Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
kirk Mar 2019
A razor is my nemesis, because the blades do not behave
Gouging cuts into my skin, that is the path they pave
But it is unavoidable, I have become a bathroom slave
To rid myself of excess hair, from a shave that I don't crave

Ever since the birth of man, it goes back many years
A growth around your lip and chin, extending to your ears
It may go down particularly well, among the bents and queers !
I'd rather have a smoother face, to avoid Ducky's and Dears

Why do men want ****** hair, why do they want a beard
Bits of stubble sticking out, a design that's rough and weird
A Goatee isn't very good, it's cattle that's not reared
You wouldn't get tickled or scratched, if beards had not appeared

Okay some guys might look alright, when they are neat and trim
Scruffy ones they just look bad, and some are rather grim
I don't want hairs growing on my legs, or any other limb
Nice smooth skin is my preference, and it's not a passing whim

There is just one problem, something I would love to ditch
Hair removal is a pain, and it's an evolution glitch
When the morning comes along, I have that same old itch
Having to shave is immanent, and a *******

How many ****** shaves, does a man have to endure
Eventually your skin goes dry, from this old daily chore
You get cut far too often, I don't want it anymore
Razor blades no longer work, and that's a shaving flaw

Girls complain about their periods, it must be so frustrating
With all that blood just seeping out, when you are menstruating
You wouldn't like it daily, there is a period of waiting
It only happens once a month, so it's not as irritating

I'd rather shave twelve times a year, without anymore hair traces
No cuts and grazes for a month, in many different places
Unscrupulous razor companies, would have no more hairs and graces
Hairy smiles would be wiped off, from their stupid corporate faces

A close shave does not exist, I think it's a fare bet
That manufactures cut your throat, with electric dry and wet
All the claims of the best, that a man can get
Sharp shavers are a fabrication, and that includes Gillette

The cheaper brands are just as bad, shops own brand or BIC
You may as well tape a knife, to a piece of stick
Are potato peelers any sharper, would they be a valid pick
Would chipped skin be as bad, or just get on your wick

One shave is not sufficient, you have to do it twice
There's always bits left behind, which isn't very nice
I would've tried the No No, an expensive hair device
Razor blades and shavers, have such a high tagged price

It makes me cross and angry, because there is no reward
When buying beauty products, which they say you can afford
Why cant you have a body switch, or a desired level cord
So you can turn of your hair, and sod Wilkinson Sword

Excess hair I do not want, except for on my head
Is stress the cause of going thin, when it begins to shed
Would it not be better, coming of your face instead
Shaving would then be reduced, and not something to dread

Many men go through the curse, of losing it on top
The older that you become, your head hairs for the chop
A full crown is all I want, why take away my mop
I didn't want a bad harvest, by losing half my crop

The only place I wanted it, I've lost my style and flair
Why does a bald patch appear, why does your bonce go bare
Is it my comeuppance, with the creation of a glare
All I want from follicles, is my head full of hair

If you want to have a beard, then that is fare enough
Don't be mistaken for a *****, by looking like a scruff
I don't want a hairy face, or stubble that is rough
Or a weird beard with scraggy parts, or any yuk *** fluff

Some men just let beards grow, and maybe that's just crazy
It's not as though they look sweet, or as pretty as a daisy
Personal hygiene may not count, if they are always lazy
To me it isn't fashionable, it makes you look old and hazy

Who wants to be a yeti, but perhaps it is too late
And wild men roaming in the woods, is evolutions own cruel fate
No matter how much I shave, it's the scratchy bits I hate
Wasted shaves when hair returns, why does it lay in wait

How much has man evolved, how much as man progressed
Personally I think the state of hair, has radically regressed
It's based on my own experience, so perhaps I am obsessed ?
Who wants a hairy monkey, when your naked and undressed ?

There is a smooth advantage, when you are misbehaving
A kiss feels much more sensual, without the crazy paving
This is all that drives me, although it is enslaving
Even with the nice things, I'm not craving for a shaving
If you think this isn't reality
Then *******
Accept the fact that misery
Is misery, and if that won't do
Then know that I know why
But I won't tell you.

Disturbia is my life
**** Rhianna for
Envisioning a sick truth,
Then not exposing the demon
That lied to you.

