The Starling landed on the sand,
A twitching head it tilted,
Towards old bill,
Wrinkled and weathered.
His old black hat
Ripped, stitched & feathered.
The Starling rested in his hand
Through time's fingers sand now wilted.
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 6:25 PM UTC
Listen kids I’ve got something to say,
Before he met Mrs clause, Santa was gay.
I suppose that makes him. Bisexual
He was also an intellectual.
He studied at the college of legends and myth
That’s where he met his love, Mr. Smith.
They met while studying invincibility
In the library, a place of true tranquility.
Before he had grown the big white beard,
He had acne and pox marks that people found weird
Not Mr Smith, he thought he was quite handsome
He said the moment they met his heart was held ransom.
They met every lunchtime and ate in the park
They discussed a love of Christmas and knew there was a spark.
Santa had wanted this since the moment he was born.
Someone to love, someone with the horn.
Two. To be precise on either side of his head.
It lead to lots of excitement and surprises in bed.
When both of them had graduated, diplomas in hand,
Santa went into the family business, Krampus joined a band
Like his father before him Santa was a toy maker
Whereas Krampus had become a notorious law breaker
When Santa was out testing toys in the rain,
Krampus was getting drunk and snorting *******
But despite the distance they always made time
To meet at least once a month for cheese and wine.
One time. However, 5 years after they met,
They snuggled up together, enjoying every second they could get.
Krampus hugged him so tight, if only he’d known,
That Santa had to break some awful news of his own.
You see, to take over from his dad there were rules to follow,
This news was almost the hardest thing Krampus had to swallow.
The rules were quite clear, Krampus had to get the boot,
Santa had to marry a Mrs cause before he dawned the red suit.
Krampus couldn’t believe it, can’t the estate move with the times?
Were these really the rules or was Santa sick of his crimes?
Santa swore blindly that these were the things he had to do.
But he swore to Krampus “I’ll always really love you! “
Despite this heartfelt confession Krampus was pretty ******
He tried to push himself to his feet, but drunkenly he missed.
He slipped head first towards Santa who stood in his place.
His horns were sharp and pointed, stabbing Santa in the face.
“oh shit!” he screamed “are you OK?” but Santa screamed in pain.
Both his eyes were bleeding red, fearing he would. Never see again.
Krampus rang his buddy from the ER that he knew,
Panicking he cried down the phone not knowing what to do.
He explained the situation not knowing what to say,
He had to rush Santa there quite fast, he had to use the sleigh.
There were no magic reindeer to pull the sleigh that night
So Krampus used a pack of wolves, and held on quick and tight.
They made it to the hospital hoping, No one saw them fly
Krampus tried to stay real strong, he didn’t want to cry.
But when Santa went to surgery to see what could be done.
Krampus balled his eyes out, he just wanted to run.
He stated all night in the waiting room with all his fingers crossed
He swore he would make it to to him, no matter what the cost.
Finally the tooth fairy gave him A happy nod.
Santa would Be fine for now. Krampus thanked his God.
He didn’t really believe in God, there isn’t one, he knew,
But in that situation it just felt the right thing to do.
When he went into visit and to say his apologies,
He found the door was locked, and Santa’s father held the keys.
“be gone you **** Demon, I think you’ve done enough!
Mrs clause has gone to Santa’s flat to empty all your stuff! “
Krampus tried to speak but Santa senior cut him off.
“you are not to see my son again, you honey smelly goth!
He has a big bright future, a loving faithful life ahead,
And I swear, over my dead body will you be back inside his bed!
Now get the hell out of here, don’t show your face again,
Go crawl back to the tree stump hole, that sinfully minging den! “
Krampus really had messed up, and took all the comments thick,
Santa had said his dad was old fashioned, but not that he was a total ****
In anger Krampus left and swore to never love again.
He felt embarrassed and ashamed, that he was into men.
For years he lived a quiet life but never found his calling
Until one Christmas eve he saw a flying sleigh that started falling.
He ran as fast as his houves could to catch the falling fatty
His clothes were old and smelly, ripped and frayed and all round tatty.
Luckily he managed just in time to save the man from dying
But he was not prepared to see his long lost love, and started crying.
Both of them just stood and hugged, thier love was truly magic
They both hated the fact that the outcome would always be quite tragic.
“you saved my life, my Mr. Smith, I knew you were not bad.
Maybe now I can put in a word and big you up to dad? “
So that’s what he did, he called him up, then put the story in writing.
Santa senior said “the only time you should see Krampus is when you two are fighting!
Don’t you see son, you are good, and he is bad to the bone,
The devil wants him to destroy Christmas and sit on an evil throne.”
Kramus was destroyed again, depressed and quite distraught,
But Santa cheered him up again with a wonderful devious thought.
“ if I am the good Christmas spirit and you and the spirit of bad,
I’m supposed to make the children happy... Then you should make them sad!
That way every Christmas eve when you try to steal their things
I will he forced to fight you, from the obligation it brings!”
So from that day on they both played their parts,
They kept up the charade till they were both old farts.
Even to this day people speak about the war
Between the good St. Nick and the Krampus *****
Every now and then children swear that they hear,
The fighting raging louder as Christmas eve draws near.
But trust me when I tell you That when the winter air is biting.
The grunts and moans you think you hear, is surely not them fighting.
Like Romeo and Juliet their love is tragically mental.
But not as bad as the morning after their Christmas motel rental.
Because both of them will play the role but grin from ear to ear,
When they think of the night of passion they have, in December every year.
