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Francie Lynch Jan 2017
In an aside at the pub the other day,
I commented that the hockey player
Looked like a French-Canadian.
I was called a racist for that.
(but he did)

While watching some Miss Pageant
With her the other night,
I commented that all the women
Are beautiful enough to be crowned.
Now I'm a sexist.
(they were gorgeous)

For the sake of argument, I am a religionist.

I'm against Jihads, but I'm not Jihadist.
I don't go goo goo over babies,
So I suspect someone will say I'm an infantist.

She texted, saying she wants to fix the fight.
Well, I am a pugilist,
And I know when the fight's been fixed.
S E L Oct 2013
Setting off a rollicking charge… like a waiting rocket to countdown
Solo pugilist in the ring… lancing darts at butterflies in cloistered air

10…. 9….  8….

Boxed in from all sides… whichever way turning… meets unsettling walls
Notes unseen and unheard… magic windows stripped away… acrylic drips dry

7….   6…..    5….

Tap runs on… letting of foundation-blood…no fear nor fret… yet exacts converse
Gentle persuasion to reach shores… hard credence yet so true… all in good time

4….  3….  2….

One vision
Two hearts
Three kisses..
Forever :)


No countdown needed....ever
Count to one…only
and breathe...
It’s all ok


all in good time...
Sack Williams Dec 2009
A huge centipede crawls across the floor
He is black
and his legs are orange.
He is enormous
12 inches
Maybe more

And he rears back and attacks the feet of the passers-by
And they smile and reach down and pat him.
They smile.
And he bites their hands.

Their hands swell up around the two deep punctures,
which are swollen up over, the only sign left being two tiny oozing wrinkles.
The purple hands are polka dotted with yellow and dying veins.
They admire the plethora of color that is now their hand.
From the pain they lust for more and more pain and more and more pain.

They rise from their overstuffed red sofas to the middle of the floor and trade blows.
A girl of twenty with black curly locks falls to the ground with a wet thud
and summons the centipede who bites her in the cheek, piercing the paper thin flesh.

He gets a strong hold on her face and drags her across the floor.
She giggles in delight!
The centipede rips her limb from limb and
She giggles in delight!

Another wet thud.
She had a puffy purple companion in a moment as the centipede drags to her a young man of twenty-one.
Fate!
Their lips meet
and their saliva, thick and curdled mixes.
They giggle in delight!
As the centipede rips them limb from limb.
You look like you're losing weight!
The centipede is finding it.

He eats all but their skulls,
shining in a thin layer of blood,
picked clean of flesh
Locked in a sweet embrace of phantom lips
Until a pugilist twitches his leg in an awkward defensive maneuver and sends the girl's skull spinning across the floor
until it hits against a white wall with a crack
and it splits.

Party-goers begin to trip over the centipede.
And with every wet thud on the floor
another skull is left to be an obstacle for fluid movement.
The centipede has to coil up to be able to fit in the room.

And soon there is one pugilist left
And he scratches the centipede's shiny black metallic and spackled red back with a mangled mass of knuckle
and yellow poisoned veins.
The centipede rears back
But falls back on itself out of its own sheer weight
and its back snaps,
spraying the finalist with a mix of entrails of bug and human kind.
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Limericks VII - Naughty, *****, Risque, Absurd

There continue to be modern sequels of the famous "Nantucket" limericks, including this ***** one of mine:

There was a lewd ***** from Nantucket
who intended to *** in a bucket;
but being a man
she missed the **** can
and her rattled john fled, crying: "**** it!"
—Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch

Here's another take on a golden oldie:

There was an old man from Peru
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke one dark night
from a terrible fright
to discover his dream had come true!
—Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch

Here are some lewd, crude originals:

There once was a multi-pierced Bull,
who found playing hoops far too dull,
so he dated Madonna
but observed, “I don’t wanna
get married . . . the things she might pull!”
—Michael R. Burch

There once was a forward named Rodman
who said to his best man—“No problem!
When I marry Electra,
if the ring costs extra,
just yank a loop right off my ****, man!”
—Michael R. Burch

