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Obadiah Grey Dec 2013
Sphincter factor nine approaches
food for the fish n roaches
methinks its time for me perhaps
to open up the rearward *****.


------------------------------------
AAChoo !!

Oh, liddle sister, Josephine,
you sure don't keep your
nose real clean.
got stalactites
o' pure pea green
my infectious sibling
snot machine.
----------------------------------------
I thought that I might shoot the breeze
with God or Mephistopheles
and ask them please to ease my wheeze
of my bad back and dodgy knees
---------------------------
Croak with the raven
bluff with the crow
the urchin
the field mouse
beneath the hedgerow
in a flurry they scurry
away away go.
Yelp with the *****
howl with the hound
and bay at the moon
till the sun comes around.
------------------------------------------
Gino's bar and grill.

Away, away afore Bacchus
doles out befuddlement
and Morpheus has his way,
lest I awake to find myself
in the company of
sodamistic bedfellows
with buggery in mind.
---------------------------------
Harry Potter has grown a beard
he lives alone and turned out weird.
Dumbledore, Albus, no more
turned his toes and 'ad a snore,
Voldemort, who's *** is taut
has no nose with which to snort.
====================

Ahem !!

Behind two Lilies- sits Rose,
then Daisies
for two and a bit rows.
with Poppy, and *****
Petunia, Primrose.
and Bryony - who gets up
- my nose.
----------------------------------------------
Amen.
God bless the Cows - for beef burgers.
God bless the Pig - for their bacon.
God bless the wife n her sharp knife
for the slice of their **** she's taken.

-------------------------------------------------
We can, no more fetter the sea to the shore
nor the clouds to the sky
or tether the glint
in a lovers eye,
As sure as the shore loves the sea
so shall I love thee, together,
together for eternity,

-----------------------------------

It bends for thee
sweet chevin,
the cane thats cleaved
by three,
wilt thou now
sweet chevin
yield, my friend ,
for me.
-------------------------------------------------
There's Marmalade then Marmite
and Jams thats jammed between
the buttered bread of bard-dom
a poets sweet cuisine.
---------------------------------------------
I took up campanology
and fired up my ****.
I rang that bell
to ******* hell
till the busies
came along.
--------------------------------------------
so, I've been whittling away
at a buoyant ****-
fashioned something approximating
a poo canoe-
in it, I intend to
surf the **** tsunami of old age
to-- death;
I have named it Public - Service - Pension.


----------------------------------------------

A surreptitious delightful tryst,
with my honey, my sebaceous cyst.
she's my pimple, my wart,
my gumboil consort.
she's the zip, in which
my *******, got caught.
--------------------------------------
Frayed at the bottoms
ripped at the knee.
baggy and saggy
big enough for three.
faded and jaded
and stained with ***
but I'm due for a new pair--
Yippeeeee!!

---------------------------------------

Ther­e's Cockerel in my ear
and he bills and coo's for you
whenever you are near
goes - **** a doodle doo !!!!!,,,,,,,,

---------------------------------------------

Oh,­ for the snap shut skin
in the blue twang of youth
and to un-crack the spine
on the book of love.
now the gulping years
have flown away
we take sips of the night
and are spoon fed the day.

-----------------------------

Zeus made the Moose to be somewhat obtuse,
a big deer- rather queer- I fear.
then God gave him the nod to look funny and odd
the spitting image of you - my dear !!!

---------------------------------------

Knobbly Nobby.

Nobby has a great big nose
a great big nose has he,
and nobby knows
that his big nose,
is big, as big can be,
nobby has two knobbly knees
two knobbly knees has he,
his knobbly knees,
are as knobely
as knobbly knees can be,
don’t pity dear old nobby
for soon it’s plain to see,
that nobby has a great big ****
as big, as big as three !
now nobbys **** is knobly,
as knobly as a **** can be,
so nose and knee and ****
make three,
and we - are ****- ely.

----------------------------------

The Woman that wouldn't eat meat,
had reeaally, reeaally big feet,
her **** was as big as an hermaphrodite brig
and her **** were as hard as concrete….


--------------------------------

Hearken the clarion call of the crows
afore the snow-
they caw,
hey, get your **** into gear lads-
we gotta feckin go !!!

-----------------------------

Gods pad

I took a peek within
your house
wherein on pew, I spied
a mouse,
and in his hand,
a Bible clasped,
and out his mouth,
a parable rasped,

---------------------

I'd say she had
a pigeon loft in
her eyes and
bluebells up
her nose.

