Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
"alan" poems
‘To bed! To bed!’ Said Sleepy-head; ‘Tarry awhile,’ said Slow; ‘Put on the pan,’ Said Greedy Nan; ‘We'll sup before we go.’ (from Mother Goose) They sat at the kitchen table as The candle flickered low, And Greedy Nan put on the pan To indulge her sister, Slow, While Sleepy Weepy Annabelle Blotted her book with tears, And thought of her Beau from long ago Who she hadn’t seen for years. ‘Why doesn’t Roger notice me, Why doesn’t Alan Dell? I’m wearing the dress cut low for me And I’ve hitched my skirt as well. I’ve a pretty turn to my ankle, so You’d think it would drive them wild.’ ‘But men are a mystery,’ said Slow, ‘And Alan Dell’s a child.’ While over the pan stood Greedy Nan, Was cracking a turkey’s egg, A lump of yeast and a slice of beast And a single spider’s leg. With a wing of bat and an ounce of fat And a toe of frog for the spell, She needed to turn her sister off From her crush on Alan Dell. For Greedy Nan was the eldest girl And would have to marry first, The other two would wait in the queue Or their fortunes be reversed, The omelette sizzled, and in the pan She added before they saw, A piece of some Devil’s Trumpet plant For the mating game meant war. She sliced the omelette into half And she served them up a piece, ‘Didn’t you want?’ said Annabelle But Slow enjoyed the feast. ‘I’m not that terribly hungry now I’ve cooked it up in the pan, I think I’ll just have a slice of bread,’ Said the scheming Greedy Nan. They finished up and they sat awhile, And they mused about their fate, ‘If Greedy Nan isn’t married soon, For us it will be too late.’ ‘I’ve set my sights on a country squire,’ Said Nan, without a blink, Lured them away from her secret fire To confuse what they might think. ‘The room is woozy, spinning around, I’d better get me to bed,’ Said Annabelle, while Slow with a frown Saw Dwarves dancing in her head. But Greedy Nan was cleaning the pan To clear all signs of the spell, Her back was turned to her sisters, spurned For the sake of Alan Dell. And when he came in the morning Greedy Nan was sat by the door, While Annabelle and her sister Slow Were lying dead on the floor, ‘I didn’t mean it to **** them, Al, It was only a simple spell,’ But as he cuffed and led her away He frowned, did Alan Dell. David Lewis Paget
0
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
To Bed! To Bed!
‘To bed! To bed!’ Said Sleepy-head; ‘Tarry awhile,’ said Slow; ‘Put on the pan,’ Said Greedy Nan; ‘We'll sup before we go.’ (from Mother Goose) They sat at the kitchen table as The candle flickered low, And Greedy Nan put on the pan To indulge her sister, Slow, While Sleepy Weepy Annabelle Blotted her book with tears, And thought of her Beau from long ago Who she hadn’t seen for years. ‘Why doesn’t Roger notice me, Why doesn’t Alan Dell? I’m wearing the dress cut low for me And I’ve hitched my skirt as well. I’ve a pretty turn to my ankle, so You’d think it would drive them wild.’ ‘But men are a mystery,’ said Slow, ‘And Alan Dell’s a child.’ While over the pan stood Greedy Nan, Was cracking a turkey’s egg, A lump of yeast and a slice of beast And a single spider’s leg. With a wing of bat and an ounce of fat And a toe of frog for the spell, She needed to turn her sister off From her crush on Alan Dell. For Greedy Nan was the eldest girl And would have to marry first, The other two would wait in the queue Or their fortunes be reversed, The omelette sizzled, and in the pan She added before they saw, A piece of some Devil’s Trumpet plant For the mating game meant war. She sliced the omelette into half And she served them up a piece, ‘Didn’t you want?’ said Annabelle But Slow enjoyed the feast. ‘I’m not that terribly hungry now I’ve cooked it up in the pan, I think I’ll just have a slice of bread,’ Said the scheming Greedy Nan. They finished up and they sat awhile, And they mused about their fate, ‘If Greedy Nan isn’t married soon, For us it will be too late.’ ‘I’ve set my sights on a country squire,’ Said Nan, without a blink, Lured them away from her secret fire To confuse what they might think. ‘The room is woozy, spinning around, I’d better get me to bed,’ Said Annabelle, while Slow with a frown Saw Dwarves dancing in her head. But Greedy Nan was cleaning the pan To clear all signs of the spell, Her back was turned to her sisters, spurned For the sake of Alan Dell. And when he came in the morning Greedy Nan was sat by the door, While Annabelle and her sister Slow Were lying dead on the floor, ‘I didn’t mean it to **** them, Al, It was only a simple spell,’ But as he cuffed and led her away He frowned, did Alan Dell. David Lewis Paget
Continue reading...
