"bogey" poems
"Farty Face"
"Burpy ***
Will never waste
an ounce of love.
Hot snot
and bogey pie
his children are
the apple of his eye.
There's a hole in my bucket
Dear Liza
All that have met
come off much the wiser
Chicken Curry
****** Up
Minced Meat and mash
Come on better hurry
gotta speed up
We don't need lots of cash
to enjoy this michelin starred grub.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 1:24 PM UTC
Rich shat
in chair
and spat
the mail
with a
bogey and
they wept
over my
gracious note
they even
returned my
stamp yesterday
noon unread
not denied
appeal from
sunshine in
my heart.
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 7:56 AM UTC
I see the sky and think "I'm free!"
I see my feet, "I'll never be."
I look back up, what do I see?
I see a plane, so itty bitty!
I see to fly, so gaily
I fetch my wallet... double bogey
I see "help wanted" within my city
I see my chance, so happy!
I work all day, live humbly
I see my pay, just barely
I see my goal, I cannot flee
tick-tock tick-tock
I count the years, more than sixty
I see the metal bird, ready for me
I see it fly, I see it's free
I buy my plane, I'm in the air
Wings on my back, no story to share
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC
I hastily stepped out from bed to ponder over
It was bad dream and I started to find cover
It made me restless and compelled to wonder
I rubbed the eyes and regained composure however
It happens many times when you are seized with work
So many times you may trying to avoid or shirt
It does not relieve you from burden and chain of thoughts invade
The memory is fast recycling and not easily fades
It is human mind that works as super computer
It adjusts very fast and compels the situation to alter
It argues in favor and against in protective manner
It keeps hope alive and does not make chance thinner
Dreams are in fact a safe refuge or heaven
We are the king and also beautiful queen
The whole set up revolves around and make us proud
Your voice is heard clear and loud
It is replica of sound and healthy mind
We have enough space to find
We can have level field to play
It keeps you linked and do not push away
It is said that when person is gripped by fear
He may not be in position to think or shed tears
He will have no place to put his views
The dreams may provide him enough time to review
It is by product of active human psychology
Mind does not rest even if raised in bogey
It strikes back to find the reasonable solution
It will not rest until finds out with strong resolution
I think over endlessly over the state of mind
It some times cry and try to act very kind
If something wrong is done unintentionally
It will try to satisfy logic by reasons finally
It is right application at right moment
It does not disturb the normal movement
The ups and down may force to think
But the stable mind may not allow to sink
The unstable mind sometimes pushed person to brink
He may loose the power to balance and properly to think
It is progressive thoughts that come to the rescue
This is considered as positive step and may be had by only few
So the dreams are healthy sign of mental order
It takes active part and always ready at border
The slight palpitation may push it to strong action
It will be sound and positive reaction
It is always good to sleep without any tension
The mind may be occupied with lots of questions
Still it is wroth try to be worry free
It is nice idea for all of us to agree
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 8:42 PM UTC
Take off down the drunken streets
with dim streetlights holding onto the last breaths
of winter itself.
Your feet are light, as the night is
young,
it seems like you're slicing through thin mists at half past five on a Saturday morning,
or barefoot with the grass beneath right after a midnight drizzle.
You're running towards dawn, you think,
but it's just as though it is a bright light at the end of a tunnel,
and after all this time-
does the dark feel
more like home?
Or have you simply been in the dark for so long that the light seems like an abandoned, cold house
brought to the present(though it certainly isn't the best gift you've recieved) from your childhood?
Force yourself to stumble on your hesitation,
blame it on the stones scattered on the road.
Look up, everything's
fading,
just
like
you.
You pick yourself up,
but now it seems like you're in a nightmare(are you not?) with the Bogey Man right behind,
your feet chained to rocks twice the size
of your own two feet.
And you're sinking, ever so slowly.
But how can you not be aware of it? There is nothing else to notice at all.