But then again
I wear a flat cap

and stroll through meadows.

----------------------------

Would you care to buy our house?
It's minus Mouse n devoid o' Louse,!
Spiders, Roaches, Bugs or other,
have all been eaten by my brother,
snaffled up n swallowed down
then jus' crapped out a - yellowish brown.
so would you care to buy our house?
from an oddly pair -- devoid of nous

-------------------------

Though the Crows got her eyes
and the Worms got her gut.
comes as no surprise
death can't keep her mouth shut.

-------------------

Bevelled slick edges
and reeaal eeaasy slopes.
Chilli dip wedges
with fresh artichokes.
Wanton loose wenches
and swivel hipped ******
Daft dawgs and dentures
and granddad - who snores.

-------------------

Been whittling away at a buoyant ****
and fashioned something approximating a canoe,
in it, I intend to surf the **** tsunami of old age;
I named it, "Public service pension"

-------------------------------

.
Well,
     I could wax on the wings of a butterfly
but, I ain't that kind o' guy.
rather kick the nuts off ******* squirrels
pluck the wings off - blue assed fly.
I'm the stuff that flops off dog chops
when he's up for it and high.
an infection in your sphincter,
a well
that's jus' run dry.

----------------------------------------------

befeathered­ and bright scarlet
is my ladies bonnet,
jauntily askew and -
lilting on a paramours
grin.

"- Gladlaughffi -"

I'm reliably informed that dear ol' Muma
sported a goatee around his **** sphincter,
now, whilst this is merely educated speculation
from my esteemed friend his "groom of the stool" ! 
who was in fact required to wear a mask,
ear muffs and a blindfold whilst he went about his business,
He did possess reeaaally sensitive fingertips
somewhat akin to a blind man reading brail,,
and, swore blind that said "**** sphincter' spoke him in Arabic
and asked him for a quick trim, (short back and sides)
I myself being a practising proctologist of some repute
am inclined to believe my friend the "groom of the stool"
as I've come recognise -- Arsolian when I hear it !!!!!!!!
-------------------------------------

In a Belfast sink by the plughole
where hair and gum gunk meet
'erman the germ-man  and toe jam
bop the bacillus beat.

________

Doctor this I know as fact
that I have a blocked digestive tract,
I'm all bunged up and cannot go
my trump and pump is - somewhat slow.
I need unction jollop for junction wallop
some sorta lotion to give me motion.
If you could please just ease my wheeze
then I needn't grunt and push and squeeze.

-----------------------------

They are breaking out the thwacking sticks
and sparking Godly clogs
pulling tongues through narrowed lips
at the infidel yankee dogs.

------------------------------------

As a paid up member of the
lumpen bourgeoisie poetry appreciation society
I can confirm without fear of contradiction
that poetry is indeed baggy underwear
with ample ball room, voluminous in the extreme
and takes into account
the need for the free flow of flatulent gassiness
that is the want of a ****** up poet.

-----------------------------------------------

She's a rough hewn Trapezoidal gal
a gongoozler o' the ol' canal.
She's copper bottomed n fly boat Sal.

I'll have thee know that
that there hat
is a magic hat,
it renders me invisible
to the arty intelligentsia
and roots me firmly
in the lumpen proletariat .
-------------------------------------------------------
Said the sneaky Scotsman, Jim Blaik.
if the pension, you wish to partake,
bend over my son, lets get this thing done
and cop for this thick trouser snake !!

I met my uncle Albert,
down at Asda, in aisle three;
he got there in a Mazda,
jus' a smidgen after me,
said he'd traversed Sainsburys,
Tesco Liddle n the Spar,
but not one o' them flogged Caviar
Truffles or Foie gras.


He sidled past the pork pies
streaky bacon turkey thighs
a headin for the french fries
n forsaken knock down buys,
shimmied 'round the ankle biters;
expectant mums to be,
popin pills for bloated ills
in the haberdashery.

Fandango'd o'er the cornflakes
and the spillage in isle four

-----------------

I'm linier and analogue,
a ribbon microphone man
mired in the dust of the monochromatic,
the basement, the attic.

------------------------------

Simple simon met miss Tymon going to the fair,
said simple simon to miss Tymon - "pfhwarr what a luverly pair"
of silken thighs and big brown eyes and scrumptious wobbly bits,
Said simple Simon to miss Tymon---------- shame about you **** !!!