Christopher Mahood
@thepanicrooms
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 6:02 AM UTC
Sometimes i
Feel great
Then create
A fate
I hate.
Sometimes I
Just debate
And fixate
On Being overweight.
But then I
Concentrate
And reinstate
A positive state
Of feeling great!
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 3:51 AM UTC
An adjective in Belfast accent slang,
Used as a term of endearment by some,
And as an opposite tool by others.
Like weighted chains around the eagle’s feet,
Adorned with rubies and diamonds and pearls.
They say they coated the bird with love,
Yet knowingly stopped the creature flying.
I ask myself if I will be the bird,
That stares into the sky with burdened tears,
And makes excuses as to why I fail.
Or will I take those jewels strapped to my feet,
To buy a perch that’s higher than the stars.
Reclaim the name that they had given me.
The “Big Lad” that stands out and owns the sky.
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 12:05 PM UTC
A sound to everything, from everything a sound,
A voice, a cry, a laugh, a whisper.
From the highest octaves of the smallest songbird,
To the lowest growls of an angry hound.
The silent rolls of the ocean, crescendo with the ground.
A sound to everything, from everything a sound.
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC
As the ivy meets the water on the ancient crumbled wall,
So the water laps and kisses through the beauty of it all.
On the Rhine by the bridges where the flags drape from the lips.
And we float down the river with the water to our hips.
Couples watch as we pass, deep in awe and lost in love,
As the ducks pass in the water and the swans fly above.
Then the sun sets in Basel on a warming Swiss eve,
And I weep for the morning, for tomorrow we must leave.
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 5:06 PM UTC
bought a second book to write between the pages.
Sometimes I make corrections
On words that are only wrong to me
Sometimes I try to write the wrongs
That no one else can see.
Sometimes I tear the pages out
And scatter them in the fire
I rewrite those words over again
Late at night untill I tire.
Sometimes my dust cover slips away,
And my hardback seen beneath.
With brused wet edges torn away,
Like a wolf that shows its teeth.
I do not want the world to see
scribbles, drawn in many stages
So I bought myself a second book.
To write between the pages.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC
She belonged to him, no other man,
So he said to her each day she left.
To sell the eggs and the dress she made,
To pull them from the line of the poor.
On the way to town each day she passed,
The rings of County Tipperary.
The ancient rings that live the wee folk,
Who dance in moonlight and trick us all.
That day she waited to see her kin,
But she left no gift to please the old.
So home she came with arms still heavy,
and a chest that weighed a cough so foul.
“My Bridget” as he knelt by her bed,
Holding her hand as it shook with cold.
In the crack of the flame voices he heard
To hang him from his grief with despair.
The news he heard was of his father
Whom died the evening he felt alone.
Mr Cleary swore and slammed his fist.
“Midnight tonight or Bridget is lost!”
The men in village knew the tale,
Of the wee folk who cursed Bridget.
The woman in the Cleary home bed,
Was an echo of the wife he loved.
They held her down and asked her, her name,
She screamed and growled but did not reply,
Three times they asked and still she refused.
So tight the grips they beat her to sleep.
The morning arrived, Bridget awoke,
To her husband who looked upon her.
His eyes full of loss and fear as-well,
“my Bridget?” he asked “are they gone now?”
She smiled and agreed, she was alone,
So the priest came to deliver mass.
Mr Cleary agreed and drank from the cup
But he knew that his wife was not home.
He asked her again, three more times; “Speak,
Your name to me now, are you my wife?”
Each time she replied “It is I, Yes.”
Michael still knew his wife was away.
That evening men from the town arrived
And took Bridget deep into the bog,
Where they bound her and lay her down flat,
As she screamed for her husband to help.
“It is I, It is me, Your sweet wife,
Believe me my husband I am here,
No faerie has seized my soul from me,
No witch has uttered a devil curse.”
Her mouth was covered and bound so tight
Her screams were made only with her eyes.
In front of the men, Michael asked her.
“Are you my wife? My Bridget Cleary?”
No voice or reply came from the girl.
Her body lay still in the bog land.
So onto a bed of wood she was placed,
And burned in the cold evening moon light.
The story was told through the village,
That Bridget had fled with another,
A man who bought all her eggs each week,
But not everyone believed this tale.
The priest of the village found Michael,
Praying blood, sweat and tears in the church.
He told him the fairies had taken,
The changeling they had placed there before.
The priest told the men of the Garda
That ****** was rife in this village.
That men had taken a sick women
And burned her to death in the bog land.
Michael was guilty of Manslaughter
No conviction of ****** was passed
For the people believed his story,
The woman who burned was not his wife
To this day the rings of Tipperary
Still grow foxglove and weeds in the cracks,
The Faerie mounds are feared like darkness
And steered clear of, by those who live near.
Even now it is heard in the school,
By the children who skip on the rope.
“Are you a witch, or are you a fairy,
Or are you the wife of Michael Cleary?”
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 4:19 PM UTC
Jealous of the sea.
He was always jealous of the ocean,
How could he write songs like the waves?
The timpani drums on the breaking tide,
Crescendos written on corral staves.
Harmonizing whistles from a shoreline quartet,
And the gentle reeds blow a soft minor key.
How could he ever write songs like the ocean,
How could he ever compose like the sea.
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 4:18 PM UTC
Hereditary misery
Lonely delivery.
Throughout her history,
Of questioning mystery.
Her family’s be-witchery,
Is so contradictory,
To Freedom and liberty,
Through painful victory,
Of Salem’s treachery,
She will burn.
She will hang.
From her family tree.
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 4:16 PM UTC