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How this **** fable instructs
And mocks! Here's the parody of that moral mousetrap
Set in the proverbs stitched on samplers
Approving chased girls who get them to a tree
And put on bark's nun-black

Habit which deflects
All amorous arrows. For to sheathe the ****** shape
In a scabbard of wood baffles pursuers,
Whether goat-thighed or god-haloed. Ever since that first Daphne
Switched her incomparable back

For a bay-tree hide, respect's
Twined to her hard limbs like ivy: the puritan lip
Cries: 'Celebrate Syrinx whose demurs
Won her the frog-colored skin, pale pith and watery
Bed of a reed. Look:

Pine-needle armor protects
Pitys from Pan's assault! And though age drop
Their leafy crowns, their fame soars,
Eclipsing Eva, Cleo and Helen of Troy:
For which of those would speak

For a fashion that constricts
White bodies in a wooden girdle, root to top
Unfaced, unformed, the ******-flowers
Shrouded to suckle darkness? Only they
Who keep cool and holy make

A sanctum to attract
Green virgins, consecrating limb and lip
To chastity's service: like prophets, like preachers,
They descant on the serene and seraphic beauty
Of virgins for virginity's sake.'

Be certain some such pact's
Been struck to keep all glory in the grip
Of ugly spinsters and barren sirs
As you etch on the inner window of your eye
This ****** on her rack:

She, ripe and unplucked, 's
Lain splayed too long in the tortuous boughs: overripe
Now, dour-faced, her fingers
Stiff as twigs, her body woodenly
Askew, she'll ache and wake

Though doomsday bud. Neglect's
Given her lips that lemon-tasting droop:
Untongued, all beauty's bright juice sours.
Tree-twist will ape this gross anatomy
Till irony's bough break.
Rob Sandman May 2016
Playin' games.
=============
Jay Text Sandman aka Skitz Text

Set the timer click click now the clock is tick tockin'.
I came to play the game. Like a KNIK KNAK knockin'.
Your rhyme flow is slow you know like PLAYDOUGH.
I gobble up fine rhymes like a HUNGRY HIPPO.
Like SUBBUTEO I kick it.
Shruggin' off your challenge like BUCKAROO kickin'..
..up ****. I sunk your BATTLESHIP.
You played out your game of CHARADES. That's it.
I dig deep in me rhyme dictionary.
You scrawl on the the wall like palsy PICTIONARY.
Not strugglin'. I'm jugglin' the rhymes in me head.
Slam dunk. KERPLUNK. Nuff said.
No, never. No way. Who am I kiddin'?
You know I got the rhymes. And I got the rhythm.
I confess. Like a game of CHESS.
Checkmate. No debate. Not a pretty pawn missin'. *  

It’s the end of the games like RIP,
I Multikill MC’s like COD,
Keep your mind on your MINECRAFT can’t catch me,
Cause Skitz is EC's Artillery,
droppin bombs watch the FALLOUT or you’re Dogmeat
FAR CRY from the old days of CRT
So your attempt is DOOMed best clear the room,
SWAT’s get Swatted Mic shotgun BOOM!,
Blast backdraft will destroy your CIV,
No cheat codes PAC em up MAN time to give,
RESPEC- to the PORTAL gun hangin’ on me hip,
You’ve got HALF a LIFE left faster than NO CLIP
But I said no cheatin’ Hackers get Hacked up,
No Multiplayer,cause you’ve no backup,
I’m glorying in the games we play,
Checkmate VS XBOX  pass to Jay.


Chorus
Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic and it's Jay to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

When I flex it's hectic. Like SCALEXTRIC.
Switch lanes to PERFECTION.
I've a MONOPOLY in this game.
Don't pass go. Go straight to jail.
You fall like DOMINOES. I leap like a salmon.
Tisk tisk. Big RISK. Now I have BACKGAMMON.
Stamina. A steady hand OPERATION.
Ace up me sleeve and I'm just playin' PATIENCE.
Got me POKERface on.
Read 'em and weep as the game plays on.
I got a dead mans hand but I animate the mic.
BULLDOGS charge. You know I'll reach the other side.
Back to me den.
Repeat after me like SIMON SAYS.
RED ROVER, RED ROVER. I call Jay over.
You think it's over ?
No my friend. *  

Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic Schizophrenic to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

This Steam Machine is heatin' up a treat
So don’t be TEKKEN the ****,just feel the beat,
This KOMBAT’s MORTAL to enemies,
But it’s a full HEALTH PACK to Fans of E.C.,
So OverClock your CPU,
get your Soundcard Jumpin like chimps in SIM ZOO,
drop DICE on ICE from here to Timbuktoo,
STREET FIGHTER’s and Writers BIOSHOCKin' you


Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic Schizophrenic to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

I SPY with my little eye.
Somethin' beginnin' with J. I let fly.
As your JENGA tower wobbles.
I smile. You drop tiles. Dropped your poxy box of SCRABBLE.
Look out. That could spell disaster.
Triple word score as the rhymes rip past ya. Blast ya.
Quick out the trap like The Flash playin' SNAP.
Check the lyrical master. *
As the Dungeon Dragon spreads his wings-lets fly
playin' the game the pied piper pies,
catch you rats in me MOUSETRAP its a snap,
"cause I wrote the rhymes that broke the bulls back"
I'm the KING OF THE HILL I got ya QUICKSCOPIN'
in THE SHADOWS OF MORDOR prayin' and hopin'
for a hero like MARIO to bust you loose,
Jay's SNAKE'n' up the LADDER time to twist the noose


Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic E.C. to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