So sad sweet Shirl thought she'd give a whirl to clubbercise n pound

Squat, slightly,
tilt head 45°
and squint.
See the shimmering blurry
dot in the distance?
That, timorous ****,
is ME !
Fast twitching my
narrow white ****
to the pub.

There was a young lady named Sue.
whose ***** and **** was askew,
whilst taking a ****
she'd aim it and miss
and she lifted 'er hat when she blew.


Oh Mon Dieu !!

Obi.
Olivia Kent May 2013
Marmite! (Veggie Mite) Peanut Butter!


Marmite and peanut butter,

My God what a terrible thought,

Both truly vile,

Pungent,

Repugnant,

Foul in texture,

Reviled in taste!

Never have I ever bought,

Incredible how some can love 'em,

I can't bear the taste,

Smell makes me feel really ill,

Worse than any bitter pill!

Please don't make me a sarnie,

Not with these,

No not ever,

By all means spend your time with me,

Please to you I thee beseech,

That these two dreadful foods so vile,

Hit the dustbin in big style!
By ladylivvi1



© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Josh Harrison Oct 2012
behind velvet cloth I saw your quail's eggs,
I saw your gentleman's relish too,
protruding as it was,
an Etonian slap to the face of the marmite jar which
it was reluctantly sat next to.

and although the relish would happily admit that
to sit next to marmite was certainly preferable
to finding oneself positioned next to Bovril or Cup-a-Soup,
it certainly was a far cry from the delicatessen counter
he was once accustomed to.

oh the delicatessen!
how the tear ducts performed with nostalgic aplomb
as memories of stuffed vine leaves and caramelised baby shallots
filtered back to the gentleman.

what he'd have given to be back there now,
to once again share the company of proper food,
of handmade chutneys and pickles,
not this common oafish tar.
this brutish black gunk.

'You may not have been factory made'
retorted Marmite,
'or contain E325,'
'but that isn't to say that your place on this shelf
is any more valid than mine.'
Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
We’d been to concert at the Town Hall. It was a Saturday night and still early for a Saturday Night Out. So many people on the streets. The girls barely dressed, the boys bouncing around in t-shirts. Older people threaded along the pavements walking purposefully, but ‘properly’ dressed, and now making their way, as we were, for the station.

I know He noticed her because He stopped, momentarily. We were holding hands. He loves to hold my hand. That evening I remember squeezing his hand firmly as if to say how pleased I was He was here and I was not walking to the station alone. I have done this, walking to the station alone, so often. It is good to have someone close at such times, someone to talk to about the performance, the music, what is going on around us. We walked right past them.

I noticed the man first and then the child. He was very tall, very dark, wearing a black leather jacket I think. He was not scruffy so much as untidy, dark and untidy, with curly hair that did not know a comb. He was busking. He sang an incomprehensible song in a language I didn’t recognize, playing an electric guitar plugged into a small amplifier by his feat. He turned from side to side as he sang as though looking for an audience. I remember his trainers and the soft guitar case open on the pavement with a smattering of coins. Then, this child.

Over the last two days I’ve examined the scene in my memory. I’ve sought to recall as much as I can about this little girl. She was not that little I think for her age, perhaps seven or eight. Stocky. Thick golden brown hair. A sensible skirt covering her knees, a fawn jumper with some sparkly decoration. Tights or long socks perhaps. Proper shoes. I keep examining my mind’s photo. What I recall most vividly was her large smiling eyes and her expression. This is my daddy, it said. He’s singing and I’m here looking after him. I’m his smiley girl here on the city street. It’s late. Other children back home would be in bed, but I’m here smiling at the people passing.

Yesterday we talked about this couple, the little girl mostly. He brought the subject up. He’d been thinking about her too. He’d been puzzling over the two of them. As a pair they seemed so physically different, hardly father and daughter. It was the (possible) daughter’s gaze, her twinkling eyes that had spoken to him - as they had spoken to me. This is my daddy, those eyes and that smiley face had said. And she was holding a bear.

Why did I not mention the bear until now? Of course, she was holding her bear. She had both arms around her bear. She was hugging her bear to herself. It was a mild evening for March – she wore no coat. He looked a good bear, not too old or small, not the kind of bear she’d been given in infancy, perhaps recently acquired but well-loved, well-hugged. A bear that seemed entirely right for her age, for her slightly old fashioned clothes. The sort of clothes I might have worn as a child. I think of a photo of me at that age dressed in a Cloth-Kits dress, with an Alice band, with glasses and lots of curly hair.  

