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I am broken into
f  i  s  h  e  s.
Blossom Jan 2018
Wow, for once
I've been left speechless
A little dot
Images of grey on the screen
Wow, its alive

Blob
A blob
My little baby blob

Wow
Megan Grace Mar 2013
I tried to
write
a poem about you
but instead
I scribbled a
big, orange-ink blob
and I figured
that made
just as much sense.
Dennis Willis Aug 23
i am i think
a blob in a blob
full of blobs
that are full of blobs
infinitely blob
in a blob
Cake, the meat of culinary delights;
Icing, the sauce.

Cake, the main entree, the special of the night;
Icing, the decorative garnish.

Without Cake, Icing has no purpose
A clump, a blob, of meaningless goop.

1 spoonful of Icing alone and you're done.
Spread out amongst the firm surface of Cake though,
Icing becomes much more interesting, and much more fun.

I am the Cake.
You are the Icing.
Without me, the base, the entree, the meat
You, the sauce, the garnish and blob, don't matter

You can be the Icing to your own Cake or to another
But without me, you'll do nothing but rot teeth and smother

So, to enjoy you, Icing, to the absolute fullest
I must, first, combine the ingredients, stir and bake
Because it is vital, if one is to appreciate your sweet taste,
To properly prepare my foundation, the meat, your Cake.

- BPW
PeacockBrain Mar 2012
Blob Girl
Runny
From too much molding.
She lays all day
Can't gather herself up.
Just waiting to evaporate now
Maybe precipitate and start somewhere new.
Until then..
Blob Girl sits.
12-3-11
Daisy Hemlock Apr 2018
I was too young and too smart
To operate under the illusion that I was capable of love.
But his fingers were so long and slender.
The way they wrapped around the back of my hand.
His palm was soft and smooth.
So cool,
And not at all sweaty
Compared to the rest of the gym.
I never felt butterflies in my stomach.
I never wanted to let go.
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
Sweeter* than* wait I am starting
to melt like a____?
             Royal Jam
  Scarlet Movie Oh!  I don't give a
              ****!!
The Milkman versus My Breadman
How can I decide I feel I am
going to faint

Such a quaint picnic was "Hot Epic"
       My biggest fan is my
              Mother
    Going public like a stand up comic

All stereotypes happiness
        is a warm bread

Any way you slice it love it
Even going out of our head
The war going on
Hello Vietnam
Be my *Grand Slam


Have difficulty with everything
Melting our hearts those
"Good Eat" the luckiest people
But it's us the ordinary people
No time to brag or boost
who believes
everything is extraordinary
take a bow

Feeling tired give me a bat and ball
My big hit  built me a buttercup bed

I love the sweet warm toast
With my butter spread that
dash of sea salt the most
What was truly said in
your opinion no one's fault
Justice For All so stop
feeling guilty

Or in the presence of someone, you
didn't love at all

End of the reign beginning of
Melted candle dripping softly
like I apple butter he texted me
His ears were full of wax

Moms and
their daughters play
dressed up Dads and sons
  kickball having a meltdown
Of timeless bills no bread lines
Kings and Queens love their crowns
Love those quilts of corals
Soft as butter what morals

It's time for Hellman's
mayonnaise sandwich
What a dilemma
Every morning she is eating
Cream of wheat like a blob
Of farina
Kansas City here she comes

She loves her buttered popcorn
Poppy seed bagel was
near her acorns
We used to be human now
  An Army of Robots
Keep your enemies closer
If you truly love her

Robin Hood of the thieves

She got Gingersnapped
Melted finger-mapped
Crusty Baguette's French lip
lemon creme
Those marionettes caused
a scene

Butterscotch candy sugar cookies  
cleaning up your
computer meet "Ms." Butterworth"
movie
The worst shes ever has seen

She is sitting in the country
southern style
the dining room
Doing banana splits boiling
egg yolks Mcdonalds pancake
with Old folks

And cartwheels Moms always
wearing her buttercream heels
More room buttercream paint
And so toxic she zooms

What a silly goose with hens
He is hiding his eyes like
a fugitive he was blind getting
melted by so many lovers
Buttery slippery hearts

Jumping like Jack Rabbits melting a
white picket fence no nonsense
This bread and butter hold me closer
Everyone is looking
like a stranger
Almost every morning new
improved bread love pusher
Fresh taste and another lover
Uptown girl left her catcher of
the rye bread on used up counter
Seeing too many piano players
of Billies, she was getting a
Bread hot fever

Take me to *
Panera Bread
Cyborgs the pig and whistle 
beer and nuts melted butter pretzels
The Alien like a damsel in distress
Like a heart of the shamrock
What a lucky piece Irish bread
The Queen red wine and
breadcrumbs
On her musical chair
Milk and honey not your
Unicorn Pony quick kick
then melt me in my sleep

Ancient rocks up her castle
Sipping her hot spell word
puzzle
Secrets of all tattle tales
In her coffee, he smiles with
French croissant like a sergeant
Bread melted her butter lips
The very first time she
ever saw his face
There were more excursions
but no excuses to
butter up my Prince
How our bread is buttered or so soft but sweet like out Mother and  her lovers' chef knife left her salted the stars upon them a temptation to move on soft heartedly
To be loved you feel squashed in between there is always a shining light we see them differently let's not cause such a scene
JS Clark Apr 2017
The gate is closed
I’m on the side of the locked in.
We have a sister, Hip Hop, and she’s dying;
To whom do we owe this sin?

Born in the late 70’s, the Bronx, the 1520,
She, in time, enamored a planet.
Tickling radios with her rhythms and rhymes--
She sends the mainstream into a panic.

But the mainstream is a blob,
Like the amoeba seeking to consume.
Stunned, at first, by my sister’s ribald glory,
It sought to place her in a commercial tomb.

We, the Underground, repel the popular--
The blob has locked tight this gate of the fresh.
Seekin’ to cheapen Hip Hop’s life valve,
Popularity is an Underground’s death.

Time was, Hip Hop was the ****.
Now, thanks to the blob, she’s nothin’ but.
Good news though, she’s not all dead,
Even now she’s being revived from a wholesale rut.

The streets are calling her back;
The Underground is stirring once more,
Our sister will breathe fresh again--
And render the blob forlorn.
Radar cannot detect this creature
Giant hulking form penetrates the outer layer
Uncertain blob appearing and disappearing
Here.                                                                      There


Then over here.                    


And there.
We don't know what were looking at. Beyond our four dimensional universe there lies all but infinte more dimensions.
No way.
No way to ever understand, comprehend, we compare to man. Gross.
Beauty and death all in strike. I couldn't see a ******* thing. It blinded my third eye. Beast, outer, pervaded being. Unsure intentions. I arouse at its conscience
Tamera Pierce Dec 2018
When I look in the mirror in the morning,
I feel fine.
I brush my hair.
I am fine.
I brush my teeth,
And I am fine.

Then I notice how my teeth aren’t as white as they could be.
But I'm still fine.

Then I put on my clothes and I notice how I spill over the sides.
But I am fine.
Then I notice how my hips jut out
And my jeans are never long enough in the ankles.

Then I spend ten minutes thinking of changing my jeans,
Because this shirt is too tight
But I opt for a hoodie instead.
Then I am lost in the hoodie.
I feel like a blob of fabric.
And then just a blob.

I get in my car and look in the mirror to adjust
And notice how dark under my eyes are.
When I’m pretty sure they weren’t that dark earlier.