72
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine. At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal. It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity. (A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds) A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past. Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre. Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators. I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success. However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative. A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message; Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages. To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past! Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors! Purcy Flaherty.
0
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
The media machine and its lack of authenticity
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine. At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal. It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity. (A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds) A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past. Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre. Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators. I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success. However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative. A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message; Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages. To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past! Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors! Purcy Flaherty.
Continue reading...
14
Once upon a day or night -- Wait, it was day, there was a light a light, which shone upon a moonlit drive so dark and drear. At keeping track, I'm sadly slacking. Forgive my memory, it is lacking memoirs of this day of days I could not -- would not -- hear. But now alas, alan, alack, something gruesome did attack, my dear. Something's ugly head did rear. Indistinctly, I remember, was it June? July? November? Moments burn together as I recollect the fear. And though he knows it gets to me, he will never set it free, the truth of all the memories I used to hold so dear. The truth you chose to hide from me for days, turned months, turned year. But no, I will not shed one tear. He held my hard heart high in flutter. Stomachs full of bread and butter. Our love could not be jaded, for he traded tea from beer. And though we were the oddest pair, I thought by now he would not care how people chose to say their puns of nuns and hateful jeer. Of wolves and sheep, of awkward sleep, of hunters hunting deer. I thought we had our life in gear. Sadly, though, I was mistaken. Blast, that awful wretch has taken my whole soul and everything I previously thought mere. He broke it off, and with a cough confessed, a darkest truth repressed of everything, how twas a lie, and that the end was near. And with four words, a looking glass of sorts he handed me to peer. These the blue-eyed snake hath spoke: "Honey, I'm a queer."
0
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
The Crumbling of the Closet Door
who knew really when  we first met so many years ago so many to count today we would say to each other i love you dont let go just hold me tight first time in a long time to hear those words tears in each others eyes who knew  what we had to go through  in life   just to hear these  words from me and you. first time in a long time it didnt matter what others thought but what it taught   when life is down   there is always someone watching  trying to get through who knew really when  we first met now she says  you are stuck the others are out of luck i am never letting you go   just so you know. so many years ago so many to count today we would say to each other i love you dont let go just hold me tight first time in a long time who knew really when  we first met the others  i know  they still mean alot to you and  will continue too but now i hold the reigns and they had the chance to  gain. so your taken no looking back   the past is no where to go,   the future is me and you. who knew really when  we first met so many years ago so many to count first time in a long time to hear these words  and know they are true I love you your stuck with me. long time waiting First time in a long time who knew really when  we first met sorry girls i am taken it happened when i wasnt looking  not much to say after that First time in a long time who knew really when  we first met alan spivey 1/23/2014
0
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
First time in a long time who knew really when we first met
So many cool things to do so many fun, and interesting things to do so many intoxicating things to stimulate the senses which, are always on march and parade DOPAMINE I stay chasing the next exciting thing the spectacle, the stimulation, music, promise but mostly I work my life away and then I drink, after Then the internet stimulates me:  Facebook, YouTube, Twitter, Instagram Goodreads, Reddit the next fix, always the next fix not where I want to be you can only be in one place I think my mind wants to be, in all places at once then, you get bored ******* bored that's there again Then minutes, moments, seconds move fast out of your life Alan Watts said, "thoughts are addictive," I know what he means he's not speaking in riddles A lot of times, it's just best not to think Somewhere in complete isolation with no one talking to you, or speaking to you eventually the voices and thoughts go away and you can cleanse yourself Hopefully
0
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
So Many Things
Yesterday I was just like you I rose with the rising sun I brought a smile to all those who passed by me Alan spoke about my colour Brendon was amazed at my arrangement Claire wanted to touch me Dorothy wanted her perfume with the fragrance I carried Emily wanted to take me with her Francis wanted to give me to his lady love, I thought I was the most important being on earth I thought everyone loved me I thought I brought a smile to people's face. But today, Am no longer loved, Alan just walked by Brendon bothered not Claire cared not Dorothy drove past Emily ensured the same as did Francis. Because, Today Am nothing more than a withered rose With my strewn petals in the pathway And that's right Step on or sweep away For All you people Might one day end up just like me!!! - A Withered Yellow Rose.
