If shampoo and soap
could wash away
the sins I may commit today
I’d stand for hours
beneath a shower
Anything so as not to pray
Under eighteen
hot tears spilling
nowhere near serene
at the end of your rope
cannot cope
need fulfilling
please don't mope
there's always hope
here's the dope
find someone thrilling
you can soft-soap
who is willing
and won't say 'Nope'
to a clandestine marriage
on the slippery slope
of the blacksmith's anvil
hire the carriage
you prefer
defer the billing
and elope
After a bubble bath last night
I left the water running
‘O, Soapy Mio!’
Heaven help me
pay for the plumbing
Body Soap
I’m training the liquid body soap I use to
make the least effort keeping me
clean to
distinguish who
isn’t and who is
clingy,
in manner a
cloth or
a doily should be worn on
the head when outdoors.
Pink fancy soap often left an unused scent sensation,
More or less aesthetic used only as a pink decoration
Upon the left back corner of the vanity mirror and sink.
("Untitled - The Eye of Jihad", 2019, original encaustic)
Love is Love - and other absurd truisms
“Love is love” is like “Follow your bliss”
a way to deflect the moral agency
and subsequent consequence of our desires
with vague equivalency.
It’s like all love and bliss is somehow equal,
which is absurd.
What if my bliss comes from destroying yours?
Or I love abducting, raping, slicing and dicing
then barbecuing
the infant you love…?
Where is the moral equivalence?
This is why the Golden Rule sounds great
up until you are up against a masochist.
And the world today is apparently filled with masochists.
But it’s all good…
At least it feels good,
to think we are all the same, all equal
in what we love and cherish.
The truth is we aren’t.
We may all be made of the same dust,
but that doesn’t make us equal.
Meanwhile the world turns,
a hit soap-opera
in its nth season
spinning relentlessly
a veritable Wall of Death
which in its shocking extreme
delivers some kind of perverse pleasure.
It may not be bliss,
or even what we love,
but it’s certainly captivating.
(11/1/23)
I sniff at my hands and oh!
Such scent, such ecstasy,
a memory presented to my nose.
But where do we find this block of adorable redness?
It was sold in every shop: lovable carbolic soap,
an aromatic compound, so ruddy, so redolent.
But this is now so rare; it merely
presents itself to my pleading mind -
a psyche that puts forth its arms,
a plea to a storehouse of valuable memory,
a whiff of an echo, an echo of an odour,
an odour that's been sent.
So who remembers, recalls a soap that's not
so round, bright pink, cream, blue or white,
that isn't sold in pretty-pretty paper?
We do so wish to sniff, sniff, sniff at an odour that's so old.
(3 Oct 2023)
"soap soup tureen"
oops it's
a washing
machine
For hygiene no hope,
No recourse to soap,
Cleanliness for rope
Germs no longer grope;
Easy patrols: lope
To those who hate soap
Do you ever cope?
All Catholics Nope!”
For I could tell Pope.
Soap is Next father
Of laundry’s lather
Dwarfed only by surf
But to Dirt still rough
Use it no odour
You’ll smell the other.
Soap of my heart somewhere far but near my heart,
Oh! Grand daughter and daughter of some African
Kings,
A soap is used to remove dirty on the body but many
People spoke that you are capable to wash inside
My body.
Oh! my princess, you are the soap to clean my heart
Friend of mine in the long life journey.
Heart in my heart , You are so beautiful and kind in my
Eyes , the only dream woman of my entire life.
All maidens are happy for my first position into
Your heart.
Really ! Poet Alfonso Mussabwa is doing poetry
On you.
Tell the World about the beauty of this romantic poem
Oh! My future Queen.
My eyes are all over you ,
So come to me darling.
March 29/2023
By Alfonso Warally Ngengethe Mussabwa Chris
a soap bubble
rolls over the grass
thinking it lacks wings
-- Souvenirs of Silence, Soman Gouda
I have a filthy job
Cleaning up other people's messes But the pressure that people apply to me That's what makes me act that way Every time my service is in need end up feeling empty afterwards Humans use me up and drain me Til the point I'm so empty they dispose me But getting me getting used is important That's the life of a soap dispenser
The company made the most perfect soap mold.
It was a beautiful baby, sleeping, and it was gold.
They tried to sell it to everyone they knew.
No one would use that soap though her reputation grew.
Maybe we could sell this mold to make chocolates one suggested.
These chocolates were not eaten, as discovered when market tested.
No one wants to eat a baby or wash one a way in a shower.
This perfect soap mold had such enormous emotional power.
What about pendants? Someone said. I would like one.
Having a pendant of your own baby would be more fun.
So, the perfect soap mold went into a closet way below.
No one remembers it any more, this is how things go.
A woman who dresses in suds
Does not really need any duds
Without being mean
She's easy to clean
But do keep an eye out for studs!
What kind of soap are you making? I asked the gnomes.
They had many ideas they were sharing with each other.
Their soap-making business outgrew most of their homes.
They began a communal business they shared with their brothers.
They made lemon grass, orange citrus, and pekoe tea soap too.
There was turquoise goddess, wind walker and oceans of blue.
Whatever name they decided on, they somehow made a soap.
No matter what came along, these gnomes knew how to cope.
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