"booted" poems
*****
The last time, I got an ********
gave the girl my ***** injection,
now I have a bad infection.
Never again did I get laid,
it's going on the second decade,
a new ***** I'd sure trade.
One ball black, one ball blue,
got no paddle for my canoe,
my Horton doesn't hear a Who.
***** swollen, like a balloon,
feeling like a rabid raccoon,
looks like a character from a cartoon.
My ***** hurts when I ***
why did this have to happen to me,
karma is on a laughing spree.
Life will never be the same,
swollen ***** man, is my nickname,
got no fortune, but 15 minutes of fame.
Was on a reality show with other freaks,
it was called house of the rising creeps,
I got booted off after only two weeks.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
Here is the city—
its worn-down mountains,
its grass and iron,
its smoky coast
seen from the high roads
on the Wicklow side.
From Dalkey Island
to the North Wall,
to the blue distance seizing its perimeter,
its old divisions are deep within it.
And in me also.
And always will be.
Out of my mouth they come:
The spurred and booted garrisons.
The men and women
they dispossessed.
What is a colony
if not the brutal truth
that when we speak
the graves open.
And the dead walk?
8.2k
Once I knew a spider
wore Doc Martens on his feet,
eight holes on eight hairy legs
he wasn't too discrete.
He rode a lengthy shadow
while he stomped around the floor
this micro “muy macho”
unabashedly cocksure
I trapped him in a glass one night
And told him at the door
“My wife she doesn't like you
don’t you come around no more”
But spiders rarely listen
and ignoring my request
next evening he returned once more
our octo-booted guest
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
To wit to woo, or not to wit to woo,
Would wooing suit a suitor shy on wit?
Or would a witty suitor suit poor Sue,
For Sue aint one to want a witless twit!
If Sue is wooed by witty repartee,
Then Sue and suitor could be well suited,
But he who woo's poor Sue with lethargy,
Is like to like not how he gets booted!
So if you want to woo, and to woo Sue,
Then deign to don a suit and do your bit,
To shoot for Sue, your wit should shoot straight thru',
Or wooing Sue aint worth a sack of spit;
Poor Sue just wants a witty suitor, see?
So if your wit is wanting, leave her be!
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
*///
A rough ramp,
too many edged stones on the surface
she is walking on the ramp with booted a high pencil heel
we see her speed, her fashion
we say that it's her smartest move
even her body language shows the beauty
but it's true that one of us sitting there doesn't care her at all
The flowers are on the fire,
blooming throughout the garden
too many colors, coloring the spring
so much aroma appealing around
either the bees are buzzing or not
growing itself through the nature
either we are caring those or not
Birds are flying around the sky
they are highly ambitious
sometimes they fly over the dark clouds
yet they are unclogging their feathers throughout the sky
until the clouds are breaking into the water
showing that they don't care about the height of the heaven
even you see their stunning diving or not
When it's an amazing raining
maybe you are walking toward the horizon
who is shining sharply within the rainbow?
the little boy is enjoying through the window!
its a playful beauty beyond
It doesn't care about thee
either we are looking, caring or not
Boys are barefooted,
walking on the broken glasses,
bleeding blood on the floor
making spot on the spaces
they are running within the daydreams
now they don't care about anything
**** we never wish to care them at all
///
Musfiq us shaleheen*
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 7:09 AM UTC
that trendy heroin(e) addiction
becomes you- and your fiction
goes well with the pale
-skinned thin western booted
blue-eyed shooter
riding sidesaddle
on your scooter
does she kiss like me
and bring you coffee?
i could lay you both down
in the in-betweens
and make heaven-
til hell is heavy as a monday
track day in albuquerque
while she sells your jewelry
in sante fe where it's trendy
-i'll be waiting
on the blue mesa.
r ~ 9/19/14
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
Happy Unicorn Poem
Prancing in the meadow,
Warm sunshine on her face
The happy unicorn did not see
The hunter’s hiding place.
Eating rainbow candy,
Smiling ear to ear
The happy unicorn did not know
The grim reaper lurked so near.
Singing gentle lullabies
To the butterflies,
The happy unicorn did not know
She’d cause them all to die.
Lapping at the trickle
Of the crystal, sparkling stream
The happy unicorn did not hear
The hunter’s arrow ZING.
A chipmunk tried to warn her
Squeaking out in fright
But it was simply much too late
With the arrow fast in flight
A pretty yellow songbird
Tried to knock the arrow off its path
But the arrow’s razor edges
Cut the songbird right in half.
