edna-sweetlove
I modestly refer to myself as "Poetess to the Stars". / Others have called me a smutty slag and a ponce. / Some people have suggested I may be a man because some of my poems are written from a male P.O.V. So what? What's in my undies is my business. / So: up yours, bigtime.
The old man stared at the mirror in disbelief
As he dabbed on a little of his favourite fragrance:
‘Le Male’ by Jean-Paul Gaultier.
Was that really him, that saggy-faced creature?
He plucked out an intruding grey hair,
An intruder in his masculine, black, bushy eyebrows;
He had hoped his boyish good looks were still there,
Although a little frayed, a little worn by time.
In his mind's eye he sees himself as rugged,
Slim yet quietly butch; manly, masculine,
Handsome, outwardly something of a ladies’ man;
Surely no one would guess he had certain desires
(Not that he thinks of himself as perverted).
What a pity no one told him not to sport a clone moustache.
Nor can he resist those sporty Harris Tweed jackets
And masculine lumberjack shirts, so straight.
Provincial England was a hard place to grow up
With condemnation pouring out of every mouth
For perverts and poofters and prancing pansies;
Best to suppress the thoughts crowding in
And be normal, just like everyone else.
Life in the armed forces was a challenge…
All those handsome young men in the showers…
Get thee behind me Satan, to coin an unfortunate phrase.
So he had to force himself to go chasing girls,
But he always showed respect for the ladies;
What a gentleman he had always been in that respect.
Maybe a failed marriage or two
Should have told him the cold hard truth,
But the need to conform to the norms of society
Kept his real desires at bay,
Most of the time, anyway.
How he had longed in his heart of hearts
To be someone, a poet perhaps, a creative artist,
But it was not to be, and eventually he was reduced
To trolling the world wide web under pathetic pseudonyms.
How sad it was he had never lived up
To his poor old Daddy’s dreams,
And how shocked his Mummy would be now
To see her pensioner son staring at the mirror
With only a half-empty tube of KY Jelly for company every night.
Dec 7, 2019
Dec 7, 2019 at 10:47 AM UTC
scrawled on public lav wall
expression of desire
meet for cockfun
bring own lubricant
hateful avarice
petty meanness
**** OFF FATFACE
Good, innit?
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 9:59 AM UTC
Adolf ****** was a German I'm sure you all well know:
He was born in Austria but lived in Germany a long time ago.
He was a man who was fuelled by patriotic ambition,
(he had other things on his mind apart from big **** and coition).
The German people were the victims of economic recession,
Caused by the French government's revanchist aggression,
And der schoene Adolf promised he would sort out the place,
And would restore them to their rightful position as ze Master Race.
With stirring speeches and a fantastic propaganda machine,
His political opponents and ze Jews he loudly demeaned,
And thus, plus a teensy-weensy bit of naughty oppression,
He was able to fulfil his great and glorious mission.
Although some Germans re ****** were a little bit unhappy,
Most of them thought he was a really top rate chappie;
The rest of the world remained relatively silent on the matter too,
Not realising just what old Adolf really intended to do.
In the USA they gave him place of honour on the front page of 'Time'
Which surely sent out to Adolf quite a hopeful sign;
And secretly millions cheered him on when they got the news
Of what he and his cronies were doing to those Jews.
When a man like ****** you choose to blithely ignore
Then you should work out that what comes next is war;
Which is what happened with a Bang! Crash! Boom! and Thump!
But Hitler's not nearly half as ugly as that awful Donald Trump.
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC
'Twas in the park one day
I met a chappie gay;
We went behind a bush
Where I saw his **** ****
And I evinced a shock
When he took out his ****
(it was of such a size
it would have won a prize).
Now, so many years have passed
How many times we've arsed
Each other I don't know,
But each time we have a go
And watch each other come
Up an outsider's ***
We know our love is true
As we call out "OO! OO! OO!"
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 10:17 AM UTC
Romantic moonlight edges over the mighty cupola;
I stroll enchanted by the timeless beauty of St Peter's Square;
I casually enquire of a passing nun whether she would consider
Going down on me behind the marble columns.
After a brief but heated haggle over the price
(I hitherto thought nuns were generous sisters of mercy)
She gobbles me professionally but rather noisily
Causing me to leave a generous donation on her dental plate.
