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SassyJ Jul 2016
Women Stereotypes
10w40
This is so popular, proven to have high performance even if it is synthetic. That does not make any sense realistically. It strokes engines brilliantly. The most expensive even on sale. It does not deter dirt.

3 in 1
The lubricant  can be trusted the fact that it dries quicker, penetrating the stuck locks as well preventing further corrosion.

Exotic Graphite
As exotic as graphite is, it does a good job by providing a long lasting lubrication. It repels water too! It’s cheaper that the rest and it extends life. It makes a proper logic economically. You pay less but get more!

Lubricant Affordability**
3in1 and graphite deter dust and are cheaper than 10W40.

Does that make you more ambivalent?... ;0)

Anticlimax lubricant  ambivalence has reached it’s ******.
Armed downhill by the rusted adjusted shielded knight.
Pasted in exquisite oil, no distaste or aftertaste.
Dunked in abluent..........Dented but affluent!
Women stereotypes...... solve the puzzle......
Inspired by Aztec warrior (My dented rusted knight)

http://hellopoetry.com/aztec-warrior/
Toothache Sep 2018
Come see me
9 PM this Friday
In a park near you!

Come watch me eat ḋ̸̻̺̗͙̤͕̦͂̄̓̽̊̋͗i̴̡̛̙̯̗̠͇͉̼̲̻̅̊̃̍̆͞r̸͚̼̣͔̜̟̬̰͂̽̆̿̏͋̓̕͟͡͞t̄̍̈̃̆̕͘­͗ by the mouthful at the swing set.
Come see me scream till your ears b̨̩̫͕̘̊͊̉̾͛̍́̀͞l̤̺̫̰̘͎͉̓̅̌͐̀͜͢ͅe̡̙͚̟̯͙͕̖̾͌̽͐̀͊̓̌̒͜ḝ̰̙̱̯̻̘̈́͗̌̀͞͞­̬̥d̨̡̟̪̟̗̼͍͓̓́̈̍̊̇̿͋̅͢͞ as I slide down the biggest slides.
Enjoy my one man play reenacting the Silence of the Lambs!
(Your ķ͖̠͙̫̗̣͒̊͆̾̎̽̃̈͘ǐ̷̧̛͍̦̟̜͙̥͎̔̄̽̾͢d̡̡̮̗̜̻̱̮̼̊͒̈́̓̔̊̊͒͌͜s̤͉̈̆̓͗̾̓̅͢­̴̲̜̖̻ will love that one)

Stand and applaud as I attempt dangerouse ş̵͇̲̗͒͋͐̅̚͝ͅt̸̨͙̣̰̬̩̱̥̝͒̓̀̓̏̏̓͘͠ų̷̢̨̥͓͕̉́͑̿̕͢͝ņ̸͓̱͚͈̭̣̬̘̀͑͗͊̆ͅ­t̶̨͇̝̻͍͉̼̎̓͟͠͝͠s̴̡̧̗̹̰̩̘͇̤̈́̽͛̊͐͟ off the jungle gym that I have only seen In Hollywood movies!

Watch me .
p̝̞̖̳̪̮̫͙̅̋̉̄͐͆̔̆̔̿ę̺͔̘̭̺̲̫̐̅̀̿̓͢͟ẽ̷̗͔͍̬͔͗̇͊͛̽̓͘͜͜l̟̇̔̂͗̓́͠͡͝­̧̬͎̗͙̫͎͟ off my s̷̫̰̜̤̠̿̆̎͋̕͟͜͠k̴̢͔͔̳̬̻͗͑̀̌͂͐̔͑̊ͅi̷͓͖͉͚͚̠̝̙̝͌͊̄̀̏͊̑͝͡ͅṋ̻͙̇̽̈́͋̄̔͡­̧̩̜, and use my wet muscles as lubricant to make the roundabout go faster!

Watch me dunk your neighbors dogs s̴̢̨̘͎͉̪̪̦͚̄͋̃͛̊̆̀̓͘̕ȩ̧͎͈̀̀͒͋́̐͟͠v̸̦͚̠͕̏̂̎̔̀̊͆͢͝͞e̡̳̠̺̠̟͇͂͛͗͋̍͑͢­ŗ̢̦͎̮͉͕͍̊̐̓̂͛̽̒̄͒͗e̗̩͚͖̫͋̄͟͡͠͞ḍ̴̢̲͔͖̣̪̾͌͗̀̒̄̄͞ head in the basketball hoop!                

Have you ever seen a rat with no              
    f̵̢̣̘̦̱͚̟̟̱̀̏́͐́̍̄̚i̵̢̢͎̺̘͚̿͒̐̈́̀̓̌̚n̛͙̟̦̟͕̩͒̌̍͑g̢̰͕̤̝͑̏̅̆̕e͐­̸̡̢͈̥͓͉̊̋͑̀r̛̩͔̻̩̮̱͆̒̽͆͋̚ṡ̸̛̛͎͕̯̳̻͙̏͘͝?             
     
Would you l̨̛̦̟͎͇̲̼̦̱̠̓̀́̇̏̀į̧͎̭̫͓̮̫̮̌͆̎̐̀̽̎͌̚k̴̭̼̥̱͖̃̽̎͒͋̅́͠e̹̟͆͑̅̅͌͗̀̀͟͠­͖̩̱̰̬̯ to?!

I
Would.
Come one come all,                                  
to something, entirely new!        

