like a miserable cockroach he wriggled
through wreckage in the sump of his life
bottle in hand and at delirious mouth
in a macabre rehearsal of final strides
what had once been a passionate waltz
had become a legless inebriated pirouette
moribund madness personified
liquified insanity stumbling to hell
with wings of destruction in overdrive
it was a sink hole leap towards the abyss
each jump digging deeper and faster
into the rock bottom of body mind and soul
eventually all music and heart stopped
yet he remembered cacophonous decrescendo
enough to wake up from self-inflicted catatonia
like a phoenix and still tarred and feathered by booze
he decided to rise again whatever the cost
the rest is a miracle and sober blessing and still
he knows that Icarus had pinions of wax
therefore he stayed close to new foundations
of hard-won truths and the reality of his privilege
Sump pump is broken
Constant water run
Plumbers cost money
Homeowner is sad
Waits a bit too long
The basement floods
Ruins couches
Bedding thrown out
Salvage nothing
Expensive
Life lesson
Plumber comes
Nasty
Stump pump
Flood
.
very hard
it's the sump think
mine can't
explain
the tear
from mine
all ten
locked tight these
keys
whilst mine non-stop
brain
speeds
*'speed' in the stead uv 'races' to distinguish mine brain's
move..az in...not racing thoughts ;)
.
i felt that
that special thing
boyz
like mine
engage
yup
that
that thump
that heavy damn
Bump
that
kisss
yessss
'til
yourn limbs split
'til
feverishly
yourn wriggle
baffles
mine
Johnson's bed with Trump isn't chaste
A waste dump that's sticky with paste
Mike's endorsement bet
Is an enormous threat
That sump pumps can never erase
Author's note: For those unfamiliar with USA's government, Mike Johnson is the current Speaker of the House.
The holidays are history and winter settles in with
its pain-in-the-rear wind chill; a light covering
of snow finally brightens the mood for a day or two
until it’s washed away by rain. The sump is broken and the
north end of the basement floods.
The overdue heating bill on the desk screams at me,
telepathically, for attention; a red circle on the
calendar says a check is coming and my crusty eyes
begin to widen. But since it’s already been spent,
they quickly narrow and re-crust.
The soothsaying marmot sees no shadow, and my mood
stays low as the thermostat stays high; hey folks:
it’s February and things are supposed to get warmer,
right? Pitchers and catchers report, but I’m not there,
so I might as well be in Helsinki.
Things should get better in March, but we’re greeted
by a mother of blizzards; however, the next day it warms
and snow drifts disappear like vanilla ice cream on hot
pie. By six-thirty, the sun still hasn’t set. Sump’s still broken,
but I have wide eyes and a smile.
Take all your vitamins and meds, twice a day
Exercise often, don't just 'play'
Eat healthy foods, but sparingly
No caffeine ever after mid-day
Regular visits, doctor and dental
And don't forget to check the mental
Make sure you're insured: life, health, house and car
Work long and hard hours, you're not a rock star
Constantly check your emails, texts and twitters too
Don't neglect your cousins in Kiev and Timbuktu
Inspect the a/c, heater, all vents and sump-pump sure enough
Use color-coded folders for your financial records and stuff
Now just follow these simple regulations and rules
And don't sweat the sleep ~ you insomniac, you
to re-verse
...some poetry...
be to
...sump 'po'-at-tree...
and if
...some poe (at tree)...
be of
...sumped poetry...
then to
...sump poe at tree...
will glossen
...some po-at-tree...
stan sand
A good rifle or shotgun,
Kittens, pups, and Panda cubs.
Harley rides,
juke boxes and pinball machines.
Cool stuff like that.
Oh yes, and ogling Cosplay girls
In their sexy costumes,
and those joyful shuffle-dancing females
on You Tube.
Vintage p..n
It’s then that ghostly desires rise up like sump
from a rusty oil tank,
impulses that make me tremble
as if I had
some kind of geriatric palsy.