You know you will never escape,
you're one of them now.
Keep running, keep running,
do not die in vain.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
It was a yellow Corvair convertible
Ralph Nader's bogey
our pot-fueled chariot
our escape into the night sky.
We were strewn across a grassy slope as if fallen from above
stars thick in the sky
still visible in those days
Page Mill Road
south of the City.
And all of the vanities
and honesties of brilliant youth
slouched about our shoulders
lit our speech
moved our *****
in the direction our fates intended.
It was freedom. It was
escape. It was a foreshadowing
of much trouble
pre-dawn knocks on the door
handcuffs and the tearful call
home.
And a life leavened by sadness,
a constant sense of doom,
but a foreshadowing as well
of miracles dressed in second-hand
clothes,
but miracles just the same.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 6:43 PM UTC
Aint goin’ anymore
would like to claim the same
but rely upon you and others
to do same
heavy boots
sturdy *****
choosing the ground
was minded to travel
unorthodox / paradox
did sneak to the place -
entering by the flaky monolithic gate
Tool in hand, above dark, calm at Southern Cemetery, the outskirts of town
though a bunch of vociferous crows
buzz amongst the stones.
II
Stabbing the bearer repeatedly turning over
the green
After lengthy work in the moments foray it was then I left and
floated away
from the scene
III
Time sensed = Time up
I place my part quietly in
Obscure
Time Future
is this absent body sure?
Though I hope you will come
return the soil and sing
songs for me…. ***** eat dance and parteeeee
Some of you will have *** at the end of the fête -
this TOIL, SWEAT, RELEASE, CelEbraTe
Going to a few as well,
we know how it
drops
in
the
pit and maybe ***
(ill or well smelling with the other congregates)
will drift through the pub or communal hall
and who will dare to say: “Put out the roll of Bogey -
don’t you have any respect for the dead right now?”
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 7:36 AM UTC
Late last night,
A spectral fog
Billowed off the lake,
Clouded down my street.
I thought to grab
My feathered fedora,
Stand, leaning
Under the yellow street light,
Hat pulled down to my brows.
I'd light a plain Phillip Morris,
And with the first pull,
Blow smoke through my nose,
Punctuating each syllable
With blue:
"A cliche is worth a thousand words."
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 8:00 AM UTC
i had a great big bogey stuck inside my nose
i tried to get it out used my hand and toes
but it didnt move it didnt want to know
my nose it was his home and didnt want to go
i got myself a tissue and gave a great big sneeze
then got my hand and give a great big squeeze
nothing seem to work im stuck with it i guess
the only way to do it is get the sas
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
I watched the morning newscast
and found my mind straining to
get out.
Out into a widening desert,
sky open and black above save for
the piercing light of billions of stars
like holes in a living room curtain.
You can call me crazy for it,
but I thought I saw Ginsberg
looking at me through the window
with a sunflower behind his ear.
In fact, I'm almost certain this was anything but an hallucination as my cat pounced at the window
(she never liked my poems either, Allen)
and startled me back into reality.
The television, right, the newscast.
Nuclear bombs and
tariffs on Mexican goods and
oh look, the president is playing golf with the Queen.
I turned it off when I saw he hit a bogey,
parted the curtains, and thought, "That's it, I'm pleading insanity. See you in Bellevue, Allen."
Jun 5, 2019
Jun 5, 2019 at 6:46 AM UTC
One two three four
Give us the blood we're lusting for.
five six seven eight
watch our fear turn into hate.
You tricked us!
You tricked us!
An injustice here,
a bogey man there,
smoke and mirrors are everywhere!
One two three four
the only answer now is war.
five six seven eight
we'll all be lost if we hesitate!
You tricked us. One two!
You tricked us. Three four!
should have known all along
that this was all wrong,
the weak and the strong
should all belong
To what?
To what?
Lean on back and strut!
nine to the front
and six to the rear
Lean on back and strut.