0
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
A Withered Rose
Hildegard of Bingen the most musical abbess of the year 1097 a.d. met with Jung the unconscious detective and Ginsberg the howling poet for lattes at some Starbucks in a vibrating city on a shimmering afternoon. Angelic minuets keep flowing, effervescing through my chakras like tonal champagne . . . the glowing femme declared. Beams of ethereal light infuse me, tsumanis of energy tempt me to dance right out of my habit. Ignoring the possibility of seeing a naked nun drink coffee in public, Alan mused behind his hornrims . . . I get what you mean like I have felt the same perfusion of joy watching cans of peas and ayahuasca dance with talking bananas at the A&P; Market near my pad in Brooklyn, can you dig it? Still suffering from his Freudian hangover, Carl reframed them both . . . Any conclusions or convictions drawn from such experiences may not self-verify because your introspective identifications attempt in vain to concretize the amorphicity of decentralized psychic sensations which reach conscious awareness only at the expense of extension. What did he just say? Hildegard asked Alan. I have absolutely no idea, the portly poet answered as he doodled an intricate mandala on his hemp napkin.
0
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
MANDALA SHMANDALA
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She had her own signature scent, A lasting aroma, that lingers in every corner of her home As the strong winds picked up the scent, and move it quite a distance. She carefully prepare the mixture from the earth Cuss ,kuss grass, Jasmine, rose buds and roots, Before she prepare the mixtures with that special touch Like a fine wine from the winery, “One more drop of Rosemary oil, she would say This would make the scent last for eternity, Old Granddad he would make silly jokes, His word usages, madam chemist, a witch with a spoon, But in the end, she would always made a special potion for him We would carefully select the flaky mahogany woods shaving, with combinations of fresh vanilla leaves with extracting oil with oils Those homemade perfumes from flowers had lots of potential. Granddad hand craft the wooded bottle stoppers with his chisel, It was a joy to watch, the old Irish typhoon working and smoking his pipe Old Alan baffler was Nana nickname for him She would scold and speak harshly to us for touching the those colorful luring bottles “Don’t open those bottles, you malicious children Else a witch would appear: She would often say, For me, my nana was an old chemist, with old decade’s wooden sticks. Preparing the mixtures like a fine wine, I am forever grateful for those memories I should have follow in her footsteps, Her secret potions, her gift, Is worth millions of dollars today Looking back on yesteryears , good parenting and good memories
0
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC
Grandmother’s Perfumes Bottles
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She had her own signature scent, A lasting aroma, that lingers in every corner of her home As the strong winds picked up the scent, and move it quite a distance. She carefully prepare the mixture from the earth Cuss ,kuss grass, Jasmine, rose buds and roots, Before she prepare the mixtures with that special touch Like a fine wine from the winery, “One more drop of Rosemary oil, she would say This would make the scent last for eternity, Old Granddad he would make silly jokes, His word usages, madam chemist, a witch with a spoon, But in the end, she would always made a special potion for him We would carefully select the flaky mahogany woods shaving, with combinations of fresh vanilla leaves with extracting oil with oils Those homemade perfumes from flowers had lots of potential. Granddad hand craft the wooded bottle stoppers with his chisel, It was a joy to watch, the old Irish typhoon working and smoking his pipe Old Alan baffler was Nana nickname for him She would scold and speak harshly to us for touching the those colorful luring bottles “Don’t open those bottles, you malicious children Else a witch would appear: She would often say, For me, my nana was an old chemist, with old decade’s wooden sticks. Preparing the mixtures like a fine wine, I am forever grateful for those memories I should have follow in her footsteps, Her secret potions, her gift, Is worth millions of dollars today Looking back on yesteryears , good parenting and good memories
Continue reading...