A formidable pugilist, Mike,
in a fit of pique called his mom “****.”
She frowned ear to ear,
then said, “You listen here,
I can still whip your ****, you dumb tyke!”
—Michael R. Burch

A cross-dressing dancer, “Dee Lite,”
wore gowns luciferously bright
till he washed them one day
the old-fashioned way ...
in bleach. Now he’s “Sister Off-White.”
—Michael R. Burch

There once was a bubbly bartender,
a transvestite who went on a ******.
“So I cut myself off,”
she cried with a sob,
“There’s the evidence, there in the blender!”
—Michael R. Burch

Our president’s *** life—atrocious.
Asian markets are all hocus-pocus.
Politics—a shell game.
My brief moment of fame—
flashed by before Oprah could notice.
—Michael R. Burch

Bill Clinton's a man we admire;
his opinion polls soar ever higher.
He gets much more flack
for a Big Mac attack
than for his ****** high-wire.
—Michael R. Burch

There is a new term, “Clintonian,”
which means, “Stop your naggin’ and moanin’.
He’s only a man
doing all that he can
to put kneepads in the Smithsonian.!”
—Michael R. Burch

Low-T Hell
by Michael R. Burch

I’m living in low-T hell ...
My get-up has gone: Farewell!
I need to write checks
if I want to have ***,
and my love life depends on a gel!

Grave Offense I

Is Ogden Nash gnashing his teeth,
upside-down in his grave, full of grief
that the term “limerick”
has been plagiarized? Quick—
dial 9-1-1; get the police!
—Michael R. Burch

Grave Offense II

Is Ogden Nash gnashing his teeth,
upside-down in his grave, full of grief
that his wit and his art
share this name I impart
to my “limerick?” Am I a thief?
—Michael R. Burch

Ghostbusters!

Is Ogden Nash gnashing his teeth?
Is his ghost rolling ’round in wild grief
that the Post would make crimes
of his “imperfect” rhymes?
Call Ripley’s—it stretches belief!
—Michael R. Burch

NOTE: The Washington Post in all its great wisdom would ban Ogden Nash’s imperfect rhymes from its limerick contests!

Keywords/Tags: limerick, nonsense, light, humor, humorous, ***, naughty, risque, lewd, *****, ******
With his upper-cut
released;
she lieth
abed,
sighing out.
David Bojay Oct 2014
Symbolize no lies and the flip side of white like Anubis
From noobin' to getting a new *****
No birth on earth, not lucid
Off my knees with no assist
**** a trip never lit and still lifted
Used to quit for a bit, but the G too loud I listened
**** boys out my vision
Questioned exsistence, doubts had no limit
2 to run a business
1 of those disposed the closed
Honor roll for being on the role, never missed like a ***
Wished to be what I seemed to be on the screen; so vivid
Regretting lies in this life all the time now I'm fine being just David
Universe seems different
BS all around got me bent
Dead bird, you no fly
Old *****, no reply
Childish, you still whine
You full of it, like a cyst
Cat killa, ask yo sis
Smooth talk, **** that swiss
Made my way without an *** kiss
Money off my wishlist
Summer coming like my ****
Trill kicks, gold wrists, yeah all thrift
Never trust those slick lips
Better off a pugilist
Swollen fist, not a pacifist
No front, my diction real ****
Get you ****** with no diss
Limp **** still leave her lispin'......I'm not even playing
LD Goodwin Mar 2013
I
Winter's fog swirling,
settling gently on the peak.
Should I,
or should I not charge the beast?
Oh, but to climb,
that serpentine road
through this thick mystical Merlinesque brume.

II
I abandon all reasoning
and don my armor
to do battle with the slithering Wyvern,
"The Pinnacle".
My silver Steed awaits me.
And in almost Ninja attire,
helmet placed,
cleats clicked and locked into pedals,
I am one with my ride.

