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Irma Cerrutti Mar 2010
Sloane swallows.
***** is ****!
I execrate extraterrestrial.

We are all kaput to conk out.

Pollyanna is singular hanky—panky.
Little green men are unpatriotic, perverted and naughty.
I verily don’t grease a *****
Oojakapivvycum.

If you are amphibious that means you are an effervescent ventriloquist capable of
Cannibalism, cannibalism and cannibalism.
The fluid inside the android is so gothic and naff
It is knock—kneed in the face of flashing *******.
I do not feel that I am on the shoulders of cobber doggies.
I am protoplastically lassoed abutting penetrating vampire and pervert
That penetrate ***** creature.
I have pricked little green men myself and taken pleasure in it.
It is only with the help of bad hair days of groupies that I have not been in Sing Sing.

We are all sadomasochistically decomposing in a heap of our own meconium.

I bore stiff to outstrip yours truly as much as I have room to swing a cat from Ku Klux ****,
But I am as complicit in the android’s ****** abuse as it were android ***.
Little green men ***** me as I ***** myself.
I ***** bug—eyed men’s ******* types as I have perpetually vomited Molotov cocktail.
I smell little green men’s filth televised on their ******* types.
I feel like I am inside a crust of cancers who delight in smelling others bonk upstairs,
Ad hominen id.  Ex post facto,
I am too much of a dastard to throw cold water on myself.
I coagulate gungily to my menstrual gibbering ******,
Castrating anti—Semite to flash me abutting crème de la crème.  
Strenuously, my ***** gluts under one’s nose because that is all there is.
Copyright © Irma Cerrutti 2009
Irma Cerrutti Mar 2010
Penetrate me tight-fitting and penetrate me pinned down
The lycanthropic creature you ******
This is la vie en Venus’ flytrap

When you poke me, ****** moans
And though I squeeze my vaginas
I taste la vie en Venus’ flytrap

When you ***** me abutting your *****
I’m inside a hobnobbing alien
A metagalaxy where Venus’ flytraps win a beauty contest

And when you *******, cyclopses moo from upstairs
Heterosexual homophones seem to pervert ***** Adams Glorias

Splash out your cream and gumption to me
And ***** lust loosely wash
La vie en Venus’ flytrap
Copyright © Irma Cerrutti 2010
Irma Cerrutti Mar 2010
I've got a Chopper,
You can have ****** ******* with it if you like
It's got a trug, a Jew's harp that rattles the windows
And creatures to make it mosey around crack
I'd stretch jeans cheesecake abutting you if I could, but I used plastic toast

You're the kind of ***** that thrusts into *** my bodiliness
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags

I've got a disguise it's a torso of a Irish bull
There's a slit high up the skirt Miss World's bra-burner and gross
I've grappled page—3 girl for bouts
If you think Miss Universe could spasm creamy then I guess Mr Universe should

You're the kind of ***** that slides in with my wads
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags

I **** a chimpanzee and he hasn't got a stage—door Johnny
I don't copulate why I ****—a—doodle—doo him Gerald
He's inseminating à la carte geriatric but he's a voluptuous chimpanzee

You're the kind of ***** that stuffs *** my gallons
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags

I've got a Welshwoman of pornographic Casanovas
Here a Don Juan, there a Lothario, prognosticators of obscene persons of opposite *** sharing living quarters
Beg a bonk if you be on heat, they're on the back of the *****

You're the kind of ***** that spasms indoors using my lump
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags

I **** custom—built dead men of doo-*** passages
Incognito Muses, faceless ching, most of them are Barbie
Let's **** into the odd kitchenette and **** landlady creature
Copyright © Irma Cerrutti 2009
laura Oct 2018
Lazy sundays with the sad glow
there’s nothing to be sad about
except that it is all over
of course, my one day off vanished

outside blowing meager paychecks
emerald hillsides topped with leaves
abutting, climbing the city
plunged into histories soon gone

like the cold, gold sun gleaming off
the ribbon of the tarmacked road
we returned to from our escape
peering back through the car’s windshields
okay that last one was too pretentious and came off way wrong, so i deleted it. it’s dead now
Jessica Golich Dec 2014
Driving down the blithe boulevard with my heart in the drivers seat and the world at my jaunty forefeet; aquatic nature abutting the equator serving as an anomalous educator and metaphysical communicator
Submerged in a state of angelic maturity; dopamine manumitted upon the sensible observance of internal assurance while living in the fullness of magnetizing, sunlit nourishment.
In a dream I never sought
unprecedented horrors and thoughts
a scissors with a hint of blood
heavy and surreal sound
the demon within speaks
I exfoliate to my core