He said ‘I’ve been wondering about the two of them. Did they have a home? Where would they go to when it became late?’ Was there a mother? Was she working somewhere on that Saturday night and the father had to take the girl. Was she wearing her best clothes? She looked OK. A glowing, healthy face, a face that reflected the bright, coloured lights of the city street.’

Suddenly, I realised there were tears in his eyes. I thought, He is imagining a story. He is imagining a story of this seven year old who should have been tucked up in bed with her bear, like my little boy with his blue blanket. He was imagining her life., her past in some Eastern European town, where she went to school, where she had friends and relatives, where she had been born and brought up, and been loved. And now the girl was here in this not so distant city. Perhaps illegally, without the papers, smuggled in as so many are. Her father, swarthy, even a tinge of the Roma perhaps, but she so different. It was the golden brown hair. Thick hair, a ribbon tied in it. A pink ribbon.

He had thought of his little girl, now fifteen, only when she was that age, seven. Oddly similar in some ways, the thick hair, the smiley face, a different but ever present bear, an infant’s bear, not a bear she’d take with her except in a bag. A bear not to be seen with at seven, but loved.

‘I’ll call her Katya,’ He said. The girl, not the bear.

And later He did. Every few days He would mention her – just in passing. ‘Do you think Katya’s  at school today?’ ‘I was in the city this afternoon, but I didn’t see Katya.’

He wrote about her and her father. A little story. I haven’t read it. He just told me He’d written it; He’d thought of following them in his imagination. He was a little embarrassed telling me this, and He didn’t offer to show me the story, which is unusual because when He mentions He’s written something He usually does. And so I wonder. I wonder how long this memory will stay with him and whether He will follow this couple (and her bear) into the future, create a story for them to live in.

Perhaps it will bring him the peace He does not have. The peace I try to give him when He is with me at home and we sit in my little house, at my table eating toast with Marmite after I’ve been out late whilst He’s sat on my settee and read – in peace at being in my home. I know He feels cast adrift from his family and He can’t be part of mine, yet a while. Perhaps it’s like being in another country. Perhaps He thinks, at least that busker had his child with him, his shining star, his ever-smiley girl.

Yet He is thinking of his smiley girl, smiley still at fifteen, still loving her dad despite what He’s done, despite the fact that she sees him so seldom. Despite the fact that He is only occasionally with her, and she knowing I, his lover, his young woman, his companion and friend, has captured his heart and thoughts.

I think of Katya too. I think of my older girl, so loved and circled about with love and admiration by her respective families and our friends. She is so special and so beautiful, as I was special at eleven, as I think I was beautiful at eleven, just on the brink of that transformation that will take her towards becoming a teenager – and the rest.  

We were lying in bed the Saturday morning before seeing Katya and I was telling him about my childhood. He’d asked me about zebra finches. Walking in his nearby park He had admired their bright red beaks in the park’s newly-restored aviary. I told him about a parrot in a park close to my childhood home, a parrot I passed as I went to school. I described for him my walk to school, meeting up with my friends, passing the parrot. I know how happy it made him to hear me talk about such things. He said so later, embracing me in the kitchen. ’I so love to hear you talk about your childhood.’ I could feel he was moved to say this. It was important. I realised then just how deeply he loved me. That it was important. That he imagined me as a child. That He wanted to know that part of me. He’s rarely asked about the stuff in between. Of my former lovers I’ve said a little. He has said a little about his past liaisons and affaires, but knows I am uncomfortable when he does. So we leave this. But childhood, That’s so different, because it is that precious, precious time of shelter and care: when we begin to discover who we are and who and what we love.

Where is Katya now? In a messy room she shares with her parents in a house shared with economic migrants, where she has a few belongings in three plastic bags. In one, her best clothes she wears to stand on the city street on a Saturday night with her daddy. In another a jumble of not so clean clothes she rotates each day. She has her sleeping bag, her bear, her warm coat and gloves. There’s a few magazines she’s found about the house. English is puzzling. She learnt a little at school back home, and from the TV of course, those American soaps. If she was here in my house I would stand her in the shower, wash her thick hair, put her clothes in the machine, sit her on my bed in my daughter’s clothes with some picture books, introduce her to my cats, we would bake some buns. I would give her a small gift of my love to take away with her and she would look on me with her smiley face, her sparkling eyes and let me hold her bear.