The truth, it is far fetched.
Drunken ramblings nothing more.
Guess what?
I puked profusely about two minutes after I published this.
Paul Butters Aug 2016
Assonance was ensconced in my bonce once.
It puts me in the mood for a muse.
Love those cool peaceful pools under a Moon in June.
Or to croon about dunes and oasis blooms.
Such a lovely tune,
It’ll make you swoon.

Enjoy my runes,
No matter how crude.
I can be a goon
Or even a loon.
Sometimes a fool.
Poems strewn with clichés
For want of a better phrase.

Words hewn before noon,
To give you a boon.

Bad days may loom,
Injustices done.
Cruelty that’s is fuel for a duel and may ruin a life.
We may be doomed.

But I must stay upbeat,
Give you a treat
And make you fall at my feet.
Quite a feat!

Every dog has his day,
Another cliché you’ll say.
But I don’t get any pay,
So soon be on my way.

Love to play with words,
Writing songs for the birds.
These words are a tool
For making me cool.

We’re back to those pools:
They are shimmering jewels.

Paul Butters
Playing with words....
Terry Collett Oct 2013
And the ice cream van drew off
and you held on
to the side

by your finger tips
until the van picked up
a mild speed

when you jumped off
and tried to remain
on your feet

without falling
and only by sheer luck
or balance

did you manage it
and the other kids
clapped hands

and cheered
but Ingrid said
thought you'd hurt yourself

don't your mother
care about you doing that?
she doesn't know

you said
you don't tell her
what you do?

she said
of course not
you replied

she has enough
to worry about
without me

giving her more worry
Ingrid frowned
but why do it?

holding on to the van
I mean?
because it's there

a challenge
like climbing Mount Everest
I guess

you said
she played
with her fingers nervously

as if knitting
an invisible sock
I worry about you

she said
I guess that's what girls do
you replied

walking through the Square
she by your side
her food stained dress

having yellow flowers
her grey socks
her hair pinned

by steel grips
not all girls
she said

least not about you
you smiled
I hope not

you said
girls **** you dry
always on

about soft things
or about dolls
or babies

or such matters
I don't
she said

I think of you
and you being safe
I'm safe

you said
you patted
your six shooter toy gun

wedged in your holster
and you're safe too
you added

wish I was
she said softly
well apart

from your old man
you said
but apart

from filling him
full of cap smoke
or hitting him

on the bonce
with my six shooter ****
isn't much

I can do about him
you said
she looked at you

smiling weakly
maybe one day
we could run off together

she said
and live in one
of those houses

in the Wild West
you nodded
yes good idea

and I can ride
a real horse
and keep cattle

she nodded
and I can keep house
and have babies

sure
you said
and if your old man

comes worrying you
I can plugged him
full of lead.
Set in 1950s London and a 8 year old boy and girl's friendship.
neth jones Feb 2022
contaminated...                            

the boy is explained in the dark
                  made smaller and tighter than his thirteen years
        invented a-tread each direful night ;
            in place of restfulness
                   he is tussled :

itchy within                                    
moans of a growth owning pain
domestic air is newly surrogate
the boy flees upstairs
the condition of the home is sickly
             excreted beads from the fibres
a pale mix is gland
                        a perspiration out of sorts
pursed
spritzed
lively          
            then a wing-ed light smog

keeping to his room                            
he sits on his bed to 'wait it out'
the sun downs                        
as fruited ideas                
                   treacle up the pine wood walls
as otherworld tones        
                             flute the flumes that plumb the walls
as his mother clears the dishes
        with the radio on
as the fathers increasing tardiness
        makes the wound hour leaden further

outside
wind starts churning up the monster
hustling the coniferous trees
stoking the forrest for its brazen voice
jeeving hard upon the house
dry *******
inducing a perverse osmosis
within                                              
          pressurized audibility is clayed
hairs on the carpet tick static
              ....  this negative duress

outside
the moon hides its legend            
an autumn owl takes the bough
     just above the boys window
    it hunches into its ruffle
       retches up a pellet of prey
fur and crushed bone
            clatters dryly into the gutter

the boy works his jaw
       relieving his popping ears
the rooms climate becomes sparky
important items radiate auras :
             the scorpion in formaldehyde
stolen from school
                          grandmas mourning ring on a string
                suspended above his desk
        an old key discovered in  the woods

investigation                          
a brief hole in sound
a slim bik of light traverses
  over the boy
    the bed
       and out into the hallway
it winks gone
     and sips of smoke
like lithe neat scraps of silk
start livening the corners of vision

he stands                                                      
open­s his closest and dresses for sleep
      yield to routine