33
We came from different Tribes Children of the great Kabuniyan We came into being Children of the Bamboo Forest We hunt, we gather and fish Living from Our Mother's gifts The forest and the mountains The Cordillera we praise We chant and sing The Voices of the Gods Blessings we bring and Revelations of Warning The rituals and offerings Dances of mystical powers The humble Rice and the Great forests From Apo ni Tulao To the humble Alan Unto the God Ini-init and Apo ni Gwani We came into being We children of the forest Children of the rivers Children of the ever strong Mountain
0
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 5:47 AM UTC
Tinguian [Teeng-yan]
Amazing how their memory fades. Leaving victims, in their hands the bloodied blades. Amazing how they forget their ills. In the hands of the dead, a bottle of pills. Sitting red faced yet silent at the wake. Lies a blue faced victim of the life you did take. In violence you used your hands for years. In desperation they used their hands one time. Is this how you imagined you'd pay for your crime. Poetry by Kaydee.
0
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 3:35 PM UTC
Alan
Socrates consumed Hemlock, Cleopatra embraced the Asp, Alan Turing ate an apple laced with cyanide, I, like those before me, Have picked my poison; An absinthe-eyed, quicksilver-tongued boy. He was unsettled when I answered with the truth of his query, Yes, he is poison, I knowingly and willingly consume every drop of him, Not all toxicity is solely adverse, Radiation treats cancer, Venom in low doses is an antidote, Ethanol relaxes muscle and numbs the emotions. He is my poison and my antidote, He is the corrosive acid that dissolves gear-stopping rust, I, in kind, am the poison apple of his eye, Or so he says, And so, we two, bask in the destruction of ourselves, Consuming each other's pain, insecurity, madness, and lust, Why is it that he, a poison, is the one I trust?
0
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
Pick Your Poison
The lily of life, full of humility and devotion - the beautiful kind that everyone would choose to pick from the fields I think you'll find. One who defied the definition of a heroic inspiration, your talent outshone all others; you caused quite the sensation. You tenaciously grasped onto your stem of life with the insidious poison of demise within your cells rife, your colours darkening and fading away, and yet you remained God's most beautiful creation each and every day. As your petals fluttered down, by your side was your wife while you heart-wrenchingly closed the circle of your life. Now, we all shall miss watching you bloom through the days and we will remember you, forever and ALWAYS .