And later when I saw him I would tell him that Katya had been with me for a little, and tears would fall, mine and his, knowing that only in our dreams could we make this so.
Big Virge Dec 2020
You Know Sometimes....
... Within This Life...

You Have Those Nights...
That DO SURPRISE... !!!

Now I've Shown That I...
Am INDEED A Dark Knight of A Different Type !

But THIS Was A Night...
of A... Marmite Type... !!?!!

Hanging With The Whites...
On Bims'... West Side...
Caribbean Type Vibes...
Drinks And SUNSHINE...
Right By The Seaside... !!!!!

But Soon The Tide...
Would CHANGE Alright.... !!!

As Our Host Dropped Folks...
Back To Their Home...

A Vibe Had Arrived...
That WASN'T So Nice... !!!

Because of Talk...
That Had A Cause...
Like... Vaders' Force... !!!!!

So Of Course RETURNED...
Like... Fires BURN.... !!!!!

There Was A... “ Preview “...
That Things WEREN’T Cool...
Between A Woman...
And An English Dude... !!!

BAD WORDS Ensued In The Afternoon...
Over MARMITE And A Pair of Shoes... !!!

Don't Get It Confused... ?!?
This Story's... TRUE.. !!!

People Sometimes...
Are Happy To Choose To …
… PLAY THE FOOL... !!?!!

So As Our Host Left These Words Were Said...

"Big V you'll need to become the guard !"

For This Woman Who'd MARKED...
A …… DANGEROUS Card …… !!!!!

The Guy Had Walked...
For The Night Fa' SURE... !!!

Or So We All Thought.............

But It Was Clear That A WAR...
Was To Be The ENCORE... !!!

He Came Back... RAW... !!!
Straight Through The Door... !!!

And... Next Thing I SAW...
Marmite Had Been Poured...
On The Woman The Floor... !!!
And Some Shoes That She'd Bought... !?!

For This CRAZY ASSED Dude...
And Some Cushions TOO... !!!!!

So Then I Knew...
That I HAD TO MOVE... !!!
To Escort This Dude...
And His IGNORANT Mood...
AWAY From The Scene...
Cos' Marmite BELIEVE...

Doesn't Leave Things CLEAN... !!!
Except For... ME... !!!!!!!!!!

Because My Theme...
Is HEROIC And Seems...

To Be What Deals...
In... Respectful Deeds... !!!

UNLIKE White Peeps'...
Who I've Met Recently... !!!

Whether FILLED With CASH...
Or Talk That's SLAPDASH...

This Is CLEARLY WHY...
This Was The First Time...
And Hopefully The LAST... !!!!

Where I Had To Show CLASS.........
In The Face of An ***... !!!
Whose Actions Were DARK... !!!!!

But You Know...
You've Gotta LAUGH... !!!!
Because It Seems Sometimes...

When You're With...
... CERTAIN Whites... !!!!!
That... Just Like I...

You May Just FIND...
Yourself... INSIDE...

... “ A Marmite Night “... !!!
As the poem states, every word of this is TRUE !!!
Arhat Kay Aug 2014
As the stars burn, rake in the silver sky
Lighting it up, like a cinema screen;
Lift your dainty hand and draw,
Marmite love on our canvas of dreams.

As you fade, I’ll begin
Let me in your simple self
And sway
And stay,
there
till the mortal end.

On a fragrant hill someplace lay, a snug you-me;
Squirrels sneak into a daisy, grass and love entwine.
We stare, in trance; at our sublime canvas
at an abstract life so quite.

A sudden chirp precedes your crinkled smile…
The warmth of it…against the coldness of the dew.
you make me
take my toys out of the box
share them with children I don't like
finish a jar of marmite  wipe my mouth and say thank you
smile at horror films
touch snakes with my bare hands and eyes open
put salt in my coffee
speak with my mouth shut
you charge for every kiss a thousand Chinese burns

love is the pile of thorns surrounding a petal
what is love to you?
Longing, encapsulated culinarily.
Crisp, crumbling.
Buttery.

Wooden board, serrated steel,
Sawn loaf.