What ya think ?              
Me rhymes kink, bend and fold like TWISTER.
A wicked rhythm like DOUBLE DUTCH. Skip, skip.
Like EVEL KNIEVEL. Flywheel spinnin'.
Rev it up. Dump the clutch.        
See me grinnin'. Knockin' down the pin and..
SPIROGRAPH lines in me rhyme. I'm spinnin..
..out of control. You can't cope with me GYROSCOPE.
I bring you back to the beginnin'.*

Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic E.C. to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.
Jay came up with this idea and tried to mention as many games we played as kids as he could fit in,when  he invited me onto the track I went more down the PC/Console game route,
let us know how many we missed!.
Chimera melons Mar 2010
Distasted disaster dooms
Truehoods falsely spoken
Falsehood & true galoshes
Numbrella mousetrap
****** void twice
And More And Morel eels
all rights taken away by the patriotic act and given back by the tree spirits of the amazon rainforest
Charles Barnett Nov 2012
I'm drumming my fingers
on the outside of the car.
Keep your hands busy, Charlie.
Don't let them wander across
the space between your seat and hers.

You've got this smile
poised on your lips
like a mousetrap.
Tense with hesitation
and a million neurons
firing thoughts through your head
that I'll never get to know.

Light up that cigarette, Charlie.
Keep those hands busy.
Let your eyes wander.
Jublain Feb 2020
a mousetrap was set for the mouse
as it entered
the door.

a cat tried to catch the mouse
with fiery eyes
with skinny bones
with taut skin,
but it failed.

the mouse was fatigued and withering.
but its nose dragged its flesh
to a scent.
saliva poured from its mouth
through aching teeth.
a mouthful of peanut butter was its last taste.

the mouse's neck snapped in the trap.
I wonder if I told it
"there is a trap Mr. mouse." if it would improve its quality of life?
who knows.
its got the peanut butter in its mouth
still.

a mousetrap was set for the mouse
as it entered
the door.
Terry O'Leary Jan 2019
.             <Well, ShallowMan’s ne’er at a loss>
              <for voicing shallow thoughts that gloss.>
              <With trenchant wit he reaps the dross>
              <when seeking sense in applesauce.>

              <But to his aid flies FactoidMan>
              <who always has a Fact at hand;>
              <with him, who needs a whether-man>
              <to answer “if?” or “but?” or “and?”?>

“Oh ShallowMan, let me explain
the Facts of life to you, so plain,
yet flush with truthful thoughts arcane.
When understood, you won’t maintain
that callowness you think urbane.”

                              “Oh FactoidMan, give benedictions,
                              save me from all contradictions
                              with your knowledge, no restrictions
                              finding Facts, avoiding fictions.”

“Well, when in doubt, you always may
request my help to find your way
through shades of black and white and gray,
and from the Facts you’ll never stray.
Yes, ShallowMan, I’ll make your day.”

                              “Since yesteryear I’ve wondered why
                              I’m served a piece of humble pie
                              whene’er attempting to descry
                              just what’s a Fact, and what’s a lie,
                              and which be Facts one can’t deny.
                              With candor, can you edify
                              me with some recondite reply?”

“Well, as you know, my Facts are Facts
which naught nor nothing counteracts
and things that do, mere artifacts
in dim myopic cataracts.”

“A lie’s a thing which disagrees
with Facts I utter, if you please,
and hides the forest from the trees
ignoring all my verities.”

“And this reminds me of my youth,
with axioms defined as truth
which I selected as a sleuth
(abetted by a sweet vermouth);
I being now so long of tooth,
to contradict me’s hardly couth.”

                              “That certainly helps me clarify
                              whom I can trust: yeah, you’re the guy!  
                              Now, furthermore I’ve wondered why
                              the moon can’t fall and clouds can fly.  
                              What’s called that law those facts defy?
                              And mightn’t I just give a try
                              to make a guess to verify?”

“If you link your facts to law
(ah, please excuse a gruff guffaw)
you’ll certainly flaunt a flimsy flaw
that strains belief and breaks the straw
of what you’ve heard and thought you saw.
(I‘ll leave you with some bones to gnaw
that leave you holding me in awe
when once you’ve grasped and gasped ‘aha’).
So tell me now your ideas, raw,
but keep it short, your blah, blah, blah.”

                              “Umm, could it be just gravity
                              (well, something like a theory
                              that some call Relativity)
                              which pulls the apple from the tree
                              and puts a strain upon my knee;
                              or is that fact absurdity?”

“Ahem, a theory’s just a theory,
not a Fact, it’s all so eerie,
something which should make you leery
as explained until I’m weary.”

                              “If Relativity’s a theory,
                              and a theory’s not a Fact,
                              is it a fiction I can query
                              when I’m falling, ere I’m whacked?”

“Though theories might be based on Fact,
a theory is, in fact, not backed
by any cause, effect or act
which might be salvaged when attacked.
For you, this Fact may seem abstract,
plumb depths where shallow thoughts distract.”

“Yes, what goes up must soon come down
is quite a Fact of world renown.
But theory’s just a heathen gown
to deck the naked King in town,
and when he falls, he breaks his crown
which leaves him wearing but a frown.”

“It surely should be obvious,
the property of Heaviness
(like Godliness and Heaven-ness)
defines the cosmic edifice,
refuting Newton’s flakiness
and Einstein’s spooky emphasis  
on space-time’s 4-D flimsiness.
Yes, Facts like these are copious
(I count them with my abacus);
to argue would be blasphemous
displaying mental barrenness
about the push and pulling stress
when bouncing ***** rebound, unless
one views elastic laziness
as evil Satan’s stubbornness.”

                              “Well now I think I understand,
                              that gravity seems somewhat grand,
                              but’s just, in fact, a rubber band
                              that stretches through our earth-bound-land
                              constricting us when we expand.”

“Yes, ShallowMan, you finally got it,
just as I’ve long preached and taught it.
I’m so happy that you’ve bought it.
(Not a question nor an audit -
you’re so shallow, who’d have thought it?)”