As I drive to school, I notice my hands on the steering wheel
And ponder how they can be both fat and scraggly at the same time.

I get to school and notice people staring at me at the red lights
While I begin to cross the road.

I pass windows and with each one,
I notice my thighs grow larger with each step.
I notice how wide I am when I pass other girls
Then I think about my ankles and I swear I can feel them swell.

By the time it is twelve o’clock,
I have convinced myself that I am a
Bulging,
Suffocating,
Beast
Who tramples everyone in the room.
And the Earth is suddenly too small for someone as big as I am.
am i ee Aug 2015
the bane of my existence
here
now
is
all of the incessant
noise.  

the city encroaches
ever outward,
gobbling up
the suburbs
like the great big
Blob

contributing
layer
after
layer
of noise.  

a new metro line
opened last year
disheartened
the morning

realized
it was the trains
i heard
as my puppy
and i
walked so early.  

trash trucks,
back up beeping noises,
leaf blowers,
mowers
and trimmers ...
all
conspiring
to drive me
mad.

the birds and owls,
snakes and deer,
hawks and rabbits
toads
and trees
and flowers,
puppies
all other creatures
divine,
tempering
this man-made chaos
this man-made
hell

keeping me hopeful
that
i
will
have some
respite
  

some respite
from this
hideous cacophony,
this man-made hell,
in the future,
not
too distant.

of course
there are
some benefits
from all
the city life

but i prefer
the silence
the solitude
of nature.


the Taoist recluses
who speak to me,
whose poems
paintings
writings
and silence
are balm
to my soul.  

some day soon,
i too
shall join
the recluses
far away
far far away
in the mountains.

but for now,
i am
only a modern day
taoist
recluse
stuck in suburbia,
doing my best,
living in this
noisy hell.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
.comes the floundering over foul language, like it's a sin to speak with a cascade of oath taken words, to: never mind the beat and rhythm, that will continue, as long, as long you play the solo... never you mind keeping-up-appearances, why be distracted, better yet: why talk during ***? isn't that worse than saying ****, casually, in a conversation of: pardon my french? i will tell you, it's far worse dragging "god" (words) into the "satanic" pit of actual procreation, than it is to say **** and let it be treated as a conjunction, akin to: and... since what words are sacrificed on the altar of *****-*****? bad, boy, who's your yummy, mummy... who's your daddy... i tell you: **** in between some jane austin snippets, and those prunes would be on, fire, should any words be uttered from their mouths having been staged completely ****... no... foul language is free language with all the chanel and gucci to attire you with away from furr-skins... but talking, uttering words, while procreating? that's just plain scandalous! i bet those prim goodie-two-shoes care more for: pardon my french during conversation, yet they probably squeal like about to be castrated pigs in a slaughterhouse come the synagogue of ******... ******* never wish to accomplish syllables or vowel cubism with contorted mouths during ***... but they say: brush your teeth while speaking... if hey-zeus saw hypocrisy in the jewish sects... full circle... who are the modern day pharisees? somewhere in h'america... beastly contortions... if not pedophiles, then at least the sort of pedantic hypocrites that could share the same tier of Dante's inferno... why talk, during ***? why not eat the ****** during the zenith? wow, don't you think? because bukowski might call me a star-gazer... well... if you look up and see what i see? you too would be looking up... but just in order for you to get a feel of what i feel? three song summary when i look up at night at the sky:
   penta - come in,
     gloOMy PhAntOM - only the beginning,
Matutero - pure evil...
             hell... a fourth song: matutero - exorcist...
i'm no ******* copernicus...
   or a galileo...
                              still: to keep one's mouth clean
is to not utter god: words during the wedding
of "satan" to his shadow...
                                 to keep one's mouth clean
is to not speak during *******,
     *****-stars know the deal...
   tell me what you want, and i will not give it...
don't tell me what i want: and i will surprise you...
even after the act, she said...
'this has only happened to me once'...
when she was paid,
   and didn't expect to reach ******...
                    2nd man in...
  1st man with a hydra in his mouth for paying
an extra 10 quid to perform oral ***
on a *******...
                      good... evil...
well: good is as good as it gets,
but good can also imply: the purity of evil...
evil of the highest quality is in a position
to move down an incremental path toward
good: as spectator...
       as a tease of what is itching the incremental
path toward evil: the omniscient, omnipotent etc.
god...
      oh sure... night sky *******, romance my this
that and whatever *** looks more like:
pork chop cleopatra meets
   cherry 16 tight trim of milk and quicksilver
reflection teasing...
                      you'd be gagging for the goosebumps
and the prickled tiny hairs... performing...
what plant-speciments do with their...
   phototropism...
                                    against all: stereotypes...
            this, lunar base of imagining, not otherwise.
so this is to be my antithesis Golgotha?
for who stands on Har Megiddo
certainly not the skull-baron of the crucifixion...
   blitzkrieg imagery: and suddenly...
   the words... become...
   s               a
h             r                                       l
                   p                   e
                           n      
simply?
      for the supposed foul language used
as barrier between flow and conjunction
necessity... a rhetorical tool of the modern use
of language: no one is standing in any
oratory pulpit speaking to the "masses"...
      but... if i could invent an inverted niqab
for the tongues of christians during ***?
reduce them to moans, groans,
exfoliations of an onomatopoeia...
               less daddy please, who's the naughty boy
*****-***** *** tantrums of:
having ****** so much, the next ****
acts like an anaesthetic to numb what's already
become a numbed pain / pleasure non-differential...
well!
                like i really might need to venture
into the dark-web...
   i'll just bring myself to the party on the "safe" web...
and some poo'em i wrote once,
which doesn't even compliment what i just,
just now: pulled out from my bowels...
again: there's zero-net-worth of feeling in the heart...
emotions? bowels...
   the heart is too preoccupied with rhythm...
akin to how:
    the brain was a metaphor for the soul,
even though the soul is a sigma,
of all known organs and its preoccupation with them,
or not...
    given the current explanation of the brain?
coordination and what not?
evidently the soul is, equivalent to a metaphysical
and biological definition of an *****,
given: the brain doesn't entertain the existence
of thought...
       so... if the brain is not responsible for
thinking, then nothing else in the body is...
                  so soul, or the sigma "conundrum" /
is a metaphysical *****, or whatever you want it to be...
brain = fatty sponge... that can die...
when attacked by killer proteins in the light
of Alzheimer's... like a sort of inverted anorexia...
weird... starvation? fat goes first,
then the carbohydrates... no, wait...
carbohydrates first, fats second...
and then... proteins cannibalise themselves...
that's starvation... in Alzheimer's?
the proteins attack the brain sponge-fatty-blob...
so the brain is not involved in thinking...
so... well, mein gott: god i guess...
   some external source of "inspiration"...
motivation, will... oddly enough?
that coincides with both the + and the - of
such a source of thinking...
             both sides: theistic and atheistic have it
covered... right now? chosing the middle ground
is the only sensible posit to succumb to
...