Mother enters                              
    always a human breath                  
                                         of pre decay warmth
      here to make him into his bed
bound by her neat practiced tucks
                         the boy receives her loving words
                                  but she's in a separated world from his
distortion gums up the audibility          
he attends to lips
the blessings don't function right
mistress smudges are left in the air            
they trail from the corners of her mouth
                             with the expressive turns of her head

fending lightly from the room
she blows a kiss at the doorway
it punches a little galaxy swirl
                              and suspends
a heated blue weave of the hand
                    and she is gone

door concluded and the light left on
the wall flower patterns crick and shale loose
    they cash into the flooring
and in turn the floorboards palpitate finely
feathering into a unreliable state

less than a minute later ...                   
fathers presence                              
   makes an apologetic attempt
                                                     at a ghost-walk
sounds clumbered in an aquarium                
    he slides his back down the drunken partition
and talks
   he sells a story of personal wretchedness
some lesson is vague
flammability
the boy takes the readings                  
                  of the distant vocal squall
pauses in the erratic speech weather expect replies  
     but the boy fears this colonized version of the father

though anger
                        father does not enter
rumbles his fists, feet              
                 and frustration at the wall
stands                                            
      and­ punches his footfalls
                  to the master bedroom

the parents
together now closeted
amniotic             
their world fidgets fiercely and swells          
swaddled in their own dramatics
firing blindly                        
their voices
travel the pipes in the walls
back to the boys room
                drowned of discourse
but not the aggressive 'passion' flaring out
they plunder the boys ears

Sudden ! ;                
                  brakked smell of flint
a bird slams the window dead        
crack in the pressure
unbearable penetrating release
screaming the boy host violent
minds that bind are loosened
subpoenaed                                              ­
          the boy recoils and fends this raid
kicks off the bedding
strips free of his pyjamas
a thick layer of his own goes with it
fleecing his actual skin                        
raw stinging exposure
he tugs at the flay of his own rubbery peel
enough layers of dermis in one
grip and pull
to make real hurt
raw of pain
(it feels)
tug-tug
grip
and pull
sleeves off of limbs
and a sappy caul from his bonce
he doffs the leather onto the floor
fresh wash of song
fierce waves of signals hot and cool
he ***** up his matty sheered hide
"**** it !"
pulls up the window enough
vent
an outward 'gush' as the pressure balances
the boy                        
dispose    
      push the viscid pelt out
the boy expels
disgorged into the night

                                              - consummated
Antony Padilla Sep 2012
It's cold.
I can't feel my fingers
Or my toes
For now
Just my extremities are frozen
But my frozen fingertips
And my frozen feet
Are telling me
Screaming to me
Fall is here!
I turn on the heat
Take off my clothes
And grab a towel
Leap in to the tub and
With the quick twist of two knobs
BLAST
Comes the water from the shower head
Spitting as hot as it can
Steam instantly leaps off of my body
And with it my feeling of chill
As my vision clouds
And the scalding drops
Bonce off my skin
Heat spreads to every inch of me
Tickling
As its small feet
Travel across my body
In the wake of its coming it brings
(as it always does)
Peace of mind
And creative thoughtfulness
Alternatively with each step
Each tingle
Is a piece of ice
Leaving me
In it's place replaced
With warmth
And comfort
Every second that passes is different
Quiet
Listen to the million droplets
Dive bombing the tile
No thoughts.
In the next second,
A crowd of reporters enter my head
Each louder than the last
Each trying to make themselves heard
"What does the future hold?"
"How will you get there?"
"What makes a man?"
"Are you smart enough?"
"Are you strong enough?"
"Do you care enough?"
"Are you ready for the world?"
"Is the world ready for you?"
"Are you anything really for it to be ready for at all?"
Some are answered
Most aren't
But all are heard
And then in the next second
The buzzing crowd leaves for a while
And is replaced by the sound of the shower head
SHHHHHH
Stop worrying
SHHHHHH
Stop thinking
SHHHHHH
Just stand and enjoy
This heated reprieve
From the cold outside
Micheal Wolf Jun 2015
Rhiana has nothing on her
She's seen more brollies than any girl
From those that fit in your bag
To the weapons used by old hangs!