              <Once ShallowMan dipped into science>
              <seeking FactoidMan’s alliance>
              <gaining, hence, a strong reliance>
              <on the Facts and their appliance,>
              <justifying strong compliance,>
              <turning down those in defiance.>

                              “Hey, FactoidMan, another topic
                              leaves me reeling, gyroscopic,
                              dealing with the microscopic
                              in a world kaleidoscopic.”

                              “Within the realm of vacuum loops
                              Dark Energy in quantum soups
                              of anti-matter sometimes swoops
                              across inflation’s Big Bang stoops
                              where space-time ends and matter droops.
                              Do you believe, or just the dupes?

“It’s nothing but a passing phase,
(a theory that in fact betrays
obscure occult communiqués
that fevered fantasy conveys)
of those who thump creation days.
Just check! The vacuum state portrays
perfection in your shallow ways
reflected in that vacant gaze
you cast upon the dossiers
of all my Facts that so amaze.”

                              “And what about the quantum theory?
                              Particles not hard but smeary,
                              just like waves? It’s kinda eerie!
                              Facts could not be quite so bleary
                              leaving Bohr, well, sad and teary.
                              FactoidMan, just tell me, dearie,
                              what the Facts are, bright or dreary.”

                              “And then again what are those holes
                              (as black as ravens bathed in coals)
                              wherein the past and future strolls
                              exploiting fields that Higgs controls
                              beneath the shady shallow shoals
                              between magnetic monopoles.”

“The science lab’s a ‘fact’ory
concocting stuff that cannot be
(like unknown realms and notably
those tiny things NoMan can see
with naked eye on bended knee
neath microscopic scrutiny)
and claim they’ve found reality;
they call their god a ‘Theo’ry
(a fig-ment of the Yum-Yum tree)
that leads them to hyperbole
about the singularity
that’s dipped in dazed duplicity
denying all eternity.”

“Here’s my advice that seems to work:
ignore the ones with ‘facts’ that lurk
behind their ‘proofs’ (which always irk),
and being challenged have the quirk
of stepping back within the murk
(indulged, I chuckle, smile or smirk).”

              <Now ShallowMan is quite content>
              <receiving FactoidMan’s consent>
              <to quibble and express dissent>
              <as long as keeping covenant>
              <with fingers crossed and belfry bent>
              <when viewing Facts in sealed cement:>

                               “The Facts you give me circumvent
                               those ‘truths’ your chuckles supplement;
                               although they might disorient
                               they can’t be wrong, I won’t dissent,
                               just using ones which you invent.“
“(No need of source in that event).”

                               “Your wise advice is simply sound
                               in cases where a game is bound
                               to parcel points out round by round
                               or else on verbal battleground
                              where know-it-alls are duly crowned.”

              <Though ShallowMan is kinda slow>
              <he still takes time to learn and throw>
              <his facts and theories to and fro,>
              <amazing facts which seem to show>
              <that theories sometimes come and go,>
              <returning strengthened with the glow>
              <of new found facts (for which to crow)>
              <that fill the gaps of long ago.>

                               “Oh FactoidMan, just tip your cap!
                               I’ve found a piece to fill the gap
                               that simplifies a mouse’s trap:
                               if triggerless, it still will clap
                               to give the mouse a mighty zap
                               that makes its tiny back bone snap.”

                               “With mousetrap type simplexity,
                               reducible complexity
                               helps arguments’ duplexity
                               with twists of crude convexity.”

“Ha-ha! That serves to prove my case:
for each gap filled, two in its place,
each growing at the doubled pace;
for unfilled gaps, I’m saying grace
(they help, indeed, for saving face)
Trying to get out of neutral....
don't know whether I'm in first or reverse...
Julie Grenness Mar 2016
This is Horatio's elegy,
He and the mousetrap had synergy,
That's the end of mouse energy,
Alas, Horatio is no more,
That fur friend predator,
He ran into the  mousetrap's door,
Alas, Horatio is no more!
How to embellish this ode?
I'm in hunter-gatherer mode,
Shall I serve him up for lunch?
Nuke him for tasty munch?
Eat it skin on for nutrients,
Now I know what Nigella meant,
No, Horatio wasn't pregnant,
Now I have a fur friend remnant,
That little mouse predator,
Of mice I am no amator,
Alas, Horatio is no more!!
The sequel to God's gift of  a fur friend, mouse.  Feedback welcome.
brian carlin Dec 2009
When he tells you
That you see through the eyes of a poet,
When you see the evening traffic
Like a string of glistening pearls in the sparkling cold of a wintry night,
When you hear the steel letterbox snap like a mousetrap
And the mail flop behind your door like a dead rat,
When your finger traces the days’ old dust on your coffee table
And your eyes trail in the wake of a churning steamboat ,
When you say you accept chaos and it’s underlying order
And vice versa,
When he brings you coffee and you say “Thanks”
He tells you
That you see through the eyes of a poet
And what he is saying is...
You Are Mad.