Enjoy something.... .
.
R̴̛͕̺̝̜͔̈́͋͑͒̎͆̏̓̒͜Ā͙̻͚̗͌́̃͂̊̈͗̚͞ͅW̶̙̻̰͙̹̲̗̆͋̈̇̓͜
.
.!
.
.
I̵̖̬̘͔̻̹̜̫͊̂͌̓̽ a̴̧̢̱͇͚̭̹̞̅͂̄̌͒͝͠m̧̗̜͍̥͙̦͈͍̐̉̔͛̍͒̌ t̸̮̪̹̺̥͈͈̯͂̔͊̅͢͞ḩ̶̧̮̠̺͉̱͈̣͛̾̊̚̚̚ḙ̴̫̬͕͍͔̯̝̐̾͑͆͘ͅ ĉ̳̝̟̙̦̏́̈͆̊́͑̽͡i̜̮͔͕͓̐̑̇̂̎͑͑r̻̝̩͔̫̮̩̽͑̍̈́̈́͛͌̕c̶̰̱̥͚͕̻͗͊̂̊͗̑̏͌̚͜ļ̶̨̯̪̲̣̑̒͛̿̎̓̾͢͢͠ȩ̧̩͇̻̦̩͓̱̿̃̊̇̐̀͗̔̚ ą̨̦͔̼̘̘̔̉̓͒̃̐̎̍̕n͓͚͖̠̭͉̱̦̋̊́̋̀̅̕d̢̥̖̯͈̠̜̑̈̇͊̾̆̈͟͝ t̷̨̧̡̙̤̮̞̮͕̔͗́̾͒ḩ̵̙͇͈́̄͐̊̓̀̈́͒̌̎͢e̸̡̘̠͔̪͂̎̓̏͑̈́͘ c̶̨̧̟̱̜̘̊̌́̀͘͞ǐ̴̲̫̙̼̟̮̎̔̀̑̂̽͜͠͡ͅr̯̟͙̩̋̊͐͂̇͟c̵̬̫̲̰̱͔̯͓̘̀̃̅͊̀͋͘͜͡l̛̪̯̬̙̙̠̗̐̉͌̃̒̔̔͘͢ͅě̜̘̫̗̰̇̏̌̊̒́̕̕͟͝ͅ
M Vogel Aug 2021

You are in there,  I am certain of it--
Behind the gear's finely-honed,
precision fit  gear..

in to gear
in to gear

into gear..
And I wonder..  do you want out?
The machine  on the outside, self-repairs
Any attempt towards dismantle  from
the external,  is futile..
But the internal,  beautiful girl..

"I don't know what you mean, about 'machine'"
She is apprehensive, those beautiful
brown eyes,  looking up at me..
"Look down, sweet girl"
Her thighs, fully parted,  as I slide
in to her.. those amazing hips,
moving so perfectly with mine,  extracting..

Milking from me, my warm  pulsing *****--
a deeply-penetrating lubricant,  pulsed
deeply into the machine
As if to lubricate its gears..
As if..

But penetrating so deeply, as to now
permeate the insides  of the
mechanization's innerworkings--
turning from lubricant, to that
of a corrosive nature..
Fully coating now, the inner you..

as it turns back now, into that
of a healing balm
Bringing to you  a moment of Light  
  and internal clarity--  
long enough for you to see

    That the machine  is made vulnerable
    by the ever-changing qualities  of
    Love that found its way through
    As the awakened parts within you, for the
    first time.. understand

the machine's love-blocking,  nature
And you begin to choose, mid-******
the machine's dismantle,  from the inside--

'Little by little..

Line, upon line..

Block, upon block..

Precept, upon precept..'


Until we have the chance,  once again..
to do it all again
the power of christ compels
.
Karijinbba Dec 2018
I could say it to his face
all I felt like calling him
good or bad and he smiled
and immediatly I purred.
We even made a wtitten promise
of such enviable love
yet, we didn't put it in practice.

All stressed a Mom deceived battered threatened,
I parrot phrased to him his evil woman's cursing my MOM birthing me, and I lost him
He forgot his old love letter
free speech oath to me.

My ancient king of hearts continued brewing my twenty year old wine in a barrel of heartache and pain leaving me behind amnesic, and death calm.

My Angel ran brewing an older woman's wine
in his bed married to her
wedding band
and in cellar her wine next to mine.
Running from her many a time leaving her with a cold marriage contract handy
while his heart and brain remained ever ONE with mine.

As her personal lubricant got dryer and dryer it was harder for my beloved to be intimate with the ugliest lawliar twoface snake
surgically enhensed
drug user insignificant other called wife.
And as her hatred malice greed and jealousy blew, out of proportion so did her nasty brew on Outer Limits Twilight Zone
along with a breach of his trust
in her,
spoiling her own brewing wine to a nasty bitter moldy vinagar.
Yet to him all her potions remained ever secret
hidden behind smc sunflower smile, daughters and son used
to blindfold her selfish agenda.

Ever so covertly taunting cursing showing hate to me and my children was her banner.
Smc threatened us
by e-mails behind his back.

Blindfolded unoticed all went 
his alcoholic stuppor was foe.

No justice he could brew on either of us yet my wine remained gold fit for kings
but susy viper apropriated it as her own
killing our free will dreams and promises of old.
My wine brewing pure gold
and his other woman smc's covertly brewing hatred where he held her in high regard.
There can't be peace without justice! BEGIN HERE!
if you ask where!
No peace he bestowed upon
his death calm, silenced slandered beloved Karijinbba!
he left behind...Me

Assassination of character is a method lawliars use to
succeed treachery stealing my perfectly aged wine and man

fooling my weary king of hearts
Jpcrdd

I felt so distant and small so,
I let his black hole crooked seol stich anchored to his drunken down free will and bank accounts
JUST HAVE IT ALL!

My dearest beloved deserved that ugly viper for being such a low self esteem coward!
blind blndfolded drunk *****.

And I changed my name to
"Amazing Grace"
~~~~~~~~~~
Angelina San-Gutier..is my birth namefor short
(April, 16 10;30 AM.)
~ my Perupecha tribe, Mex~
and my wings Bba=Ginny
5-19 -legally given by a judge
as a witness protection's new identity (not that I was hiding any deceptions.)
~~~~~
By; Karijinbba
All R. R. a memoir excerpt.
Have you been been so heartbroken by the insensitivity of the one you loved that you rejected who you loved the most in this life??

