Growing up I always saw these commercials for razors
Razors that will shave “extra close to the skin”
Ones that have 5 blades and ones that have 7
And an ergonomic handle that is pink just for you
Commercials showing the perfect pretty blonde model on my tv
Shaving her armpits to be impossible smooth
I know now that they were already waxed
No hair is left because hair isn’t dainty, isn't feminine, isn't appropriate
The perfect pretty blond model on my TV says
Underarm hair is a turnoff, so start worrying when you’re 11
Shaving is necessary if you want to have a husband!
Who cares if you get cuts from your razor
Who cares if you get ingrown hairs
Oh your razor is dull? Buy a new one!
Get our super handy replaceable clip-on razor heads ™!
How much are they? One replacement is only $20!
The perfect pretty blond model in the razor commercial says
With the most stupid
Serene
Irritating music in the background
You’ll never be truly pretty unless you are hairless like a newborn
So shave your pits from the womb to the tomb!
Conversations with my father,
Bittersweet, and maybe sad
Conversations with my father
Talks that we never had.
Companionably silent
As we set off walking
Neither of us known
For doing too much talking
Down Lambwath road
To Billy Bulson’s farm,
Each with a broken 12 bore
Tucked safely underarm.
I was at his hospital bedside
On the day that he died
Once alone in the car
I gave in and cried.
I am now past that age
And like him slowing down.
Maybe that’s the reason now
I feel him there and around.
We talk about the garden,
Always his joy and pride.
He was never the man
To spend his time inside.
We talk of this and that
In our lazy easy way
And I suppose we chat now
Nearly every single day.
Maybe it’s because I’m older,
That much nearer the other end
But there we sit and chat
Like two good old friends.
Conversations with my father
Bitter sweet and maybe sad,
Conversations with my father,
Talks I wish we’d really had
Under her arms
was a tangle of hair
It was quite easy
to get trapped in there
But thanks to the razor
the tweezers and laser
Drops of sweat now
love to betray her
The witches have now gone on a huge labor strike.
They are more difficult now to double cross, let alone like.
They are wearing socks that have a weird pattern of stripe.
Their underarm odors are notorious foul, irritating and ripe.
They are driving bat mobiles that make their brooms passé’.
I am glad not to be around any of them at the end of day.
We took up the challenge,
When the bar was set high,
To show the rest of the world,
That Kiwis can fly higher,
In a world at an all time low
As Omicron hits new heights.
While others could not count to four,
We have been hitting Covid for six,
Despite the underarm tactics,
Of those who pushed news that was fake.
Now it is time to put the children into bat,
And we should be unafraid of that,
As those giving the Vaccination,
Are child friendly,
And were the first to take up the challenge.
Now thanks to them,
And all of us who followed suit,
Our children can breath easy,
As they wait in line for their turn to bat,
With those giving the jab,
Having spent enough time in the nets,
For their bat always able to find that sweet spot,
So, we can take our children to watch the Black Caps,
Beat South Africa in a cricket test from the embankment,
Instead of on TV in a hospital,
If they can lift their head off the pillow.
Let’s do an underarm reveal, she said in a daring sort of way.
I knew at that minute that this contest would make my day.
She has not shaved since 1997; not being demure.
This was hilarious to me since I knew I would win this contest for sure.
She showed off her fur, and the crowd wailed; two did scream.
Excited that she was probably their next disgusting underarm queen.
That’s nothing I thought, but I kept it quietly to myself, smirking.
My hair was growling and snarling now, where vermin are lurking.
She turned and whirled and disgusted most of them in a big ugly way.
I was still gloating, knowing that she had no chance against me today.
My turn came and I gave a gracious spin with arms raised.
In my underarm hair were sixteen opossums, many of them crazed.
They snarled, spit, and hissed along with a woven snake.
Who had been sitting in my hair sulking since 1954’s earth quake.
They terrified the crowd who declared me the true and only winner.
