"arsed" poems
We the pixies clench our buttocks..... Or up yours Dave...
There is tell of a foetid rancid hellish hole
in the wild wood,
only visible by half light - every leap year,
where thick knobbed hairy arsed gnomes
plot the buggering of slim hipped
virginal pixies.
they sit cross legged on woolsacks-
knitting ****** shaped thorny policies
for the inevitable insertion,
the thickest of **** and hairiest of ****
get to chew upon the sweetmeat
of the mythical proletariat in perpetuity
as a stipend for their buggery,,,
or so the tale goes...
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 11:43 AM UTC
grow a beard...
buy a jazz double-bass...
start stroking it...
attempt to look
pensive...
and then write some
Cockney
comedy... and?
**** Oxford.
**** 'em good;
can't be,
******* arsed...
where's a *******
jazz double bass
the kind i need to stand up
to play?!
where?!
gone, "nowhere"...
Achilles would sooner
find a tortoise,
you ******* half-whit
bull bullock base catcher...
yummy yummy...
no ******* double whammy
if there ain't
a greasy dough nnnnnnnn
in my mouth oozing a squid's
mating call...
from the Jules Verne estimate
of how...
big the ******* could become...
oh please...
**** is a conjunction
word...
akin to and...
spew effect,
regurgitation, founded upon...
so...
so... farting in a public place
is less offensive than
uttering a word of oath?!
**** me...
more ****
less ***** images...
i guess that's how you
habitually attack Christian
h'america...
**** **** **** and impose
a curb of a ***** show me the puppies
kitchen ***** Kentucky style
****
******* wankers...
dreaming up some ****
in long lost Cockney rhyming
slang for some:
willkommen zu verirrt amstetten...
....................
...................................
..............
................
SCHMILE...
boorish ******* gnomes dancing
the leprechaun gamblers' dance...
skivvy *************
sure...
censor the words...
but god forbid you censor
showing all the *******
because... if you do?
guess what...
i might forget my farming impulse...
of imagining a
a cleavage to also imply
a pork buttocks...
funny...
how a show of cleavage is synonymous
with a show of pork
buttocks...
and then i begin thinking of
milking...
which throws a ***** **** out
with the baby and the bathwater
and... i'm shinging...
what's that name of the place?!
New Orleans!
yeah...
like some minstrel in that
part of the world that
part of the world that's
a ********
what?!
you spew on me...
i spew on you...
we can at least exchange...
what we "love" about each other...
but i implore!
i implore!
visit Warsaw!
alone... no, not with other people...
ah-loan - a-l-o-n-e....
i'll be your companion,
when you peer at your shadow,
and attempt, to pretend,
to disappear.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 8:48 PM UTC
When you're a writer, you get invited to strange gigs
sometimes, where usually, the audience is arty farty
or even a bit precious and pretentious.
You know, the blue rinse set.
But I was once invited to recite poetry in a bar,
where I knew my audience might be ******
or maybe even abusive, and wouldn't give
a **** about writing.
Yeah? Well, I'm a bit of a word warrior, really,
so I didn't back off.
I stepped right in for the fight.
I said straight up that my poem was especially
for people like them who thought that writers are
wishy-washy, woffling, **** weak and luke-warm.
So then I said,
PPPHHHaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrtttttttt.
Very loud.
I told them this was some royal raspberry,
just for people like them,
who thought this was going to be another boring poem.
And then I threw in a few words like, ah, **** doggy fashion,
finger up the **** you know, just to liven things up.
I told them what I really thought.
***** You! Especially seeing as how you think poetry’s
some wimpy, bleeding heart, limp **** stuff. Right?
So let's get right down and ***** here.
Which is much more interesting, eh?
And do you know what that says about you?
No? You bleeding, blinkered, blind-as-bats
broomstick-up-the-arsed, boring, bonehead ********
So don't call this poet piss-weak any more
or I'll hit you bang between the eyes
and up between your thighs.
I've got some things to say you'd better not ignore.
When it comes to words, I'm a gouger and a biter.
I'm a brawling, hard-as-nails, no-holds-barred street fighter.
I'm a writer.