And  you realise why you see him as blank verse -

Prose pretending to be poetry.
sierra Oct 2017
I am trapped
behind these closed doors
I want more
outside of the stereotypical high school world
no matter what I do here, I'll always be just a girl
give me more
living in freedom in what I wear
and not being judged for wanting blue hair
send me more
filled with constant love that I wanna pour out
and opinions that people should care about
but I'm trapped
right here, right now
and it's getting to be about time I learned how
to set my body, thoughts, and love free
instead of suppressing my cherished dreams.
send me more
give me more
I want more
but I am trapped
behind these closed doors.
july 17, 2015
Lyra Brown Dec 2013
you have all the answers
inside of you
but you cannot cure yourself
alone.
you must open your candle palm,
twist the tip, look up at the sun and say,
“do you have a light?”
you must let go of your fear
of being abandoned
and in the warm glow of the cold moon,
ask yourself what you want.
you must find someone who understands you
so you can pull the remaining strands of courage
out of your head and say,
“here. this is my offering.”
do not stay alone.
you are not stranded.
open up, be a little less afraid,
show them your insides.
your bones are not satan’s prey.
find a moment in each day to appreciate
what you have done for yourself,
abandon your hope of ever being perfect.
you have all the answers
inside of you,
but you cannot cure yourself alone.
i was like Icarus once.
my wings are still growing back.
i was Persephone in my moments of disillusionment.
it is hard to come back from the underworld once you fall
into it, like a mousetrap.
traps teach you a lot about the incredible resilience
of the body.
bodies teach you a lot about the magnetic brilliance
of the soul.
i am a Phoenix rising from the ash every time i tell you,
“I love you.”
i am reborn every time i shut
my eyes and open them,
again.
Larry Potter Jul 2018
Don't fish between two rivers
Unless you're a good swimmer
And the two streams don't meet at the center.

If the old dog can't learn new tricks
You don't have to buy it a bag of treats
But don't argue with it on politics.

Don't play with fire
But if you really want the ointment
Then get burned to your heart's desire.

Patience is not always a virtue
The mousetrap always looks pretty harmless
Until it breaks the rodent in two.

If you came and saw but didn't conquer
Perhaps there really was no war to wage
And you have just gone bonkers.
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
You offered this "life"
     A "gift" - you ensured...
Then, whipped out that knife
     Your mousetrap: secured.

Lonely, and empty
     Existence: so grim
My world, in a casket
     That fits all but him.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Marieta Maglas Jun 2015
Mary was a carrack around two hundred in size
Having a cargo space and five masts with lateen sails.
The men climbed to the top of the mast to front the skies.
Loaded the cargo and prepared it for heavy gales.

This ship had a main mast with a square sail for speed
And triangular sails for maneuverability.
Being eager to eat, to drink and to smoke their ****,
To load brocade and silk, they got the ability.

They had to purchase these goods of China to Lisbon,
Where they could exchange it for some Portuguese silver.
The crates were quite heavy, and Frederick asked Brisbon
To hire men, 'cause ‘’at time, the goods they must deliver.’’

Brisbon hired sailors from Istanbul for the crew.
They carried the crates, one by one, into the cargo.
Sulim came and said that the gangway was damaged, too.
‘’What else? ’’‘’Three crates of goods and Abseil’ hands, ’’ said Fargo.

''We have to get to Gibraltar before September
In order to be able to pass through the mousetrap.
There is a strong current, which can be our ship's dismember.
It flows in the opposite direction. Here's the map! ''

Sam said, ''captain, how fast are the currents through this strait? ''
''The water at the surface flows between 2 - 4 knots.
The Autumn current can make us strain as through Hell's Gate.
Losing knots in speed, we can die; life is in my thoughts.''

'' The merchant wants to leave and doesn't know what to do, ''
Said Sam. Frederick and two men went into port to seek
Someone, who could repair the gangway and someone who
Could treat Abseil’ hands, because to sail he was too weak.


Geraldine was in the kitchen to prepare some food
For the ******. ''Where do you go? '' She asked Frederick.
''A man's job! You're too jealous. I don't mean to be rude.''
''At noon, they drink.'' She laughed. ''My time is always metric.''

Frederick descended quickly into the boat with
Sulim and Suaram. They went ashore and went up
In northeastern outskirts of the town, where the fifth
House was an unfinished jewel under the sky's cup.

After two hours, they brought a few craftsmen the gangway
To repair. Finally, all the goods were brought on deck.
When the men started to eat, 'twas the end of the day.
'' The water swallows the sun; it's time for the dreams' trek.''

Said Sam while eating bread. ''And darkness engulfs the day.''
On the deck, the lanterns' light made the place enchanting.
They ate in silence. The water sprayed wet pearls away.
Frederick said, ''Now, the timeless our sleep is granting.''

(to be continued....)

Poem by Marieta Maglas
Maple Mathers Jan 2016
(The Art of Failing Goodbye)

I covet your closeness; how could I not? You were my world once upon a mime. Honestly. Though my pride will deny it, our demise left me discarded. Hiding amongst the few collateral souvenirs: stupidity and bitterness.

I bestowed to you the best of me; although you never asked me to. My heart, body, and soul - yours for the taking - a decision made on my own accord. Because you never asked me for any of it. You never asked me to do the things I did. But I loved you - innocent as that. Thus, relinquishing logic entirely.

Hardly more than a stranger, I felt I knew you; unaware of the lidded fabulist within. A mere tourist of my chassis; enthralled by my looks. Enthralled by just me. “In love” so deep, you attempted suicide twice. Upon my rejection – in theory. They almost beat you to death, and left you to the wolves. Deserved it? An understatement tenfold. And yet. My compassion was what saved you.

I protected the same entity who pulverized my own.

They all said you were no good – they said a mythomaniac would leach onto me until there was nothing left, ****** dry – then you would leave. Onto the next; life on the move. Daddy said you’d leave me in shambles. Was he right?

…Duh.

A question sheathed in rhetoric; absolutely. A black hole does not give back. Wake UP, m Maple – Ali – Oliver – whatever you are today.mWake up, you ******. And look here.

You ruthied(sp?) me last Halloween, took my body as your own, enabled a cycle I’ll no longer accept. The girl who cried ****…an alias to forever haunt me.

No one believed me then. Why would they now?

This final hurrah; a Halloween blackout. Wherein, you personified my worst nightmare. A cruel and unusual punishment – at best. And then.

You slithered and slinked away; no apologies – no goodbye for me. You’d taken all of me. Just like they said. All my value – dismembered and pocketed. Off you went…as predicted. Onto the next…life on the move.