The mask of sanity is no more intact
Disturbed and desolate in an unknown labyrinth
Of love, of law and of thoughts
Death is abutting your life
an escape to an aberrant sanctuary
scrupulous circles of luminance lead you further

The past is farce and forgotten
The senile you and your transgressions end
Your dalliance with humanity culminates
Loathe and love exist no more
Reverie is not what I need
restore the thought indeed
Kevin Jun 2017
A fire in the fall
A sunset in the summer
A sweater during winter

A vine that grew but never flowered
A tree that died but carried on
A seed that took just before the frost

the green of stone inside the earth
the white of bone beneath moist dirt
the blue that dyes the skin of a religion

their taste for seed toasted in the sun
their taste of herb bursting undone
their taste rests just there, on the tip of my tongue

your words were both, butter and the knife
your touch was like heat directly abutting ice
your love was like chaise lounge nirvana, lazy in the afternoon

enlightenment of some deeper kind
desires extending beyond all my given time
knowledge i knew but since long forgot

a fire in the fall
like butter abutting my blade
like ice before the melt
Ishaa Srivastava Feb 2014
still, so still..

a musty odor abutting against my door

percolating from the malodorous appendages of a subordinate

feigning work at this late night hour.

And my frazzled CFL is glistening over

intolerable Latin, scribbled before my eyes for me to devour
Odonko-ba Aug 2016
Grass
Jutting
Head
Butting
The dead
Lie in bastions
Abutting
Fortifications
Of the living
Whilst angels
Sing of blasphemy
And the heavens cry bile
Mans race
To contaminate
Space
Look closely
The esoteric
Genetics
Unseen
In human DNA
Confound
Look back
Behind
Up towards
An odyssey
The collapse of a star
Infinite and
Beyond reach
Obsolete
The existence
It once existed
Thought extinct
Human iris
Cloned galaxies
Clues to origins
Erstwhile taboo
Yet
Twelve thousand dollars
Shat
Upon a woman's chest
In jest
Unjust
While the
Innocent hunger
Pangs of the just
The meek emanates truth
And weeps degradation
Upon the masses
Bathing in its delight
Soothing of its ecstasy
Governments
Capitulate peace
Their pockets weighted of gold
Precipitates hate
Hate of me
Hate
Of you
Entangles the psych
Towards
The precipice of war
Bodies
Upon
Bodies
Buried in forgotten pits
Women wails
Screams of banshees
At the sight of death
Revenge
More death
Consoling
Conspiring
Conjuring
Retribution
Rebellion
Conflict
Bloodshed
Human suffering
Destruction
Suffers conglomerate
Occupation
Destruction
Reconstruction
Reconstructed thought
Confirm into
Neo-Society
A ******* blight
Upon
Humanity
c c Condry Mar 2011
On a date which is altogether known
In the billfolds of bankers
And the abutting hearts of lovers,
And thoroughly logged in the appropriate
Depositories under appropriate covers,
An event of some moment occurred.

The boroughs stood stock-still that day.
While bureaus of such things raced.
Reports came in the usual state-
Filed with numbers and subsetting letters
And screened through machines
To assure their congruence.

On the import of this the West has agreed
And suits of several cuts conferred-
Their message: “Not bereft of status
Past but graced by status wholly present,
Marked by Trojan Hector's tragic
Fall we come to budding Rome.”

******, the edifice mark'd the change:
Neighbors bowed in novel commune.
Seers took to foment rapture
And obfuscated pictures lent
Their turn to Hells hereafter.
Evoked again King Pyrrhus' loss.

The brazen poet took to this,
Formed a certain sense, a catch
Collecting parallels- change a liquid:
Afloat the wicked buoys of politic.
Ashore the masses- sheep- insipid.
Abroad the falling, downy snow
To rust the marble shrines of old.

But how keen the poet's blade?
Her wit dulls at the thick:
All the rest were just the same.
Homer and Hesiod, through to Hughes
Seek their crises to be the rare
One-off of guilt and bold reform.
But want for change- a timeless sore.

                    -c. c. Condry
Then we learn to crawl through the ramble and sprawl, if we were tadpoles perhaps we might wriggle a bit,
but we're not
We scrabble and screech in order to reach whatever is it that we need and we feed at the fast foods, watching the naked and **** being destroyed and it's us that we see.
If we walk we don't talk with our heads in a phone watching memes on the screen and the bigger the better, easy to letter your life if you like, A equals 5 equals a bee in the hive, but we're making no honey just plenty of green crispy banknotes and it's funny because you can't eat money, but it keeps us alive, us being the bee in the hive.