III
Mist now's upon me.
Mist and bone cold.
I trek upward to the proving ground.
Drifting,
as always,  into a trance,
a meditation,
ignoring pain as a pugilist.
Shut up legs, I say.
Shut up and give me one more day.
Prompt me not  
that I am the aged Warrior,
for with every cadence I am reminded
of my fleeting days.

IV
I crawl upon the spine of the dragon,
out of my saddle and with the fullness of might,
break loose from the fetters of the mundane,
habitual world below these clouds.

V
Mist to rain,
rain to ice.
Diamond hard shards of sleet
bounce off my helmet,
peppering this snaking path towards heaven.
Crystalline obstacles
  to navigate on my surly descent.

VI
I have owned this battle before you know?
Many times past.
But like a moment,
it can't be possessed.
Still this right of passage I must pursue
over and over and over
til I am no more
and my steed has been pawned.

VII
So quiet now
high above the clouds,
so alone,
so away from the world.
What solace.
Oh, to die here.
To fall and lay, looking up at these leafless trees,
on this gray Winter's day.
And to witness my last peacefilled thought.

VIII
But not today.
No, not today
for I am near the precipice.
I step up the pace and route the enemy
and laugh in deaths face.
One more stroke, and I gut the beast.
One more turn and I am exultant.
Oh Rapture,
Oh Felicity.
Harrogate, TN  March 2012
Third Eye Candy May 2014
in the half light
of the whole day; dozing
where the marsh plods clottly
but the pond scums slowly.
you can spare no moral
when your tall tale's
growing.
but you sift slop oddly
through the rot god's
nothing.

II

Fugue ahead. Caution.

III

On thin air, thick tongues and brick lungs scrum
for balloons and ruinous truth, teething batter and gum-shoes
attuned to less violence, but inviolate, if only for the fist
in the violets. the pugilist in the plums. Or maybe -
the cancerous rhinoceros
in the plasticity
of a knows job
goblin.

you tell me.  

no problem.
zebra Aug 2019
i'm unwinding my head
on
honey moon belly
******* carnivorous lozenges
falling in love with glazed
eye ball devils
hypnotic stare

destination
a tunnel of fiendish odysseys

blood drooling eel
vomits gush white
daddy long leg threads
in honeys wet cage
to wither
writhing spit hot
in fat muscle and bone
headless
head first
like a mindless falcon
after scattered mice

i feel her teeth tearing
syringes of ecstasy
ransacking swollen motion spirals
and ***** like bronz buckaroos
at a fancy pool party
crimson *** macabre
****** roast bon bon fire

licking her lump of desire
a rousing boogyman sermon
speaks in incinerating tongues
swallowing a hideous parfait

**** growl
girl squat
**** ****
mint julip throat
choke symphony
abducting lascivious pollinated gulps

take me in like reckless bull sap
through your red
dada warp land
pit of the brain
undulant flesh landscape
of shapeless ovule spume
mouthing night blows

Incised flagellation's
devour buffet spread maiden derelict
arched and trembling
drunk and drugged
like a buttermilk sky
groaning hysterical
in feral muck stained beds 
of puce and slime ochre pigments 

stunned umbra
a famished
deep veined jutting peninsula
longing for princess ***** dynasties
with vast thighs radiating inferno hearths
and rolling hill **** hieroglyphics
decipher rug pugilist lap songs

my goddess i long for your
bruised fruit
crawling like the dead of night
on pitch vanta shadows
where love becomes a savage
**** manga anime
KING OF THE BOXING RING*
        
Muhammad Ali, the renowned boxing star,
Thrilled the world with his terrific fights;
Fearsome moves, nimble feet and fiery fists,
Memorable in his own well-known words,
Could "float like a butterfly and sting like a bee",
Cruhed his mighty rivals with awesome ease.
Honoured and loved as a great humanist,
More than titles, he valued respect and equality
And fought against racism and injustice.
Stripped of his title and thrown into jail,
Bravely opposed the Vietnam war,
Refused to join the army and drop bombs
On unknown people who were not his foes.
When ill-treated for the colour of his skin,
Threw his Olympic medal into the Ohio stream,
Roused the conscience of his fellowmen.
Ali, the great pugilist, king of the boxing ring,
Shines in the galaxy with Mandela and Dr. King.
                      ***.   M.G.Narasimha Murthy
Hyderabad, India.
* This poem is a tribute to the great American  boxer
and heavy-weight champion Muhammad Ali who
passed  away on 3 June 2016.   M.G.N.Murthy.
Shane Hunt Sep 2012
Words washed over me:
past the point of no return,
catching clarity at the elbow.