Yeah, well, no surprise here. That made them quieter.
I'd shut them up. So what did that prove?
I'd just abused and confused them.
It made me think, well, why did I bother?
Poems are for believers and lovers, aren’t they?
They don't need me to fight for them in bars.
Poems just are.
Yes,and some of them might live
as long as the stars.
Mike T Minehan
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
skidding down the slopes
of a Friday afternoon
deadlines looming fast
my rickety toboggan
- clattering alarmingly -
navigates the final run
and with a sharp turn
delivers me sweaty-arsed
but still in one piece
to the door of my weekend
at six on the dot
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 7:32 PM UTC
She's a hand me own girl-
she started off with dreams
and hopes of love
and romance
and ended up
used
and worn by men
who didn't give a ****
about what she's worth.
She begins her night on town
hard arsed and cynical
but after a few drinks-
loneliness shows
from her mask that hangs
akwardly
off her scarred pretty face.
I approach her from my own shy bruised seat and my loneliness finds hers.
When I was a dreamer
patience was easy,
but then again
maybe patience was my blindness.
Everything must happen now!
How do I play this game right?
Man I hate these games.
Cat and mouse,
cat and mouse,
cat eats mouse
and then cat gets poisoned by mouse
and dies infected with bitterness.
I've died a thousand times over
and I still die whenever I meet a beautiful woman.
I try to be suave and lighthearted-
to pretend to be a dream,
a hope,
but my heart explodes inside me
and I stand there naked ad exposed.
I never was a good liar.
Before long I see her
kissing a better liar than I am.
I know she was not my dream to begin with
but still anger burns inside me:
I cant get what I want and i cant settle for what i don't want.
Typical spoilt brat.
I go home alone thinking-
maybe I'm the hand me down girl.
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 6:31 AM UTC
Here's the story told to me about our glorious infantry.
Louts,rapscallions,friends battalions
arm in arm and full of glee
marching off to join the infantry.
In the rear lines drinking fine wines,hock,moselle,some burgundy
and some drinking ginseng flavoured tea from some far flung idea of Empire
while only half a mile along the road the whole world was on fire,
were the fat arsed generals with their horses, waiting on their second courses,
crepes and franzipans and to a man they didn't care that the war was waiting there,
'let the ******** wait',they'd say,
after all that was the gentlemanly way.
The bullets striped us left to right and falling into our own falling ***** we'd call for mum and dad
aye lads
aye lads
war is bad
but for the buggers at the rear who never so much as once came near the sound of a gun,
war was fun a chance to socialise,
society is full of lies and leaders they were not.
But death's got their number on his shell,they'll soon be joining us in hell,
so ****** them and sod the lot
were in a spot,we'll not get home,splintered bone and mangled limb and corporal thinks it's still a sin to swear
well ****** him as well,we no longer care.
As we share a final smoke,Johnny tells his favourite joke about three generals and some place called,but I forget the punch line as the time has come for one more bullet,one more gun and silence.
In Croydon,Roydon and North of Watford Gap,families are spoon fed some wholesome krap from drip fed Sergeants,battle,shield and argent,honour King and all the other little things that the senselessness of death brings home.
Let them keep their fields filled full with glory,we know the ***** **** filled story,
war is bad
war is bad
I'm glad that I cant fight no more.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:32 AM UTC
These are the teaching of a peaceful warrior
Today, I saw three children burn, six buildings fall and nine families cry as twelve people died.
But **** it!
I’m western,
It’s all cool.
I’ve got drinkable water,
I’ve got central heating ,
I’ve got a National Health Service,
And an education from a proper school…
Regardless of the fact that I arsed about and played the fool.
I’ve got a sorted life.
And the most I have to worry about is an unloved wife,
Or monotonous conversations about other people’s strife.
But maybe I’m wrong?
Maybe I’m repressing the depressing parts of my day?
Maybe I should open up to the possibility that I am after all human and that it’s a part of our humanity not to like my next-door neighbour just 'cause he smiles funny?
But I guess that’s what we do.
We stigmatise, bastardise and anyone who doesn’t match up in our eyes.
So why don’t we stop?
Why can’t we feel safe from the cops?