One two three four
resources resources we want more!
five six seven eight
There's never too much on our plate!
Your left
Your right
Polarize em and watch em fight!
sound off! One two!
Sound off! Three four!
You'll never guess what we have in store!
Lean on back and strut.
Ain't no sense in looking down,
globalization's coming round,
If we stay 8 billion strong
Resources won't last that long.
So there's enough to go around
let's bring this population down!
We'll make that riff raff disappear
all we need is hate and fear!
Sound off- One two
Sound off- Three four
One two three four......
Lean on back and strut!
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 6:21 PM UTC
I move the pen
let it bleed
pinch out more life
yes - this is hemo-
camouflaged in black
camouflaged in black
falls on the page,
tumbles, rolls across
the eyeballs
and the gray matter is eased
of unwanted and unknown images
emptying
created out of black and
my ready hand
still steady
still steady
Cramming the words and letters
across this barren wasted papyrus
ancient scroll
for pharaohs and scholars
3 ringed and blue lined
receiving the unwanted, unwarranted
the wood block of
uncontrolled mind
Insistent
the blood
that rushes from heart to
feet and up again to brain
out my restless hand
camouflaged in black
camouflaged in black
Onto the desert
onto the Waste Land of Elliot
briny tavern of James Joyce
and black coffee pots of Thomas Wolf
Bleeding, in need of a tourniquet
medical attention
or at best psychosomatic drugs
control this outflow
stop the nonsense
it serves no purpose
bleeding out your sanity
proving you have lost it.
uncontrolled and deranged
wandering running from
the bogey man
the bogey man
Who comes out of the dark cellar
quite near your little bed
with its pink flowered coverlet.
and the blood leaks out the
end of this instrument of
Terror
In the shadow of Stephen King
I make my stand
only poets get to say
things people can't grasp
The rest do graphic violence
camouflaged in black
camouflaged in black
their blood too
camouflaged in black.
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 12:24 AM UTC
months are getting shorter than
prescription bottle dates
say they would
the holes on the strap of his belt
are putting for triple bogey
shedding the wrong weight and
feeling kinda nervous to say so
shine a light on anything(-)
and watch it misbehave
it always will.
where we are going
is never the way
we used to be
Is That Exciting
Frightening
Relieving
or D.
All of the above
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 9:57 PM UTC
She sits next to him
on a side seat
on the bus;
they're going to
Waterloo Rail Station
to watch the steam trains.
She holds in the palm
of her small hand
the 3d piece
her mother
had given her;
it's sweaty;
the 12 sides make
a slight impression
on her skin.
She moves
side to side
as the bus
turns corners;
Benny's arm
touches hers
as they move.
Why you have to go
with him
to see the trains,
God only knows,
her mother had said,
but at least
he's a decent sort,
going by his mother.
She likes Benny's mum;
she smiles at her,
and is soft spoken,
unlike her own mum,
who bellows
and spits words
and slaps her.
She looks out
the window,
then looks sideways
at Benny.
He's looking forward,
his hazel eyes
taking in the man opposite,
his quiff of light brown hair
bouncing with the bus's motion.
He's got the money
his mum has given him
in his jean's pocket,
along with a small penknife,
old conker and string,
handkerchief washed grey.
Beside him sits Lydia
the girl from downstairs
in the flats.
She's skinny
and her lank hair
seems out of place
with her bright eyes.
He suggested going
to the station to see
the steam trains;
he loves the smells
and sights and sounds
of the trains.
He had a job
persuading her mother
to let her go,
but eventually
she agreed,
(must have been
his smile).
The man opposite
stares at Lydia;
his big black eyes
drinking her in.
Benny stares back at him,
gives the man his best
Bogart stare,
even holding his head
at an angle.
The man's green tie
is stained;
the shirt is too small
and seems to want
to escape from his body.
The man stares at him,
his eyes moving to him
like two black slugs.