Arms limp at my sides,

a pugilist after 8 rounds with Ali,
suddenly realizing
he had been conserving his energy
while I hurled hay-makers
at uplifted gloves,

none of my hate hit home.


She spoke the knock-out blow
     or, the ghost of her voice...

"You have to admit to yourself
that ******* a stranger's
the only way you can hide anymore."

You only start listening
    after exhausting your arsenal.

The void of
       my mouth
swallowed her sentiments.  

  I took up the
      empty husk of her heart
  to make it my home,
            just to have a memento--

holding on to anything.

     On the ropes,
  disoriented,
skipping chapters to
  take in the denouement
only to forget the characters' names.




But I couldn't ignore how
she closed the door;

Gently-
not a slam
screaming passion, energy.

No.

The door and jamb met resignedly--
children who can no longer play with one another.
Derrek Estrella Aug 2019
I'll kiss your bruises and earn your blood
Depraved as we are, this is love
For my ills, I will take nothing in return
Mistress, mistress, you will be my weakness;
The very tantalizing death of me
Written while watching a harrowing film.
David Williams Jun 2011
We are all born slaves

It is only through deprivation and humiliation, that leads to our status in life

Like the pugilist, fighting his corner, standing toe to toe, staring his  adversary
in the eyes, he is no less brave than the soldier fighting his corner, firing missiles
into a distant dark bloodied night.

No matter how magnanimous they try to be , with defeat comes humiliation,
Both brave, both soldiers, both slaves.

Peace comes through deprivation, which leads to violence, through which comes
Peace.. Eventually, sometimes fragile, sometimes eternal, for those who do not make it
back home, slaves to a belief.
Ian C Prescott Aug 2011
Struggling against a swift current eventually you give in
Realizing you are simply a man out of time
Just an auger boring forward in a gyre forever turning
Yet moving nowhere

In a place where you are no longer living nor dead
Neither past nor present meaningful nor meaningless
You just are frozen in time and space
Where there are no awe-inspiring last words
No enlightenment
No decree stating what your impact on this reality has been

It is just you dwindling until there’s no more fight left
The pugilist in your soul concedes
The lost souls of those lost before you
Coaxing you to justly give in and concede

The final battle has been fought and scripted long before conception
The burning wick sputters and suffocates rhythmically until it flickers
No more
All Uniqueness begets soon insignificance
And like the swimmer in the mists of the midnight sea
You disappear
Savoir Mar 2013
Me in the blue.

Violent, shirtless pugilist, wearing leather shoes.

Dancing on the canvass and pities the fools with no reflections.

Muscle and mind synchronized to face the strength of his weakness, weakness to his strength.

The only one who understands the sacrifice, training and pain.

Timeless crucial ignorance.

A dance of true love if there ever was one of pure violence.
William May 2019
Most people lead with the jab
But his 1-2 punch was dactylic
The majority of his poems are haymakers
Homogenous mixtures of slurred speech
That rarely connexts

His footwork is nothing special
He still finds the canvas too springy
He's distracted by blinking