Why can’t we trust the government to protect our jobs?
I think I know why…
‘Cause it’s a fake system,
Built on the belief that we’re all equal.
Well…
Some more than others.
And if you’re more well off then them,
Then **** your brothers!
So let’s start a revolution.
Let’s cut down pollution both environmentally and mentally,
Let’s free the oppressed and resolve this mess,
Let’s finally get off our chest the injustices of our generation and reform this nation based on equality, sustainability and chivalry.
Not bigotry, frivolity and humility.
And what of the military?
We make of them what you will,
But someone who volunteers to ****
Is either messed in the head or run out of thrills.
But think of it this way,
A workforce of a hundred thousand strong,
Who may not be aware of what they’ve done,
Can transform this world both homeland and foreign.
Commit our military to sustainability.
If they want to serve their country then go build wind farms and H E Ps in plenty.
Still I know what your thinking,
None of this is realistic.
Especially now the economy’s sick.
And whomever we vote… We’re governed by ******
So let’s turn over this government,
Let’s have a proper – civil – war.
But instead of roundheads and sabres,
We’ll strike and protest across cities and acres.
‘Cause the rich and powerful have no sway,
When the people who generate their wealth, get in their way.
But enough of my rants… what’s your say?
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 7:30 PM UTC
i do not love you because
of your strong shoulders to carry me
or the long-wracked intellectual faculties that desert me
or even your face – that launched the ship of my glass-bottle heart
and sent me crashing onto a burning shore camped by all my worst fears;
or because of the way my emptiness frames you
like the moon
on the blank pages of my frostbitten heart
(but as they say, what is a heart anyway?)
i do not love you because
you love me
besides,
– there is no evidence to support such an abstraction.
i do not even love you because
you bring me my tea, and tuck my feet under the blanket in the winter times
or because of that half-arsed smirk
– the one that makes me want to punch your mouth
or because i should love you because you are, i suppose, my lover.
But,
there are small things
the way your teeth show when you laugh
and your yellow tee-shirt – ugly sandals
and the way you sweat when i run from you on gritty sand beaches
12 (or so) kilometres from your white walls and
half-empty photo albums
that funny face you make
and your rough, hardened fingers from miles of copper guitar strings
over miles of long dusty roads
when we drive, minutes stuck between our polaroid past and
the wind-tossed hair at the end of the hot orange horizon
sun roof, sunglasses
not smiling because we are not obligated
how, when we lie together, your breaths rasping in the throat of your sleep
i steal your heat,
survive.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 12:38 AM UTC
This is one of Barry Hodges "Memories" poems.
**O how I recall with sadness in my poor forsaken heart
How I lost my fat-arsed sister (though she was a silly ****
We had just enjoyed a meal on the esplanade at Taormina
(soup, spaghetti alla vongole followed by some tasty semolina)
So we went for a digestive walk through the Sicilian hills
Not realising we were in for some awful shocks and spills.
There came a mighty roar and a dreadful smell of sulphur
(even worse than flatulence or a burp caused by little Maria's peptic ulcer)
Oh dear, oh dear, Mount Etna had just violently erupted
With lava bursting out, from the bowels of earth rudely eructed,
And with a sickening splodge a fiery lump landed on the hapless bird
Causing her to die forthwith, screaming louder than I'd ever heard.
God in his mysterious ways is supposed to show us his mighty wonders
But occasionally I do believe he quite clearly makes some ******* blunders;
And I really think it's quite unfair to cause a volcano to blow up
Especially since it looked a nice mountain for bold climbers to go up;
But it's an ill wind that blows no one any good has always been my motto
So I emptied Maria's scorched purse, went to a bar and got quite blotto.**
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
Not arsed about your journey in.
You’re boring. It’s 8:30am
Aassault by tedium
Boring-bastard-story.
Your daughter’s thirteenth-birthday-buffet.
Where’s my ******* pepper spray.
Don't care about your weekend love.