And through all of this, the tramping, campaigning and cutting, adjusting, abutting it's easy to see why we crawl,
why we sprawl on the sofa and think so far so good.
I wonder if I'd feel as I would if I could grasp every corner of life, fold it into a square, put it somewhere and forget it.
Vic Miller Mar 2017
I’m called Madam Budget Cut, hard-edged Ms. Bludgeon ****,
Slashing each piece of the pie.
But still I the budget gut, both guns and butter cut,
Balance the budget or die!

I’ve a tax for tobacco, and (pols think I’m whacko),
I’m slashing their projects with knives.
No ribbons for cutting, no grants for abutting
Old properties owned by their wives.

I’ve cross-the-board fixes, I’ve “no ways” and “nixes”,
I’ve silly assumptions and worse.
I consolidate functions, ignore court injunctions
Protecting the power of the purse.

I’ve early-out options, I propose late adoptions
Of programs designed by the Feds.
I close institutions, slow down restitutions,
And limit the number of beds.

I fire those who sign up
The thousands who line up
For Medicaid, welfare and such.
I’ve April surprises, with merit pay prizes
For staff who don’t argue too much.

So go with my uppercut,
Knock out the sludge, and gut,
Budgets should never be shy.
So we’ll cut, snip and suture,
Then look toward the future,
And pray that the patient won’t die!
To the tune of "I'm Called Little Buttercup"
(Land that doth marry mother lode
of sublime earthen land and sea).

Age of exploration
   ushered cruel fate
   against “red” men living
   in bliss by agents

   patch of eden north
   o Mason Dixon line
   latitude: 39.64839
   longitude: -75.95591 alee

perchance designed
   by divine providence
   with dyslexic humorous bents
   Cecil county Maryland

   lies like plump backward letter “e”
witnessed topographic erosion
   pocked imprimatur marked
   meteorological dents

   thru inundation of
   oceanographic propensities
   melding coastline like Galilee
in particular by Chesapeake Bay,

   that body of water
   abutting like natural fence
   first witnessed by captain
   John Smith in 1608

   mistaking himself tong tied
   in sole of Italy
learned faux pas, when crossing paths
   with Susquehannas hence,

   offered tobacco sticks to natives
   while recovering
   from injured wounded knee
said other sundry tribes curiously eyed
then (I utilized poetic license)
took smoke from packet of Kents
   which twist on actual
   historical facts manipulated by me
but more truthful account awash
   and replete with more

   than interspersed nonsense
   and incorporates tract situated
   in so called Fertile Crescent – see
settled by Europeans of English stock,

   who emigrated with nary a pence
   “taming” shrew like “noble savages”
    plied Leviathan sized ukuleles
whose might exploited for felling forests,
   which timber built cabins with vents.
anastasiad May 2016
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Vic Miller Oct 2016
They were born two months apart.
     Their houses shared a common wall.
               Abutting romance.

You might say.

Naked, at age one, they shared a kiddie pool.
     Grandparents still have the picture (giggle).
     Joined at the hip.

So to speak.

Just the houses. Lives moved on, separately.
     Some don’t; she died a teenager.

Lives diverge.
       Lives end
Wish him the best, truly.
        His life should be as beautiful as he is.

May he remember the sum
          Of the good times.
                 Where he has been.
                 And what he has accomplished.

Let him remember that the best is yet to come.
   But let him not forget her.
yes

i have help
each month

some years the tree man comes

i fiddle every day. lifting logs. i may
get stronger.

it is abutting a church
yard





( thanks to paul brookes for the prompt)
Andrew Guzaldo c May 2018
"Ardor yet torment are so abutting in tactility of amass,
Yet the latter is so very arduous,
Love can be like the flower that will not bloom,
Yet carries the love you had to others hidden in the dark,

We must thank the love we had may shed the aroma,
May the love once had may survive dimly within our souls,  
The incandescent that rises from ground to your cilium,
Your alluring artistry protoplasm your prose your aroma,

That of a love that once cared yet left your palate in torment,
When your love and beauty gave exigent to my heart and soul,
As does the sea give oxygen to its living things to live,
Of my heart to my noumenon maybe I can live without you,

One day a new love I shall affix a diadem in my lonesome dynasty,
What sorrow did I not express to you was my sorrow immersed,
From crest to surge I still canticle your name as I wonder,
You were the long stem floret that comminuted my soul,"
BY AG 05/25/2018 ©
keith osborne Nov 2017
A dog and a frog
(with the names of Bull)
sit on a log
abutting a synagogue
drinking eggnog
until they are full
Suddenly agog
(by a fog in their bog
that makes them slog
like a cog
when they jog)
begin a dialogue
with a demagogue hedgehog
"Start a blog monologue
regarding this smog"
voiced to the hog by Bull
"You've had too much grog"
stated the hedgehog
offering a prologue
raising self up with a pull
"and regarding this blog
I have a backlog
know just analog
and expect my payment in wool"
when you say gray, do you mean grey, as in lady jane or earl as in tea. when you say grey, do you mean gray, as in mary, my friend? do you mean that we all come from different countries.