what's the difference between
a polyamorous society
and a polygamous society?
  well... there's not much
of a difference...
   i've been a subject to the former,
and the "covert" latter...
suddenly prostitutes are
above priests and psychiatrists...
well...
  either being sold the body,
or being bribed with
prayer or the pharmacological cocktail...
only because:
i was...
         "being uncomfortable"
for the rest of society...
    polyamorous societies
descend into make-shift
polygamous societies...
             the whole incel problem...
that's really representative
of a polygamous society....
  20% of men get 80%...
    sure... lesbian frolicking
in a harem,
    strap-on-******...
     and eunuchs are missing...
but...
akin to a manic street preachers'
song:
   the walking abortions...
   in all honesty...
the top-down influence
of a polygamous society has crept in
and created
the polyamorous society buffer zone,
so shy right up to now,
but:
before the **** hits the fan
   waiting game...
and how much
of the madonna-***** complex
is currently true,
and how much of ******* dysfunction
is due to...
  being pulverißed
by overtly sexualißed material
exposure?
                 hell...
  if i'm always going to be stitched
into a frankenstein hard-on
potential...
when it comes to the actual deed?
why wouldn't the answer suffice
mostly associated with a *******
and not a woman on her third date?
because i'm pretty sure
that erectile dysfunction isn't
a problem with my experience
of prostitutes...
    but it is... with "free" women...
given that i'm no psychopath...
  and when *** is staged,
it follows that there's a case for relationship,
intimacy...
           a ******* hard-on
is an objective fact...
which is why prostitutes rarely
fail to "conjure" it...
         the violence is simmering...
it's... titillating, nibbling at the toes
of Venus like some
sado-******* fetishist...
        **** me...
   the nazis dropped less bombs
on London via the world war I
zeppelin raids than
how many ****** insinuations
leave me quasi-limp-**** / ******...
   well... not so much ******...
***** just keep bulging with
goosebumps,
   i sometimes forget the ******...
which isn't even associated with
the actual *******...
   it's neurologically associated
with tingling sensation
            of the shaft...
    ***** has nothing to do with it...
    should have asked
me when i was 8...
                  "self-harm",
or...
                 what others rarely see...
no wonder i gravitated to
reading marquis de sade in my early teens...
but like chuck rhodes
said in billions...
             truth...
            if it's not comfortable,
and if its not a wager...
a shadow compensation...
  if its not the intellectuals'
demise of truth being treated
  as a fluctuation,
  a perpetual change,
   bias one minute,
        critique another,
                         a noumenon,
                                  then... what is it?

oh i'm pretty sure
that the current society,
the current:
polyamorous society
is a direct consequence
of a polygamous society's influence...

i don't even want to begin thinking
that man,
was the pinnacle of all lifeforms
on earth...
   notably in this region of "debate"...
because there's no "debate"...
is there?
     not with the elevated mating
norms of... say...
swans... how you actually can...
find widows and widowers
in the swan populace...

          with man having evolved
from monkey:
  well no surprises...
swans have devolved from
dinosaurs...
   the feathers are the fake...
but like lizards...
  born from an egg...
no?
                 swans understand
monogamy...
           humans?
    not so much...
         well... if you're lucky...

but i'm pretty sure:
oh i'm pretty sure
that the current society,
the current:
polyamorous society
is a direct consequence
of a polygamous society's influence...

am i, bothered?
clue me in...
    revolting *****' song: *****...
could a **** ****
a ****...
         without a strap-on?
n
Travis Green Aug 2018
I listened to the soft sounding consonants
rise above my foster home, swirling against
exuberant trees and iridescent leaves falling
in twisting rhythms on the scratchy gray pavement,
an indication of distant metaphors flickering with
no sound, a slow spiraling square root evaporating
into thin dust, as I gazed at the overlooking sun, how
its shining depiction cried for validation, scorching
light, harsh vowels twirling around galloping clouds
trying to discover perfection.  There was the crumbling
landscape lost in the background, shifting in smaller
silences and flaming depths, filled with complex thoughts
and stumbling languages.  As I sat on the silent steps
watching the various figures fade into each other, streetlights
and skyscrapers, scurrying pedestrians and corner stores,
my stained blue eyes crammed and slammed, drowned
and pounding, dying every second when I realize the essence
of reality, the way it burns bright throughout the night sunken
its own intensifying flames, endless shapes disguised in anger
and pain, like a raging moon vanishing away never to be seen
again, like a vicious galaxy burning everything in its past to
a satisfying defeat.  My heart is cracking and splitting in
expressionless puzzles, a puddle of solo soapsuds, a scraped
brick building resembling shattered walls, scrawny hands hung
in smeared surfaces, stuck in a blob of yellow paint scrubbing
away its flawless scenery, leaking subjects and predicates scattered
in misaligned pages, wet alleyways branching into quivering caves,
while I reminisce on memories of my mother, the way she used to
hold me in her arms, every touch of her thin fingers pressed
against my waist, its magical rhythm traveling around
my beautiful body, rushing down my angled spine.  I could
feel her smooth skin sinking into my ochre-tanned flesh,
how she embodied every glorious kingdom, a crowned queen
draped in extravagance, how the bright hues in her frame
made me feel all the serenity within the world, so magnificent,
igniting every imagination inside my being.  She was my hero,
a glorious gem that gleamed like an array of galaxies surrounding
earth and Saturn, a melanin masterpiece purifying the atmosphere,
a wheeling instrument strumming its enchanting melody across the horizon.  She worked hard all the time, trying to make my dreams come true.  Most nights she would grab a second job to make sure the bills were paid.  She never complained or grew tired.  She was determined that I would be somebody and make a difference in the world.  She was the inspiring teacher sitting on the floor beside the living room chair, demonstrating how to solve an equation, how to disentangle the numbers and simplify it into its equalizing state., the way she would educate my mind and unwind the questions in my brain, the way she showed me the value of an honest living, letting it seep inside my soul until I could breathe in the definition of a true man.  Now I can see how the warm days drift away into restless nights, how the hummingbirds that soar past my sight remind me that she is never coming back, the way the sinking flowers stand in confusion, crying rosebuds, trembling petals, stripped stems roaming in loneliness.
brandon nagley Aug 2015
(Niamh Price), this is thy own dedication, thy shortened sentences art lovely, they showeth me mine homeland of Ireland, wherein the druids didst roam, wherein tales went back far and old, as niamh thy soul I feeleth its pain, yet soo amazing thou art friend.

(Gary L), this one is thine own writing, sir, thy friendship is inviting, thy lyrical sense is enticing, as thou doth speak truth when thou seeith it, never quit! On thy works and on thineself, thou art who thou art, a beautiful man, with timeless knowledge.

(SPT), this poem is for thou as a treat, I feeleth thine anguish mix in with thy compassion, thou art a hopeful mansion, filled with words of someone who hath lived age's, thy pages art touching, and I thank thee for thy support and guiding me through h.p.

(Ignatius Hosiana), brother thou art a hopeless romantic like me, hoping for his queen, seeing her only in thine dream's, yet as we scream, as brother's we doth unite! In color of skin's, black and white we overcometh the ideology of hatred, loving the hater.

(Dedpoet), mine Mexican friend, how canst I not loveth thee, thy word's dark, ghetto, and deep, as I've been around hood part's to knoweth enough, the most beauty LIES awake in the hood, the places the rich men overlook, is wherein the eyes of God art .

(Wonderman poetry), brother thy words of Christ uplift me, not a perfect being mineself, thyself showeth me the light in the darkness and thus when I'm down, thine godly loving giveth me help, as thou knoweth brother, love and forgives as Christ taught!

(poetessa diabolica), word's that thou uses art so complex, for thee so I respect, for all thy love thou hath given me, the hope that thou planted me, to showeth me, God still lingers in man's soul's, despite the devil trying to rear around, I thankest thou poetess...