Thick black waves,
merged by steel.
Craaaaving marmite on toast.
Joann Rolleston Jun 2014
The last loaf in my freezer
The last I'll ever buy
I'll savour every crumb of it
Toast slap on the butter
And marmite mmmh sweet marmite
Worthy of an eye shut moment
Warm fuzzy .. Smile
Thakyou hello poetry
Free therapy for me
Purging my bad choices
But back to my moment
Im so happy right now sunshine
... damit .. marmite on my keyboard ... hahaha
Ben Jones Feb 2015
Finding something on the road
And serving it for dinner
Buying dresses far too small
And thinking you look thinner
Solar powered submarines
Broken ribs or ruptured spleens
Driving cars and drinking beers
Lightbulb licking, bad ideas

Knowing where you shouldn't be
And being there despite
Going out in thunderstorms
To fly your iron kite
Sharing needles with a shark
Going to Mansfield after dark
Setting fire to someone's ears
Telemarketing, bad ideas

Not deploying gaffer-tape
When doing D.I.Y.
Believing the implausible
While branding truth a lie
Replying to Nigerian Princes
**** bleach and ******* rinses
Tabloid papers touting fears
Voting UKIP, bad ideas

Impersonating ******
Before nineteen forty-five
Catching a train on Sunday
And assuming you'll arrive
Turning lights on with your nose
Eating food that moves or glows
Listening to Britney Spears
Marmite Pringles, bad ideas

**
As I opened my fridge one morning,
early on before sunrise,
I was greeted by the stench of tuna fish
which at that time came as quite a surprise.

And I poured myself a glass of orange juice,
the stronger stuff with bits in,
and then tossed yesterday’s Guardian
into the overflowing silver bin.

‘I’ll pull back the curtains’ is what I thought next,
nobody, of course, out on the street.
No sooner had I picked up the remote control
when I felt like something to eat.

‘I’ll get myself some toast’ I said in my head,
and smear it with some Marmite,
but my days, my eyes were so **** sore,
I couldn’t see if I was doing it right.

The years I’ve been waking up early,
every time it is the same,
barely making it down the stairs,
all part of God’s make-him-pay game.

But I finally sat down once more
and could now relax in front of the news,
only to see some cheery couple
with a glass of champagne on a cruise.

It made me wonder, what it would be like
if tomorrow I just stayed in bed.
Would I have an extra few hours to rest
or would somebody find me dead?

Then a van pulled up on the other side of the road,
bloke closed it with a very loud bang,
made me jump so much I spilt half my drink,
seconds later is when the phone rang.

‘Hello?’ I recognised the voice immediately,
a friend calling me at this hour?
They said how they wanted to pop round later
if it wasn’t going to be a terrible bother.

‘Sure’ I replied and then soon hung up,
my voice sounded coarse like Velcro.
Only then did my eyes see a black figure
standing right outside my window.
Written: August 2012.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, and my first poem in ages that rhymes. The style of this poem was based on that of W.H. Auden's 'As I Walked Out One Evening'. The poem was originally going to be quite funny in tone and also quite silly to be honest, but halfway through I wanted there to be a slightly darker tone to it as well. Also available on my WordPress blog.
Bathsheba Oct 2010
She’s not the sort that bares her soul

With tales of pain
With tales of woe

She contains the pain
She keeps it tight
It haunts her
Each and every night

She walks the walk
She talks the talk

She sometimes even has those thoughts

But …

What about me?

I’m
Trapped inside a prism
That floats inside her brain
Cuckolded as a passenger

Why can't I drive this train?

Is it fear that holds me back?
Will fear dictate
She stays on track

I think

And think …

And think …

  And think …

I sit here in the darkness
Watching through her eyes
Yearning for the moment
To be released from this disguise

You think that you all know her
Enchanted by her scent
Anyone would think
From the heavens she was sent

But ..

What about me?

No-one hears my voice
Because I’m weak and timid
I therefore
Have No Choice

Can’t you hear me screaming?
Boxed inside this cage
Suppression’s a necessity
When you can’t release the rage

I know she is my keeper
I know she keeps us safe from harm
I know she saved us being
Deported
to
The Funny Farm

But…

That was so very long ago
I now need
To smell the air
I need to taste the tulips
I need the wind to blow my hair
I need to drink fresh coffee
Eat doughnuts on the Pier
Indulge in Marmite sandwiches
Eradicate this fear

Please …

There, there little sweetie
Come rest your sleepy head
You’ve gotten overtired
I’ll tuck you up in bed

Your time will come, my sweet
But really not quite now
For you
would need to comprehend
The who, why, what & how

We made a pact
Remember …
In the summer of ‘79
That I will now protect you
From that wicked evil swine

There, there little sweetie
Let me wipe away those tears
I want to see you happy

I can internalize your fears

Little sweetie
Let me see the joy upon your face
Can you feel the love
I give
In this oh so warm embrace

Don’t worry little sweetie
I understand your pain
That is why
It is me
That will always drive this train

I will never ever desert you
I will always keep you safe from harm
This is why
It is
YOU
That always keeps her charms


You’re right
I’m kind of sleepy
You’re right
I need to rest my head
You’re right
I’m over tired

Please tuck me up in bed …
Daniel James Nov 2011
You
You bought me some good presents.
Some lasting presents.
A lasting presence,
Now that you are gone.