Where's the ******* get out clause
**** off about the pork pies and
Pass me the ******* tranquilse
Oct 6, 2020
Oct 6, 2020 at 6:58 PM UTC
Here I am
This is me
What you get
Is what you see
Standing here
Wasting time
Thinking of
Another rhyme
Words go round
In my head
I lie awake
In my bed
Anecdotes
Similies
Use them wisely
If you please
A blank pad
A dried up pen
Please don't give me
Block again
I need my words
They have to flow
And to the world
They're put on show
Excitement flows
I've reached a peak
Nah can't be arsed
I'll save it for another week
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 1:50 AM UTC
the men in their shiny arsed suits
gather close to the door
inhale the incense, the mothball aroma of their neighbour’s Sunday best
endure the droning of the priest,
who denounces the idleness of men
the sinfulness of women
they feel ferocious thirsts building
their minds have wandered
to the pub where the publican is pulling pints of porter
letting them stand, almost full, on the bar
foaming, settling, forming voluptuous heads
waiting for the appreciative lips, mouths, tongues of the restless church bound men.
one breaks ranks, sidles out the door
the others look sheepishly at each other and sidle, dribble
across the road to slake their thirsts
knowing that they have, barely, done their duty for the week
they can, with an almost clear conscience
drown their sins in the landlord’s best beer.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 5:07 AM UTC
I'm zoned
Brains foggy
Can't even hold a conversation
With those closest to me
All this vocabulary
And I've run out of things to say
So I just talk ****
To fill the silence for a bit
But I can't be arsed
I quit
How bout you take over for a sec
Cause it's not just my responsibility
To remain enthusiastic
Asterisk
*having or showing intense and eager enjoyment, interest, or approval
Yeah,that's effort
haven't felt that way for a while
and I won't force it
So you speak
And maybe I'll listen
If it's not more of the same
Look up once or twice
If you say my name
Get annoyed that I'm in a stupor
Don't be so vain!
Can't you see it's just my brain
No one's home
It's nodded off again
I'm in The nil zone
But What can I say
I'm prone!
I won't pretend
Its a Shame
You're not entertained
but this Influx of Hormones
Got me feelin like being alone today
Hand me some chocolate
And some dumbed down TV
Oh **** Just my luck I've given up dairy!
No ***** to give, I'm gettin none today
Just my luck I'm feelin hella *****
And my boyfriends away
But **** it, I'm tired anyway
Frustration got me in disarray
**** you Sun! I didn't see you today
It's gloomy, I'm angry, I'm stressed
Call the A team
Here comes Mr P.M.T and Mrs ***
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
✨√SIGNED_FATE
I looked at myself in the mirror,
Smiled, but hit back with a frawning reflection,
My thoughts lingered on the darkened soul,
Where the black suit sheltered pain, deep sketched scars of a tortured heart...
A place they found as comfortable as home,
A place they cry and mourn.
Daughter of fate as written,
Happiness buried deep within my soul,
Screams and cries of the vengeful beasts inside,
Wanting to be let free,
And ***** the whole situation up.
Echoes of the defeaning silence,
Sending me to hades...
They watching,
My every move tracking,
Leading me on a journey there's nothing like retrieving,
Where I hope to have an unerrinng ******* life,
Where I wish they lull me to eternal sleep.
Their voices becoming louder as I pootle in,
Gravitating deeper in the gloomy atmosphere,
Wild thoughts circulating in my mind,
Suicidal thoughts taking the better part of me,
with a force greater than centrifugal,
dismantling whole of my right mind.
Their open arms luring me to hug back,
No one can save me now,
No one can unhitch me from these chains of torment, condemnation,
My mind is all frozen,
My heart is all broken,
Nothing's right,
Maybe signing my fate is the only real thing,
Maybe I'll no longer feel this emptiness,
loneliness,
Just like leaves gyrate slowly to the ground.
Everything happens so fast,
In nick of time, blade in my hand,
Gashed both of my wrists, half-arsed,
Gush of blood flowing,
I pass out,
In a pool of a blood, I lay helplessly,
Waiting for my flipping Will to be read out.
Signed fate...