(Donna,) thine little haiku's art a piece of the celestial, thy pieces extraterrestrial, and high up the Angels weep to thy words. Like cures and herbs they giveth me a better day to look to, as like glass, beautiful the words thou uses floweth to heavens moon!

(Rosalind Heather Alexander), speechless I am to thy grace, a Scottish lass as me part Scottish blob and mass, lol, just saying , two bloods of the same kind, now thou art writing thy soul out, keepeth it divine, thy soul canst not go rewind, so love on ahead.

(Soul-survivor), old friend, as we both preach the same predictions shalt we worry of ourn end? No, we shalt continue to showeth love, and giveth others hope, than when we die the Graves not it, but that God's love over-rose, so shalt we, auntie as I calleth thee.

(Icysky), young one please do not cry, the boy's canst seeith the fine stitching God made thee as, thou hath a vessel of rubies, and thou art like a wonderful movie, fast tracked to the best part, icy, let noone breaketh thine heart, and let thy lord guideth thee .

(Joe Malgeri), a freak hippy like me, playing music to the sun, giving lectures highly and fun, thou wilt find a queen like me one day, continue to haveth class, play tunes by night, showeth thy genuine ways. As thou doth, wonderful supporter, HP gypsie!!!

(Anthony Mooney,) an Irish hopeless romantic like me, thy soul hath beauty friend, let not hate overtake, bypass the anger and the heartbreak. Let thy pen jot down thy beauty, making the earth quake, unlike others dear mate, thou hath high class.

(Wolf spirit) ( aka quin,)though we don't talk, I loveth thee mine friend, though even thou doth not like me, thou art one of mine biggest inspiration's, thou art a true passionate, amongst the tribal nations, as I am Cherokee part mineself, thou inspireth me.

(Chris green, )affectionate of the the earth, thy woman Is lucky to haveth a poet by birth, for thy words drip like honey on a summer night, Chris friend, wonderful delight, I thank thee for kindness, for thy hope in refinement, and thou art a king of love.

(Pradip Chattopadhyay,) a man who canst writeth in all perspective, thy profile picture maketh me giggle everytime I seeith it, ( in a good way friend) I loveth thy style, and sense of humor, how thou writeth, and doesn't listen to rumors, a poet!!!

(Dark icE,) I just met thee, but thy sensuality is so delighting and like a dream, thy words sucketh me in as I canst ever get out, thy amour in poem's is a cloud, on which I linger for more of its nectar wet taste, immense in this place, unlike the human race.

(Beth StClair), mine best friend if back in the sixties, we wouldst hath layed flower's around ourn necks and head's, we wouldst hath sang the tunes of the Beatles and the dead, as I wouldst hath sung with Lennon, and zeppelin and thou wouldst hath watched.

(Vicki,) I've already wrote for thou and beth, but thou two art the best, Vicki in the crumby state of Ohio like me(lol) though me and thou aren't from here (were Angels of earth's dream's) thou art a poetic of kings and queens, thou art kind, sweet, and a a peace.

(Impeccable Space Poetess,) thy writing is like thunder. Maketh me laugh cry and rolleth over, I read again, like a books beautiful cover, thou art a friend, a poetry lover. Thou hath intelligence of God and heaven, never let man break thee or hurt thee.poetic!!!

(POETIC T,) a spirit light as a feather, free not a slave, not of this world, a man not a boy, thou hath been through strife and abuse, thy hands art not bound, thou hath cut the noose, please don't leaveth us, we all careth for thee. Friend of mine. And HP.
This is for some poets for now. Gonna make another one in little bit for more lol... Took forever for this!!!!!! Part two coming lol.. And BTW for others I love on here don't get upset *** u aren't in poem yet this is part one... More people to come lol and for u who who see I even use people I love in here who don't like me at all but fact is I love them I don't need noones approval can just show love (:::
Stephen Knox Sep 27
The story of Blobert J. Pumpkins, a bully from the time he was small.
Began with his first years of primary school upon noticing he was quite tall.

His classmates would always defer up to him, so he felt like the one that's in charge.
A decade of bullying began way back then and that sad little boy became large.

His mother had married a stupid loud man, young Blob saw him only as mean.
Nevertheless he turned into that guy that had left him when he was a teen.

High school Blob was more of the same, no one dared stand in his way.
If anyone rose with the courage to try, Blobert would then make them pay.

Finished with school and out in the world, our Blob found a great place to work.
But it didn't take coworkers much time to see that this rude selfish oaf was a ****.

Unable to make friends or stay in one place, always looking to upgrade his job.
From years that he drank, unclear memories remain as the only things left inside Blob.

Losing it all, time after time, never once seeing his part.
Picturing himself as the coolest of cats, while being a disgusting old ****.

As all of his classmates began to retire, Blob dropped from houses to cars.
He was trapped by his ego in a fantasy world at the same time he's ******* in jars.

The moral of the story is don't be a Blob, nobody liked him a bit.
No one had taught him the smart thing in life, is never to eat where you ****.

So he stumbles around, all over town, insulting the people he meets.
Clueless the way that he does everything, is the reason for all his defeats.
Hope Aug 2012
Some day, some people you don’t know might get spittin’ mad at each other.
you won’t have a ****** thing to do with it.
But one morning while you discuss equality at a café on Wilshire
you might hear a terrible
BOOM
In the middle of the city
And you could spill your fair-trade iced coffee
All over your Egyptian cotton clothes.
you might be able to make it home to see
If your purebred cats are not dead
But most likely you won’t get so far.
your ice might melt,
Don’t you know?
And your faucet might leak.
your apartment could be an ocean
And nobody would care.
You might try to get away
But everyone else will do the same
And you might puff up like the Chilean Blob,
And maybe your hair will come out in tufts
And you’ll possibly die with your legs stuck out at obscene angles
On a gum-dappled sidewalk,
Ashes and fallout whiffling down around your snow-angel death scene.
Mushroom cloud don’t care how civilized you is.
Ceida Uilyc Dec 2014
When you
Twisted, Roasted and Burnt
the sourness of that  breath of my life,
Did you wonder if my eyes were quoting you
Or the dirge of a distant land,
Did you not pause to breathe that breath,
Lest I might inhale your sweaty stale
Sweet Breath!
Were you wearing the gloves of a shrunken leather,
That you made off my hairy skin
And its sweaty *****.
Did you glare deep into my eyes and toes,
Wondering if I was the untouchable
You had
enslaved for granted for a dozen years,
till my sour soul would breathe the last of your charred breath.
You had hammered me to fit into the holes of your *** with none a friction,
So that you could keep yourself warm, wet and nourished always inside me.
Weren't you glad when you rubbed my back,
When I purged with a distinct death moaning under your nose
Did you slap me because I disturbed your sleep purging endless every other minute?
Or just that I stank the staleness of your *** growing inside me?