he has no knowledge of twigs, his mother had the secret, as do i. he has the knowledge of acting, it was quite a performance, as they were the same twigs

i have written of them before, now in code and symbol, i regard, that ‘again’ brings a sense of permanence, that familiarity does not always mean contempt , yet continuity. autumn comes round, and we keep the litte things, again

it has always been the same, water going down hill, thick frost of winter’s morning.   now the birds song at 4 am, bad news soften by dreams, new days.     it has usually been the same

about six years ago it was mentioned that the twigs should be the same do you remember?   later they taught me of the nature of working slow and sure so much can be done this way

yes i have help each month some years the tree man comes i fiddle every day. lifting logs. i may get stronger. it is abutting a church yard

more than that when birds sing.   when  water lowers, seeps away.   twigs are left, shattered .   farmers out, later neighbours chopping logs, stop to talk of other days, bled from a photo.   still a solitary thing

down the back lane there are puddles, huge amounts of water fell, flooded the abbey ruins.   branches blown , creaking twigs while rain stays off a while. she is a new walking partner, quite fast, no bother

cut deep,   while others are sleeping. we tread the way, from here to there, leaving a trail.             you may follow. cut round the cowslips, leave the twigs. step this way, it leads to the old apple tree
thelonious Nov 2021
There is little blood
            left in my fingers,
and I admit that
            my toes are turning blue, and though we were warned of such things happening,
it still makes me uneasy,
            as if their appendages have broken free of the old-fashioned mysteries and
set out to live a new life among the jays and sparrows.

            Is it true that all glass is a mirror?
I’m not sure, I studied the humanities, or to put it another way
            I’m not sure of anything
outside of heat and the evaporating
            solitude that robs us of the loneliness and innocence
that permeates animals and children.

So it is that I request you be still
            and quake silently in the dark noons of the garden,
bestow your autumn hands on the dim odors pervading the curtains
            the affairs of a monstrous tragedy are the bedtime stories we want to hear repeated.
The fawning fever dream of a new possibility,
            spiraling vision
inviting flames
            into the habitual
such that
            burns are inevitable
and the scaly skin
            that’s a daily reminder,
another part of the routine
            another fancy lotion to remember
grieve! grieve!
            the quiet solemnity of drug store aisles,
faded UVs and blinking
            ads, abutting the space between
human need and such deviance as industry and organization.
            There are finally more living than dead, now.
                        it’s fine
I’ll only seek recourse if the rest of things turn out more boring, seeing how I couldn’t celebrate my victories, anyway, it seemed absurd to mourn my defeats.
Volition, orientation familiarization aahing
and oohing within restrictive paradigm molding
inviolable honorable gentility -
flagrantly, desirously, clearly boyz abandoning
willfully skirting, panting (heavily)
forfeiting abominably, (no Joe King) abiding

chomping at bit, damning delineated, or obscure
parameters, between one acceding
Earthlinked selfish living
psychosexual pining human bing,
and another ardently avowedly ambitious
altruistic agent provocateur (lol)

at first blush hinting Moulin Rouge adulation
under dim (witted) lighting accenting
individual randy salient
traits savoring tête-à-tête
tasty hors d'oeuvres accentuating
nuances highlighting flirtatious countenance

initially unconditionally stubbornly accepting
dire hormonal straits
as prickly fledgling acquaintanceship
quivers, negotiates, kickstarts abolishing
inchoate biochemical protracted coupling
conveniently interpreting accessing

breeching, catapulting Dickensian estuary,
non verbal communication nsync abridging
painstakingly erecting complex edifice
suavely, urbanely, wittily accessorising
tried and truevalue tricks acclaiming
debonair heroic manliness princely

qualities dutifully dominate directing
demure damsel in distress absconding
convincing, foreplaying, jimmying,
rollicking readily acclimatizing
challenges ****** up gracefully parlaying
most savvy serious similarly sophisticated

totally tubular testosterone tactics
versatile repartee accomplishing
dynamics cultivating atavistic romantic ballet
on duh poe whit tick abutting
metaphorical foot accoutering

trappings adorned since mythological
Adam and Eve accrediting
latter, sans virile unavoidable temptation
savoir faire verboten fruit, accelerating
action whereby unsuspecting, slithering,
lurking serpent teen accounting
rattle unheard by apse cent church fathers

subsequently excoriating, condemning, accusing,
nonetheless indomitable transcendence achieving
pinnacle of prostrate poignancy
inexpressible ecstasy acquiescing
nonpareil acquisition adulation activating
ascendence assaying administering
amorousness activating. aching.

— The End —