Have you ever been hurt so deeply that you deprived the object of your devotion of everything they ever loved the most to gain in you and from you?
It happensnto passinate firely lovers
like us..but I never **** to hurt anyone.
I LOVE LIFE!
if I didn't I would be
six feet under earlier.
Love is the lubricant of the soul and the emollient of the heart, both  
Unguent and viscous, it is like butter in the summer heat
Banish it from your life and suddenly everything will dry up, like a    
Rose wilting by winter's call.  Lubricate love with a sense of purpose    
Invite joy to sit at your table and oil your dreams with hope.    
Care for your inner self and nurture your mind and body....
A lubricant made of peace and forgiveness can reduce friction  
Nature has a way of polishing and moisturizing the mind and    
Truth be told, gratitude can be the greatest lubricant of them all.
Idonotexist Jun 2014
eye lids move slowly
over the eyeballs
in an effort to garner
sleep to a worn out
body to restore the
metabolism to normality
yet sleep eludes

the slight movement
of the eyelids never felt before
is sensed as the brine tear
a lubricant between the interface
where surface tension dominates
all other forces of physics
what force dominates my heart?
I know not
and sleep eludes me

Unconstrained emotions flow
around like unsettled dust
particles glowing in the sunlight
that escapes in through a ventilator hole
sedatives themselves are sedated
and sleep eludes me

I still have five more days I foresee
before hallucinations and delusions
take over me
before that oh sleep like gandalf
arriving at helms deep
please come back to me
but not at the breaking of the dawn
not when light is bright
but in silence of the mysterious night
Vadim Slivinski Feb 2024
Social lubricant, they say.
To hell with that,
I don’t know when or how,
By what chance or coincidence,
But I will call you.

You miss a step on a stairwell
And start to fall;
I extend my arm in an almost automatic gesture.
You cling to it
And let go of my hand
Just a couple of seconds later
Than you were supposed to.

Loud noises make me want to sit closer,
And so I do
In an everlasting hum,
Monotonous beat,
Saying some meaningless words.

‘It’s two for a quarter, dime for a dance’

And as I feel
The touch of your fingers on my back,
I pick up the beat;
We dance shyly
To the tune known just to the two of us
In the whole wide universe.
Some stranger congratulates us
And, embarrassed, we laugh nervously
But then look into each others’ eyes
Just a couple of seconds longer
Than we were supposed to.

Social lubricant, they say.
To hell with that,
I don’t know why,
By what chance or coincidence,
But you called me back.

The tension grows exponentially,
So we literally have to face the wind
And light up a *** or two;
Another couple afterwards.

When you didn’t see me,
I pinched myself —
Just so you know.

The piano
Misses a measure
And goes offbeat.
We start to fall,
I extend my arm in an almost automatic
gesture,
You cling to it.
We kiss,
And let go of each other
Just a couple of seconds earlier
Than we were supposed to do.

I don’t feel the usual thrill,
Or any extra ‘tension’ for that matter.
I just feel like I’m free.

Loud noises make me want to close my eyes,
And so I do
In an everlasting hum,
Monotonous beat,
Thinking some meaningless thoughts.

An hour earlier,
Or, perhaps, a day later,
And the world would have been
So much different.

‘I recognise that smell’
A hint of dried fruits,
Chocolate
And oatmeal –
Looks like a gleaming skyscraper
With a cute pink foundation
Below.

You say I’m embarrassing you,
Well, the blush is mutual,
But you sure as hell have a good taste
In music.

New coat of paint
(an impudent and familiar smell applied),
Same joint – new day.
And I don’t pinch myself,
Not anymore I don’t.


Social lubricant, they say.
The tension grows exponentially,
The piano misses another beat.
I don’t know why,
By what chance and coincidence,
But I came down for a glass that night.

I was staring at the beer and crackers,
One of those nights;
Haven’t I told you that I love warm beer?
I hear something familiar
And I smell something new.
So, the world couldn’t have been
Any stranger.

A hint of dried fruits,
Smoked wood
And chilli in a bowl.
I steal you for a cigarette
And we chatter
Just a couple of seconds longer
Than we were supposed to.

‘Call me any time you want to have some fun’

I know **** well when and how,
By what chance and coincidence,
I will call you again.
Social lubricant, you say?
A two and a ten, please.

Hope you’re not embarrassed anymore,
I know I’m not.

To hell with that.
Originally published on medium @ Poetry Unlimited https://medium.com/poets-unlimited/a-night-out-118709d1c6ad

Just a night out, I guess
III Jan 2015
And I sit here once more,
Sun beginning to fade over the makeshift
Horizon of wooden plank fences and shingle
Roofs, glued to the homes with tar whose
Invading smell has long since passed.
On the shore I sit, a shore made of
Overgrown weeds whose leaves look no different
From the eruption of water that juts out
Of the center of the lake,
The ripples seeming to roll over themselves,
As if they are trampling over each other to
Reach me, and looking away from the metallic
Distraction in the center of this pool of wonders,
It's as if a river is to be flowing in place of the lake,
Lapping across rocks and echoing splash of ducks and
Geese dismounting their current of air,
Swiftly gliding along the filmy surface,
Like a mirror smeared with lubricant,
For the reflections this lake cast cannot
Easily be told apart.
Dark beckons the lights' full departure,
And with it the warm is swept solemnly from
The land, and my bare hands burn like the
Approaching summer's heat.
I thankfully clutch my leather coat against
Myself, and I gaze upon the lake, wishing
Its limited stretch could  further.
As I trace my eyes across its
Waves, a young woman in a pink sweat
Coughs roughly and spits in the water,
As if it's beauty must be destroyed along
With that miserable soul of hers.
The willow tree I sit under,
Oh how massive it seems, its coarse bark
Digging through my jacket and on the verge
Of penitrating my skin, but, it is worth it.
Its vines hang down wearily,
Like an old man, reaching to grasp the
Water, leaning so close, its reflection can
Be seen from shore, and its desperate vines,
Swaying in the wind ask me to come closer.
I shall not, of course, for it needs to
Grow on its own, and needs to rid of
Its reluctance if it ever wishes to achieve
Its reward.