I could do nothing my Staleheart Lover
But **** that blob of rotten animal *** of yours,
And die myself after this verse,
Cause
I simply could not love that red big *** that ran my blood and my flesh,
I just couldn't breathe no more, lest it breathed a fragrant life into me
And I forget the hatred I nourished with my soul,
So, I shut me as well as the heavy blob called my child!
So that I just couldn't let anyone conclude the it,
This blob,
The baby,
as one pretty mistake of us.
AJ Robertson Mar 2013
bespeckled, blotched & blokey
feminine in aspects
only little ****** hair patches
two chins,
or rather a sloped one
the front evenly declining to the middle of the throat
a gradual ***** from the tip, for juices to run if his manner and situation allowed him to be as casual and sloppy as his laziness chose,

torso without form, so there was no curvature on the buttocks or the fly region.
a mass
a blob of bulges on spindly legs

he leans on the wall
stubby in hand he balks
(he means jovial but unintentionally he vocalises mockery)
at the suggestion that the Pies will do better
& that Eddie is a clever man due for thanks, who has done his club well (apparently a straight Aussie arrow tried and true!)

the man ***** his head back & cackles
(the trebly popping bubbles of a gala crackle outwards as the man cackles)
& decides his arms need a rest,
(a long day of up and down they have had indeed, they deserve respect, or rest (or a benching))
  so he places his beer down
on a sloped surface,
& therefore it slips down….

he sees it plummeting, he stretches toward it's tragic trajectory,
…..but he is too slow
it smashes
on his foot (the shards) the beer bottle it transfigures,
and the shards they impart their misery on his toes.  
The shards they intrude on his relaxed state of wellbeing, they intrude on the security sanctioned within the casual footwear of a man at a barbecue; taking it easy.
he swears and hops, reaching in indignation for his bleeding toes
he holds the wound cursing; resisting the impulse to begin convulsive throws
(an oscar worthy performance from a usually suburbaly urbane individual)

the moisture feels degrading
(as it would within a man's pants)
the pain from the cuts it is worsened
by the smirking gazes of others about

he hobbles, disregarding his thong in the wreckage of the scene

off to retrieve a band aid
to mend his ego
and his foot
simultaneously
Jordan Fox Nov 2013
If only I was a crayon drawing
Where each smiling face looks the same
Where stick figures and three fingered hands
illicit the smiles of adults and adoration
of how beautiful the picture is
of how artistic the drawer is
Despite the fact that the people are purple
and everyone has a beautiful smile.

If only I was a crayon drawing.
With the sun always shining,
though I hover off of the blob of green grass
Though I am taller than the house beside me
At least I am happy
At least people tell me I look beautiful
though I am a blue colored person
and have no feet or hands.
At least the sun is always shining
at least I am happy.

If only I was a crayon drawing.
With no need to worry about how I look.
With my family in a line beside me,
clumsy names written above us, barely readable.
But then I would be tacked to a bulletin board.
Then i would be fawned over, Oh how sweet.
See, look at the smiles on their faces! Look how
happy they are! How cute, how adorable.
See how artistic, how true to life. See the smiles?

If only I was a crayon drawing,
I could never grow up.
Devon Baker Sep 2011
I despise you cat
fluffed ball of bone and undying hatred
you scratch
you scrawl
you torture me so
cat of fatty bulk and inquisitive uncaring
you will suffocate beneath your girth
please cat roll away
if your lazy hiss choked you
I would be ever happy
you blob upon the floor
you the scourge of all mans happiness
I would slaughter
with that of a hatchet or cumbersome pillow
I would slaughter
you the scourge of all mans happiness
you blob upon the floor
I would be ever happy
if your lazy hiss choked you
please cat roll away
you will suffocate beneath your girth
cat of fatty bulk and inquisitive uncaring
you torture me so
you scrawl
you scratch
fluffed ball of bone and undying hatred
I despise you cat
Brandon Campney Jan 2012
The sun that lights my moon
But never one dark night
Because I glow when she’s around
And she glows to my delight

The cookies to my milk
She makes me much less bland
And I soften up her crunch
As if it was something that we planned

The wave running through my ocean
The one that will never crash
Nothing scary nothing big
Just enough to make a splash

I’m a cloud floating in an empty sky
She is my silver line
We’re not here to rain on any parade
Just float till the end of time

I’m the blob of purple goo
And she’s my nutty pal
Throw us on a piece of bread
Do with us what you shall

I’m locked up she’s my key
She opens me like a door
I can tell her all she needs to know
And she can tell me more

Where ever you find pavement
There’s grass that’s peeking through
And when I laid my eyes on her
The only flower grew

It will never change
There was never a doubt in my mind
On day she will be my wife
There is no one left to find

My sun, my cookie, my wave,
My glowing silver line,
My key, my flower, or my wife
What ever she is she’s mine

As long as she is in my life
And forever there she’ll stay
There’s one thing I can tell you
She’s why I wake up everyday
Corny, mushy love poem.
Ben Jones Jan 2014
Moo-Cow-Butterfly
Not a happy lass
Stubby little wings
Superfluous mass
Four long stringy legs
Twirly-whirly tongue
Moo-Cow-Butterfly
Highly strung

Weasel-Emu-Rangutan
Fifty shades of fur
Quite the oddest vertebrate
To naturally occur
Burrows in the jungle
Terrified of heights
Weasel-Emu-Rangutan
Restless nights

Labra-Hippo-Jellyfish
Slimy furry blob
Genetic Engineering
**** poor job
Moping on the seabed
Can’t fetch sticks
Labra-Hippo-Jellyfish
Sink like bricks

Chameleon-Begonias
Origin unknown
Disappear rapidly
As soon as they are sown
Neither here or thereabouts
But somewhere in between
Chameleon-Begonias
Seldom Seen
Michael W Noland May 2013
The dread set in upon opening my eyes, as i swing my legs to the right side of the bed and stand. Slightly stumbling i make my way to the bathroom while adjusting to a waking state. I flip on the light, wincing my eyes in a sharp electric freeze from the back of my head, and while recovering, i pull the shower curtain away from the showers pull ***. Pulling the *** out slowly twisting it to ninety degrees as the water turns on, i am reminded to feed my plants before leaving the condo for the day. I step into the shower dipping my head under the warm stream of steaming water while resting my hands against the wall, as images of all the women i had saw the night prior begin shuffling through my head and a partial ******* forms. I imagine their eyes filled with tears, as i shove them down to my ****, and finally the Rolodex of faces stops on a Starbucks girl with piercings all over her pouty face that i had encountered on a lunch break a few days ago, and i begin stroking my **** with my right hand whispering "you ***** ****" over and over, as her eyes look up at me innocently, Mascara running down her face, until suddenly i hear my phone vibrate atop a pile of pocket change in the bedroom which promptly kills the moment in my wonder of the importance of a 5:00 AM jingle, which slowly fades, while i proceed to apply Ax shower gel to my Ax body scrubber that i had received as a gift in a Holiday work raffle three months prior.  Vidal Sassoon extra volume shampoo plus conditioner, "All in one," proudly printed on the label, as i apply a handful to my shaved head in a smooth dripping lather, that i do not rinse until after applying a pink ****** scrub that's label has worn off, and i am unsure, and not concerned with its origin, as I squeeze a blob of Colgate paste onto my toothbrush from the rack overhead, and scrub in a slow circular motion, while i rinse off the shampoo, shower gel, and ****** scrub, and then reach for my Listerine mouth wash, and swish for 30 seconds before spitting the burning mixture into the drain, while putting the brush away. I tilt my head up, and open my mouth wide under the water, taking in a mouth full, which i gargle for 10 seconds then spit, and turn off the shower reaching for a tattered towel left over from a breakup four years prior.  I dry off while still standing in the shower, and gently lay the towel on the floor before stepping out onto it, and grabbing a stick of Degree antiperspirant from the counter.  I apply 3 long strokes to each armpit before capping it, and putting it down. Two sprays of coolwater cologne i apply from a 1 foot distance, misting my chest and lower neck, before i put it down beside the deodorant, and walk back into the bedroom, grabbing a pair of boxer shorts from a drawer not caring which pair i grab. I slip them on, and walk over to the mirrored closet where i flex a few times, point aggressively, and in an authoritative tone repeat "I don't give a ****.", three times before sliding the closet door open and grabbing a pair of Marc Echo blue jeans that i had purchased online two years prior with a gift card from a local pub that i may have frequented too much to have received.  Reaching for an Infliction black tee shirt with ghostly gray swirls cascading to its base, i become completely still, left arm clutching the shirt still on its hanger, i am paralyzed for two seconds before looking away, and saying  "I don't have any plants" inquisitively to myself, yanking the shirt from the closet, and walking over to my phone atop the dresser.