Graceless graphite paws
Taking granite swings
Skipping chips of deadweight loss
Embedded in the stream of ink
Now dripping from his brow
The fighters looking up
And the ref is counting down
Unkind to himself
         and                        
to his glory
          is
  a pugilist who
         is  
kind to his adversary
        in
the boxing ring.
Frederick Noakes Apr 2016
What will happen when the fight fixing champion pugilist Falls to the ****** wearing chief? Teeth grinding and gnashing of the utmost. Hero decay in the Form of various half lifes. Truths become more powerful and evil wears like blue jean material. God has lost all rounds but won the fight.
Whit Howland May 2020
After a lifetime of punching
and mainly kicking

against the ******
I've finally figured out

the meaning

it wasn't hard at all
although

it's about as appealing
as a butter sandwich

and involves equally mundane
objects

like a broom dustpan
cleaning rag

hammer and nails
yak yak yak

Whit Howland © 2020
Some absurdity.
IOWA CITY, Iowa
     (killingly, jarringly inexplicable,
     horribly, gruesomely, and forlornly),
     the found exhumed decayed corpse
     belonging to young
vibrant coed twenty year old
     college student Mollie Tibbetts
     perhaps a spurned, snubbed,

     or scorned love seriously gone wrong,
she who disappeared
     from her small hometown
     in central Iowa sad swan song
now plays, where every
     last drop of sorrow rung,
now weeping family, friends,
     relatives, et cetera subjected wrack

with lifelong emotional pain,
     which searing inescapable
     grief twill unrelentingly track
ferociously, fiercely, and figuratively,
     doth disallow recourse
     to duck away
     from heart wrenching quack
king unbearably, terribly, and scathingly

     will fully bill leave ably
     beak homing a folly,
     mockery, and travesty,
     sans time heals
     all wounds (truly "FAKE"),
     nonetheless psyche riving tragic
     (irrevocable loss) doth pack,
a punch greater then any

     all star olympic pugilist
     straight to the ab
domain of opponent, where
     rumor mongers mill and blab
how this, that, or
another potential suspect,...
     whence tissues dab
corners of crying eyes,

     an endless stream
     of tears merge with gab
bulling utter dis belief
     questioning the supposed all
mighty, or at a loss
     to do nothing but bawl (at Baal)

into the fox sized rabbit hole
     trying with futility
     to block (even crawl
ling into every
     rabbit hole) no bastion
against implacable
     maddening crowded
house alive with murderous frenzy,

     and a dialect (non
     tickling) gentle Iowan drawl,
while once again this
     affected soddenly wet soul
cannot process any (defying) logic,
     asper the impossibly steep toll
the purposelessness killing,
     a lovely gal (same age

     as my youngest daughter),
     whose missed presence,
     (albeit her - slain
     Mollie Tibbetts – permanent absence)
     now created an expansive
     infinite black sink hole.
Though discriminatory asper discerning
legitimate information TIME
Magazine considered
a reliable trustworthy,
and valuable source to this rhyme
stir, who perused cover story, sans

January 28th, 2019 issue as prime
material to concoct
more serious than amusing
poem mindful not to spoil mealtime
sharing insightful ruses not so sublime
utilizing underhanded tactics that chime

with markedly innocuous discordant
undertones for longtime
(within realm of information technology)
garnering bajillion zeroes
after face value of dime
(I chose that denomination...

just book haws), suit clime
mate here, plus yours truly
aspired to fuel inquisitiveness,
since text unable to display mime
relayed by this messenger,

who questions gravity of crime
head honcho blithely
involving selling personal data
thus affecting prospects of incipient wartime.

every keystroke action typed by me,
and everybody else linkedin into web
foregoes their life details free
for selling treasured binary binded bits we
bull leave tubby encrypted, yet algorithms

invested with secret electron size key
sophisticated to sniff out valuable trove
within every pixel typed into ever re:
screen of every Internet app pre
pair ring the equivalent

of voluminous dossier lee
ving nary a trace, yet data packets
more precious than fine spun gold,
invisible electronic bursts glee
fully swept up like nobody's business – see

ming to provide a wellspring
of many a cottage industry
similar to a pugilist on par with Muhammad Ali
generating revenue, and
driving profits with accessory

trinkets or gewgaws hyped up as de
facto plum purchases, perhaps purchased online
whereat vendor (unbeknownst to patron) sells
vital transaction information to data broker he
or she obviously for a price - yes our SECURITY!

— The End —