Benny touches Lydia's
small hand and says:
soon be there.
The man ends
his black eyed stare,
and looks away.
Well done, Bogey,
Benny says
inside his head,
and senses Lydia's hand
grip her 3d piece coin;
her bright eyes showing
small portraits of him
in each one,
absorbing him
like dark cloth
does the sun.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 2:51 AM UTC
There's butter
on her lip
from the toast
and bread crumbs
on her cheek
where fingers
have been there
and she moans
endlessly
about my hair
or my beard
Abela
I tell her
there's a blob
of butter
on your lip
at the top
hanging there
for dear life
and those books
that you read
she moans on
those deep books
with long names
of writers
why read them?
I like them
I reply
as she talks
the butter
on her lip
rides like some
horse breaker
Abela
how's the toast?
she gazes
at the toast
in her hand
it's quite good
she replies
the butter
is still there
on her lip
hanging like
some kid's fresh
smooth bogey
I see it
look away
nothing more
I can say.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC
If the bogey man should come tonight,
When your tucked in safe and tight,
and his cold hands creep so slight,
how would you like to be a baby girl tonight?
Or an unconscious, intoxicated woman?
He slips right in well she isn't moving.
She wakes and she wishes it away,
But still the spinning eyes of his face
turn her sick as mind starts to to race.
How would you like to feel like you have no name?
You're the Unconscious, intoxicated woman,
nameless and shamed, and no longer feel human.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 9:49 AM UTC
Procasti-Nation by Rob Sandman
Let it wait,get it straight,I can do it tomorrow,
I'm a Hobbit-on the pipeweed,stayin in my burrow,
what's the hurry anyway?,no need for trepidation,
relaxin on my throne king of Procrasti-nation
What's the deal man?,chillin,killin noobs online,
what,the job interview?,nah man I let it slide,
6am wake up?,man I'm barely asleep,
on a killstreak here,hah noobs roll deep,
got an bar yesterday,I'll split 50/50,
smoked a lot last night,should divide it swiftly...
*nevermind,do it later, I ain't rushin a thing,
procrastination is a country and you know I'm the King*,
loungin' on the game of swords Throne,spliff in my mouth,
getting low on munch,but don't want to venture out,
may be lazy,even crazy,I don't like crowds,
had my feet on the ground-and my head in the clouds,
but lately the ground's turned into quick-sand,
get knocked on my **** every time I take a stand,
don't worry bout me man,no need for consternation,
I'm the clown with the crown,king of Procrastination,
So I let it wait head's not straight,I'm livin in tomorrow,
like Bilbo on the pipeweed,hidin in me burrow,
me family are wonderin exactly why I'm waitin'
it's a hollow crown now,king of Procrastination
See the thing about a rut is(look it up)you're stuck,
motivation is gone, and sure the country's ******
could try to get a job,hmmm what are my skills?,
I can sling weed,talk shit,and get high kills,
on COD-not a good CV,
a big bogey lookin skinhead,who'd hire me?,
could go back on the doors,yeah,like back in the day,
but nowadays you need a license from the PSA,
and that costs cash,here today gone tomorrow,
so it's back to the hustle,beg Steal,and borrow,
but recently I medically got kicked in the ***
so I put words to work,cause my rhyming's class,
bare me soul to stranger's,disguised as lies,
good listener so no-one see's the pain in MY eyes,
I got a gameplan,sure to sweep the Nation...
think I'll start tomorrow,King of Procrasti-nation.
So I let it wait,got it straight,I'll rule the world tomorrow,
cause it's scary out there,but comfy in me burrow,
every day another reason for my hesitation,
tomorrow is my Kingdom- yeah- Procrasti-nation.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 4:13 PM UTC
*"Klaus Fuchs
did what
he had to do
like a good
harbinger,
there is virtue
in being faithful
to his cause"*
this is where my
cousin's
brutally honest
syllogism
took me today
*"a simplified view is
always what gets
you at the bottom
of a swamp"*
this is where
he swings a club
and bounces back
from his recent bogey
against me
in the greens with Jim
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 10:39 PM UTC
She's gone-
My medicine had thus enchanted her.