Picking up the phone almost eagerly, i click the screen on in a light squeeze, and swipe my finger from left to right across the display to unlock the device, to a missed call from an unknown number, a voicemail, and 3 missed text messages. I tap the voice mail icon, and enter my pass code upon the automated prompt, "1234." The voice mail immediately clicks a few times before hanging up which assures me of its automation, and i assume its the power companies robots attempting to collect the monthly charge again. I tap on the missed text message icon, disconnecting from voice mail, and see that all three are from a girl named Haedies i met through a roommate long ago that i have recently found over facebook. A "How are you!", "I MISS YOU!!!", and a picture message of her with a wax figure of a trollish cartoon character i cannot quite place, both looking very serious, and i look at her **** pressing out from her white tanktop, ******* clearly hard, and her neck, long and attractive, its definition, thins my blood, and her dark black medium length hair loosely dangles just above her shoulder, causing me to partially smile, as i close the message paying it no further thoughts, and slip on my tee shirt, as i head for the kitchen. I open the refrigerator and grab a plastic bottle of 5 Hour Energy, and twist it open, tip my head back, and take the whole drink down in one swallow, throwing the empty plastic shell back into the fridge, and swing the door shut with my bare left foot, before i head back to the room to put my socks and boots on. Once my black combat boots are fully laced up, i put my wallet, change, and keys into the appropriate jean pockets, and head for my jacket hung on a hook beside the door. A black leather windbreaker. My mini trench that allows for a high level of concealment, and pocket space made possible by Wilson Leather. I run my hand over my face satisfied with my slight stubble from not shaving today, and reach into my left inner pocket of my jacket and pull out Sony earbuds, and plug them into my phone. I select a Pandora station based on the black metal band "Burzum", and walk out the door, locking only the dead bolt behind me.  5:25AM
Nicole Dawn Jun 2015
You say that I
Am a work of art

And I'll believe you
Because you know what?

That picture you drew
At three,
Where you can't tell if that blue blob
Is an elephant,
Your grandma,
Or just a blue blob

*That's art too
cheryl love Aug 2013
It was a very strange day
A day, you could say of unrest.
The day Mr Pig was wed
And wore his Sunday best.

Underneath the Duck’s frustrated wings
He had hidden a gun.
He was planning to use this weapon
Once the ceremony had begun.

The Organist commenced and
The door flung open and in she marched.
In what could only be described as a mess
That had been heavily starched.

Mr Duck felt repulsed
Somebody had failed to do their job
Mr Pig had tears in his eyes as he stared
At his white overweight blob.

Mr Pig’s pride and joy called the shots
But not the one fired from the gun
The wing took aim, the trigger released
The blob fell like the setting of the sun.

She hit the deck with an almighty thud
Mr Duck pelted into his hiding place
Where he had planned to stay the rest of the week
And the guilt wiped from his troubled little face. - to be continued ...
athena Nov 2016
the most crucial thing
in every existing connection
in the boundless hoop
would be time

it could start and end
if it wants to  
it wouldn't care and pause
for your overflowing
blob of emotions
drowning your lungs
along with your organs

let me tell you,
i was a victim of time too
but oh, there are things
you don't deserve to know
anymore
st64 Nov 2013
let's all hold hands, dearly loved ones
and express gratitude for those living..
        as if..
the table high-decked with every sweet-meat
        fennel-sprigs clipped and hazelnut-oil on roast
        a mixed-salad of vivacity and touch of chili in sauce
        a dose of pesto and a dash of chopped-chive
        a pinch of salt on cut sweet-pepper
and so much more....
        means that much

but do they remember..?
surely they do



1.
there was a time when she needed you
but your harsh-judgment turned its back in stiff-penalty
which later led the flow of her life in slow-drip out
on the filthy-floor of a public restroom
as she pushed out her legacy
alone and no friend
                 to grip her departing-hands
                 to clean up the red-mess
                 to wipe down the bawling new-
blob
surviving its necessary-squirm on the cracked-tiles

you heard the knock-of-need at your Hellenic-door
and the pillow you flattened and stuffed further in
    you couldn't offer a slit of time
    you wouldn't open that wretched-door
    you could not stop choking back old-tears
and when you checked your porch in the evening
your recently-scraped leukocytes blew a green-fuse
a small white-cat in a corner sat pondering your move
as a pile of singed-feathers lay in neat-disorder

now, here you are, grimacing with her crying-babe in arms
this poor orphan will be at bitter-play with some coarse-baubles
just like her scraggly mother, but she'll outlive that false *stain



2.
you swallow two blue-ones
        lose track of yourself
you never remember what you forgot
while you glibly insult those who pass by
belittling their big-arses and blue mini-purses
until the cycle goes round that beguiling-circuit once more
and you can't open a paxity-envelope with arthritic-heart
'cause you'd endure anything not to relive..
until tinkling-coins are all you hear falling
from your grandfather's endless-pocket


3.
appearing at the side of the latest arrival
we all welcome the burly-figure yet with tapered-fingers
who sits next to me and we try a smile, comes out dry
    I lost my grandchild to an accident last spring
    and he lost his daughter (we learn)
hello, Ixion.. yes, so sorry to hear..

he recounts his open-horror and mouth-dropping hell-tale
of his sweet-kin's blind-search for escape
he acknowledges what he never could.. at home
his final gin-soaked treachery against humanity

I am silent in here
I am at odds with this circle of strangers
          who pour out laden-things, some getting their catharsis
          everyone talks of how they loved and who was lost
but who remembers the broken-lives left behind
on the rickety and twisted conveyor-belt of life?

     my daughter now believes she sees her child's face in trees
     and has taken to counting each and every new-leaf she sees
                                                            ­                              fall
                              ­                                                            fall
­     when she remembers to open her eyes (in her morning)
                                         to step off her bed
                                         to go to the toilet
                                         to blot out the sun
                      to count the leaves on windy-days
she ends up re-counting and I have no heart
                      to correct her
                      to fix the frustrations that fate fuel-flung her way

I wonder.. where she learnt this habit?
they do say all behaviour is
learned..

daylight beckons again in gentle, yellow slants
and I recall the two silver-marbles in my pocket
       on its secret-bed of old-leaves, some soft and some crunchy
       thirsty for the soothing-touch of my fidgety-fingers
count.. one, two..
                      one, two..
                               one, two..
yes, one for her.. and  w-w-w-w.. one
for me

one two.......