Then a fuzzy little bunny
Jumped as high as he could jump
When the arrow passed right through his throat
He fell down in a clump.
A brightly colored butterfly
flew into the arrow’s way,
the arrow was not diverted,
It was not her lucky day.
Only three feet later
The arrow found its mark
Extinguishing forever
The creature’s living spark
The hunter popped up in delight
feeling quite a thrill.
That he would soon be famous
for his magical creature ****
He bounded through the meadow,
running toward the woods
yelling out in victory
“I always knew I could.”
He kicked aside the chipmunk,
He stepped upon the bird
He booted the bunny’s body
into a pile of mud.
He was almost to the butterfly,
When he stopped.
Dead in his tracks.
What he saw before him,
Caused his body to go slack.
He did not see a unicorn,
Lying lifeless there,
But it was his precious daughter
his own arrow in her hair.
The Old Enchanted Meadow
With deep magic all around,
Teaches lessons to all of those,
Who trod her sacred ground.
Today the hunter learned the most painful one of all,
A man who would **** a unicorn does not deserve beauty at all.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 1:07 PM UTC
A broken heart isn't to be dreaded.
Not when the tender lobe of your ******* sway divine in the silky wind.
A fresh caress of your velvet brow, undercropping my twisted heart.
Let not the heart grow weary, for it isn't a bug that is crushed 'neath booted foot.
Because I cannot stray from you,
Ever bound to your tide,
And never to have you again kills me,
Don't act like you don't know me,
Silent destruction is in and of me.
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 12:55 AM UTC
My home. My safe place!
My sanctuary of peace and calm!
Deaf as I am, I'm glad to have friends,
When someone tries to steal from my mom!
So we kept watch, over her van,
Seeing the shadows of an unknown man,
We're suited and booted; my knife
And his gun,
And we're ready to take him,
Or force him to run!
********* all, I have work
In the morning,
But I'll be ****** if we don't
Send him a warning!
Our shout brought him out,
And we watched him run,
To go steal elsewhere,
But he'll have no fun!
Not here; not now.
At my grandmother's house.
So I stand and I shake,
Eyes wide open; awake,
A knife at my side, with
My rage as my guide.
Hell no! Not here!
Not now!
My home. My safe place,
My sanctuary of calm!
So I await the coming sunrise;
No one ***** with my mom!
Apr 15, 2023
Apr 15, 2023 at 3:50 AM UTC
all of
America’s
gubmint hatin
yahoos, pining
to get their
country back,
should grab
yer rifles, stock
up on ammo
and giddy up
down to Texas
to join the
secessionists
headin out
of the Union
Rick Perry
promises to
keep his promise
to close all the
gubmint departments
he can't remember
the names of
Ron Paul will
finally be liberated
from the tyranny
of his federal
paycheck and
can return to
his district to
practice medicine
unencumbered
by the acceptance
of medicare
payments
Ted Cruz will
move to coronate
his Cuban born
daddy as Viceroy
for life of the
western hemispheres
newest banana
republic
the last act of
of the Compartment
of Education will be
to turn every
public school
into a Holy Ghostin
Jehovah meetin
house
Judicial magistrates
will criminalize
poor people
or just make
them slaves
and all prisons
will be turned
into profit driven
plantations,
overseen by
the local
Sheriffs who
will be paid
time and a
half and 15%
of all profits
unfortunately
the Cowboy’s
will lose it’s
moniker as
America’s Team
if rattlesnake
booted
Jerry Jones
can’t make a
deal to turn
his stadium
into a sovereign
independent
territory as a
protectorate
of the USA
To assure
national purity
Texans will
build a Jericho
style wall to
define the boundaries
of their heavenly
kingdom and outlaw
all trumpet playing
within earshot
of their perturbed
borders
The Eyes of
Texas as the
state anthem
will need to
be reworded
The final stanza
will be changed
to "Until Gabriel
blows his nose"
keepin the ungodly
out and the chosen
people safely
insulated within
the shining
Lone Star State
will rise again
as a solitary
confederacy
of dunces
Music Selection:
The Eyes of Texas
Oakland
11/18/13
jbm
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
you came to the rodeo
with your latest portfolio
of sidekick apparatchi(c)ks
colorful lily - a realpolitik mariposa
and gloriosa - tall like a ponderosa
while i rode the appaloosa-
cool like - little joe
do they make you hum
a sweet song like i do?