©tiana...😭
Apr 22, 2021
Apr 22, 2021 at 5:30 PM UTC
start at four
unlock the doors
wash the floors
wash the tables
cleaning up whats left over
from yesterdays fun and games
then start again
12 hours more
of back and forth
and back and forth
and back and forth
and back and forth
and scorn
and whispered words of harm
from smarmy englands home grown army
braver now
since the bigots charter
britains best
at the bar rat arsed again
better than the rest
at spending their hard earned girocheque
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 1:42 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
It is the ordinary
For me
That so often
Fills the memory
This is how I tell it ……
She didn’t give a ****
The ice cream seller
19 years – quite pretty
Sunday, New Brighton Parade
: )
Hey!
Wot U @
**** all
Through the hatch I saw her
Mobile in hand
Sitting on a *** that would
Get bigger – and better – with time
U?
At work
Its crap
Lol
She barely bothered
To look up from the phone
Casual disregard, I found appealing
To my ****** side
U out last nite?
Yeah ******* smashed
Went home with that guy
U know the one
Two strawberry cones please
And a vanilla
Don’t do strawberry
Just vanilla
***** mare !!
PMSL
I need to stop
He’s using U
Is there anywhere else?
Yeah, try up Vale Park
Just up there, round the corner
It’s cheaper too
U still there?
Yeah, sorry, a customer
Can’t be arsed today
Haha, don’t blame U
I left her there
Back on her ***
Leaning over the phone
Hoping for no customers
****
He just txt
Wot do I do?
Tell him to **** off
We found Vale Park
Saved three quid
As with jealousy she cursed
Her mate and the ice cream.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
Not poetry, just reminiscing
When I came out of the army in 1985 after serving for 24 years I settled in the county of Suffolk where my first wife came from
Suffolk with old fashioned ideas and old fashioned views. In fact unless you had been resident for at least 20 years some of the villagers still classed you as an outsider.
Anyway I decided to get an allotment (not sure what you call them in the U S) so that I could grow my own vegetables.
Just across from me was the plot rented by Allen, 70 going on a hundred years old. I never did find out. Anyway it was early spring and I stood there scratching my head when Allen wandered over
" What's up boy" he said
I explained that I was new to the area and new to growing vegetables and wasn't to sure about when to start getting seed into the ground
He looked at me with those timeless eyes and said
"Sit bare arsed on the ground boy and if your **** still ain't cold after 10 minutes then that'll be the time to sow"
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
It looked like rain.
Sky dark and dim.
Yiska stood
in the playground
waiting to see Benedict
get off the school bus.
She needed to see him
before lessons began
or there would be
little chance if it rained.
She had prayed
-at least in mind-
for dry weather
and clear skies,
but it didn't
seem promising.
Kids passed on
their way into
school playgrounds:
boys into theirs,
girls into theirs.
Why couldn't
they mix?
She mused.
One school bus
came in,
but not his,
his was a different bus
than that which arrived.
More kids walked past.
She sighed.
Scratched a thigh,
brushed fingers
through her hair.
Then it came in
around the bend.
She searched
the windows,
hoping he
was coming,
hoping he'd
be first off
not last as he
was sometimes.
He was last,
head down,
hand in pockets,
looking at the ground
in deep thought.
She hoped he'd
looked up as
he went by.
She hoped.
She wondered.
Benedict,
she called,
peering through
the wire fence.
He looked up
and smiled.
Can we talk?
She asked.
Yes, sure,
he said
and he followed her
along the fence
as she looked
for space where
it was free of girls.
Looks like rain,
she said,
looking at the sky,
then at him.
Yes, it does,
he said,
peering at her
through the fence,
wishing it wasn't there.
Won't see you much
if it rains, if at all,
she said.
He leaned near
as he could,
poked a finger
through a hole
and she touched
his finger with hers.
No, unless we
arrange to meet
some place
in the school
at lunchtime.
Yes, but where?
She said,
getting her lips
as close to the fence
as was possible.
He leaned in closer
their lips touched
between the small gap
in the wire fence.
Gym?
He suggested.
Too busy,
she replied,
always keep-fit freaks
in there lunchtimes.
He mused feeling
her lips again.
Warm, wet.
A bell rang.
They parted
and she said,
look out for me.
He nodded
and the girls lined up
in classes.
