her eyes hold incredible slathering of pain
It makes me shudder to look into them
The depth of sorrow there tells another story
Many stories
Probably abusive stories
I dare not ask her any questions
For I cannot handle this much pain
So I pretend the smile is genuine
and go on my way
My own pain cannot handle hers
Gay Blade Garcia was a very angry non-accomplished cat.
He lived a lie for a life, and it kept him mad and fat.
His mother kept telling him she loved him and his preferences did not matter.
He was a general in the army, but still mad as a teapot hatter.
Just have the life you want, his grandmother cat told him with guff.
He had ribbons on his breastplate, but it simply was not enough.
He had a partner, Jake, that he wanted to tell about to the world.
But in Cat City, this news would be like grim reaper being unfurled.
So he stormed into battle with his sword and his badges, killing people.
Burning down buildings, slathering blood around, toppling church steeples.
Gay Blade Garcia spent much of his life showing how manly he was.
When actually inside he was sobbing, a warm sweet bit of fuzz.
His partner Jake eventually wandered off on his own, disconnected.
He could not take his partner being so sad, and horribly sad affected.
Gay Blade Garcia was the saddest general in the army of Cat City.
He was sad the rest of his life because not being yourself is not pretty.
There’s a part of me that say’s I’m jealous
Another thinks my golfing friends just zealous,
Whilst I crave fresh air and healthy motion
They’re busy slathering on the lotion
Before they mount some little cart
That with intent they simply point to dart
At breakneck speed from hole to hole
The putting of that little ball the goal.
Then there’s the clubs, that myriad bunch
The choice of which for them the crunch,
To make the shot or fail once more
Blaming each for that bad score.
Tortured, ruffled, discontent,
They soon repair to that drinks tent
To then replay the whole long game
Masterful excuses quickly turning lame.
But here’s the crunch and my dilemma
The doubt that heightens my antenna,
What are they hiding, sharing not a bit
Of why such torture never makes them quit,
Instead they plan and scheme each waking hour
For that free day the calendar they scour,
When they once more may hold that special club
With surging will some dainty green to stub.
scrambling for dollars
we are hogs in mass
rooting and tooting
with greed slathering our snouts
picking up our assault rifles
shooting into the crowd
hoping to kill the right people
Or the wrong ones
Just the ones who are not snooty stuck-up hogs
All the others actually
We are scrambling for top billing
Hoping to make a salary for the rest of our lives
Without having to work like the peons who put us here
And, hey let’s take the social security away from the others
The wrong ones, Okay? And maybe put their children in cages.
We are the all-powerful ones, right?
Fluffy tailed performers
Chitter chatter among themselves
No one listening, everyone slathering
Juicy gossip
Taking daring fifteen foot leaps and dives
From magnificent heights, barely landing on
Tiny branches.
Flinging themselves with wild abandon
And oodles of faith into the air, flipping and
Swirling. Contortionists.
Sliding up trunks the way others slide down.
Landing with a well-earned acorn in their jaws.
slathering and slithering
sharp tiny teeth,
short and squat
troll
You smile and he glares
trying to look fierce
You laugh and he bites
your foot
sneaky as a snake
and twice as mean
The only garden
danger that
makes my
blood run cold.
Pressed between twin stale realities,
a mixture of marble thoughts
Dark desires swirling around light devotion,
closet of moth-eaten moral legalities
Lettuce bed of flesh profiteering,
aorta slices of tomato fears
Asphalt of exhausted tears,
lip loyalty was bordello bought
Egged on by the sweet taste of a tainted tart ego,
soul slathering jive turkey flattery
Belly paradise of cooper acid reflux ...
Vomiting worship of dollar bread covetous regal
Mayonnaise daze of pickled yoke poverty,
rich irony is gut baked into the plight
Wry sandwich of crypt-o coin delight,
cemetery carry-out is a bottom feeder notion
Apple cider vinegar voices ... tax packet pocket oppression,
eye sprinkle condemn-mint dissent
Another time, same place location —
Spread the inequality plague of mayonnaise last days lesson
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