sitting on your spanish saddle
booted to skeedaddle
when i beat the buzzer
while buzzards circled-
beneath a purple sun
you came that time
when i rode
-on the blue mesa.
r ~ 9/24/14
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
Foot meets the metal of a cold shovel
with a sun beaming down
booted foot pushes the *****
into the soft and rooty ground
one mound of dirt
sweat forms above the brow
two mounds of dirt
salty bead slithers down
three mounds of dirt
tuned into the sounds
four mounds of dirt
birds chirp all around
stopped by a thick root
extra force must be used
give that shovel a pogo of boots
and we are at the fifth mound
six and seven are easy
as the hole starts to round
eight nine ten eleven twelve
a tomb has been found
carried your sheet covered corpse
laid you in the hole
cover you with what was uncovered
creating a man made knoll
Six years of memories
laid underneath this red dirt
many years missing
that time gone subvert
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 6:38 PM UTC
I think of you as a model
and I a painter I am not.
For you, my love,
carry stillness
I only wonder at.
I paint you naked on our bed,
imagine how I’d take this line of thigh,
that curve of breast, those dark shadows
of the lower back, a perfect ear,
a curl of hair, all and more
and because, and only when . . .
And after, then
we sit together
formally, at a concert:
there you are
all dressed in stillness.
Motionless your skirt
falls across a quiet knee
to a booted leg, you so rich
in graciousness and charm
that only the flow of a woman’s
costume holds for the painter’s eye.
Oh, and that warm confidence
born of a body, loved, admired,
always wondered at;
but whose senses so alive
to syllables’ speech,
to movements’ play.
Therefore with my restless hand
I, for whom stillness is a foreign land,
hold this pen and scratch this page
to write you into each and every phrase,
all and every word and line.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
A chilling solemn breeze sweeps thru the town,
Down empty streets where children used to play;
The crumbled buildings, many falling down,
A monument to history's darkest day.
The rusted hulks of burned out motor cars,
Discarded bicycles against a wall,
The roads that carry disused tram-line scars,
The poignant remnants of the old church hall.
No more, the children laughing in the street;
No more, the parents in their Sunday best;
No more, the echoes of jack booted feet;
Forever shall ye martyrs lay in rest.
The town will always stand as testament,
To sons and daughters France will e'er lament.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
A Stirring biomass, a grim river
Garrotted by mud and each rusted carcass
Dumped over the slow years -
'And we saw the metal of a woman,
A frothy corruption, naked and open,
we prised her from the mire, and saw the city
through the eyes of the sewer,'
The Lady from sludge,
your toady skin broke
as you flopped, nymph-like on board
Caved-in by the tumbling sky,
And air like leather. Dry in the throat.
The sweating walls spun his head,
And the cogs whirred to fast
To bite back. Space and time-blind,
He turns to the sepia city.
Like new life,
ready for the fall of man.
Through the river of time elapsed,
Churning up memory.
And there's the glitz, the cracking lips.
that bet on goodness.
'I remember being a girl - and my mother -
smiling but never sad -
I waited for her every morning'.
The forgotten root scratches out life
Underneath vast and forgotten hangers.
The lungs of the city shed their skin
To keep pace with the smog.
See what we all don't know.
And live where we all can't see.
He led her to a room with broken windows
and one swinging bulb,
She wasn't scared.
Dank Amazon.
the roots are wires,
sprawling for grip for the sulking trees
In the great ape eco-system
'I'm a cruel joke, don't you see?'
As her eyes slowly rolled.
'I'm sorry'
As her fists unclenched
'Im Sorry'
As her knees went limp
'I'm Sorry'
Belted by un-silent night
And below gridlocks of light
An I.C.1 male is being chased
By screaming vans, run rabbit
Down the hole and off you go.
And the hiss of 'one eight seven,
one eight seven' from the radio,
is scoring his run - as the pools on the floor,
neon-flashed burst open
in a booted shatter.
