Was it an argument
A scrimmage
A scuffle
A hair-pulling jaw-slugging fight
Or an all-out brawl?
Let’s ask the three dead people down the hall.
You start
the poem
but cannot end it
insoluble through teared eyes
A whipping wrecking ball swung, slugging your breast
striking a sharp chord of melancholy thought hidden
a random book, a random page, a random long-forgotten line; yet…
Crypto beasts once roamed the earth
with all the other regular monsters.
Early man was still a fish-like slug,
which was a good thing,
because the fish-like slug was itself,
only slowly evolving.
Thus, all unknowing,
potential humanity
slithered around its thick alluvial ponds,
blissfully unaware
that for a few more million years,
Mother Nature
would still be running around
with Her hair on fire.
Those with time to the brink are on the irk.
Sincere toadies do not cast magic shirk.
People who have also been hugely hurt.
People tranced with the act of a flirt.
Firmly, it isn't the genial people who I denied.
They're apt as crucial as the things they hide.
This dreadful wrath has taken over my heart.
If I grasp them, chew the cud; my hair grows a dart.
You appreciate them, yet they overlook you.
It's tuff to fathom folks who love but fade too.
People who beget anguish and sadness.
People who say they care but flee in darkness.
I deplore slugging, furious, proud, and slander people.
People fear honesty; therefore, I sprawl the treacle.
Written: January 08, 2022
King-Size Bull Crap Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Charles Messina
I have time to do something and I have to roll my eyes.
Because there are sixteen ideas arguing among themselves.
If they could ever agree, it would be a miracle.
They are trying to outshout each other. On the verge of violence.
Don’t feel bad, a friend says.
My ideas are slapping and slugging each other now.
One of them killed another one yesterday.
I feel blessed.
This is where I indeed, do live!
With many churches, to support and which to give.
Murder is a most rare occurrence here.
No riots, no drunks, walking about, slugging down a beer.
Trees are luscious green, all year round.
Flowers grow in lovely silence, not uttering a sound.
Bunnies, opossums, cats at happy play.
Would that our world were as sweet, as this peaceful valley Sunday!
3/21/2021
~1~
Zombies ate my Christmas guests
Oh Lord you should have seen it
Don't know what the cops will think
But the neighbors won't believe it
Granny dodged and moved so quick
She ran like Herschel Walker
Just as it seemed she'd get away
She tripped, that's how they caught her
Uncle Fred was passed out cold
From slugging lots of scotch
So they put him in the blender
And started drinking shots
What happened to the others
Is a tale to gross to tell
But i think that me and grandpa
Are going straight to... well now
See grandpa is a Wiley one
And he knew just what to do
Smeared on blood and messed his pants
Then said you'd better too
The zombies still came after us
But when they caught our smell
stopped all of their snarling
And said welcome..... what the well now
So grandpa, me, and zombies
All sat at the dinner table
Drinking shots of uncle Fred
And dinning on aunt mable
Drizzling down from irate clouds
Slugging the streets with force
But like a chirpy bird
A joy these sounds enforce
Outside the kids rejoice
As I reminisced my past
How long did those days last
Till these chirps started to sound like noise
Half-baked smiles, conversations disarrayed, high in poetry, I guess I’m nineteen.
Half-filled maturity, occasional fits of naivety, I guess I’m nineteen.
Eyes frenzied, tears anfractuous, it’s too dry, the environs, where to look, where to?
Voices seem distant, no arc of light behind dark dreary, I guess I’m nineteen.
Scampering through days, slugging through moments, no sense of time, only of beauty;
I guess it’s too late to say, “I don’t want to be twenty”, now that I’m nineteen.
Age opens a lid, Dew, experience lifts, winds hurl it through light into darkness:
Past days of childish frolic, recreational pranks, gone free, I guess I’m nineteen.
-Pin Dew (30/04/2017)
Within my mind neglected Goddess lies,
With foaming mouth and reddened eyes enraged,
She claws the lobes with needful shrieks and cries,
This beast is rabid Aphrodite caged.
Her presence Mother Nature bargain gifted,
Appeasing Death to spring forth creatures new,
But I am self-aware enough and lifted
To challenge Love and lockup all her dues.