(oh, one too many a disaster - perhaps perdition has a friendly-face
and I sit with her 'neath
the three trees in the alcove-garden)





some things don't escape the sheer drop
of.. resultant excess-distress
in dark-parched mind-tunnels
untrod for fear of slipping..
in the mess




(now, everyone.. it grows cold
let's eat)






S T - 22 nov 2013
fancy a deck?
hm... thought not!

anyhow.. when I took off my hat today
I found this poem stuck inside
ha.. it musta fallen out me head.. lol





sub-entry: brink

on last hard-brink
unexpected fine-link

wondrous-pearls
on the deep sea-bed

blink once.. and then
dive...
Jabber Alexander Oct 2015
He invades the bureau,
census is terminal
they say everyone died just like we wanted,
mission success!
like when Ali beat spinx
cordial still morbid
like quartered limbs delivered by horses
still door nail coffins shut, dark as oil spills
the grim reap creeps up
to put hex on exxon,
he sneezes blood
then eats some sludge,
freezes time, then moves on.
Can you imagine?
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018
WHAT A WONDERFUL LITTLE BOY

The view
gazes at him.

The landscape gathers
itself about him

as if he were a piece of pigment
in a painting a blob or blurr

of blue or green or
something in between.

"What a wonderful little boy!"
a passing cloud, pauses...muses

and says once more in case the hill
hadn't heard.

"What a wonderful little boy indeed!"
a tree agrees...winking...its leaves.

A river runs through him
alive in his senses.

The grass runs all over
the field tickling his naked toes.

Sunlight throws
itself at his feet

bows before him in all
its glory.

A breeze throws his hat high
up in the sky and

returns it to his hand
as if by command.

The clouds grazing now
upon a hill top

fascinated by his presence
how he has come to be.

"He makes us feel
so very much alive!"

One cloud nods
to another.

"Oh, there's a poet in him
to be sure to be sure!"

the river remarks
its voice clamouring over stones.

Time that sheep dog barks
but the clouds only luahg

"See how he lends us
his voice

in order that we may think
and speak.

Look I'm talking
in human words."

"Ballea...Ballea...Ballea!"
the farm shouts its name.

Again and again and again
the river exclaims

"Owenabui...Owenabui...Owenabui!"
sunlight dancing in its voice.

A bird stands stock still
upon the air

neither coming or going
just standing on nothing

as if it were a punctuation mark
typed upon the sky.

Time returns now
in policeman mood.

"Move along now...nothing to see here
move along now!"

And the landscape loses a voice
the sky its ability to see
the cloud has no words
the bird become a dot

only the sunset
whispers to an horizon

"What a wonderful
wonderful little boy!"
Rushali Shome Mar 2016
My city spews poetry like smoke,
In vicious columns of abstracts,
Of unspilled blood, untold hurts,
Unsung love and unrestrained joy.
Neck of an old refill snapped
absent-mindedly,
Sploshes a tiny blob of red ink,
On the table cloth,
And so flows musings and rants.
Smell of twilight rain mingles with
Incense fragrance of evening prayers
Triggering a burst of longing and love.
Electric bulbs and rainbows coexist
And emit more than just light.
My city breeds more poets than
The Lakes ever did.
Anastasia Webb Apr 2014
1.
Your specimen:
the cat.
He lies, a stretched out
blob of
whirring, whizzing particles:
You can’t see them –
he can.

2.
His fur is
dried old carpet
left out on a front lawn:
homeless,
floorless;
waiting to be claimed.

3.
His eyes are
blank marbles
flicked by sticky fingers
in a game.
You won them
by cheating,
and stole them but they
turned to mush
in your hands, they
fell through your fingers, and
stained them with purple:
it would not wash off.
It grew:
an omnipresent reminder
trickling down your arms,
pooling at your elbows.

4.
You raise the scalpel:
it is a crescent moon
speckling down to
illicit behaviour
below.

5.
The portraits on the walls
applaud
when you make the first
CUT.
and reveal the
gooey caramel
dripping, circulating, inside.
It sticks to
the blade, forming
clumps of purple
that harden to a
crystallised-honey form.

6.
Later you sleep
with the cat;
he lies on your bed
and purrs
(does he purr?)
and you label the jars:
“Dissection 15”.
Bardo Jun 2020
She was a wonder of Nature, a special
    thing,
Had this lovely aura about her
The way she held herself, the way she
   moved.... way she spoke her words
A real classy Lady that's for sure... a proper woman
What the hell she was doing with me I don't know.

Anyway I invited her to my house one day for tea
She so wanted to see where I lived
She was only in the door when she playfully ran her little
   index finger
Along the surface of my little black table in the hall
And then holding it up for me to see, for my inspection
Revealed a big unsightly blob of dust, a most incriminating
   smudge
She smiled a cute little reproachful smile
"It's true Baby", I said," I've been neglecting things of late, been
   letting things slip
Ever since I met you, I've been so preoccupied
Been so preoccupied with thoughts of you
You're always in my head Girl, your... your great beauty, your...your
   incredible loveliness
You've been driving me to Distraction Baby
And Hey! I like the view from down there, it's great! "

I had her sit down in my front room, she hadn't been sitting
   long
When she pointed at the floor, at my carpet
"You know you've got a hole there in your carpet, a big hole"
And "Look!" she said pointing further down the room
"There's another one over there... and another!"
"What can I say Babe", I said, "you know you have me half
     demented
Every night you got me pacing up and down, back and forth
You're this beautiful obsession to me Darling
You got me walking the floor over you Baby
Been thinking about you so hard, and so often
Now I plum gone and worn out my bleedin' carpet
Worn it out with all my walking".
At this she smiled a lovely kind sympathetic smile.

When I came back in the room with the tea
She said to me, she said "You know over in your corner there
Did you know you got a big cobweb and a spider ?"
"Oh! I said.....Oh Her! So you met my Spider
She's not just any old Spider you know
She... she's my... my Love Spider" I said proudly.
"Your Love Spider", she said a bit skeptically,
"Yea! I never had the heart to take her down
Why! She reminds me so much of you Darling
Reminds me of how awesome your powers are
And how futile it is to resist,
Reminds me of how wonderfully caught up I am
In your lovely sweet sticky web
Of gooey gorgeousness and outrageous delights.
With this she looked at me long and hard
Until suddenly there broke upon her lips this lovely enchanting smile,
"You know", she said,"you're so adorable you are, how I love you so".

P.S. "Phew!" I thought to myself,"that was a close one".
Poem inspired by a lady friend of mine, she is very house proud, loves her house while mine is a bit run down. I wondered what'd happen if I ever invited her around LOL.
kirk Mar 2016
Being called a ****** is something I don’t mind
In fact it's really okay and it's rather kind
I don't think it is offensive or even a sick joke
What’s a man supposed to do without a **** to poke
Okay he could stick his **** between two bits of Spam
But he really needs a hot moist **** to be a real man
If her *****'s on the blob he could settle for an ****
The ******* of both these holes simply is pure class

There are guys who prefer a **** and like a manly ***
A tighter hole maybe prefered to make those fellows ***
To **** a bloke if you're straight is an equivalent to a slum
Or even a taboo ****** act like ******* your own mum.

Manly ***** and dangly parts are really not for me
I don't bend to hairy **** it's not where I would be
Girly ***** and smoother bums is what I want to see
I'd rather **** my own **** than **** a guys jacksy

Pulling a huge Horses Plonker only fools like Rodney Trotter
Or Blind Wizards with broken glasses like Harry ******* Potter
Don't **** on your **** to hard you may just *** a cropper
Especially if you ***** up in a helmet belonging to a copper.