I hear a half-strangled cry of "Bejasus" from a passing Paddy priest
As he gives himself a quick one off the wrist
Into his already badly stained cassock
Before hurrying off to keep a hot date with a choirboy.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 3:20 PM UTC
A poem by my friend Stan Blackberg (the total ******
There are flowers standing proudly, one for each whose loved ones mourn,
Speaking out so clear and loudly, for that fateful treacherous morn,
When the aircrafts bashed them up and all their flesh got burnt & torn!
Do we honour them with killing, taking up arms to spill more blood,
Or take lesson if we’re willing, a bitter pill for common good,
Or sit unbeguiled with our faces stuffed with fattening food?
There’s no god would take such action, justify such murderous deed,
Those insane within such factions, find posthumously they heed,
It's upon such wickedosity that our nostrils froth and bleed.
Hear the painful hard earned lesson, lest their names we desecrate,
Take not slaughter as your banner making killing escalate,
And by no means forget to have a mutual **********
Place our sentries all united, shed thee not another drop,
Silence now all angry gunfire, when’s the killing ever stop.
And the blood falls from above with a loudish plip and plop.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
Wah wa wa wa wa wa
Wah wa wa wa wa wa
Wah wa wa wa wa wa
I remember morning
Peeping through the curtains' awning
As I just lay there
With my gal just begging for it bare.
Every Texan city
Where I've dropped my pants
Ain't so ******* pretty
Without love and romance.
I'll ne'er forget Amarillo
Every night I'd grease her *****
I dream dreams of Amarillo
And the girl who ****** me there.
Is this the way to Amarillo?
Where I kissed an armadillo
Crying over her huge *****
And sweet Edna's ***** hair.
Wah wa wa wa wa wa
Wah wa wa wa wa wa
Wah wa wa wa wa wa
And the girl who ****** me there.
There's a church bell ringing
Welcoming the KY-gel I'm bringing
Though I may be poor
I'm the guy who's coming to do her.
Just beyond the highway
There's an open door
And I can't stop running
To **** that little *****
I can't forget Amarillo
And Edna's mighty *****
I dream dreams of Amarillo
And the girl who ****** me there.
Which is the way to Amarillo?
I've been weeping on my pillow
Clutching to her huge great *****
And sweet Edna's public hair.
Wah wa wa wa wa wa
Wah wa wa wa wa wa
Wah wa wa wa wa wa
And sweet Edna's ***** hair
Wah wa wa wa wa wa
Wah wa wa wa wa wa
Wah wa wa wa wa wa
Lovely Edna's ***** hair
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
My dear old Granny,
How I shall miss her
What a tragedy.
She crossed over the road
To avoid walking under a ladder,
Being of a somewhat superstitous bent.
Thus she got squashed by a bus,
Like a plump ripe tomato
In spaghetti alla vongole.
So no more shall I have to suffer
Her slipping me the tongue
When I kiss her good night.
But the stench of her filthy farts
Will always remain with me
As will the cushion stains.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 1:31 PM UTC
My sister boasted to me one night in a Liverpool pub
She had *** with a couple of coppers down the Mersey Tunnel.
'You're nothing bit a fat slapper' I scolded her,
As she examined the selfie I had taken
Just a few moments earlier of me
And her best friend up against the ladies' bog door.
"Good likeness, innit?" I commented and the
She farted stentoriously in surprise and,
The follow-through oozed down her dimpled thigh.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
Night falls over Soho and, gazing into some cheap tart's eyes
Over a candelit-chequered-food-stained tablecloth,
Beneath my belt an immense ******** lurks leakily,
The seams of my ****** soaked with bursting lust,
My groin twitching in desire for her wanton arse-flesh.
Streetlight shining through threadbare curtains
Glinting sexily over my hairy pounding buttocks;
My screamed roars of pleasure echoing
In the deepest depths of her tenth-rate mind;
Her poor brain collapsing in mighty mid-climax.
Morning reveals a classy scene to chambermaid's gawp:
Spread-legged cold-as-chilled-salami ****
Puny brainbox imploded like mashed bananas
By staggering rivulets of overpowering *******
Like a duck's entrails in an unwashed sink.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 1:29 PM UTC