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Steve Apr 1
******* on the ground
******* in the air
******* all around
******* everywhere

******* being kind
******* in your head
******* if your blind
******* when your dead

******* in the sea
******* on the plains
******* in your tea
******* down the drains

******* for your dinner
******* in the news
******* being thinner
******* balanced views.

******* to the heavens above
******* whilst being poor
******* making love
******* making war

******* to the poet
******* to contemporary art
******* if you know it
******* being smart

******* being sexier
******* to your dog
******* to dyslexia
******* if your odd

******* in the morning
******* late at night
******* without warning
*******!! - what a fright

******* to the birds
And ******* to the bees
******* in these words
And ******* to the breeze
(I still like trees)
A simple message today.
shining diamonds Jun 2019
two lines
is not a poem
its two lines
it has no substance
no structure
its a thought
someone caught
is it noteworthy
not in the least
but the person
who writes without
themselves
there not present
here in the moment
of all the people who do such
who think it only takes that much
should give your head a wobble
it's just a load of cobble  
the two lines are just that
like a load of tatt
truly
poetry comes from a calling
a memory
a feeling
is nothing dust blowing in the breeze
you make a mockery of the art
like you just would ****
all over your page
not bleed at any stage
is it because your simply
not smart enough
to have a worthy entry
dig deeper into your soul
if you lack the talent
of this simple art
pray tell
are you worth more than
a **** ?
if you throw art away
thinking you can walk away
then i have this to say
your not an artist
your stuck in self pity
look in the mirror and think
where did you go
or did you just blink
those two lines
bug me more than
any times
i've seen anything else
are your not incapable
or simply not know how
i think you just don't give
the art the respect it so needs
look at yourself
a poem
is not two lines
a thought
a passing
a nothing
this is not your diary
find somewhere else to share
because i for one care
you lay the art bare
more effort should be found
if your words are to be sound.
annh Mar 2019
Why do bad choices always taste so good?
Is it my judgement or my intuition which fails me?
My ego or my will?

Am I overthinking my dilemma?
Should I sit down with a hot cup of tea and a good book?
Will the answer to my question arrive of its own volition?

Why did I not do that?
Was that a bad choice?
How did it taste?

Like apple pie and chewing gum!
'Yum yum, pig's *** - apple pie and chewing gum.'
Steve Apr 2017
******* all around
******* everywhere
******* on the ground
******* in the air

******* in your words
******* in your head
******* to the birds
******* till your dead

******* fills the sea
******* floods the plains
******* in your tea
******* blocks the drains

******* for your dinner
******* in the news
******* to the sinner
Maybe ******* blew his fuse.
A load of *******
Edna Sweetlove Dec 2014
People think that Dublin, Ireland's fair capital city
Is a place of merriment, overflowing with craic and whiskey,
Whose narrow streets are filled with poets and singers and also
Pretty girls with wheelbarrows selling cockles and mussels;
A city redolent with history, whose gutters run with half-digested Guinness
After closing time, and the drinkers have been hurled into the gutter
By jovial bouncers who can recite "Ulysses" from start to finish
From memory, and where the Liffey, sweet Anna Liffey, flows peacefully,
With only an occasional splash when a pedestrian topples gaily in.
                  
But there is a darker side to famous Baile Atha Cliath, oh yes,
And the following anecdote is a sad but true indictment of the evil,
The omnipresent evil, which lurks in the black soul of the city.
I was trolling along the banks of the old Royal Canal one summer's evening
With my drinking companion, my Afro cousin, Black Paddy McSpigot,
Pausing only to glance briefly at the copulating couples on the towpath
(We were slightly amused by the small crowd watching one couple
who were engaged in the athletic congress of the ****-backed whale
underneath the bridge by Rose Street, a favourite spot for young lovers),
When a terrible shriek rent the air and a horde of renegade drunken nuns
Poured out of a late night underground folk-music drinking den
(the hugely amplified noise of the massed uilléan pipes was deafening
and had probably driven the poor dears into a religious frenzy).

Seeing Black Paddy, and mistaking his gay rendition of "Skibereen"
For an excerpt from the Satanic Mass, they yelled out polyphonically
"Tis the divil himself, so it is, an' all, an' all, let's get the focker",
And without further ado they leaped on him and ripped him to shreds,
Hurling lumps of his poor, poor body into the crocodile infested canal,
Where they were immediately masticated by the terrifying reptiles
(the mighty creatures had been stolen from the Zoological Gardens
by a group of drunken Animal Rights campaigners out on a ******,
and were the toast of the town in every gay bar in the vibrant city).
I cowered in terror at the horrific spectacle, thanking my lucky stars
I was wearing my archibishop's fancy dress uniform that evening
(it was the only way to jump the queue to get into Davy Byrne's Bar).
Dear God, I'll not visit the dear Emerald Isle again in a hurry, to be sure.
Amitav Radiance Jun 2014
You don’t customize your thoughts based on anyone’s blasé judgment.~ Amitav

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