Whatsapp Woes
I marvel at the morning dump,
Where innards churn, as a pump,
Where mighty thoughts,
Of what aught, and naught,
Get flushed into the Whatsapp sump!
A meeting spot
For thoughts to rot,
To raise a stink,
Smudge still-wet ink;
Cesspool of noxious broth!
"I am feeling it." He said.
He meant his age. As I watched
I saw a vision…
Out from the cuttlefish bones of his breast
grime coughed up and dribbled.
I saw his heart stutter, the vapid flutter,
watched his lungs belch and utter
like a broken bladder.
A horseman on a creaking steed
raised its hoary head
and pointed an ancient ladle
speaking thus -
"Stir me belly lad," it said,
"spoon me sticky sump,
dole globs of lymph from here to there.
Me grease is dumpy and lumpy.
Me hip-bones crunch
while me dingle wilts and dangles.
Me ears is gummy lad,
I've gone to the bad.”
The specter faded.
The old guy smiles, rubs his thin hair.
"I also see it sometimes," he says,
"that liver-spotted ghost
that chains me to an even older vision
of you."
A week away from Ground Hog Day
And my water heater’s sore.
It spat at my clumsy plumbing,
Took a leak on the basement floor.
That triggered my elderly sump pump
To noisily heave up its guts.
My cat on the workbench watched me endure
The death of a thousand cuts.
I loaded my Remington 12 gauge,
Thirteen rounds, counting one in the hole.
I returned to my waterlogged basement
And said “Darlin’, let’s rock and roll!”
I pumped the rack like a madman,
Drawing lines between the dots.
My neighbor had a heart attack
When he counted thirteen shots.
Then I ponied up and loosened my grip,
Put the Remington down, wiped the sweat from my lip.
I find no game in a proctored arena.
My demeanor is salty and gruff.
And it makes me laugh like a tickled hyena
When I’ve proven enough is enough.
And I celebrate the damage with an innkeeper’s perk,
Appreciating vengeance drinking whiskey after work.
P.S., I've got a Weil-McLain on order.
There are no toilets up in Heaven, so I was told
Righteous are the perfect sheep in God's Holy fold
They no longer have the need to pee or drop a turd.
That's based on the information I recently heard.
But since I've had more time to ponder the thought,
what if rumblings of thunder are the echoes of a fart?
Body waste would fall from Heaven on you and me.
Quite a perplexing problem for us. Do you agree?
Earth would be a toxic cesspool, if that were so
and down, down, down, the flushes would flow.
We'd have constant need of a massive sump pump
to remove the stinky caca when angels take a dump.
Sitting on a throne is not the way I picture the divine.
God would never allow such a vile plumbing design.
He'd not pollute the planet he created for mankind.
No overflowing toilets in Heaven will you ever find.
October 7, 2021
The Throne in Heaven Contest
Sponsor: Jack Webster
********************
The season's falling faster
than the pumpkins dare to slump
That the leaves go passing after
for the dew to form their sump
And the heat goes passing faster
for the wind to feel it's shunt
When the bees now falling past her
form the hive's now lower front
And the rain can fall as laughter
for the patter of the sound
When the volume falls as quickly
as the ear to feel the ground
And the heart can be to falling
what the soul is meant to be
When the Earth begins to breathing
what the Fall was meant to free
Bedsprings crochet bones together.
His back is sutured to gripes
stitched to gummy joints.
In the toilet, avoiding the mirror,
humming softly,
shunning conversation with himself -
the ceiling drips a sump of memories.
The park --- Frances revolves confused.
"I don't understand."
A phrase with self-winding words.
A slight miscalculation,
a turning away at the precise moment
she turned towards him;
an error of timing really.
Frances whirs on "I don't understand."
Later he understood she overdosed.
He imagines this lethal power
over her life to be his.
Time whittles cavities with calcifications.
Softly the spine of a storybook breaks -
where one stitch patches a sorrow
a spur prods and rips.
When he listens to the hollows
between the long vertebrae of his life,
he hears a theory crumbling away
under slowly grinding cogs.
Related Poems