You etched your gimmick; smuggling trust; squirreling intuition - these morals I'd entombed - you burrowed away. Promising Eden, you offered a map; directing me as I sailed the route. The garden, however, was not what I found. My catafalque(coffin) negated expectations you set; a utopia of dazzling, abundant nature. For, you'd devised a mousetrap; and I'd glissaded willingly inside…

For the very last time, gaze entwined. Blue on brown.

SNAP.
Causticji May 2015
Something stinking this way comes
not just the nausea of cobblestone
on Sundays and all public holidays
'neath the stairwell of insidious intent
hooked onto the static line for ages
the suicidal fish sinks deeper in the
pool of bile but cannot drown, so he
toes the line of the drama queen via
the lament-laden path trodden by
god's servant, past the corner where
foreignicating correspondents collide,
turn right or left – doesn’t matter
which way he chooses, it’s wrong.

The misfortune of being missed by
a Fortuner, he proceeds to jump off
Tilak Bridge and is hit by Range Rovers
endeavouring to hit and run after
the mundane Meru that lost its wind
shielding itself from the tyranny of
daddy's little boys with flaccid toys and
***** mouths and itchy trigger fingers,
misadventure interrupted they pause to
douse the flames of the dying but
urea isn't carbon dioxide; it's piscicide.

Something Kafkaesque calls him but it's
masked with the aroma of ******* served
in the nick of time from 22 through 71,
past Lahore Chowk down Baker St.
Pedestrian rat on the wrong side of
a one-way expressway to your skull
about turn into pitch black cul-de-sac,
scurries in through the out grille gushing
acerbic symphonies from the basement,
storm-water drain up against the tide,
never learnt to swim yet he tries.

After a while, she'll be home and dry.

The low ceiling makes him slouch
in and out through endless maze,
daily grind never takes a break
no room to turn around walk out,
yet again he forgets not to stretch
yet another fresh bump on his skull
now there are four score maybe more
benign, perhaps, who knows?
rats can't scan, only cats can.

The ache's spread to the limbs
the head and the hypertensive heart
then anterior now posterior
the costive claustrophe bleeds again,
it's a duct with a view downstairs,
he's a ****** not entirely by choice,
tom cat jerry kitten eating in and out
the pie is beyond grasp, at the exit
lies a mousetrap sans the bait,
nothing else for him to do but
work his fingers to the bone.
betterdays May 2014
a monkey
from a barrel
once said to me,
can you appreciate
the absurdity
of a life
run on
the
collation
of wealth.
scrabbling
to find a monopoly.
not caring for
individuality
just racing
to be the last
man standing.
"numero uno"
grandstanding
with a poker face,
always having
to win the race.
hungry hippo,
grasping, grasping
all the time.
no patience for
games,
even life.
just running the board
playing chess,
all the time.
just waiting for the
mousetrap to fall,
kerplunk.
then just left  to
pick up the sticks,
to deal the cards,
for a game of  
go fish.
the mind just
boggles,
at the thought
of the frantic images wrought
by the monkey
and the mind games
he played
so i stuffed him back
in the barrel
where
he now
stays
he
and
his
bamboozling
jigsaw
puzzle
patter.
neth jones Jun 2019
We meet at the Museum
hours after it has closed
Dressed - Impress
- Costume ;
All of our Art exposed

We'll feast upon The Security
the mousetrap
and The Ghost
We'll chew upon the wiring
We're the party
guests
and host

                                             - a child in love
#1 Silly-silly / Set Siren to our Prances / Petty Chime to our Dancing Vice / It would make a Tabloid Musical #3 Silly-silly / I wish to take you grotesque places / We’ll wear our masks over nasty faces / For now my immersion lies in cruelty / Of the results I shall form the most lavish jewellery / Together we’ll master a theatre of tomfoolery / I am most grateful for jest / Your breath / And / Above all / Your company.              
- a child in love
Laci Apr 2017
Fishbowl paradise
Ferris wheel routine
Plunging serendipity
Spirial anxiety
Suppressed screams

Mousetrap tongue
Sediment will
Onerous today
Dormant daydream

Intended aspirations
Disdain's reflection
Deliberation's causality
Capsized direction

Prevailing interpretation
Unyielding hope
Lost in translation melody
Vanquished negativity

Corralled worth
Starry eye glare
Deja vu reality
Steady stream pace
Rushed
I have enough reason to grouse
For the cats in our house
Can’t catch the mouse!
My family is quite panic-stricken
As it runs amok in our kitchen
That little brat!
Each thing it gnaws and nibbles
Quickly hides cleverly dribbles
Nowhere are the cats!
It’s irksome it plays so cool
As if our cats are bunch of fools
The mouse is a real genius!
It has made the kitchen its hearth
Run and frolic in mischief’s mirth
Make look our cats genuine ***!
Lapping milk gorging fish
The lazy cats never wish
To go after the mouse!
If you ask we rid it how
‘Go get one mousetrap now’
Says my spouse!
AJ Farruco Dec 2018
Sighmaster/
Used to be human/
Before the reoccurring/
I had a dream.../

Forgot it when I woke/
Uphill battle/
I get down by jumping off/
Hit the ground running/
My mouth is tired/
Feed the motor rocks/
Bust it!/

I talk like a stoner/
Walk like destruction/
Things fall apart/
As soon as I touch them/
Tortured soul artist/
Thinking is abstract/
Live like a ***/
And always feel crap/
In the deep end/
Good-for-nothing hollowman/
Looking like a castaway/
Dressing like it's Halloween/
Washed up/
Sleeping in castles made of sand/
Shipwreck in a bottlerocket/
Over your head!/