Every style you could ever want
To keep the rain off of your bonce
Be they flowers, black or hello kitty
They turn to her when the weather's ******

Now her day it flies when the weathers crap
But in her evenings, something lacks..
She seeks a man with a wooly face
To hold her hand and walk in the rain
Under her umbrella with that special fella x
For an umbrella sales girl
Donall Dempsey Jan 2017
I WILL NOT CEASE FROM MENTAL FIGHT

"Hush...hush!" he'd
suddenly shush

us kids
going" "Wot...wot?"

"Snipers!"

"Where...where?"
we'd whisper half scared.

"Everywhere...everywhere!"
he'd hiss under his breath.

Even in his beloved
red and yellow rose bushes.

( Fred shot in the head
still bleeding in Picardy ).

Or the *** in
the garden shed

which we'd storm
with a barrage of conkers.

"The bleedy blighter
got away!"

They had followed him
home from Flanders.

Or just...
never went away.

Mother said he'd
lost his....

but he'd play
marbles with us

kids
all day.

Rubbed his tolley
against his bonce

"Big Bertha"
he'd call her.

"Yer losing 'em...yer losing 'em!"
he'd sing with great gusto.

We had to let him win
or he'd swear like anything.

"Stop dat slanguage!"
Mother would swear at him.

He sang saucy French songs
"mes saucisson mes amis!"

but only when he be-
-came squiffy

which was more
than often!

Mother begging us:
"Don't listen...don't listen!"

But we inky-dinky
parley-vous'd with him.

A chorus of us kids
belting out:

"...Oh I didn't know how
to tickle Mary

but now I know how!"

"War is all about
saving your skin!"

Most of his mates
lost theirs.

He still calls them
by their names

as if they are
just...there.

"The ghosts of the sofa!"

They sit and watch
the radio with him.

"Manchester Utd 2 -"

He sings ADIEU LA VIE
and cries in French.

Left his left leg
in a trench

but still loves
to dance.

"I dance as badly or
as goodly as I did before

no less...no more!"

More and more
often he hides

under the stairs
eating raspberry jam

or marmalade
in the dark

crying now
in English.

Hiding still
from the Wipers' snipers.

He hates apple and plum
"all we...ugggh...ever got!"

And loudly the cupboard
it sings.

"...without food so long
I've forgotten where my face

is..."

(Fred lost his...)

I always remember him
coming out to salute

surrender to us
as he recites

in a little child's voice.

"When the Rock of Gibraltar
takes a flying leap at Malta

you'll never get yer *******
in a corn beef can."
Jiya Aug 2019
This illness in my mind is terminal.
There is nothing that can cure it.
It speaks oh so nonsensical.
It’s to be honest, quite hysterical.

Well.
I shot myself in the end
Whilst lamenting in my bathtub.
The hysteria was just too much
For my shattered heart to handle.

The judge declared her​​ the winner.
I whimpered in defeat.
I didn’t even place.
Maybe I’m just not that unique

Or damaged enough for poetry.

The metallic taste of blood
As I drown in senseless grief​
Tells me I’m not good enough.
To get back on my feet.

Her flared trousers tell me.
She has a great sense of style!
My black eyeliner.
It tells others I’m a coward.
A lamb ready for slaughter.
No Baphomet or Muhammad

Just a lost girl.

Locked in a vault of failure.
Being served defeat.
Getting grimaces from the waiter.

It’s th-the illness.
It’s forming cracks in my bonce.
It’s preventing me from winning.
From ever being at the top.

Y’know what?
She may always win.
With her pale moon skin.
Her suction cup stomach.
Her body so thin.

But me?

Just another **** failure, aren't I?
Laying dead in a bathtub.
poem I wrote (with a couple edits) for a 24hr poetry contest. I was feeling a tad salty about this one chick.
Static crackling ecstatically; manic pop
Transistor hissing and spitting; sideboard atop
                                      First when there’s nothing…
                                      But a slow glowing dream…

Pirouette such as whirling dervish makes
Adolescent prancer twirls; leg warmer fakes
                                      All alone I have cried…
                                      Silent tears full of pride…

Breathless incantation; future forged in dance
Performance fascination; leap upon the chance
                                      What a feeling...
                                      Bein’s believing…

Neon flashes bedeck wrists and bonce
Peers laughter flash like fire; a ponce
                                      Take your passion…
                                      And make it happen…

The music shields, deflects. Antacid; taunts abate
Rhyhmic dreamer energized; blind to all the hate
                                      Pictures come alive…
                                      You can dance right through your life…