0
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
Alan; our Lily of Life
Ode to *** and coke I toast the old *** and coke the after hour drink from one job to the next sometimes not a break  just slip from one kitchen to the other one paid  the other didn't well except for the drinks Oh how  i adore  you *** and coke wake up in the morning coffee in hand  blinders on weary look  up on my face, each  morning other side of the wall from the coffee lays her sleeping with  someone new   my heart racing   anguished and  foolish , embarrassed at every turn.   I turn back to my room coffee in hand watch the clock tick  until 2 pm  get on my scooter  to job number one a place really where I can be in my own world  until closing time, then off to  job  number 2  a repeat  of number 1 except for  in the waiting  after the shift was done a *** and coke  is to be in hand. Tired and weary  every hour dusk until dawn. A time where i felt no escape and no place to run and there at the end of the all shifts old *** and coke  waiting for me to take her in my hands and sip and taste   oh what grace...  the numbness sifting out all of  daily happenings oh so sweet. day in day out  old *** and coke  came about..and met me in the night... then one night  waiting for  old *** and coke  on second order came across something new after getting second drink looked over and said hello... several years ago Now..both restaurants are gone,   things i trusted and beleived in  gone, i have  moved, my friend stopped talking everything has changed once again   like the never ending circle oh how i wish i had that *** and coke the bartender knew  just how much  it took to drown the day in each and every glass he would pour for me i raise the *** and coke high into the sky and toast to its existence for it would listen and ease up all the pain. Ode to *** and coke by Alan Spivey 1/20/2014
0
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
Ode to *** and coke
Ode to *** and coke I toast the old *** and coke the after hour drink from one job to the next sometimes not a break  just slip from one kitchen to the other one paid  the other didn't well except for the drinks Oh how  i adore  you *** and coke wake up in the morning coffee in hand  blinders on weary look  up on my face, each  morning other side of the wall from the coffee lays her sleeping with  someone new   my heart racing   anguished and  foolish , embarrassed at every turn.   I turn back to my room coffee in hand watch the clock tick  until 2 pm  get on my scooter  to job number one a place really where I can be in my own world  until closing time, then off to  job  number 2  a repeat  of number 1 except for  in the waiting  after the shift was done a *** and coke  is to be in hand. Tired and weary  every hour dusk until dawn. A time where i felt no escape and no place to run and there at the end of the all shifts old *** and coke  waiting for me to take her in my hands and sip and taste   oh what grace...  the numbness sifting out all of  daily happenings oh so sweet. day in day out  old *** and coke  came about..and met me in the night... then one night  waiting for  old *** and coke  on second order came across something new after getting second drink looked over and said hello... several years ago Now..both restaurants are gone,   things i trusted and beleived in  gone, i have  moved, my friend stopped talking everything has changed once again   like the never ending circle oh how i wish i had that *** and coke the bartender knew  just how much  it took to drown the day in each and every glass he would pour for me i raise the *** and coke high into the sky and toast to its existence for it would listen and ease up all the pain. Ode to *** and coke by Alan Spivey 1/20/2014
Continue reading...
31
Memories, just faded memories By alan spivey Looking out my window, Eleanor is playing on the old rope swing that’s hanging down from the old oak tree. Mary is walking up the steps from going into town to open my front door. The horses are whining and ready to rest from their long ride. The carriage so black and shiny stands there with pride. The Calvary just passed on their way to who knows, since I can’t move to see what’s going on, my bones are crackling I am getting old. Memories, just faded memories, Eleanor isn't there the swing has fallen years ago the old yellow ribbon Mary tied for her husband who never came back home only a little piece still shows on that old oak tree. My doors swing open and closed with the wind, my window has since been broken. I .. I still see Mary and Eleanor but they never come through my doors or play on the old swing. They just fade away like faded memories. I am old my bones are crackling I am falling down more often for I am their house I am whom Mary’s husband made for her before he went to war. Memories, faded memories
0
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
Memories, just faded memories
Cerebral woman,,,,,,,,,,, 'I'm a judge jail Mee she's a technicoloured melodrama fringed in pink a loony tune character penned in indian ink, she's positive and poignant blessed with perfect poise my snake wrangling lady- she's one o' the boys. she's a synaptical **** siren and rather refined a whoreatical kinda woman; that ***** with my mind, she's passionate and pendulous immersed in deep thought my minds mary's monster my cerebral - consort, alan nettleton.
0
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 10:28 PM UTC
"- Cerebral Woman -"
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR: of the EBook THE BULLIED, by Alan Johnson (The Nonromantic Man is the art form most often described as a character sketch. It falls in the realm of poetry, which I call poessay. For it is not poetry by itself or an essay.) The Nonromantic Man Non-romanticism is the inability to overwhelm one’s ignorance of the opposite *** needs or desires. The non-romantic man is one who buys his non-pool playing wife a pool table and soon thereafter invites his friends over every weekend to play pool. He calls women ******* and ‘hoes. He rises late at night to fix a sandwich, leaves the spilled condiments for his woman to clean in the morning, then after a cigarette, with mustard still being on his breath, wakes her up for a ***** call. He gains weight and then demands that she go on a diet. In harmony with his poor values, he neglects to compliment the new sexed up dress that she is wearing but does notice that she is wearing too much makeup for him. He has to be reminded of her birthday or any other should special engagement. The result his gift is not well thought out, so he buys her a cheap necklace just like the times before. He has no taste for poetry, sensual lyrics or the practice of setting the ambiance which moistens the trail of splendor. He takes his woman out to dinner and complains about the dinner’s high prices, and work, and her in-sensitiveness to his problems, and…At least once a month, he rolls off the top of her and falls asleep while she stares at the ceiling and prays for a difference.