Then raced to their houses to throw up their beef and turkey dinner.
i did have to comb
what had been left of my dome
while i would be home
had been lead astray
God told us we should obey
Use underarm spray
much sugar with spice
had been found in paradise
without sin or vice
with great precision
biden did make decision
need more religion
rather than trashing
biden gave out compassion
which he would ration
when in pinch would feel
needed to have sex appeal
biden be big deal
we know God is wise
and have heard to our surprise
bible did devise
God would break the code
our sins were a heavy load
make sure lawn is mode
(gifts on us bestowed)
after taking knap
God said we should cut the crap
also shut big trap
God gave me big broom
so i could sweep off my tomb
flowers bloom by bloom
when in chair would sit
by lightening bolt had been hit
needed first aide kit
saw banged up fender
had been made by male gender
quite a big bender
My Brain is Frazzled
Been on the Razzle
.
Since New Year's Eve
Drunk and Disorderly
Body and Mind
Craving a Retreat a Spa
An erstwhile Detox
Clean undies and socks
Deodorant underarm
But most of all
I need someone to love
Who loves me back
Is that to much to ask ??
.
A woman with underarm hair
Decided that she would go bare
She lifted her arms
Revealing her charms
But everyone gagged in despair
in her shower
she showed me
how a simple
soaped soft
hand can
palm
a naked
body so no
trap doors can
be found yet while
mesmerized by dance
what are the chances that
from out
her underarm
she smiles her
smiling charm and
says softly to me is this
breathing seductively is this
your card
our card
shall ever
be if it is
the Queen
of Hearts
Would you still love me if I threw you under a bus?
Would you still love me if I taught children to cuss?
Would you still love me if I sat on your nose?
Would you still love me if I squashed your big toes?
Would you still love me if I had you arrested?
Would you still love me if I had your blood tested?
Would you still love me if I turned you in to the cops?
Would you still love me if I pulled out all the stops?
Would you still love me if I hid underarm hairs in your food?
Would you still love me if I laughed at your most awful mood?
Would you still love me if I smacked around your big brother?
Would you still love me if I sandwich-grilled your grandmother?
I am jotting down notes, deciding how evil I can be,
Figuring out what would make you stop loving me.
How much can I, do I, will I have to do to push you away?
You perpetually are still loving me, so I guess I will stay.
Written 12-07-2018 Would You Still Love Me Poetry Contest. Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Spider love.
Smashing himself into the inner crook of my foul-smelling underarm.
The right one. Not the bad one.
Smelling my flesh. Sniffing around me.
licking me.
Smitten, eager for the dance of togetherness to rear its ugly head.
I gently extract him, and lavish him with a lover’s kiss.
He bites my lip. Hard!
A challenge.
We begin our mating dance.
Contra Love Written 9-24-2018
Poetry Contest: Contra Sponsor: Jesse Rowe
Flat pack Wobbler
Procured from mega shop, a straight-lined box amid a cardboard wall
Where jig saw chattels rise above the queues of flatbed wheelies
And underarm catalogues patterned with an iconic list of what they are
When the blocks are sequenced and affixed with laborious strife
A transformation takes place that gives the pack new form herewith
Long live the flat pack table and its tedious sway in frail chipboard
Seated upon upon a quartet of nailed on props that creak objection
It takes its varnished place in harmony with four bolted chairs that match
And for a while it serves to hold the plates and cutlery just grand
Until the careless etch of scratches weave marring patterns on its top
Forever to remain as though a work of scribbled art and wrinkled mess
No longer wavelets in the soup, a tidal wave is now the norm when the legs teeter
Today the food’s aslant and the drinks decide to slide and slither to the floor
The props have given way, they’re tired and now submit to glory
And the table returns again to flat pack with eternal gratitude
quartet of props
Oh dear, what can the matter be?
Why do ladies wink and titter when they glance at me?
At the office party I stood beneath a sprig of mistletoe,
Hoping some gal would upon my lips a tender kiss bestow!
For the party I wore my new suit and a matching tie,
Shaved my mug and fragrant Old Spice I did apply!
I brushed my teeth and sweetened my breath with Listerine,
And polished and brushed my shoes to a dazzling sheen!
I applied underarm deodorant so as not to offend,
Got a haircut having the barber fashion it per the latest trend!
I stood there looking, I thought, rather suave and debonair,
But not a gal approached me - none of them seemed to care!
I happened to glance down and was shocked at what I did see!
My fly was unzipped! Oh dear! That was what the matter be!
Deject jejune muck
Underarm hollow tax cows
Nods lone land per hoof
Grasshopper a widower
Yelps fable ape logy bog
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