'And the time went by,
And I looked at your form
And I looked at your cuts
And you are the river
And one of its secrets, un-watered'.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 9:18 AM UTC
.*but i wasn't obviously going to go far down this "worrisome" route for too long, maybe like ten minutes... i had to think of something relaxing to do... i looked in the mirror: **** the wild-man of Essex! beard, shaggy, the neck barely visible... hair like Mozart composing, or as the Poles say: hair like a wkuriony Chopin ****** off Chopin)... **** better do something about it... ah... there's only one thing that can lighten my mood and this whole, tirade... a visit to the local traditional Turkish barbers... so i ****** off... in went the wild-man of Essex... out came well-groomed human being, not a sign of his werewolf past to be seen on him... ah... this is the 4th time, proper, that i visited the barbers (prior to? long hair... after? a shaved head like a Buddhist monk)... god... just sitting there with closed eyes... i'm starting to think that going to the barbers is better than ***
i was never into blocking someone,
esp. if someone is liking your stuff,
but it happened to me with
that poetess on here,
i wanted to know how it feels,
to just randomly block someone
who really enjoys your stuff...
and then... **** gone, never
to be seen again...
Wattpad is basically a fascistic website
to boot this thread of thought...
who the hell gets booted off a platform
for starting a cordial conversation?
- but i really did wake up with
a moral hangover...
excuses?
irritability...
there's just a certain level of
conversation i can take,
i can't get the pedant
out of me... i really can't...
i tried and i tried,
notably because when speaking
to natives, i see them lazily doing this
or that, while i come with an acquisitive
perspective, hence the furthered
acquisitive impetus to further this
acquired language... while the natives
are like: blah... it has been given to them
from birth...
and conversations,
after having completed a...
well for me it was an exhausting poem,
the desire to finish it before off
the rails with the bourbon instigated
a thirst, matched with irritability...
**** i hope i can unblock the guy
and apologize...
spare of the moment thing...
well... if i can't...
i know what it feels like:
not being on the receiving end...
so... that's one plus from all of this.
p.s. that sort of direct messaging language,
aged... 40?
how can i talk to someone
who's older than me, on that level...
(looks up his profile page)...
huh?
so i didn't block him?
*Dennis Willis's profile is not
visible because they have blocked you.*
and i still have the block option
handy...
mind you... i didn't wake up today
recollecting some pretty
trippy ********
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
Pinnocchio and the Queen!
Puppet image, sorrowful,
Rouge dusted sparkles bless his cheeks,
Such childlike image, as cheery angel,
Gay, misled by teen fantasy,
Hair coiffured not a whisper out of place,
In faded denim hot pants,
Appears out of place,
Parading as a shop mannequin,
Like a tiny harlequin,
Lust for some emotion,
Advertising wares for sale, in aim of a promotion,
A sad commodity,
Full of ****** satisfaction,
Young men, old men , suited men and booted men,
Seeking cutie prey,
Maybe,Streets paved in gold,
Fools gold in the truth was found,
Impure truth was the only thing he ever bought!
Prince Albert,although not his **** in truth,
Instead pond life **** took on the role, with cruel control,
Lives in land where tragic lies, and sorrow becomes magnified,
The shards of all, is ****** fantasies.
As an immigrant to land of city lights,
I see through windows fogged by city smoke!
Visualising through caring eyes,
What I see appalls me deep within,
Tears my soul to tears!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
Azzurro
The boots were blue in colour
Painted to look like the sky
And worn by a gal with other things
She was aged 18 to 45
And looked timless ageless
It was the blue painted ex army boots
That she used wore to gigs
Pubs and clubs when she was free
Not working as a programmer
In the Italian civilian aviation industry
The job was boring but paid well
She'd done it for 8 years
Was a legend at the plane factory
The lady who wore her blue boots
Even in the office a different pair
She got results delivered the goods
Had worked on 36 different projects
They simply knew her as Azzurro
The blue booted gal
Aug 27, 2022
Aug 27, 2022 at 5:43 PM UTC
I sit in a restaurant, quietly drinking my wine...
I notice our waiter in his black & white clothes, His shoes were old and raggedy.
I think of him struggling to earn a living,
Surviving off the tips customers give him after serving their food and drinks...
And yet he is smiling.
I watch a 65 year old couple playful arguing about what to eat.
Surely They've been doing this for years cause the waiters greet them by name.
Aah, Love never grows old. *(Mr & Mrs Koekemoer)
I see a business man suited and booted. His always on the phone and always in a hurry. He spills some coffee on his white shirt.
Ag! He seems to be annoyed with himself...
Now I'm looking at this Girl in front of me. A cute yellow-bone with a mini-afro.
She has brown eyes and her lips are shining with cherry lip-gloss. Her smile can sink a thousand ships.
Wow, I'm happy around her.
But...