I would never bash the bishop what would the churches say
To find me with a spunky hat and that their faiths turned gay
We don't want ***** clergymen who **** on the silver tray
Vicars ******* choir boys keep those cassock fanciers at bay

I would'nt choke the chicken because I don't think I could
But the staff at Kentucky Fried Chicken they probably would.
They would lick your ***** up because its finger licking good.
And use their special wipe up towel to clean up your manhood.
With its lemon fragrance you will have good smelling wood.
Around your shaft and helmet and beneath your ******* hood.

Would I ever yank my plank like the pirates of the seas
The extention of my log when I'm on my ******* knees
My hand around my fishing rod and giving it a squeeze
Using a hand action to squeeze out my cream cheese
*** is flowing down my shaft like honey from the bees
I'll keep pumping on my rod and creaming in the breeze

Have you ever seen those fellows praying down at the synagogue ?
From their own expressions they've been flogging their own log
Take a look at their robes the bottom stained with their eggnog
Either that or they have been ******* some old scruffy dog
I don't think that they bothered their heads are in a fog
With all that ******* worship they would **** a big fat hog

So I'm slowly warming to it but maybe when I'm ******
And I can't get no ***** and its the last thing on my list
I may take myself in hand my **** clutched in my fist
Then I may consider having a swift one of the wrist
If you end up watching then please excuse the mist
I'll carry on with the hope that my **** gets kissed

Because Wanking is an activity that in all honesty all men do
Something that comes to hand when you can't get a good *****
When your **** gets harder and we think of god knows who
We grab our piece of man meat and imagine that *** stew

I'll  have to keep on wanking I can never get enough
Off all that lovely ***** because finding it is tough
Nothing is more satisfying than diving in the ****
Legs open wide will always be something I will stuff
Instead of wanking I would rather stick it up your chuff
But I'll probably end up looking  a bit scraggy and ruff

So I will keep on going until my **** is old and worn
With all that ******* wanking whenever I get the horn
Popping my sweet cornels just like children of the corn
Watching ****'s and ******* or granny ******* ****
I may behave like one at times,
But I don't want to look like a giant baby.
This hideous thing
Has been made for a giraffe-legged, short-bodied blob with no *****,
And it takes up a single wash in my machine.
It's only redeeming feature
Is that it made my daughters laugh until they needed to ***,
So it's a good job I didn't find it funny,
As I'd have to take the whole thing off for such an act.
Off to Oxfam with it.
I hope it finds a loving home.
I've made my mind up; not a onesie fan
And besides, I sleep naked
And have no need for a giant fleecy sack.
Cry Sebastian Dec 2010
There was a snail (named Dale)
with a very long tail
who ventured off into the world.
He said to himself
(Dale the snail)
I'd love to meet a bootiful goil.

So in a flash from space,
with mucus running down her face,
came an alien creature called Joan,
She saw a silver line
(it was a snail trail)
and followed it to see where it goes.

And far in ...the distance
she saw in an instance
at the end of the snail trail sparkling in the sun-
A slimy and sweet
creature she'd love to meet
with a shell on his back for a home.

She said:"I do declare,
you look dashing and fair"
as bubbles oozed from her eyes.
Dale just blushed,
as his face lit up,
and said: "aw you're just saying that you sassy young blob of an alien gawjus sweet thing with no hair :)"

She looked at this tiny dream of a slobber,
he was in awe at her globber.
But their hearts sank at their difference in size.
She was glandular large
like a bright yellow barge
and he was as small as a splarge.

A stick insect saw -
the tragedy of it all
and came up with a very cunning plan.
He knew a wizard once
who ate snails for lunch,
they could trick him to changing her small...

As he told them the tale,
their faces went pale
but their love was too strong for the fear.
So they  slithered and shlozzered
to Joan's flying saucer
to find the castle of Wizzy the ****.

The wizard was waiting
with his eyes full of hating
and a knife and a fork in each hand.
There was garlic and salt
that he took from his vault
and he drooled on his beard as he sang:

"Alien Shpeegle
with shnails in shmeegle,
a delightful shurprishe for a man!
Groggy my groach
with shome shlime on my toasht"
and he pranced and danced with his band.

The spacecraft landed,
unexpectant of ambush,
the couple wanderd on in.
Wizzy swung from a rafter
and trapped Dale in a corner,
and said: "My you'll go well with my Shtew!"

Joan got mad
and rolled on to her lad
and ****** the wizard into her goo.
She suddenly felt all tingly
as she turned into a twinky,
there was nothing more she could do.

The Wizard escaped
and poor Dale met his fate,
and was smeared on the twinky sliced in two.
Wizzy gobbled them up
with some glee in his cup,
and then succumbed to food poisoning goo.

So it seemed that it ended
on that dark cold September,
for the lovers who's loving was doomed...
But on a planet far away
at the early break of day
two souls bubbled in primordial stew.

An amoeba named Dale
and an amoeba named Joan
were floating in bubbles of gas,
So deep the attraction
-the magnetized action,
they could now be together at last. 
Donall Dempsey Aug 2017
SHAKESPEARE – SAVIOUR OF THE WORLD

Nothing but
a bauble

in the firmament
a nebula

far beyond Orion

light years
from here

from this
blob of blue.

The alien's elation
at our perfect planet

perfect for
plucking

like a blueberry
picked from the stem

held
in the palm

savoured.

The rest
gone to making

Auntie's jam.

Auntie Blob
as we called her

( never to her
face of course )

nibbling at her Bible
searching for the perfect quote

clipping her toenails
on yesterday's front page

kicking Shakespeare
"Outta de way!"

That hound
nothing but bones

reminds her of her
second husband

that's why she's so
mean to him.

Shakespeare decides to
"Beat it!"

knows her quickness
to anger

hunts along the lake
shore shingle

whereupon he's beamed up
for alien analysis.

"Strange being!"
they intone

mystified
at his four legs

they only
having one.

Alien language
unknown to us

nothing but
tones and bleeps and high pitched notes

piped
with great elan

but Shakespeare gets the jist
of everything they're saying.
Shakes ***** a leg
****** on

their controls

the master board
nothing but smoke...flames!

Old Shakes
decides to hunt out that flea

in his left
rear.

Aliens don't take so well
to fleas

tear themselves
apart

flee to the far side
lock themselves into pressurised suits.

Shakes howls
homesick

even for Auntie Blob's
bad hearted kicks.

Alien ears explode.

Survivors beam down
Shakes as fast as they can.

"Earth creatures
can not be overcome!"

runs the report
in capital bleeps and tones.

"Shakespeare...Shakespeare
you come here!"

"Now!"

"Bad dog...bad dog!"

He crawls on his belly
dodges an ill-timed blow.

"Where in the world
you been?"

A kick gets him
in the privates.

He cowers
underneath his chair.

"Lord...Lord
what a night!"

"That blue!
it's outta this world!"

She catches a falling star
out of the corner of her eye.

She isn't superstitious.
She makes no wishes.

"Lord God...where's that
**** dog!"

Shakespeare whines
softly to him self

the Dog star
reflected in his right eye.

Shakespeare the saviour
of the world.

obnubilate
''PRONUNCIATION:(ob-NOO-buh-layt, -NYOO-)
MEANING:verb tr.: To cloud over, obscure, or darken.
ETYMOLOGY:
From Latin obnubilare (to darken or obscure), from ob- (in the way) + nubilare (to be cloudy), from nubes (cloud). The word nuance is also a derivative of nubes.

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