This, somewhat reminds me of myself,
But, this is only yet another wonder,
Collection of thoughts,

From under the willow tree.
You are the lubricant
to the wheel of my life
James Jarrett Feb 2014
The machine
Has taken on
A life of it's own
It has become purpose
Without reason
Purpose alone
It is wired
With rules and regulations
Written for compliance
For blind obedience
For it's own perpetuation
The cold machinations
Have no desire
No meaning
Other than purpose
To survive and grow
And we, we are
The lubricant
Crushed between
The gnashing gears
To aid the machine
And make it
Run smoothly
Desireé Clarke Mar 2013
What’s real and what’s not
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting my opinionated perspective
On the screen in front of me
The world
Black, White, Mexican, Asian, Mixed
In a melting *** flooded
With curry, and rice and beans, **** chicken, and goat
With hamburgers, and fries, macaroni and cheese, and granola bars
With queso fresco, crema, tortillas, and salsa verde
With Panda mother ******* Express and P.F. Changs
My mind is constantly swallowed by the odors of the foods that paint the cultures I’ve come to know
The past and the present hold each other

What’s real and what’s not
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
Was I swimming upstream against the current
In the concrete river
People
Shadows of people wandering by
Behind me and all around
Adjusting to the light
My eyes have been closed for three years
Destroying the things my brain once knew for certain
Twirling in and out of conscientiousness
Now in front
They were rude, or I was nice
The kind of nice that is tactful and seemingly honest
What is honesty
The propulsion of my perspective patronizing the populated and political landscape
Laid out before me
I’m ******
****** about the things I cannot change
The unknown

What’s real and what’s not
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
Jesus Christ
These bible thumping loath driven arrogant theists
All wrapped in the pages of a novel horribly written
By white guys
We never know if they existed
Using their paper to roll joints
The smoke is heavenly
The rapture of the earth
Jesus Christ plants that grow in the ground
Blooming with godlike odors affecting the mind
It runs slower or faster opens and closes
Slapping their wives when they return home from work
Cursing about how they’ve acted like children
Jesus Christ the congregation of family
The head of household
The hands planted in the ground
Gripping at gravel through tightened fists
Hair falling in face catching on tears
Jesus Christ

What’s right and what’s wrong
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
A blast through a door
Glass shattered on floor
Children’s wails running down halls
Walls chipped with pain
Revealing the stone
The foundation of violence
Guns don’t **** people
People **** people
Children silenced by the bang
Heavy breathing under teal blankets
Cotton and fabric torn to shreds at the sound
Blue turns red when it is exposed to air
Rivers running deep sinking through floor boards
Dripping on the faces of the family downstairs as they eat dinner
Chewing open mouthed
Licking lips in tenderness and gluttony
Painting their lips red with the blue that fell through
The ceiling

What’s right and what’s wrong
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
Hands touching lips, touching genitals, all drenched in fluid
Hearts beating
Bump bump, bump bump
And speeding with each ******
Bodies banging together
Eyes diverting, darting, dancing, anywhere but in the ones that gaze upon you
The thrusting, pumping, thumping and screaming
Putting on a show for the floor
For the walls that absorb the sound
“****, **** yeah, just like that”
The scrambling for clothes
Tripping over cans
Social lubricant        
That kept the eyes closed just enough
Or put on those goggles that somehow made you attractive

What’s right and what’s wrong
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
We only see through the eyes we own
And the eyes I own are bias
I hate parties and economic manipulation
Being a slave whipped by some man in a black or grey suit I can’t afford
Being pressed by advertisements that tell me I’m too fat to find love
Being strangled by the fiat that is determine to destroy artistic expression
Appling for education, and permits, and jobs that I may never get
Because the color of my skin is too dark
Because the sound of my voice is too light
Because I cannot stomach the lies that are perpetuated
And refuse to become part of a herd that screams
“Obama for president”
I am free
In the sense that my perspective is mangled
Changes each day
Eyes reflecting inward
Clawing at release and some small moment’s sense of comfort
Only to then breathe my last breath
To gasp one more time for air
Find enlightenment
And then die when truly
I will see through the mirror of my eyes
And it will reflect back my opinionated perspective
Stu Harley Oct 2015
who
put
butter
on
my
bread
the
lubricant
of
life
Josh Feb 2011
I aligned my pace to the crowd.
I fit in.
It seemed like I had finally found the right lubricant to squeeze into the system I was previously unaware of.
It calmed me, being part of the tide, I rippled and swayed with them.
I would live by them now.
Die by them.

Yet no matter where I went I always had an itching.
An itching that I would lose them.
So I lost me.
So I could keep them.

Soon I was them, and they were me.
The placid rooftop they provided was nice.
The support they gave was good.
The foundation I had laid my very soul upon was well intended.

Not grand, nor regal.
But nice.
Not beyond, or captivating.
But good.
Not lovely, or awe inspiring.
But well intended.