Her darkened brain becomes a slave
To the hot pangs of hysteria
And those violet tears hang on her face, like vines of Wisteria.
But, alack!
The bogey man is coming to sweep the streets
And with his blood-curdling presence
He brings his seven princes;
Heosphoros leads the way and severs
My lady's vagus with his impale morning star.
I hear weeping- is something emerging, from the molten sea of infierno? Pish! She now kneels before
The shrine of Mammon and pleads
'Heavens forfend! I must seek the ash
Path to prosperity and pretend!'
My lady's face no longer beholds
That youthful dew and that
Ethereal pigmentation of her visage.
No, no she has become achromic,
Anaemic, artic...
...I embosomed her in my arms
Tried minerals, drugs, spirits; hymns
Yet she has exchanged mortality with
Immortality: and has pleased only the Night Deity.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 6:28 PM UTC
I've been thinking what could be worse
Than a grumpy old man writing childrens verse,
Calling on experience from his young days
Of the things he did and the games he played.
Now I'm not saying that I'm a grumpy old man
You can take from that whatever you can,
But I remember clearly being young
And even now my song's not yet sung.
When we were kids we used to know
Lots of places we could go,
And I never remember having a care
About stranger danger or anywhere,
That was ever out of bounds
Or if it was it was soon found,
And added to the itiniary
Of places to play for my mates and me.
We used to go into Clintz wood
Where the hiding places were so good
That sometimes you were never found
And by the time you dropped back to the ground,
Your mates had already headed home
And you had to leg it on your own,
But I don't remember feeling fear
Because growing up was great round here.
We would tell our **** we wouldn't be long
Usually a statement that was blatantly wrong,
And then we'd all gather to head up the edge of Dent
To play in Black Wood and my how quickly the time went.
Where it went to no one knows
We still have no idea where it goes,
But it always seemed that when we were having fun
Old Father Time always used to run
Much faster than when we were bored
Like a boiling kettle when ignored.
So before we knew it the sun was sinking
And we all knew our **** 'd be thinking
That we'd all up and ran away
And we hadn't just nipped out to play
A game of hide and seek in Clintz Wood,
They'd think we all were gone for good.
So as the sun sank in the Western sky
We all started to run my mates and I,
Back down the hill onto the road
Which led us back to our abode.
And when we got back we saw
Waiting outside each front door
Angry mothers waiting to bend our ears
And tell us of their imagined fears
That we'd been pinched by the bogey man,
Or sunk in a pond or quicksand,
Or fallen off a cliff or from a tree
Then afterwards we'd all be
Given a cuddle and our supper then
We'd all be in bed long before ten.
Yes kids today have a lot more
Things that they do behind a door,
Lots of things with which to play
Lots of things which seem to say
That freedom lost can be replaced
By objects owned and possessions chased.
I know that this will never be true
And things you own will never teach you
The lessons we learned when we were little boys,
Simply by playing with Mother Nature's toys.
Tom Higgins 07/05/2014
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC
At the top
the lamp post spits out a weak light
which dribbles into the dark night
as if it were
a drain on its own power source.
Which of course
it is not.
The light is blind and cannot see
maybe that is why the light is free
or maybe it's that I can't see
the light that shines for me.
At the bottom
where the dogs **** their legs and take a leak
is where I seek the answer
and in the filth and dirt which I do my best to skirt around
I know this answer will be found.
It is always the darkest places that hold.
Our imagination,
from the very beginning is taught by others and told
to fear, that which we cannot see.
Feel free to disagree
but here I think you'll find that constraints put on your mind
won't let you.
Who'll get you,
the bogey men?