You always remarked on the light
And now when I see sunlight,
I think of you.

You took me to the beach,
Now when I see the beach,
I think of you.

You bought me a coffee machine
And every morning as I get my hit
I think of you.

Winter scarves and hats
Are wooly thoughts of you.

Smoking out the window -
Naughty thoughts of you.

Trying not to smoke -
A thought for you.

Marmite on toast -
I think of you.

A pretty girl -
Some other you.

A naked girl -
I try not to, but...

I think of you
So much more
Now you are gone
And I'm not sure
If I will ever
Not think of you
Again.

There's only one thing
That could stop these thoughts -
To be with... you again.

Just you.

You.
Daniel James Feb 2011
I don’t like Marmite.
I’m going up on deck.
Don’t look. Don't Look. That’s why I said don’t look.
WAIT! Somebody! I have to go inside.
To find my glasses. My swimming glasses.
In the wonderful world of haribo.
Do you smoke? I don’t want you to die. Why? But why?
The purple ones are so sweet, did you know that?
A giant one came out! A giant one – two eggs!
In the game his eggs are like – that – big! He made two.
Is that friendliness?
I’m going crazy.
But dadDy!
My feet used to be – THIS - big.
I told you you had to use this.
Hey you! Come back with my slippers.
Put a glass with only ice, I want to make very very very cold water. ..
Daniel James Feb 2011
My mate Marmite
Woke up in bread with a girl -
I can't believe she's not butters.
Antony Glaser May 2014
I've both toasted and buttered
having been served equally well
with marmite and marmalade.
I've dinned in Brugge and Halifax
trod the true path of kings
in places of requisite legend
still flavour claret
in truer climes
and tried to sting like a bee
composite and true living
slight of hand yet self assured
Antony Glaser Jul 2022
Tories are running for their primms
Indian summer of their wilted reign
Twelve years of spreading marmite
Child Q to Rwanda
London Police in special measures
The fabrics of civility collapse
as the spiders enmesh us
within their web of lies
Sam Jul 2016
He said grown men don't weep
but I did last week
last night as I lay on my bed in a heap
bar height - i've lived a life on the sweet
(bar -marmite a little bitter on the teeth
(bar -barfights i guess I thrive on the street
baabaa type if I'm a meat I'm a sheep
ha ha at light but only weep in my sleep
far far right from when I started this speech
au revoir mon amie this be the end of my suite
marley dogwater Jan 2015
Snort repticalc and mashed up altoid
Have fun with some friends in God’s portwine stained forehead wrinkle
Imaginary time and poison thumb I like
Natalie rips some Earth nuts from soil
Ripping out the toxins and crackin it open with your her teeth
Clapping laughing and crackin nuts and cookin crumbs in pressure cooker
Bad dreams in your frozen water bed
Damp in the ceiling drip and trickle onto papas
bald spots, plastic mickey mouse cup collecting
ceiling leakage
peanuts and marmite froze over lickin frost
***** wrist grunk trash youre rubbing frolicly on the placid table
I cant believe the glass aint clean
Looking not out a window
But a piece of glass reflecting the city behind me
And my band fall out of place
When the old man sneezes
I get pushed aside because the marching band needs me to move and
Im only so talented
dead Chihuahua smell coming from the basement
a parallel universe where there’s one extra atom
with lana del rey on repeat
and jesus was a comic book character too
knuckles breathing fight stance
contraposto counter position backwards and
upside down rubber band army march
a thin breathing kettle with 0 durability
and a plastic bent tight so it’s white, pink, spotted
palamino dress and champagne skin
the damp gets to me
again again again
fingerless gloves for fingerless tom
Laura Bold Sep 2017
My name is Adam
I’m intelligent and handsome and modest