Not what I would like.
But who was I?
I was them.
And they liked it.
She calls Him her boyfriend
But to Him, She is nothing but a Body to ****.
Good girls go to heaven but
Bad girls with big ****
are everywhere looking for ***** to ****.
Looking for loaded ****** to ****.
l have been [Patient] for too long,
l think lm [sick]
Sick of these ****** Pretending to love when all
they after is *****
Sick of these ******* Pretending to love when
all they after
is taste of Pipi
Sick of ******* who cant see they is play
ground
and ****** is rolling ***** like is ball
They tell you is Hot even when you is not
you open ***** Hole,
Sperms and STDs float inside the Vigeegee
now you is sick, if only you had been patient
if only you was Patience
Im sick of ****** pretending that girls *******
are padlocks
and them ***** keys going around unlocking
as if they are good looking
****** dont make love they are UNLOCKING
*******
Bitchesfancy that his Tongue licks the
Vigeegee
chill, that's just LUBRICANT to make it slippery
when He operates you
Fingers you to make sure you ready for it
Figures you want it, makes you **** it like lolly
pop. then He makes your ***** swallow it
Unlocks the *****
Kisses you, making you drink the alcoholic
poison from His lips
then you get drunk in love
then your blood gets drunk in ***
then your **** gets drunk in *****
then you skip your periods you call Him he
picks up drunk telling you to ******* then you
realise late that you were a Padlock and He
was to unlock you
and you realise late that You Were just a BODY
TO ****.
He lost nothing, but your
Innocence, dignity and virginity
perished.
But then you smile coz you played with His
**** too......
n0r May 2018
Struggling inhaling
A swelling, current
Mix of malaise and
Iridescent rays
Whipping within my 6th
To 2nd -

Is this normal
It’s not
Meditation shouldn’t be
This ***** filling
Royalling current of **** -

God, what happened to the bliss?
The breathing in until peace
Amidst a storm
External;
What did I do to deserve this
Everything -

It’s all spread in;
Sins, loves, memories
The currents of the past
Slamming against my dammed
For too long
Now spring 4th

Only by being
Here;
May I come to

Know these pieces
Long repressed
In armors rusted shut;

This is spiritual lubricant
                       It’s ******* me hard
Three children sit behind a dumpster
outside of the Pier Pizza Parlor
unaware that they are children
Seven years later walking past Bridge Square
a girl remembers

**** we're out of cigarettes
and my mom's fucken car is locked. man.
and joints rolled with single ply toilet paper
burning through precious *** in the seaside woods where Indians
used to die

She, curling hands,
flattens a photograph of three kids in swimsuits and baseball caps
crouched under the rainy eaves of a waterslide
lighting a one hitter and gazing at their tiny dying world
now like a centerfold
it's covered in lubricant sweat and spittle
after too much time under the wrong beds

She sits on this small fountain
wistfully blinking and ******* down the cigarettes she wishes she could lock back up
kneading her dead legs and wondering
if it's better to have a past smudged by erasers
or mottled with bruises
Steven L Herring Sep 2016
So the debate is coming soon.  I'll sum it up for you:

Clinton to trump:  you're a racist white sexist biggot rich guy who hates immigrants

Trump to Clinton: I am rich.  I do hate illegal immigrants.  I've seen all of the highly edited commercials about how "sexist" I am.  Where did you get the racist biggot part from?  Oh ****!  I'm totally white.  My bad!  You're repugnant and you lie about everything you possibly can.  The proofs in the emails.  Oh yeah!  We can't read those.  You BLEACHED YOUR HARD DRIVE!!!  Oh.  And you're a liar.  Just wanted to reiterate that.

Clinton to trump: I didn't know the emails were classified.  I thought the little "c" stood for ****, so I deleted all the derogatory emails in protest.  Whoops.  I shouldn't have said that out loud.

Trump:  starts to go off on a tangent about how great he is and how many ******* people he knows.

Moderator: palms his face, stands up, and walks away (in his mind).
Reminds the candidates to answer the questions and stay on topic

Clinton and Trump in unison: what questions?

The American people: bend over, lather up with some KY, and bite down on the leather strap for another 8 years of ******* *******.

Obama: drives by on his way to go play more ******* golf with a smile on his face.

Steve: tosses a coin, picks heads, and votes for his own ******* in protest.  They'll probably do just as good a job as any of these other **** nuts.

Good night America.  It's been real!
So tired of these *******!
Ian Beckett Jan 2016
Conversation watching cricket flows
Between corporate strangers who
Work together but know nothing of
The others’ lives outside the office
Where work-life balance is a myth
The bowlers bowl and the batsmen bat.

Not much happens between innings
On the field, but the action is in the
Stands, as wickets fall, the barriers
Between spectators vanish, and new
Understandings develop, all because
The bowlers bowl and the batsmen bat.

Wine that universal lubricant, moves
From polite engagement to introspective
Intent to solve all our corporate problems
The laser-like focus as new friends grow
Closer than that 22 yards seem as the
The bowlers bowl and the batsmen bat.
Mark Toney Nov 2019
First commercially successful
Video game technology
Pong arcade video game
Made by Atari
Loved by millions instantly
Started an 80 billion dollar industry
Pong -no Ping-
Just Pong

Simplistic graphics still astound
Mesmerized by the sound
Blip
Blip
Pong, blip
Blip
Pong, blip
Pong, blip
PONG!!!

Hah!  Point made
In the shade!
First to eleven
In Pong heaven
Blip
Blip
Pong, blip
Blip
Pong, blip
Pong, blip
PONG!!!

A social lubricant it became
Relationships formed
Playing the game-
Rocking to our favorite songs
Staying awake all night long
Taking turns playing Pong
Pong -no Ping-
Just Pong
7/27/2019 - Poetry form: Rhyme - "Pong was the first commercially successful video game, which helped to establish the video game industry along with the first home console, the Magnavox Odyssey... The game has been remade on numerous home and portable platforms following its release. Pong is part of the permanent collection of the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. due to its cultural impact." -Wikipedia "Pong" - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Kam Yuks Oct 2014
No use for a bigger screen that my mind can't accommodate. I hear voices in the dark and paint pictures of one color in the corner of my clouded imagination. My thoughts consist of questions. The answers come in the form of blank print plates with damaged lettering.