0
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 9:47 PM UTC
The Non Romantic Man
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR: of the EBook THE BULLIED, by Alan Johnson (The Nonromantic Man is the art form most often described as a character sketch. It falls in the realm of poetry, which I call poessay. For it is not poetry by itself or an essay.) The Nonromantic Man Non-romanticism is the inability to overwhelm one’s ignorance of the opposite *** needs or desires. The non-romantic man is one who buys his non-pool playing wife a pool table and soon thereafter invites his friends over every weekend to play pool. He calls women ******* and ‘hoes. He rises late at night to fix a sandwich, leaves the spilled condiments for his woman to clean in the morning, then after a cigarette, with mustard still being on his breath, wakes her up for a ***** call. He gains weight and then demands that she go on a diet. In harmony with his poor values, he neglects to compliment the new sexed up dress that she is wearing but does notice that she is wearing too much makeup for him. He has to be reminded of her birthday or any other should special engagement. The result his gift is not well thought out, so he buys her a cheap necklace just like the times before. He has no taste for poetry, sensual lyrics or the practice of setting the ambiance which moistens the trail of splendor. He takes his woman out to dinner and complains about the dinner’s high prices, and work, and her in-sensitiveness to his problems, and…At least once a month, he rolls off the top of her and falls asleep while she stares at the ceiling and prays for a difference.
Continue reading...
4
“- Bacon sammich -” Ahhh, liddle green apple 'pon my plate, **** you ain't ever gonna satiate my hunger, lust, for something more, bacon sammich,,you know the score, Home made bread, cut nice n thick, full fat butter, ooh yea, that's the trick ! streaky bacon, with chewy rind just cut off, from a pig's behind, Fry it up, with a liddle oil but steady now, or it'll spoil, not too crisp, n not too brown coz it's a little rough, when going down, n to top it off, it's best of course to maybe add, a splash 'o sauce, So alas liddle apple, 'pon my plate I'm afraid for you, the bins your fate, at the risk of a liddle wife's disquiet it's a bacon sammich,,,,,fuck the diet. Alan nettleton.
0
May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010 at 8:22 AM UTC
“-Bacon sammich-”
You are like a beauty contest Where nobody is keeping score. The clothes make you beautiful But I like you naked even more. You’re a hot hunk of manhood From your hairline to your boots And you look a lot better naked Than some men look in suits. Yeah, I have to admit it here It was your looks caught my eye But as time went by I discovered There was much more to you, guy. There’s poetry and wit and then That ever present sense of fun. At first it was just infatuation; A fan sitting close to the stage. But later it turned into something Beyond a **** picture on a page. I found out there was more to you Than the beauty that stops hearts. There is something special there That sets you delightfully apart. So, I hope I can be forgiven For being such a rabid fan. I have excellent taste in things Like the looks of a hot man. I have heard so many call you One hot, **** son of a gun. Of the members of your fan club I’m sure I am your number one.