He walked
off quickly
into the boys playground
around the school building,
thinking of her,
sensing the dampness
of her lips on his,
taking one last glimpse
of her as he passed,
the bell
was still ringing,
but he couldn't
be arsed.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 3:17 AM UTC
Ahhh, but,
it's simple pleasures , that rejuvenate life's rough weather patches
and it's interesting how animosity turns from curiosity to real world , pilgrams
and biblical stories turned hindu prophecies and karmic debts paid in full .
of stories unwinding, to fantasies tidings -
tidal whirlpools of old age relinquishment
from trapped in butterfly effect
movements
and conjoined twins of several natures
EARTH , AIR, FIRE , WATER AND EATHER.
there seems to be no end to the twin connections -
but a very fine line between earth and heaven
a very fine tune between love and lust
a very fine sand dune's shapeful curve between trust and lack luster half hearted , half arsed apathy.
it seems that there are no more fruits in edens dens , then zen masters at hand to help us through the din try not to get those dijins in your ears but let them pass freely - knowing you are safe from fear.
everyone has their own soul mate
but some have mates
i tell ya
this is set to be a pretty interesting venture ,
to discover and adventure
across plains of realization ,
with the wind of uncomplicated, honest , one love
as the sail
and i hail a taxi
to the next borderline and i know we'll be making it in time and style
and keepin it all holy
all the whilst
we walk on sacred ground
we walk on sacred ground
we are sacred ground.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 9:44 AM UTC
"- Cheers Bob -"
The can't ****
squirrel arsed
paymefuckall's
say -
"Hey, we're on
the up lads
and the Footsie's
buoyant too !
Wall street's
through the ceiling
shit's beginning to accrue.
So we saw no need
for apprehension
we've done the deed
and spent yer pension" !!!
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC
Nine a,m.
- an old suit case
- and blue arsed flies.
Read old news again today,
poverty is dead -
or so they say,
a three ring circus
came to play,
when Maggie snatched -
our milk away.
Watched
three Blue arsed flies
doing the Indy 500
'round my light bulb,
drank coffee - minus milk.
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 8:54 AM UTC
What I've become I really despise
My life compiled of deceit & lies
Empty words lacking truth
A deceptive nature stemmed from youth
No feelings of guilt nor remorse felt
Lying with ease not a moment dwelt
Exceptionally tangled web weaved
Ensuring stories are concise and believed
People see my potential which Will inevitably die
I will be the one in which all could rely
There's no spark left; the excitement’s gone
The first felt enthusiasm decreased to none
The more trust I obtain, the less praise I receive
I battle the instincts that want to deceive
Trust is earned and once this is reached ;
that gained trust will soon be breached
expectations not met; excused by deceit
I long for my recreational retreat.
I could say I am sorry but it is always lie
I cant be arsed anymore , why should I try.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 2:59 AM UTC
The Kid sits
opposite
the wheelchair
with Anne
telling him
about her
painful leg
when it aches
it frigging
drives me mad
she tells him
she pulls up
her red skirt
to show him
the naked
stump of leg
yet it aches
in the part
that's not there
she explains
he gapes at
the fleshy
stump of leg
why is that?
he asks her
how the heck
would I know
pull that down
this moment
the nun says
angrily
coming near
from the home
her black and
white habit
flapping quick
about her
Anne stares
at the nun
what's got your
white knickers
in a twist?
she utters
to the nun
who do you
think you are
showing off
your leg stump?
she yanks down
the red skirt
to cover
the leg stump
don't touch me
you penguin
Anne says
decency
my young girl
you Benny
why are you
watching her?
the nun asks
I showed him
where it hurts
Anne says
you shouldn't
show your leg
it's my leg
what is left
don't be rude
the Kid looks
at the nun
just looking
what she showed
just her stump
he explains
you mustn't
the nun says
anymore
doing that
young Anne
and I'll tell
Sister Paul
and the nun
walks away
her habit
flapping slow
about her
as she walks
what a dumb
arsed penguin
Anne says
they both watch
the young nun
as she walks
on the lawn
to the home
for sick kids
by the sea
anyway
that's my leg
or the stump
do you want
another
look and see?
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 3:06 AM UTC