My smile cracks the moment between naïveté and contempt.  

Can't take a break while breaking. I'm alive somewhere in between, walking on one side of survival and falling apart completely.  

I pray to something outside myself while bleeding from the inside out to echoing laughter - colorful lubricant for the slow death of plastic bags and cellophane.

Hear me now where I feel nothing and meet me where the pain screams out for safety.  

I don't have an ending that is worthy of what is left.
rsc Apr 2015
With brain bashing into head cavity,
the gelatinous mass of neurons screams out
to white blood cells swimming in eyeballs
to evacuate before drowning.
"Quit clowning around in there and
save yourselves!"
The moody mistress creates her own hells:
congratulations!
Sleeping alone in a sweat covered bed,
she spins saccharine thoughts and pollutes her head
with taffy, thick like molasses,
cooking sugar in the kitchen with
the wrong end of a spoon in her mouth.
Dried up *** stains litter her couch
as she wakes up to turn the cushions
and search for loose change
to fill up her coin pouch.
"Ouch! Ouch!"
She calls out, clean
sheets on a new day,
his fingers firing in a frenzy
and introducing the fusion of
pleasure and pain.
He smells of benzene and
she's afraid of burning,
stomach churning and
using gasoline as lubricant.
He hit her, she said, and it felt like a kiss.
She misses him at her day job
when she runs around town
robbing banks and
picking up handkerchiefs
that grandmothers drop on the ground.
He would pound
his manhood into a brick wall
if it moved like her,
but the skin-and-bones combo
woos him to coo at her
as swarms of sparrows
nest in her ***** hair.
Spit shined shoes and
riding leaves blown on the air,
she dreams of him awake,
listless eyes alive and pulsing
behind a film of glassy, viscous mucus.
She makes magic potions out of the scents
left over on one of her
mismatching pillow cases.
He tastes like roasted red peppers
and lingering mace:
her eyes water as she
chokes back ***** daintily,
like a queen.
His eyes gleam mean as
he steals her breath to
add it to his bursting bank account,
releasing her to give her back only gasps,
the 2% interest.
She crafts road maps of his back bone while he sleeps,
but he sees her as a phantom,
creeping through the floorboards,
a faceless specter with an ace up her sleeve.
Rahul Luthra Feb 2015
It's a thunderstorm when the both of us are together
It'd probably be easier if we were birds of a feather
Sparks flew off the first time we met
It wasn't much of a story, it started off as a bet
We both know it's wrong but we can't stay apart
Pulling the trigger will only take us to the start
No lubricant in the world can ease the friction in between
If I'm the king babe you're the queen
It's suicidal, it's catastrophic; that's all that is in store
These frantic moments of kamikaze love is what I live for...
Edna Sweetlove Mar 2017
scrawled on public lav wall
expression of desire
meet for cockfun
bring own lubricant
hateful avarice
petty meanness
******* FATFACE
Good, innit?
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
Out-of-that same hole, you built the bridge that brought you into my apartment, and closer, enough, to laugh, at my-joke. Enough to make you comfortable, once. And well-built-bridges survive torrential burns. 
[Good pitching usually bests good hitting, bad defense is hard to play-beyond, but, for some reason, sonny keeps-on. Practicing that shot, past-the-arc, [page 8] feet-so-far from the floor.]
I bet on another-blaze, from that boy. Bet his broker--- down at the "bridge-insurance-agency"--- bet, that he bets, too. One big tragedy and The Bad Boy-Blonde bought himself a little capital-l Legitimacy. Or at least a capital 
M-mulligan, ~~~~ _~~. "******, man, can't make another mistake?"

I mumble, again, to myself. But this time, I'm not complicit. I won't be the lubricant, whilst he wears-down his looks, or when he can't use his **** every day, or when he runs out, again--- back, with mean things to say. And now he's ******* disappeared, and you're back on my couch, and we both complain. And you read a poem, and I write a love letter. And---

That part there, that ain't-even projection! Another delusion, maybe. Again. Am I trapped, in [page 9] typing out words that later, I'll trick myself into believing? Or? Truly? I'm more sum, than total, when you tag-along. I'm totally, and tragically, head-over-heels. You'll hear this, here, and have a hard time listening--- "no, listen, I understand all that, and have a position on your counter-punches."

I couldn't, possibly, corrupt my own kingdom by exiling you entirely. Because, yeah, you're so beautiful, but you're also my-best bud. You, fit-flawless, and fearless, and effortlessly, into the hole, left by the jigsaw-piece, lost-years ago. My friends, and ******-when, had it, penultimately, "pieces-no-more," way-back then. 

Yet you're sure you weren't there. "You're sure? You weren't there?" You can be sure, I [page 10] believe you. I'm not under the impression that this is the long-con. I know, I'm a little-less-adorable, when I yawn. Or I cough, or I cry. And if I fawn, all-over you, still, after, I admit. I've really been trying to get-over-this, for a bit. (you could, honestly, be the best-friend that I've never-had-yet.)

And, you could, plainly break-my-heart, again. Apathetic over my annoying requests, for you to, "read my ****!" For it to be this, and you, getting-so-mad. For Adderall-sale to become the staple of our "extra-workular-relationship." For us to lose all contact, like my personalities, currently. For losing the ability to over-explain HBO programs to "This-girl-from-seven-nine-three." For you, this might be easy!