Nobody cares/
Don't expect nothing from no-one/
Except Allaah/
Who doesn't break His promise/
People shouldn't ****/
If they don't want to get hated/
On my nerves like a jackhammer/
Snap like a mousetrap/
Replica of my life/
Just to watch myself watch myself/
Awareness is a car crash/
Broken body alarm clock/
Woke, without enough sleep/
Feet in my back/
Elephant eyelash in the public eye/
Embarrassment is DEAD./
© + ® A.J. Farruco, 14/05/2019.
Barton D Smock Nov 2015
(all titles available on Lulu)


~



from The Blood You Don’t See Is Fake - Sept 2013, 211 pages, 10.00


the recidivist

I can overhear myself relating to an older brother the eerie feeling I had when jogging past an abandoned shoe factory.  I am more nervous than I think I am and can sense brother’s multilayered disappointment in all things prime.  it’s my stutter surprises me the most.  as if it knows, beforehand, things will never be the same.  once a coward, once is enough.  born in a place that feared me.        


within hail

     the flashlight works if you shake it.  this tree is the tree you should use.  every other home is broken.  every other window has in it my house arrested father.  the dog run off, the dog come back.  back with a beauty I will bed to babysit my brother.  the crow is empty.  a plaything, a part of the show.  crow can be blindfold, camera.  can censor among other things an exposed breast.  the fence wasn’t here when we got here so it’s not here now.  an uncle says there is a dog only he can hear.  will say anything to get laid.  in all fairness I’ve failed more than once to insert myself into the loneliness of my person.


a country

i.

I approach the dream as if I'm asleep
the answers written on my hand

ii.

I stick out my tongue
at the mid
born

baby

iii.

I raise awareness by praying
you go through
my exact
hell

iv.

I see myself as my son
writing to his father
about deformities

v.

in a crowd of soldiers
my daughter's head
bobs up and down

as if passed around
on a stick

vi.

it takes an army to imagine
only one thing


assistance

from the boy

(on the soon to be
exact
date
our poverty
matures)

this ballpark
statement:

I did not ask to be born.

     he wants the names
of those
I’ve told.

~

from father, footrace, fistfight - June 2014, 177 pages, 10.00


the gentle detail

in the time it took
his daughter
to soap
her brother’s
cradle cap

the man
was able
to lose
an entire hand.

every now
and now
he corrects me
with a puppet.

there is no place
where nothing should be.


lift

my mother steps on a wooden block
with both feet.

stepping off,
she announces
she is going
on a diet.

my father covers his ears
and gets shaving cream
on them.

he turns me in his hands
like a dish towel
then drops me
at the base of the tree.

I transport
god’s blood
on three
disposable
razors

to my neighbor
who

on a high shelf
has a microscope.


deep still

ghost of snake.  

an adoration
of atypical
young mother
fear.  

mouse needs a toothache.

footwork
heads north.


1998-2014

ideas
are the sickness
health
provides.

thoughts
are two sons
for a jesus
whose fathers

one heavenly, one earthly

never had
to touch
a woman.

the pain is not tremendous.

lo it has kept me
from hurting
my kids.

~

from The Women You Take From Your Brother - Aug 2014, 351 pages, 18.00


joy and joy alone

I broke the boy on my knee because I needed a switch. we ran around an empty crib. I let him catch a breath and he let me kneel. we tiptoed in a manner of mocking past private make-up to which his mother had been softly applied. he drank tea from an eggshell and I declined. I swatted him to let him know I was dying. his bent sister fell asleep and the boy was kind enough to believe her hair was a nightgown. I swatted him again to let him know I would live. the tea was gone. the rest is sadness.


being

a man my mother knows
only in passing
is reading a library book
in the dugout
of his dead
child’s
home
field
while his wife
rounds the bases
pushing
a stray dog
in a grocery cart.

at the dinner table
father says
we’re fasting
in a world
of spirits.

~

from Misreckon - Dec 2014, 115 pages, 9.00


clear heads

while smoking a cigar in the shadow of a nervous minotaur, my father wrote the book on moral isolation. in it, he predicted there would be a television show about hoarders and that it would turn god into a sign from god. my mother read the book cover to cover during her fourth and fastest delivery. if there were edits, she kept them to herself and put his name beside hers on seasonally produced slim volumes of absolute shyness.


untitled (ii)

afraid of my sons, I was born scared.  to my friend of few words I say

a few
words

on how a newborn looks like an undiscovered

fish
fresh
from ghosting
the underfunded
aquariums
of rapes

that occur.  at some point
I’ll tell my daughter

we’ve met.  my father

when he comes
comes

from another
dimension
to bear hug
our dinner guest
who’s arrived
in a mirror.  

mother puts a gun to her foot.


end psalm

god had an earache and I heard thunder. I learned to shrink into the smallness of my brain. I associated money with my father’s funny bone. my mother with the dual church of hide and seek. I went on to have a son with special needs. he cried once. cried milk.

~

from Eating the Animal Back to Life - July 2015, 316 pages, 10.00


off night

when what we thought
had entered
our father
left

we used him
as an alarm

god is coming
and mom
is vacuuming
stones


neglect

it didn’t take long for the frog to become real to those around me. some would bring it back and pat me on the head and some would laugh when I told them it’d never tried to hop away before. some would say it was the frog that was depressed and some would pray for the frog I was lucky to have. when it began to speak, I told myself that’s just how frogs talk. god came to me sooner than most. mom joked that he must’ve known I had a frog to get back to. my sister maintains to this day she had no intention of eating the frog as she was only trying to impress the snake her eyes were made for. by the time I woke her up, her hunger had ballooned and she leapt at me the odd leap of grief.


contact high

it gets so you can’t throw a rock without having a baby. not all of us talk this way but you have to hand something to the ones that do. I’ve seen voodoo dolls with more personality. had my mother’s god been my father’s, I would’ve gone blind from staring at my birth.


themes for country

I am at the truck
getting ice cream
for the overly
nostalgic
girl
who refused
to cut through
the cemetery

~

from Drone & Chickenhouse - Oct 2015, 84 pages, 6.00


chaos

brother drinks water enough to shock the devil. on the inside, he’s all doll. I shake him for show might our sisters travel in pairs. I used to talk but had to close my mouth when the soft spot on his head kept my mother from her toes. it’s the second stone that really lands.


deep scene

speech itself is a failed translation

dreaming is a farm

a mother
makes it as far
as mailbox

bear
to fish
there’s water
in the water

is, today’s mousetrap
tomorrow’s

shoe


language

word gets around
the schoolyard
pretty quick
that my father
drove his body
off a cliff
so god
would have a nail
hot enough
to touch.

I have a tooth
can make it
snow.
Vernon Waring Jul 2015
peter hated the house on mckinley street
in his eight-year-old brain it was a hot mess

since his parents moved there
all he heard were complaints and yelling

his mother was always moaning about the small rooms,
the lousy closet space, the faulty plumbing, the leaky roof

and the mice

they were everywhere - in closets, in pantries, in drawers,
behind the heater, under the radiators

they were in nooks and crannies, behind the refrigerator,
in the laundry room, even in the crawl space

they were almost always in hiding, rarely seen in daytime
except when they were found dead in a trap - also a rarity

traps were set methodically, enticing hors d'oeuvres were created
laced with cheese and peanut butter but still nothing worked

his mother would religiously check the traps every morning
and every time she'd mutter "those little ******* *******!"

the sly moves of mice to avoid the guillotine snap of a mousetrap
as they nibbled around a flap of cheese amazed everyone

besides traps his parents bought sticky cheese pads where the
tiny monsters would get their heads and bodies stuck permanently

one time peter observed a black mouse lying - and dying - on
a cheese pad...he pushed a second pad over its face

"i suffocated the little ****!" he exclaimed and when he told
his parents they bought him a gift card from the lego store

but every now and then one of the lilliputian invaders would
make a live unscheduled appearance

one october when the nights began to get colder his mother saw
a gray mouse climb up a cord leading to the microwave

she almost had a heart attack right there on the spot and there
was the time his father was looking in the refrigerator and

heard a strange scratchy noise behind him - he sensed
a sudden descent; a baby mouse had scurried off a shelf and

fell into a small trash can so his father immediately picked
up the can and hurled it out the back door

ultimately the parents decided to move to a swanky apartment
house and the night before peter had his last "mouse dream"

it featured a giant white mouse's head that was the size of
a billboard so big so menacing it scared him awake

finally he fell back into a gentle state of dreamless slumber...
and when he woke up his parents were taking down pictures

he looked out his window and saw a moving van pull up and
for the first time in a long time he was happy
MetaVerse Mar 5

Two crocuses
Have the whole garden
To themselves.

The mousetrap
Is snapped shut
And empty.

Kurt Philip Behm Mar 2021
Entrapping the magic,
philosophers moan

Theory after theory,
no meat on the bone

They label and mark,
their didactics retooled

Force feeding their ramble
to dilettante-fools

And when in the end
they are then proven wrong

They slink back to their hollows,
where the vanquished now throng

But a new tier of ‘masters’
has taken their place

To lecture and spiel
—and pontificate

(Baldwin School: March, 2021)
Graff1980 Nov 2016
The lines don’t cross. They never cross. Like connecting the dots, he pulls one string to the next. This is the only way he knows how to make sense of a senseless world. It is geometric. He points at the points placed by the power of his imagination. Then he twirls them in every possible angle. “There is a deeper truth in this,” he swears.
For fifteen hours he has stared at the puzzle. Cursing, and circling, every corner he could conceive of, seeking ultimate truth. His blues eyes blink with the powerful pulse of unrelenting fatigue. Soon he will succumb to slumber. This obsession may wane for the night. Although, he fears that in the morning he will lose the patience to pursue this line of reasoning.
Loose leaf papers filled with colored equations lay scattered across the room. He mumbles, “Sleep would be good.”  Instead of going to bed he clears the clutter from the frigid floor. Pushing his papers to the side. Then watches as they lift off the ground and float gently to the left and right. Dust particulates dance in the air, swirling and glittering in the morning glow.
The white t-shirt he was wearing comes off then his tight blue jeans go as well. “This will allow the free flow of blood to pass unconstricted throughout my entire body” he thinks.
“The answer is somewhere here,” he stutters. Slowly he seats himself on the floor, shivering as his naked flesh settles on the cold concrete. His legs curl and cross each other. Closing his now reddening eyes, he begins to breathe slowly. In and out and back again repeating and repeating the same breathing patterns, he focuses. Letting his consciousness float inches away from sleep, uncertain on which side of slumber he is sitting on.
Smooth round stones of various colors and sizes fill and form a shore in his mind. Then a pool of glimmering water appears from nothing. No scent exists here.  Aluminum foil wrapped potatoes are scattered all around him coinciding with an itch forming on his left foreman, diverting his attention for a minute. The landscape begins to dissolve, and he struggles to regain control. Bit by bit he regains control breathing in and out and back again.
His skin vibrates, or twitches, he is uncertain. The rhythm remains consistent. Thin lines of blood cross his entire inner body. In and out and back again. The shape from his room reappears with a white glowing sphere circling it. In and out and back again.
Inside the sphere a speck forms then disappears then forms again. In and out and back again. He wonders were this is going. Where does all the meaning in the universe come from? In and out and back again.
Is flesh the meaning or is it spirit. In and out and back again. Is life death and death life. In and out and back again. Is time a true measure of my existence? In and out and back again. Dam, what does the shape mean?
A small hand pushes his shoulder jerking him to the left. The world shifts colors. They pool and rock phasing into a grey scale then return to their original color, then shift back and forth for a few minutes until they settle into the original color scale. “That was like adjusting the color in a tv,” he muses.
Suddenly, a thin white light explodes piercing his retina, causing him to shudder in pain. In and out and back again. Why? What? Why? How? In and out and back again. The pain of uncertainty gnaws at is being. Fear begins to tighten its grip but he is too deep to withdraw.
Every book he has ever read appears fluttering freakishly fast opening and closing like a strange mousetrap. In and out and back again. Every experience he has ever had replays and is reintegrated into his being as he struggle to return to true consciousness. In and out and back again.
For a second the breaths stop. He can hear the words “in and out and back again.” A finger of light pushes its way into his mind pulling out strings of lights. He forgets all that he is and was. The strings explode and spread like a million lasers. Each lasers latches on to a book and pulls every words into him. Then he becomes himself again. Another round of lasers explode from his brain. This time these strings of his being reach out. Each one exploring the world around him. Just as he begins to feels like there is nothing of his being left the lights fling back like an overstretched rubber band and smack his brain with even more information.
After what feels like hours of this exploding and reforming he opens his eyes. The shape no longer cloud his thoughts. He jots down a few notes. After a couple days of intense study he adds to and passes the notes on to a friend. The friend reads them then passes them to, and again and again. Someone adds something new reshaping the ideas, then passes them on as well.
Years later the ideas comes back to their beginning. The young man reads a new book. He smiles as he absorbs the new ideas that linger in the mix with his old ideas. He sits down to breathe in and out and back again assimilating and integrating these new things into his being. In and out and back again.
Barton D Smock Aug 2014
heraldic entry (ii)