When you sink a bit
think a bit
open up and maybe link a bit into the grid
you'll find
that getting rid of all the chains that bind
and lock you down.
Will at first knock you down then build you up
and when at the top
you can tell the lamp post
to stop
being mean with the light.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 2:58 AM UTC
BETRAYER
TIME OF THOUGHT: 09:09PM
DATE OF THOUGHT:08/03/2010
OGUNLABI OLAJIDE YUSUF- Nativepen
Thanks to the eastern wind that blown
Now I know the truth
Tha your smile is just a plastic one
My trust you finally ransomed
Your target I realised now
Nothing else but my trust
And the bond we share
You just broken
Where to hide?
The cloud is crystal clear
What do you have to say?
You are unmasked
Pretender!
My trust you barter
With nothing but
Your fake and rehearsed smile
Now I know why your smiles
Does not reach your face
You naught
A betrayer
You bogey
Be your own counsel
What have you to say?
Can I still trust you?
If you were me, would you?
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC
Don´t be scared,
I´m just an old man with grayed hair and withered skin.
Calm my thirst, my hunger come and dine with me.
Little Grace,
I can´t hold my desire, my lust, my inner being
take my hand you innocent girl, tonight you´ll walk in the Hades.
Don´t...don´t don´t even try to hide.
Fear... Tears.
Let the bogey man to take off your skin, your flesh and calm the desire.
My sins, my salvation
little girl you´re my obsetion felt your hair, your scent, so young, darling,
I´m about to ***
Drink your blood may calm my demons so let´s have that pretty smile apart.
The gray man now is happy,
****** vampire rising.
Mrs. Budd your angel is mine now,
she is not in pain anymore.
It´s not my fault, it was not yours this is the god´s command masochism pleasure I think you have the right to know:
That she died a ******
I could've ****** her though.
First I got naked and called her, she began to cry, she asked for you
I choked her to death, cut her in small pieces, and ate her.
How sweet was her little *** roasted it took me nine days to eat all of her body, that little brat, that little ***** little Grace Budd is but nothing now.
My sins, my salvation little girl you´re my obsetion felt your hair, your scent, so young, darling,
I´m about to ***
Drink your blood may calm my demons so let´s have that pretty smile apart.
The gray man is now happy,
****** vampire rising.
Mrs. Budd your angel is mine now, I´m free my time has come
I always had a desire to inflict pain on others and to have others inflict pain on me,
I always seemed to enjoy everything that hurt, in pain I believe
Set me, set me free from this hell this chair will be the one, not the needles, not the sadness here at Sing Sing
I´m waiting for the pain to come
the pain to come...
the pain to come...
the pain to come...
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC
I reckon the ages when the fogies
did ,that which wasn't bogey
and reasons why seasons did sizzle
a past never altered to past tense
for this is my utterance
Lost had nothing to post
just a gaze ,giring me a phrase
this is now the boat of amazement
bloated ;though it towed it lagged my bragging heart to fuse
I beckon with ease but not bliss
though to find peace but just please
jammed on.....
crumbled thoughts ,crumpled mind forth with a wrinkled ****** looks.
It was nothing special!
it took no nook,cranny not all the kin
all in all I found myself on the book
Something felt to be great ,
with the magnitude of the concocted ideas
the amazing grace 'song' just leveled to the latitude
those were the days ,no longer the same
Blame the game
Curtain drawn ,not yet certain
the pain is gone but still torn
born a new but just with some .....to cling on
I obliged to lean on a clean page
For the idea is no longer oblivious
Various scenes but not the obvious
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 9:01 AM UTC
*The first tee shot , the first drop
The first beer , an early morning deer
The course all to yourself with no one else in sight , the first hot dog after the ninth , the first cool day of fall , the first wooded hunt for the ball
The first bogey , a clubhouse steak and cheese hoagie
The first warm day of spring , the pleasure that a gentleman's sport truly brings* ...
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 11:40 PM UTC