No, sir! Miss, I mean! No, you! I won't let it happen, if you say you won't, too. Put this down, make no mention, if it's made you upset. I've [page 11] already trusted you, once, to forget. And, he did, as well, so we're on the same page. Writing about him: lettered-love, turned toward rage (never, in-your-direction). I'm sure, at one-point, I had promised: no-more interventions. Lashing out was true, but convolutes my intentions. True, also, is the certainty of this-thing, I claim. The third-dream, "with ~~~-~~~~ ~~~," ~~~~~~-~~~~, yeah. You're the name.
I censor the sensitive bits, solely, sorry though.
Jessica Thompson Apr 2013
Smoking is a working class disease
They said; he smiled at this.
Lean in body and broad of mind
With shirtsleeves rolled,
A modern man's philosopher
Who stuttered over the words
Like his fingers did over her chassis
Detroit rolling iron beneath his palms
Grease and lubricant under the nails.
The cigarette cherry glows in the dark
Giving him a hard edge aura  
The gloaming settling into the lines
Of his work-worn face
A bustling of noses and wind blown hair
gloating over goats which bleed
calculable blood.
One pence, two pence, three
and there’s a crowd surrounding
a tunic at the top of the stairs.

Oil was discovered, covered
by a man in a tunic
sharing meticulous dreams, dreaming
in the gear-grind way of life. Hoarding
lubricant beneath stands and markets,
and marketing water.

Turn to Piegans, Bloods, and Blackfeet proper,
prop her against the boards
and rest the nail against her temple,
temple where a man in tunic
flipped markets like gear-grinds
unearthing oil in fire
exploding jelly purple dye,
dying is the goat upon
the stage

on page one hundred and three sun-blisters burst on screaming merchants
Krissy Schiller Jul 2011
The stench of battery acid in the morning
The slippery lubricant of littered snakeskin on the floor
Trash that once found liberation, salvation in the motion of its use
Now limp, lifeless, devoid
Abandoned without muscle.

The shadow of our wicked forms, braced against the balcony edge
Nerves alight, take fire. The steepest bet, a wager of the deranged sense
And that smell. It hangs in the air, still
Engulfs you as the animal sense is heightened. Without reason, all is pleasure,
All is primitive.

Out on the veranda, Diana dances. Part impulse, part stimulant. Her dimples stretching wider, farther apart as continents. Her hips convulsing
Man with the long hair, "You burn you burn"
Oh mother, we were created equally. Together in one cruel, carbonate mass of malcontent motives, of wicked intent. Selfishness attracts selfishness.

We are but a refrigerator door full of strange magnets, gleaming. Your southern fingers,
Dancing a slow tango down my spine. Your grip, lowering, sweaty and deliberate
Oh viper.
The texture of freshly cut grass and ***** crusted over bare toes. All smells of peppermint,
Bitter citrus flower.

Woke up in the morning, dowsed in kerosene
Rose petals sticking to the roof of my mouth
"There is no heaven, no hell," he said. Only us.
That lonesome crater

can never be filled

with anything but

settling dust.



I let my orbit speak for me

in a complex elliptical pace

always alternating closer

and then farther away.



No one ever goes out there

and that’s exactly why

the bombs are tested where

empty golden sand and white snow

can be painted by the incandescent

glow of a quadrillion campfires

and antiseptic Christian innocence

won’t sphincter-pinch the

fusion out of my audience

with its extra organs

providing their intoxicating vitamins.



How I don’t need lubricant!

            I need hubris-can’t!

            I need lubri – can!



How I don’t need wine!?!

            I need wherene!?!

            I need howne!?!



I am tired of ******* the last leg of this race.