I notice the missing finger she tries to hide with her other hand. No poetry can describe thy brutality.
But still, she is WORTH it...
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 2:13 PM UTC
Name any gentleman you spy,
And there's a chance that he is I;
Go out to angle, and you may
Catch me on a propitious day:
Booted and spurred, their journey ended,
The weary are by me befriended:
If roasted meat should be your wish,
I am more needful than a dish:
I am acknowledgedly poor:
Yet my resources are no fewer
Than all the trades; there is not one
But I profess, beneath the sun:
I bear a part in many a game;
My worth may change, I am the same.
Sometimes, by you expelled, I roam
Forth from the sanctuary of home.
1.5k
all in black
suited and booted
wandering
back the ferry
the memorial
has finished
the bagpipes
lay silent
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 8:59 AM UTC
Ferry your troops into the fray, watch them as they fall, remember where they lay. That they answered your call willingly, with the courage to obey. The beasts of men, with shattered bodies, broken then decayed. As their booted feet trample ****** earth, these soldiers march nameless and forgotten into the endless grey...
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 6:05 AM UTC
i found two things bewildering,
alzheimer's attacks the pronoun
category, and other forms of it too,
but modern psychiatry
having abolished asylums for
a humane revision of its practice
has become a branch of medicine
that over-prescribes nouns,
and by such over-prescription
invents noun jargon,
it cut open an ancient greek word,
used the prefix (overly) and added a suffix (sufficiently)
to make no sense whatsoever,
it prescribes neonouns like it prescribes
pills that don't work... or if working
then in a negative way... anti-psychotics
can make you **** yourself in your bed
when sleeping, i've been drinking for some
time, and my bladder is arnold schwarzenegger,
when i used to be on anti-psychotics for
no adequate reason (living in a post-colonial
society does that to you, you can come from
lithuania or poland and be treated like a
would-be coloniser to extract the fastest
sprinters for a new country, without the "doctors"
treating you adequately),
so as i said: alzheimer's attacks the pronouns,
the iron core of the earth that's an individual
thus dislodging all the adequate orientations
of categorisations of words... like psychiatry
abuses the noun category: schizoid, schizo-affective,
plain dumb schizophrenic... bi-polar, uni-polar,
plain dumb depressed... psychiatry has long
established a monopoly on nouns...
i just use their terminology to excavate a new
grammatical categorisation of words,
from poetry, among nouns adjectives pronouns
and conjunctions... you'll find psychiatry nicely suited
and booted as a word categorisation: metaphor:
all psychiatric diagnostics should be categorised as
metaphorical... 'cos they name it... but have no idea
as to how to behave behind it: it's not like they
say cancer and you're expected to die...
you're expected to live in their terminology
of treating you for a ******* pay-cheque:
you won't even commit a crime, but they'll
treat you like a criminal... so long suckers...
i mean western europeans, i rather live in (as the
americans say) i-raq... and shoot a bunch of you
protected by what i see as the final solution
you thought was once church v. state...
how about segregating democracy (the church)
from bureaucracy (the state)... but of course
the two are mutually dependent.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 7:19 PM UTC
A barnacled bow beneath booted feet
Captain's quarters stifling and close tonight
The wind whips through my hair
An inky exspanse of Caribbean ocean lays ahead
Twinkling stars fade out above me
Dawn breaks over a hazy horizon
Dreams have taken root inside a cold heart
I gave up the hope of treasure
Content with the sea and a bottle
Her siren's song pulling me ever farther into the
ocean's expansive wilderness
Anxious for daylight
Salt for veins
Land feels unnatural, unmoving, but I must find you
Scents of coconut and spice penetrate memories of being whole
*"Land ** Captain!"*
Pulse kicks in
Fire replaces salt
A true treasure hunt begins
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 2:21 PM UTC
I have ideas that never seem to stick
Like a spark that falters on a half-lit wick
I think “Eureka! Wow, I've done it again!”
But when I mold my thought-child that’s exactly when
I get booted off for no ticket on this train of thought
And the project derails into an old vacant lot
That lot is a notebook at the foot of my bed
It’s labeled “ideas” but it should read “drop dead”
My ideas are all just orphaned on paper
Their father held interest, but started to taper
“I’ll get to it sometime!” but no clock reads “some”
I just like the feeling of ideas under thumb
Is it arrogance? I hope not, just a stream of dumb luck
Or maybe I’m just afraid of being told that I ****
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC