It's ok to write poems and put them here

Nature Doc on a Loop

I want someone to grip my wrists
and look straight back at me
I want the clock to stop,
so I can take a look and see
that maybe I’ve been wandering
for a while too long,
like a loose broken turnstile,
spinning cleanly, unbound,
though not exactly uninhibited or free.

It’s not a tragedy.
It can be another moment that wasn’t meant to be,
the aftermath becomes the new normal,
the temporary is now the permanent,
a workaround to adjust to the instability,
to help cover up what is still wide open.

Do you see why I need someone to grab hold of my wrists?
Sometimes I need a moment.

It seems like a lot of people want this movie to end,
but I don’t.
The point is moot.
This theater plays films on a loop.
The lead roles shift back and forth
and with time, we all learn each other’s lines.
One of the characters is you.
I don’t remember where our words came from
but as you say them
my lips might move too,
knowing that it can and cannot be true.

I tried to run away from home once
I had internalized their arguments and
believed they were both right.
Missouri without a car is close to impossible
a child walking down a highway with a backpack
knows there is no point
kicks some dust off the shoulder
but isn’t yet ready to be picked up.

Everyone I know is overloaded.
Their clients are falling from the windows
and squeezing back in through the front doors.
Even their ledgers seem to be near their limits.

I feel a kind of total emptiness.
The grass grows back strong when
my weight is lifted off of it.
Turns out the blades are indifferent.

I’m one weird ass bird and you are the trees
Your roots are strong and I’m in the breeze.
I can put my home in your branches
and hide in your leaves.
I have no mouths to feed,
the worms I catch are all for me.

I’m on the tip of a feather, then
I sink heavy, far and deep,
the rush of living distilled into a moment of peace
under your familiar canopy.

I can never be late here.

for some reason i've been writing a lot recently, and i really don't want to have to get a MFA and wait to get to be published in a friend's book before i am credentialed to put a poem in a public space. maybe you feel that way too, so please post yr poems if you want. otherwise i'll just keep posting mine, who fucking cares

Loose Control

Sometimes I try to put myself in a state,
call it Loose Control, for now,
where expressive results are bent into javelined roads,
temporary paths getting all covered up
and forgotten under relentless waves of new stuff.

Imagine automatic writing but more visual,
thin and slivering lines instead of language,
the brush’s residuals replacing the text.

When I Loosely Control my hand starts to move
on its own, independently,
thickened water sloshingly flying
up and around the edges of a bucket
which is swirling in elliptical orbits,
the inverse of my motions,
the effects of my causes becoming
untethered from their origins,
and yet I know that I am part of it all.
It is from me and yet it doesn’t see me back.

A forgotten mark gets scattered up,
reforms as a ladder and tips
toward new directions,
one of many landing strips,
loud movement then stillness,
a flood and then a covenant.

I make my bed and I sleep on top of it.
My heart beats are uninterrupted.
They make me live so I listen,
five liters of blood in a circuit,
all sustained without a rhythm.
I barely understand but I know I’ll wake up.

out of this tape hiss comes some light

i've been dropped off here,
old train running on a fresh sea,
with fingertips all cut up and worn down from
constant use, my newer skin turns rough

I wanted someone to talk to but instead I had a beer or two.
it’s only more water pushing against my barricades.
we build ourselves back up and see each other off at the door.
I wonder who is watching who.
I wonder how long I can keep this up.
I think about what it would be like to see you stop.

I broke your locks but fixed your door sweep.
Your car was fine but I brought it to the shop.
I made your day easier and that was enough.

Tough love, that’s kid stuff.
I’ll clean the dirt off, don’t worry.
Your hands are blistered.
Mine are sweating. My glasses fogged up.
But I still drop them off at school.

Two-step around the room.
The drums and the singing
and I’m feeling warm again.
I’m stretched out and dry.
crushed in, drawn tight
I haven’t touched skin so soft in years,
my knuckles pop like firecrackers,
My hands are stupid bricks.
My WPM is 96.
The words pile up and I keep writing.

There’s a ship that sails back.
I can still see it.
I think about my sense of humanity.
I think I saw my spirit dancing
with the one that brought me,
the thought which took me out on the town and spun me sideways,
our long naps in the evenings,
unwarned,
unearned,
walking on air, enchanted.

a moving checkmark has caught my eye
starkly black on blue tinted gray.
2 birds to the left, 6 to the right
1 at the head
a flying nonet
not at all like a Monet
but beautiful all the same

you had to be there I suppose.

Hey look, we’re right on time.
This place has been designated for our recovery.
It’s sponsored by a local charcuterie.

You know I’m only kidding
and the bit is that there’s nothing to get
(everyone’s least favorite)

What do you know, we’re in another line
This place is dedicated to making money
just like pretty much everywhere else
now that anyone or anything can be a market
our dreams got commodified in the bargain

Remember those glow-in-the-dark ceiling star kits?
Did you ever peel them off,
or did someone else do it without your say?
And what happened to that dog we had, anyway?

Some kids recreate the solar system
at a 36 billion to one ratio
“whaaaah bakkken-mah day”, old man me may say, “o kai,
Pluto was still part of the solar system”
as if it disappeared from existence altogether when it lost its place
as the 9th and furthest planet on the way
to waypoints in other galaxies
it’s still there.
It’s still cold.

Old man me complains a lot, probably
I used to think about him every day,
trying to avoid becoming him.
The more I think of him the closer he gets,
so I drew a line and put myself on one side of it,
turned 180 degrees and went on autopilot
it means smoking in the sunroom and washing down
pizza crust with another beer on the way to the couch.
When I finally turn around I know what to expect.
Old man me’s shadow will be my own before long,
a long-scheduled appointment well met.
I shake his hand and we walk back into our apartment.
He watches the shows and I hit refresh.

That’s a part of our bargain.
It’s about forgiveness.

I have quite a bit to apologize for.
He at least acknowledges that it happened
Then he goes on and on and makes no sense.
I try to listen, but can’t.

That’s when I want to think of something else.

That’s when I think about what I think a home is
What we’ve all been through, and
Where have we gone, and
what my friends have seen, their new families are growing.
It’s aways the right season for fertility,
I see all their children and I think “what if that was me?”
And in every single case, I would be happy.
My friends mean a lot to me. They keep me going.
I think if I fall on my face they’ll love me all the more for it.
That means everything to me.
That lets me remember my inner child,
cartwheeling straight down the street,
sliding, careening, skinning a knee,
getting all bent out of shape
from anyone or anything I might meet
knowing full well I have a place for recovery.
Not my local Schnucks or wise-ass charcuteries
but with my chosen family, the ones who are really there
(and don’t charge an arm and a leg and a fee,

Happy anniversary to 1 of 365.25 people, on average, we might meet
Soon the shops will open with the year’s first work week.
I’m rooting for you, from the margins.
Unemployed by choice, that’s the jargon
I’ve rarely said “beg your pardon?”
I usually say “I’m sorry?” and regret my decision of words immediately
the theater of the absurd grows stale quickly
let’s break bread and dry it out completely.

Poetry
like pottery
left me cold
as a pot of tea
in the studio

Shins

Whose thistle-blistered shin is this?
The other one must surely miss
Its criss-crossed country counterpart
If one is one and two are two how many shins am I to lose
To bracken stumbles cuts and grazes, nettle stings and turns of phrases
Sod this for a barrel of laughs
I'd rather use the underpass

Borstal sorcerers

Don't grouse on my greasy undergarments with your oleaginous jeremiads
Metastatic angst in the antechamber of Anthea Turner's tanning atelier
Hock your snot into a truffled fist, you sunny-spayed evangelists
Serve my sirloin on a praxis of half-shined rag-and-iron colliders
Billious squalls from the Gorbals bill tables while we celebrate Clark Gable's nasty garlic nails.
Slop a bucket of hot-steam gas on the coalface of the midnight mass
Sick chicks peck at plastic packaging
Dejected ingestion of a pupper's plaything
Rubber throats on the road start to rollick:
"Hen, you've had your fillet!"
You embattled borstal sorcerers

All mine were written into my phone while deeply hungover

(no match for KM's work of course, which I'm loving)

i'm just a doof in the wind, dog latin

Slow synth waves wash over 2am
It’s 1994 or 2024, doesn’t matter
I didn’t have Nickelodeon
I’m falling asleep
I might be falling again,
By all signs I am
(Each step is a kind of broken forward motion)
According to Laurie Anderson.
We can’t bothered paying too much attention right now
In the midst of the everpresent competition of the senses
with touches and smells and sounds and visions,
And on and on in bottomless provisions
The brooms grow arms and pick up the buckets
and flood their lair in lemminglike motions

It tastes like wine
It tastes like honey

Let’s dim these lights and turn up their hues
a degree or two warmer then cool daylight
The heat’s on 72
I’m sweating, through the sheets
I see you moving,
Do you see me watching
I hope you do.

We could just go.
We could go to the Blue Lagoon.
There’s a free layover at Reykjavik
On the way to Europe
or at least there used to be.
I haven’t really left this town in a week or three.
You sit in the sulfuric water and smell like eggs.
Weird for a minute but plenty-fine in a daze,
3-feet deep water, half crouch
The low-flying clouds of steam out the mouth
Hot stones on your cheeks against the North Atlantic breeze
For us it might be heaven
For others it’s a Tuesday soak
One to take off work and enjoy a float
facedown for as long as their lungs can handle it
Then flip and spread the arms toward all four directions,
The cardinals, the original sin,
Imagine you’re the tail of a lizard
Feeling left and right and centered
As naturally as our hearts beat and lungs breathe,
We’re so lucky to sit at the top of these complicated systems,
We don’t understand but we benefit from them
To live our lives in a way that honors that gift is to
repay back only part of what we’ve been given
To truly enjoy a sliver of the life
Is to be adrift at sea, at home with the upheaval

I was really sick on a small boat the open sea there, near Iceland.
We had paid a small fee to try to see a whale swim.
Now I’m the boy on the big wide cold open ocean for the first time since
his father drowned himself semi-voluntarily,
probably out of ignorance,
Out of a misplaced faith in his voice of intuition,
One voice out of many in conversation,
A form of improvised unpredictable organization,
Sorted starting with numbers a
Before the letters
I opened my eyes and my stomach went sideways,
I almost threw up but sat my way out of it.
I closed my eyes and leaned back my head
Against the cabin and the shapes inside my lids
Watching some puffins landing near a dark cave lit up
by a tourist captain playing an echoing woodwind
An alto saxophone with an unexpected soulful lilt,
A long quiet note held steady with tremolo flicks
Bouncing off the walls and my own index fingers and wrists
Tapping along to the the perfect story, followed by that solo,
the one I just mentioned.
I was haunted, what’s wrong with me, live.

unexpectedly
subtle black cat climbs the fence
leaves night incomplete

Dr. Howl

The moving men just finished
There are two of them, two guys, along with a truck
They’re dancing in the front cabin
and filling it up with vape smoke and laughing
hotboxing at 3pm, done with their shift

One of my neighbors is leaving
but I didn’t see who it was

There’s a beagle next door that I call Dr. Howl
The good doctor documents his agony
When his walker walks off to work
he yooowls to absurd length
caterwauls until no one can stand it

We all struggled with his loneliness
Those of us living within a 200-foot radius, that is
On some mornings it would go on for hours.
He’d clock in early then go back to bed
only to wake up again around 9am
to resume his fit at an even greater volume

I saw the Doctor Howl in his apartment’s side window sometimes
We’d make eye contact while I locked my front door
I loved seeing him in his window frame, looking at me
He single-handedly ruined my sleeping patterns
and I’d give him some more time, I’d give him a treat, if I saw him

Now the truck and the two guys are gone
There’s a large empty space where it was
I haven’t heard a howl all day
now to think of it
I wonder where that sad boy is

I hope he’s running in a big open space
miles away from any other property
barking and huffing and squalling
the doctor in his countryside residence, at peace

That's great

thank you dog latin! what is very strange is that when i finished that yesterday, i posted a video clip of me reading it, and almost the instant i hit send, i heard Dr. Howl going again and was assured that he's still around. I even saw him in the window looking back at me when i went outside later. it was really nice :)

the nice thing is that the poem stands up completely on its own, unaffected by those later facts

thank you aimless! you all should post some that you're working on, if you want. i've revised all the ones i posted above, quite a bit in cases, but i think it's sometimes a nice thing to have a place to post work in progress. i'm working on a decent one right now, i think. i really enjoy using my mornings to write poetry. it fits in really well with the rest of my day and it makes me feel very productive. i've never really organized my writing before, but i think maybe part of that was that i assumed i would be best at doing it at night, which is when my creative outlets are usually sparking. but with writing, i think i am a morning/coffee person. anyway, just rambling, back to the notes :)

and no joke, just as i post, the same two guys and the moving truck just showed up! i think they're moving someone else in? looool. well, i'm sitting here at the same window, on the same couch. unbelievable

The silence of a new apartment
Waving to the one you left behind and closing the door
crying and knees and hands touching the floor
Do I want to be reminded
No, but I wouldn’t want to forget

one more, sorry. this is the one i've been working on the last few days

Mary Lou Retton Skips

Look at him, skipping rope
He skipped up and down the full length of his block’s sidewalk
without a single slip or halt, not a moment of hesitation
If anything he seems to be craving a mistake
Not at all like Mary Lou Retton, you remember
a nation held its breath, it was the 1984 Olympics
the sprint to the vault pushes those watching to the edges of their seats
she launches, flips, soars, and of course sticks the landing
She demanded perfection of herself in a life full of limits
Now she’s waiting to see what the judge’ would think
Then we saw the score and she heard it and said Yes!
and we all said it together, Ten!, watching on our analog televisions
Moments like that certainly capture my attention.
One hundred percent of it, the career-defining performance
The tip of a spear dipping ever so slightly into transcendence
That’s the boy who effortlessly skips, in the moment, in this moment,
at the top of his game, when life seems so easy
His kid sister walks behind him and watches and smiles
now she’s spinning and he’s romping down the block again

(sorry, that's supposed to go into this:)

I don’t want to be disenchanted, as I sometimes am
As we all are bound to be, lost at sea in the knowledge economy
I try to push back against that drift
because I enjoy being enchanted
In fact, it means pretty much everything to me
When it feels like magic I don’t know what I saw
I know what it felt like, I don’t know it all
I know every spell gets broken, I know where I belong
Every day can’t be like this and this might not happen again
That’s why I hold onto this feeling tightly for as long as I can
when I can find it, when I can hear my voice and change it

(and then figuring out if i want to include this or work it into something else i've been working on. it contains many baseball references, which i'm sure will be wonderful for some and horrible for others, haha):

When the bus dropped me off, as a kid, I had a ritual
I would take off my bag and begin the great spin
Wielding my backpack like an Decathlon competitor holds a hammer
Feeling the slack of the Jansport bag’s thin straps tightening
Gaining momentum
A trapper keeper slammed up against polyester lining
Then I’d whip my book bag off into the air as far as I could possibly throw it
Often with a grand arc, as a performance
As the bus pulled off with some kids laughing from the windows
the school day was done, the home was still home

i changed the name to Skip to my Lou, and the last part is now part of something else. also revised a lot of things, after reading it out loud a few times and hearing where things needed to be

Skip to my Lou

Look at that kid, skipping rope
He skipped up and down the full length of this block’s sidewalk
without a single misstep, no miscues, no reservations
If anything he seemed to be craving a mistake
One to break the winning streak so he could move on to something else

Not at all like Mary Lou Retton, you remember
a nation held its breath, it’s the 1984 Olympics
Her sprint to the vault pushes those watching to the edges of their seats
she launches, flips, soars, and of course sticks the landing
She demanded perfection of herself in a world of limits
Now it all comes down to what the judges should think
She walks past the NBC cameras and we see
the pressure of theater on the brink of the rink
no one blinks, I think, no one breathes
Then we saw the score and she heard it and said Yes!
and we all shouted the number together, Ten!
the announcer, the audience
everyone at home watching on our analog televisions

Moments like that certainly capture my attention.
One hundred percent of it, the career-defining performance
The tip of a spear dipping ever so slightly into transcendence
That’s the boy who skips, seemingly, without effort
in the moment, in this moment
at the top of his game, when life seems so easy
His kid sister walks behind him and watches and smiles
now she’s spinning and he’s romping down the block again
His streak is still going
He can’t retire while he’s still on top because
he hasn’t worked a job
I hope he doesn’t have to for as long as he can

I don’t want to be disenchanted, as I sometimes am
As we are all bound to be, lost at sea
in the knowledge economy or whatever it is that we call this
I try to push back against that kind of heavy drift
because I enjoy being enchanted
In fact, it means everything to me
When I feel magical I don’t know what I saw
I know what it felt like, I don’t know it all
I know every spell gets broken, I know where I don’t belong
I know most days aren’t like this
That’s why I hold onto this feeling so tightly for as long as I can
when I think about my voice and who is changing it

god, things can never be done.

last stanza now starts like this:

I don’t want to be disenchanted, as I sometimes am
As we’re all bound to be, emptied into the sea
in the knowledge economy or whatever it is that we call this
every droplet of water makes its own slow way to the ocean

That Dr Howl one is pure late Bukowski, not a bad thing, I love late Bukowski.

Is this thread really for "works in progress"? Cus your standard and workrate is intimidating, and personally my brain doesn't work between October and like March or summat, so when I had a Big Day opening mail/taking a walk/reading the bible I wrote this down in full awareness I will not be fixing the meter and such until the sun hits my corpse:

I love my auntie's handwriting
It is genuinely illegible, but
It swoops and it soars
Long curves, that (to me)
Illustrate: birds in flight
Messi shots at goal
and paths never took
On walks in the forest
IN THE HILLS

Turf Hill
Scare Hill
Boy's Hill
Burnieshag, Gaerlie
These are high points in my life
(geddit?
never mind...)

Bellhangie
Shoolbraid
Bogton (fucken BOGTON)
These are apparently individual "woods"
But really
(come bosie up and I'll tell you a secret):
It's actually all one big forest
(also my life is one big forest)

But my auntie's handwriting was NOT ALWAYS THIS WAY
I know
Because of my grandfather's bible
His wife put it in my hands when he died, and
Inside
I found a slip of paper
No more than like 3/4 inch square
With a verse from Luke
Bland, rote, capital letters
I would have never known who wrote it
If it wasn't signed
Hilary White

I just wanted to get for my own records before I forgot 1) my Auntie's baffling handwriting 2) The names I googled of where I was walking, I thought it was just "up the forestry", turns out I traversed multitudes 3) the tiny piece of paper I found in the Bible.

Oh also when I woke up today I found this written "chase yirsel son, finish up your compendium of left-handed bassists", I AM COMPILING NO SUCH COMPENDIUM so my only guess is that is meant for song lyrics or poetry

wearing a t-shirt says "emo-adjacent", that's also a scribbling I need to put in something

i really enjoyed reading that! "also my life is one big forest" is something i will remember, hahaha

as far as workrate goes, i'm in a weird temporary thing right now for the next year or two where i don't have a job and i spend my time doing whatever the fuck i want, all the time. it's incredibly self-indulgent and i've only getting to do it by obliterating every dollar i've ever put in any location

for example, i have a list of TO DOs that are getting more urgent - your payments are failing, your prescription is ending, your insurance hasn't started, etc. but instead i'm going to spend the rest of this morning drinking my coffee and working on my baseball poem, because fuck you only live once

also j h m i appreciate your use of capital letters and you sense of parenthetics (in this thread it is ok and good to make up words)

gonna do a quick test to see if this works, using the formatting...

Jonah was tossed overboard
    and Jesus walked upon a sea
            of expectations and Kurt Vonnegut’s reminding me
            so it goes, it’s overflowing, the need for emptiness
            to continue on as your body craves activity
            blood vessels carrying oxygen and nutrients

A Dead Armed Pitcher is Not Yet a Man

The path of a pitched baseball 
can be curv    or sl
           ing      urv
                       ing
          t
narrow or a  
          l
          l
cutt        n
    ing or k u                    arc's
              ckl              the      f
                 ing      bends         a
                 the wind               l
                                        l
slid
    ing or drop
               p
                ing 
    like a sick stomach
    having just reached the top
    of a rollercoaster ride that screams like a rocket until the bottom falls out of it and comes to the most sudden
                                                                                                                stop

Instead of throwing the ball like any of that
I throw it right down the middle
as hard as I can
My ass is handed to me in front of an audience

I grunt when I throw because they asked me to
because if I don’t they’ll ask why I didn’t
because they thought it would add a couple miles per hour
to my cartoonishly slow and extremely hittable deliveries
The other kid grunts back as he slaps a loud smack
The crowd roars because our team is away and they are safe at home
We’re 13 years old, I sucked
I got roughed up on the usual
but our team had no reliable bullpen
so they left me in to soak up the remaining innings
until the 10-run rule arrived, the rule of mercy

Pool

Movies on black and white tvs in barrooms
Fred Astaire smiles and a man plays a flute
I was watching him dance in a musical on mute

When a coquette with a curly q
sticks three quarters into a table which removes
a stop inside of it and prompts sixteen balls to click
together as they roll down a slope to her waiting hands

If I’ve seen it twenty times here, I’ll see it again
but I’ve never anything resembling this
she takes the 6 ball and puts it in one coat pocket
the 4 ball is flipped up in the air as the 9 ball is
touching the floor and now it seems like everyone’s staring at her

Cue ball in her left hand, 8 ball in her right
the green felt under the hanging billiard light
tinted with oranges and yellows and grime

She wound up like a pitcher in the bottom of the 9th
like an old-timey pitcher with the long-winded wind-up
We all saw where she was aiming and where this was going

He started running toward the door
when she finally launched it
where his body had been only a second before
the mirror exploded and the shattered glass scattered quick
as his shadow was seen down the corridor
She grabbed the coat he left behind and walked outside
with a flick of a cigarette

Later that night as the owner cleaned up
and grumbled about the cost of pool ball replacements
there was something that caught my eye
a clear view to the sky, ripped through the ceiling
the size of a cue ball, when did she make that happen
what else does she make happen
i’ll take a manhattan
she paid less than a dollar to make things plain
that’s a good deal in most centuries

You lads <3

Oh you're "on the spectrum"?
We're all on the "spectrum" that's what makes it a spectrum
But some of us use it as a synonym
For "I Act The Dick On The Internet"

Some of us get pennies threwed at our head
In those horrific high school corridors
But (bosie up, I'll give you a callback)
You can feed your family off the subsequent coins

No, we don't use that term
It's ugly, pointed, dismal and tawdry
Don't listen to me, a Doctor will tell you
But that doesn't appear on your 5 year plan

It's like Peel said
on first play of New Puritan
IF YOU THINK IT'S ABOUT YOU... IT'S ABOUT YOU
Let's just go back to bed

6 years into my 5 year plan, and I'm not where I said I'd be
So I live my life in Comic Sans, a forced attempt at levity

3 years on this sofa and still haven't got no sleep
But I live my life in Papyrus, cus I'm ~mystical and deep~

Had my eyes closed when you wrote that note, but I took a sneaky peek
Try to live my life in Futura, up to date and somewhat sleek

So next time you need to move your shit just give me a shout
I'm whatever font but Sans Serif, nae fucking about

Sorry, that one is pretty bad, closer to a party game than a poem, but this is a safe space, right?

I wrote a poem about my REDACTED but then it seemed too TW-ish to post so I replaced every use of the word REDACTED with REDACTED and now it seems creepily sexual? But in a humorous way so here yis go:

There is no honour in this town
But there are a lot of REDACTED
mostly plastic, yellow and black
how can I respect you with that toy in your hand?

My REDACTED was my father's REDACTED
Maybe his father's REDACTED before?
I dunno, we don't speak
The REDACTED is my father now

Stanley 99E, for whatever that's worth
One side half decayed, but then increasingly shiny
At the top end, rubbed by my fingers
As I grasp it in my pocket

The other side, only the tip is burnished
Where my thumb resides
The knife hides secretly as I listen to your tiresome anecdote
Waiting for the bigoted punchline

My brother visited my mother
Whipped out his REDACTED, to prove he's a big man
I just stood back, smirked
Knowing I had the superior REDACTED

And when I sleep tonight
I shall hold the cat against my chest
But the REDACTED will be in reach
Just in case

It resides on the other side of the bed
Vacant, except for the REDACTED
But the REDACTED's presence reassures me
Because I live in REDACTEDTOWN

Fuck I missed one

Better:

There is no honour in this town
But there are a lot of REDACTED
mostly plastic, yellow and black
how can I respect you with that toy in your hand?

My REDACTED was my father's REDACTED
Maybe his father's REDACTED before?
I dunno, we don't speak
The REDACTED is my father now

Stanley 99E, for whatever that's worth
One side half decayed, but then increasingly shiny
At the top end, rubbed by my fingers
As I grasp it in my pocket

The other side, only the tip is burnished
Where my thumb resides
The REDACTED hides secretly as I listen to your tiresome anecdote
Waiting for the bigoted punchline

My brother visited my mother
Whipped out his REDACTED, to prove he's a big man
I just stood back, smirked
Knowing I had the superior REDACTED
And when I sleep tonight
I shall hold the cat against my chest
But the REDACTED will be in reach
Just in case

It resides on the other side of the bed
Vacant, except for the REDACTED
But the REDACTED's presence reassures me
Because I live in REDACTEDTOWN

And that time somehow I deleted a verse break, but I'm not pasting it thirdwise

I’m out of milk, out of butter, and eggs
But I don’t think I’ll be headed to the supermarket today
I‘ve eaten and smoked, I’m partly dressed
I haven’t washed the dishes yet
I’ll be broke soon if I can’t sell something
and I just broke another french press
it fell with a cracking splash into the sink
as I closed a kitchen cabinet
My pointy elbows poked it off the ledge
I’ve been making a lot of clumsy accidents
and it all started after I started wearing glasses
now I have three plastic plungers and zero carafes

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Can someone tell Batman why not?!?
Reply to: pers-164487✧✧✧@craigsl✧✧✧.o✧✧
Date: 2006-05-25, 8:25AM EDT

can someone tell Batman why not?!?

Why he can't luv Batgurl? Why can't he luv Batgurl? What's wrong with luving Batgurl?

Thanks! kisst plus kisses for Batgurl

* this is in or around manhattan
* yes -- it's ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

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