As Bergen-Belsen ghost yet still aware
Lost dreamer segues silently on fetid air
                                       Bruised and battered, I couldn’t tell what I felt…
                                       I am unrecognizable to myself…

Shuffling as garish Geisha; white but not with paint
Breathless as fifties bombshell; heaving sick and feint
                                      At night I could hear the blood in my veins…
                                      It was black and whispering as the rain…

With steel partner; straight firm and slim of hip
Rigid in rigor’d waltz; moving labouredly with drip
                                      I walked the avenue, ‘til my legs felt like stone…
                                      I heard the voices of friends, vanished and gone…

Faithless rusting engine combusts toxic blood
Failing sack of sinew lies where dancer stood
                                      Night has fallen, I’m lyin’ awake…
                                      I can feel myself fading away…

Monotone white noise; assuring beep
Dancer dreams in endless sleep
                                     There was a time when men were kind…
                                     There was a time when love was blind…

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness – 2018 – All rights reserved)

Acknowledgements:

1. Flashdance… what a Feeling (1983 – Giorgio Moroder, Keith Forsey & Irene Cara)
2. The Streets of Philadelphia (1993 – Bruce Springsteen)
3. I Dreamed a Dream (Les Miserables – Claude Michel Schonberg, Herbert Kretzmer & Alain Boubil)
The difference 40 years can make in a gay dancers life....from dream to nightmare in the ***/AIDS crisis, inspired by the music and news of the 80's and 90's
Peggy Pearl Aug 2016
When I heard of your return
When I heard a seven year gap creep closer and closer and closer
When my heart felt like a loser
Cheering and pouncing in a moment of no oxygen supply

How could my heart bonce up and down
As if the muscles wasn't worn off because of the seven year gap without thee beat
Tell me how you managed to question my best days existence because of your absence?
Tell me why would the mention of your name threaten my life's work.my life's fake life, my so called life,life liiife
Tell me why do I dream of you as near when we where so far away from each other
How could time have taken so much less,In so much time
Skye Marshmallow Aug 2017
My feet buzz againest the hard wood floor,
They want to escape,
They dream of more,
Than this grey skies uniformity

They want to pitter patter,
Againest alien surfaces,
They want to know what matters,
The most in this misty life.

They want to live their fantasies,
They want clarity,
To have a monochrome rainbow,
As their reality

They want to splash though an icy river,
That carries joyous smiles,
And less than carefully calculated,
Phone dials

They want the moonlight,
To bonce off their paper skin,
To be able to make memories,
To share with kin

They want to tip toe,
Up creaky stairs,
To bring best friends up,
To their sunshine lairs

They want to fall in love with the certainty,
That tommorrow brings,
Another day unfolding just as perfectly,
As the last
It's a rainy day,
Many games to play,
While some are outside,
It's inside I crave.
And I hope you know what inside I mean,
The inside that's clean,
Always wet and warm waiting for me to slip in.
It's like warm seas, just needing to take a dip,
While the rest of the body works, and tongue kissing no lips.
I'm so cold, I just want to cuddle and be held,
With a grip from her waist tighten hips,
Bodies so warm so we twist and turn,
And our hearts race and neck burns.
No sound but the rain drops,
That bounce off many roof tops,
And that bonce back,
With my hands around her back like back straps.
Craving is a joke,
And I ain't talking about some drinks and smoke,
But like that lay down, lay back and that neck choke.
*******,
Or even inside her, where its warm like in snow coats.
It's the feeling all about now. I can't stop thinking,
About tongue kissing, breast squeezing and her back sinking.
Straight shots and I don't mean drinking,
Like one foot short and long and I ain't talking about limping.
Only that moan hearing, *** clapping and **** stroking.
It's a rainy day,
So what you expect,
Only play fighting, rain bathing or even football playing,
Well what about *** gaining, back straining and our bodies paining,
When we're done and *** dripping like taps flowing.
It's just me craving.
And if we can't do all of that well we could still hug,
And bite each other like bed bugs,
And I'll still kiss you and squeeze your *******,
Although that's the most we might get to do but it's still love.
I'm just missing you, missing holding, hugging and kissing you.
But don't worry, I'll get over it,
Then maybe take a ****,
Thinking about you mostly then remember about this poem and say it's lit.
Then I'll lay in bed while the rain falls,
Because I'm too cold to go outside.
Then I'll knock out and dream about it all.

— The End —