I want to exchange my passioff for something…
Johnny Noiπ Oct 2018
The desire for the first time for women,
women,    girls,  'sailors with faces of red snow',
men, for a night of men,  black,   with long hair
with the white,         white blacks she has lifted
the donkeys' eyes that had been killed last year
in a dark place,                        a continuation of the worst death of the plants,
I am now in the world,                 young people
are the great picture of the Great God,
leaving Even though it is not enough to buy,
however,           Jesus lives in the United States
Lighthouse of the United States,            which has the tendency to find blood
and the hair of his head not possible
for old men to say in the middle square;
The Review of our genius is black in the imagination
of American children who have the flexibility
of children of golden                                        golden gold to spread realistic,
three-way traps, to heaven, the Babylonians
of the time's glass-stone cake,           Then buying and haggling over women,
girls shipped to Alaihi, a red face, man to man,
that night, the mother of darkness until the head,
legs black and white 'is delivered to *****
the year killed the black death is a continuation of life,
especially in plants, now worldwide ,        from a great big picture of the left
and we have to purchase the Jesus of the sea,
the couple is living in the States of America in glorious fashion,
and it has an inclination to find ****** hair;
hell can a child be born to say that in the middle
of the street for six review of the blues   |
from the American pole's dark heaven's ||
bright ideas of the young boy with a suitably gold
or gold mined from the elements by children
in three ***** shifts at the time of glass Babylonian Stone,
caked teeth of wild beasts and the doctor's group
of voices is what it is, I stand, lay, placed,
it is in the coming of the Lord, brown,
with the loss of the unseen,                     but with all the utmost of his power,
it is the Secret of the house, it was filled with them
that are born gay, of music,                          of sleep,          leaving us an, um,
and I taught the boy to fall very quickly,
how to beat cake one has put the wild beast
of the Medes to write;                           Voices of What is a team of the Lord,
standing to get the Lay of the brown doctrine
of the years
of the winds of the blind,                                          but with all their powers,
The Secret house filled with gay children,
slipping out of track of music, a lot of fall
I learned a young boy on the way, hit him,
Taught him to love of time of the woman,
of the women,
ships of the girls, lives of the eyes of the red
and naked,
the crowd,           for the man who was night,
of the mother of the black, with long skin
with a warm white foot the blacks'
putting dead *** eyes that have been Republicked ​​
last year ago in a dark place,       the continuation
of a beautiful snooch's death
among the plants,       I have now the world,
for the young people there is a great picture
of The Great Goddess,   leaving the even to sleep,
to buy, however,       Jesus living in the sea
strengthens the United States of America's
fiery torch that sparks the cosmetics of seeing
the blood and the hell of his hair is impossible
for old boys to say that in the middle
of six squared Renewal has been our gay woman
Bluebell out of America's humorous texture
of thinking kids with golden gold lubricant,
a child is spread open to receive true nutrients,
three *****, going to heaven, the Babylonian-style,
style of times of stone-glass, bicycle cake
putting up a wild animal of the Medes to teach
the Voice,              Whose is the peoples of the,
wait;    A Layman took on the doctrine of the brown advent
of the year of the mistress of the winds of the blind,
but it w with all their strength,        The Secret of the house
filled with gay children, leaving his dream of music
a lot of the Fall,   I write sweet enough for a kid in the way,
hit him,                 The love of the time of the women,
of the woman, the husband of the girl's life of the eye,
the red girl is naked, the people went to the man that night,
that the mother of the black, with long bodies
with the hot white the feet of the poet's dead ***;
the face of that R that years ago was a dark place,
the progress of a beautiful snooch is the death of the plants,
I am now of the earth, of young people is a great art,
Great Goddess leaving the skin to the sun,
bringing money, though, Jesus' living seas forming
the United dung fire was a golden dream of poetry stars
to find blood and live like hell in his hair, to be difficult,
*****'s old kids call the middle six squares
the renewal of our brotherhood,                           ******* the female blue sky
out of history,                        the word 'American' is cool thinking baby stuff;
has the gold moon lost a child,                       turned true to the frankincense,
three ***** old men,                                                             walking to heaven,
the Greek Barbie the form of the times
of the stone-glass figures, the glory of a small wild animal
of the Medusa to write; the Voice Who's the man,
standing, Laying hold on the instructions;
a Brown graduate the arrival of the year
of the mistress of the winds of the blind,
but she W. with all their might, The Secret of the house
was filled with gay son,      leaving his dreams of music,
a lot about Fall I write sweet to a kid in pieces,
beat her, To buy a, and the women that are virgins
'Alaihi' wants red waters, the eyes of the people,
who were of the night, the darkness,         the parent of the head and the feet, black and white, black death, of the *****,
and the year of the continuation of life,
especially of a plant is already in the world,
out of the picture to the left, and great in thee
to buy of the sea, even to the Lord Jesus,
who was living in the two United States of Americas is glorious,
and he does not have even the tribes of the living creatures
in the time of the eggs of a single syllable
of what glass the doctor, I lay a stone of Babel,
moved by the dirt in the dark of the mysterious of God,
Secret for the loss of the house was filled
with the power of God unto them,
for they were all of the highest art,               gay, music,
while they sleep,
leaving us an, um, boy taught by me
to fall down quickly        on the beat
Ken Pepiton Mar 2023
C'est oui, paste away, we make do, duty calls
Le Bourgeois gentilhomme
(French pronunciation: ​[lə buʁʒwa ʒɑ̃tijɔm],


From the troves of our public domain,
what did you wish you had known,
when you had that chance
at Jeopardy, one chance,
if a wish were truly wished,
we occur to some as riverwise twisted

fibers from longer ago than local time science
allows, you suppose allowing belief with reason,

cause of pain is pain relief, loser role attained,
proof of past trauma drama as collect sets. Points.
Scoring. Exact.
Past out act/ Bam/slap play slips into Chris Hart,
o we all recall him, he did that slapping body music,
and did not comb his hair for a year or so,
-not him, the kid from Orm, the dean's kid.
so in your reader mind, you have a few clues, times
and seasons seen from distant bubbles still,
- Reagan's daughter attended Orm. Datafact.
time slips, mental lubricant for safe letting.
All forms go out be come standard, it is the object.

Like that, or this, to ways to sense make and so
many more point from which one may choose to see.

McLuhan bolted, as I learned the ropes and gears
years ago, a kind of ******* in and out,

with pressing walls, closing in and teeny, tiny holes,
shine so bright as day explodes camera obscura,

on the inner wall on the backside of our eyes,
mindtimespace stirred into a foam,
the old saying, put a head on it, meant something
to sailors in the beer commercials.

I got advice from Ziggy's therapist {that's amindscrew}
in the funny papers, we all saw the truth freeing
knowledge that everyone knows,
nobody is as happy as people in beer commercials.
From a lost crossed thread, that stareted near here. Tis in the midst of this
So its a Saturday night, and you haven't got any plans
You're bored of watching TV and all the hate programs
The poster of George Bush has no place for more knives
How long before you can take some American lives!

So then turn on your computer and start the browser
Go to a nice **** website, and you'll be like, Yowza!
All the envy and the hate that always bugs
will melt away once you see a good pair of jugs!

Don't hate don't hate, just *******!
Don't hate don't hate, just *******!

So what if your dad would break your neck
if he ever saw you jiggle your third leg
Even a pious man like you's gotta get his release
and when it feels this good, O Yes please!

Don't hate don't hate, just *******!
Don't hate don't hate, just *******!

You tried talking to a girl you saw the other day
You hoped she was pretty under all those veils
So she hit you with her sandal, what did you expect
Come watch some ****, the girls there are nice as heck!

Don't hate don't hate, just *******!
Don't hate don't hate, just *******!

Americans can wait, they ain't going nowhere
they're so fat anyway, they make Arabs look like hares
Come make friends with your own hands
I promise, there's nothing better in all the sands!

Don't hate don't hate, just *******!
Don't hate don't hate, just *******!

A tissue and lubricant is all you need
The pleasure is really worth the time indeed!
Doesn't matter what you like, its all out there!
All sizes and shapes, even goats if you care
Even a ***** magazine will do just fine
So sit back, relax and give your best friend a good shine!
Hate, bad. Pleasure, good.

— The End —