0
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC
ALAN
When did news parody stop being funny? Was it somewhere between Alan Jackson’s 9/11 cash-in and Donald Trump’s hair? Was it BoJo stranded on a zipline over London, or Cameron’s alleged porcine relations (bizarrely black-mirroring fiction)? When did the news start doing Chris Morris’ job for him? When did they start pre-satirising the headlines? “No evidence mermaids exist,” says US Government. Swimming pool evacuated after prosthetic leg is mistaken for ********** Robots follow Marco Rubio to South Carolina. I swear, I didn’t make any of those up. The actors on Saturday Night Live are more statesmanlike than the Presidential Primary Candidates they’re lampooning. How the hell do they breed these creatures? These gurning, overgrown foetuses with their conveniently dead ****** sisters to get all wet-eyed and tumescent over, their boomingly hollow controversy and their total, catastrophic crashes of personality. These loathsome organic constructs who would seem more relatable and trustworthy if their image consultants made them wear Nixon masks for every public appearance. When did it all become this strange, sick spoof of itself? Is there no one left in Britain who can make a sandwich? Man dressed as penguin receives more votes than the Liberal Democrats. Piers Morgan given jail time for illegally hacking ‘phones and gloating about it. Okay. I made the last one up.
0
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 6:07 AM UTC
Those are the headlines. God, I wish they weren't.
I'm goin sideways when I perish; want to end up, in a rock pool in the sand. I'll have a shiny shell, that I can cherish, with two claws, fer my chores; not a hand. sharing my abode with thirteen rag worm; who'll confirm, that it's sunny, by the sea, we can wish **** the fish a happy birthday, n the weather, we can also, guarantee, yes I’m goin sideways when I perish, to cherish, my rock pool by the sea, to squirm with the worm n embellish another lifetime - as liddle lobster me. Alan nettleton.
0
Jun 30, 2010
Jun 30, 2010 at 8:12 AM UTC
"- liddle lobster me -"
Bless all the barmaids that have ever lived who carried featherlite, n knobbly ribbed, who listened to waffle n crap I spoke who granted liddle me, a slap n poke, who parted ***** whilst in drunken stooper n gave the bird, to the party pooper, the big ones, the small ones, the fat n thin god bless slappers, that invited me in, bejeezus begorra, mag da horra, bless all barmaids, I'll **** on the morra, big **** big *** n the ones that pass gas, god bless the ones that I’ve yet to harass, for whisky, for beer, god bless ya m’dear, even big sally; fer the gonorrhea. Alan nettleton.
0
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 10:08 PM UTC
"- ol' porkers lament -"
Adolf n his nice tight *** gonna get me a pair o' lederhosen the kind adolf used to wear; not the attire the missus woulda chosen they're sorta ***** - to be fair, but they made his ***** look massive n they made his *** look taut we all know the guy weren't passive n did things he shouldn'ta ought, I bet ya missus ****** loved him when his **** hung out one side, and as for bombin london, well -- we'll let that ****** slide; coz the guy he sure were stylish in his liddle leather shorts, goose steppin all the while-ish with his gusset - and - supports,,, alan nettleton.
0
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 11:05 AM UTC
"- Adolf n his nice tight *** -"
*** whipped Where the hell has he man gone; n why can’t I **** in bed.?? All true men are incarcerated, trapped on a clitoral plane, where knee **** reactions drives a man insane, We all wear pink pyjamas frilly knickers and a bra, wear our hair in pig tails shave our ****** ,,YAY HURRAA. !! They feed us up on retinol give us optrex for our eyes provide the silken stockings ,, denier thirty,,, OOH nice thighs. So where the hell has he man gone- I would like to **** in bed, but guess I’ll just mow the lawn; do the feckin dishes - instead. Alan nettleton.
0
Jun 11, 2010
Jun 11, 2010 at 6:35 AM UTC
"- *** whipped -"
lightning crashes, a new mother cries her placenta falls to the floor the angel opens her eyes the confusion sets in before the doctor can even close the door lightning crashes, an old mother dies her intentions fall to the floor the angel closes her eyes the confusion that was hers belongs now, to the baby down the hall oh now feel it comin' back again like a rollin' thunder chasing the wind forces pullin' from the center of the earth again I can feel it. lightning crashes, a new mother cries this moment she's been waiting for the angel opens her eyes pale blue colored iris, presents the circle and puts the glory out to hide, hide
0
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
"Lightning Crashes" Writers: Chad David Taylor, Chad Alan Gracey, Patrick Dahlheimer, Edward Joel Kowalczyk