6”4
your type on paper

I can reach the shelves
you can’t

I’m just a normal guy
I wear the trousers

I’m the type to take you to the zoo
I also have one tattoo

I’m like Marmite
keep your expectations low

Open-minded
no Tories

I can’t promise anything but
I did something funny once

I’m very laid back
swipe right if you don’t eat the pizza crusts

I’m always up
for a good time

I’m an all-round average guy
and a part-time Taylor Swift tribute act

I’ll tell you how it is
some people call me a hero

what more could you want?
this is a found poem and the product of me getting bored and swiping through men on tinder...
Nigdaw Jul 2019
I saw him that day

Not when he woke, like
Any other morning, next to
The warm naked body of his girlfriend
Still muzzy with sleep, half open eyes
Searching to see his face, unbeknown
To her for the very last time,

That sweet smile,

Not as he kissed her on the doorstep
She, wearing his T shirt baggy on her small
Frame, hiding slim undulating form,
After a breakfast of toast and Marmite
Which he loved, but she had always hated  
The taste could still be detected

On his moist lips,

Not when his bike exploded to life
Fireblade thunder, exhausts spitting
Wrath and fury, the voice of an engine
Wanting to go, go, go, like wind
As though the Devil gave chase
To his helmeted head, full faced

Soon hiding death mask grimace,

Not then, but later,
From a motorway bridge, wondering
Why all the traffic had stopped
Checking for my return journey,
He and the bike lay across the lanes
A little way apart, neither going home,

Next week she’ll move back with her mum.
I saw the aftermath of a bike accident and it made me wonder why such an ordinary morning had ended like this for someone.
I am the whisper of a leaf in the breeze

I am the flutter of a butterfly against the white honeysuckle so sweet

I am the gurgle of the flowing river

I am the wind in the willows

I am the waitress picking up coffee cups in the cafe

I am the old woman reading a newspaper against the window

I am the siren of the police car as it drives by

I am the laughter of an old man who twirls his moustache

I am the chatter of a young child

I am the taste of sugar on your tongue

I am the scent of a hundred roses in your nose

I am the sound of plaintive notes on a flute in a land far away

I am the smell of candles and incense in a wooden church

I am the flavour of Marmite on hot buttered toast

I am the feel of the cool granite table against my wrist

I am the refugee who hides in subway tunnels

I am the man who cheers for Arsenal

I am the woman buying anti ageing creams

I am the child kicking stones on the path

I am the smell of rain

I am the taste of freedom

I am the sun upon your skin

I am the honeyed kiss of your lover on the inside of your wrist

I am the taste of violence upon your lips

I am the woman in the red dress and the ebony skin dancing

I am the poet on Speaker’s Corner

I am the woman licking her fingers as she eats

I am the autumn leaves that rustle under your feet

I am the man checking his phone

I am you and you are me and we are a hundred other things

And we are all unseen, forgotten, experienced, reviled, overlooked, and replaceable

And the music plays, the clock ticks, and we look away
Lily Audra Apr 2020
The leaves on the tree outside my window get bigger by millimeters,
And the umami delight of marmite on crumpets is comforting and luscious,
One eye shut because the sun if filling it with heat and light,
This way I can still read my book in the sun,
These joys,
These small joys,
Which you have to take note of, you must,
Are endless;
Cold beer zapping my tongue like electricity, zing zing,
Dippy eggs with toast crunchy and eggs runny , salt flecked across the top,
Coconut hand-cream rubbed between each finger and thumb meticulously,
Music pouring through rooms into the flat and lilting in and out of earshot from outside, inside, next door and my radio,
Sparrows with their endless cheep cheeping,
Steam from strong black tea, gilded with rose, warming my hands nose and stomach,
The tiny hairs on raspberries, so soft and the juice so ****,
Plans to go no where, somewhere, the pub! A river! A farm! On a train! On a boat! On a bus!
Candles which pack the room full of floral, honeyed scents,
Crunchy apples,
Flaky pastry,
Warm bread,
The tsssssssttt when you open a can of Coke,
Lemons, just lemons,
The bbzzzz bbzzzz of my phone carrying I love yous, and for ***** sakes,
You have to take note of these joys, you must,
Because when I think about 16 women dead by lovers hands,
I feel I've hollow bones,
I need the beer, eggs, hand-cream, music, sparrows, lemons and bbzzzz, tea, bread, pastry and plans to keep me upright,
And I send thoughts of dippy eggs and lemons to those without.

— The End —