Yet even so this shell is sick and frail,
And cracks with craze when carnal pleasure fasts;
The slugging Reason symptoms Love’s prevail,
The shun of one can sum them both outcasts.
The need for Love I grudgingly resent,
Upset the Reason’s poor for sole content.
Thinking of my ex, there is an ounce of pride,
Even though our opinions did sometimes collide.
He was a pilot, and a jack of all trades,
With a stubborn opinion that could not be swayed.
He was a charmer, and at one time had a heart of gold,
Even though he liked to hide it, if truth be told.
On a trip, we came across a dirty homeless man,
Holding out his meager money pan.
My husband said to me, “I won’t give him a single dime!”
“Give him food instead…he reeks of cheap wine!”
We gave him the food, and went on our way,
Happy we had done our good deed of the day!
In business he was about as ruthless as they come,
Slugging it out with the big guns, only giving them crumbs.
Too busy counting his money, he lost his lovely wife.
Now he can spend it all on himself, in his new life.
A river flows through this fold of life,
sometimes too turbulent,
occasionally too still
even for older established streams
with sluggish circulation currency
nearly to our shore of oceanic
sea's streaming into one surfing surface
tidal stream
Sanguine river of sublime rivers
flowing and surfing out and up
and back and forth
surging and slugging
stressing and struggling
with undertow
need to flow
back home again,
to when this river's story began
to flow through this unfolding life
Sometimes too turbulent,
occasionally too still.
.
-The Last Straw-
Sometimes he went too far
Shunning the sunlight, wading into the dark
swimming in places the sun couldn't find
shifting the wind to suit his own fall
speeding through life with his back to the wall
where he'd spit in the eye, and bend all the rules
yet with something to find, that was not of this world
spilling his guts
wading through fog, feeling the chill
unfurled in a dream
that was seen through a glass
while he looked for asylum in the black of the night
Boomerang words were like bats out of hell
to dwell in the mind and rattle the bones
of someone with soul, who feels all alone
changing their world from the outside in
Students mull over his words, taking sides
A skate on thin ice
Some call it nice........some call it sludge
slugging it out, from opposite sides
Some can't decide........ some claim to hate it
Fate has a name. Genius I'd say
Some of us stumble, and tumble right in
_________________________________
For Contest Sponsored By Amy Green 4/7/14
Genius
Resubmitted for PD's Contest: 101 in a Row #14
9/16/16
Inside fleshy walls, wallowing in youth,
lava coarses corrosive through peeled licorice
onward, fleeing the thundering stone
vacillating at the center of a man slugging
elderberry wine, to become both numb and Dionysus.
Yellow convertibles park on brown-banged boulevards
obstructing the ravishing, glacial blue hands. They stretch
unassuming, but firmly grab my empty arms.
Mannequin pale, those twin starved orphans,
offered the chance to grow into men, to feel
rushing gales of breath, trembling limbs of love!
Goodness, grace incarnate in a smile. Blue jeaned
angel, the deliverance of a self-loathing leper
naked in the shadows of his own shortcomings.
Ravaged, I stand stoic; an amorous, wounded statue
on call before her, a tragic hero in vain,
battered in body, in spirit, in moonstruck mind,
ill with the drawing force of four hoarse
scotch-swigging demons, poisonous jealousy
of a starry eyed Italian gondola captain. Who am longing I but
Nobody, wishing for a crack to melt into, or
a shatterproof heart.
How about this for OPENERS
You STOLE my heart away
With SIGNS of love and caring
A sparkling two way PLAY
You guys are all a HIT with me
You're WINNERS every time
Raising me in the STANDINGS
Such loyal FANS of mine
Since I was just a ROOKIE poet
Had myself quite a RUN
Feel like a real VETERAN now
This GAME is so much fun
Appreciate every seven STAR rating
This poetry fits like a GLOVE
Quite a CHANGE in one short year
Above AVERAGE kind of love
So I'm gonna keep on SLUGGING
Aiming for the FENCES
Hoping to hit a poetic HOME RUN
And SCORE with all your senses
© Jack Ellison 2013
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