god is the secret god wants us to keep.  I hold onto my leg because you cannot return without it.  children drop in on women men ******.  this, I share.


heraldic entry (iii)

we junk the stove by not thinking about it.  I hide my gun inside and then find you doing the same.  we survive and believe it’s a sign from television.


heraldic entry (iv)  

the wee sharpshooter is scratching his ear with a sprung mousetrap.  you tell me, listen, when I am not.          


heraldic entry (v)

the healthy son has a sick.  well I’ll be.  of all the implausibly hedonistic, god is the one who didn’t get away.
Barton D Smock Jan 2017
it is hard for the nostalgic to forgive. I was raised on awareness and reincarnation. I remember, doghouse, the dollmaker’s tornado. and how to clear for my drunkest brother a mousetrap from a mountain path. believing, as a hostage would, in the taker’s amnesia.
A world ruled by my hand
is a world worth knowing,
where the strong thrive,
and the weak survive.

Where people wouldn't be held back
by those who would chain them down,
for the sake of offending others.
The artist could paint whatever he wishes,
The scientist could invent the newest vaccine,
and the laborer could make a honest day's work,
without fear of the highwayman bleeding him dry.

No more regulations or restrictions,
mine would be a world without limitations,
Anyone who didn't match up wouldn't
be bought or sold, simple as that.
And if you didn't like being outshone,
well, just build a better mousetrap.

You might criticize my reign as too lax,
but people can govern themselves
more often than not, and don't need
some dark-suits to tell them how to act.

The only power I'd really give myself
is the ability to enforce the rules,
for while little government is better than big,
nothing at all is just chaos and anarchy,
and that's not a world I'd look over.

Would I let it corrupt me, though?
It's hard to really say, but I've
been always a man of noble-mind,
but of course, it could rush to my head
like a shot of blood, but you can believe
I'd do my best to be upright and honest.

To do my part and use my strength,
to take this world and rule it all,
for the better, for the best.
Stardust Jul 12
My comfort zone smiles sweetly, like cheese in a mousetrap - harmless, until it snaps.
Marcus Well Mar 2018
Preferring traditional order is a conservative trait,
While liberal views new ideas await.
The extreme rednecks state,
“We’ve always done it this way;
There is no need for change.”
The liberal response,
“To not conceive or desire a better mousetrap
Is unnatural and strange.”
As an individual, I do a balancing act
Looking to improve
Yet staying on track.

A community of individuals now compounds those views,
And cultural difference furthermore skews
The many balances that now abound.
Ethnocentricity too may found
In individuals pontificating to others in a nation
Complex issue views that affect many
With what sociologists call
“The power of the situation”!!
In waves of political sensation,
They seem to reasonably call for new legislation.
But beware of too hasty a decision!!
What seems right at the time
Due to momentum and chime
Ushers in socialism!! 
For new law after new law in hasty accumulation
Leaves band-aid upon band-aid
In poorly thought frustration,
And instead of a solution’s well organized plan,
We find we’ve just been chasing our tails again!!

In the United States of America,
To have resolution we are so blessed
In its masterfully crafted United States of America Constitution,
In which our founding fathers so eloquently addressed
The positions of philosophy and conviction
Applying to individuals’ situations – whatever the mess!!

So, who is conservative in today’s political scene?
One who closely aligns with and supports our US Constitution
for sure,
One who defends our individual rights
that our US Constitution secures,
And one that conserves our nation’s resources with respect
And uses them sustainably where possible
Rather than exploit for a few
With (to spite the rest of us) the view:
LET GREED PREVAIL WHAT THE HECK!!
And finally to round off my top four,
The national debt a true conservative cannot ignore!!
An investment is fine and well recommended
Especially to boom our economy,
But continual escalating debt
Cannot forever be
Lest our children be sold into slavery!!

And now to our beloved Commander and Chief:
I’ve criticized many of his first year approaches, manner, and means
More than what he tried to get done,
And now my beefs have subsided somewhat it seems
Now that I’m seeing a more presidential presence than in year one!!
A great State of the Union Address and CPAC superb nobody denied!!
   And with the NRA, as a conservative, we’re both on his side!! 

— The End —