"boyo" poems
...
Is that as bad as you are to me?
I relented
not because I'm tired
but because I believe that you're the best friend ever
disappointed ...
after seeing what you did
once you know how the actual
once you're comfortable with your new friend
and then I forgotten?
how poor I am
I'm not mad at you
sure
but
in fact you make me disappointed
disappointed
very very disappointed
disappointed with what you've done to me
disappointed to state that you've given me
but one thing you should know
I'm still here
and will always be here for you
my friend
my enemy
my dearest
my sister
my teacher
my favourite
my buddy,
otis
boyo
suganda
yuni tamara
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
howling black wavespounded the doomedwelshmen of steeltravesty loomed absorbing the onslaughtrelentless attackerwrong end of mountainrourkes drift, south africa brave boyo stood fastsolid in stancebattled the tideof barefoot advance singing in tunicvalley men bred fought black waves of heatin rivers of red respectful zulunot mindless marauderheld assegai highand saluted....the south wales borderer
Feb 28, 2010
Feb 28, 2010 at 12:22 PM UTC
lil taffy two tugs would wake up to the dawn,leaping to his laptop searching sites for porn,thanking stephen hawkins, also mr gates,grateful of technology, while taffy masterbates.the boyo bashed his bishop, most of all his life,now pc world was better and cheaper than a wife,lubrication, change of hands, oil and vaseline,lesbians, fat fetishes, and threesomes on his screen,but poor ole taffy passed away, his family in disgrace,trousers round his ankles, a smile upon his face,but two tugs died so happy, while he had a vid on,undertaker done his nutt,,,,he could'nt get the lid on.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 12:37 PM UTC
Said he 'shut yer gobs ye ****** boggers'
Keen on blatherin' ye spent yer days with yer tongue sharp as a dagger
O ter be 'onest ye be pattin yer boat.
Aul' ducks,yung ducks all makin' faults.
Cats eatin' bazz i say blather ye boyo
A man makin' money, no divils in county mayo
Yer gobs flippin' like hoors feckin ****
Smart fellas know ter kick yer barse
Me,a **** in carrickfergus jammy am i?
Come 'ere ye be told a secret ye culchie
A man pushin his **** tryin ter find his way
Be wide ye yung boyo lots o vultures on yer way
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 3:46 AM UTC
***** delwyn two *****
the rampant ram from brecon,
watched the jungle program,
the one with ant and dec on.
now delwyn not the brightest,
mountain man from wales,
but knew he was the boyo,
for any bushlicker trails.
i've licked lots of bushes,
he wrote to ant and dec,
champion mountain muffer,
with permanent stiff neck.
whay hay man we are sorry,
ye cannot qualify,
y haf te be a celebrity,
an in the pooblics eye.
an you are jus a diver,
the lowest of the lowest,
but i am a cellar butty,...
ask any girl in powys.
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 12:05 PM UTC
the less money I make,
the more I give away...
need to get cured,
need me some cure,
to keep my money in
my Persian silk sow purse,
so when enfeebled,
can pay a nurse to
wipe my drooling chin
need me some
curmudgeon herbs
to get rid of this
happy insanity
cure this ****** mudge,
from giving away his green fudge,
so when doing his
sleepy-eyed sums,
the tallying up,
the counting down
did he qualify,
as a good ole one,
his conscience
busy unconsciously,
anudging, adjudging,
to see if the boyo can
sleep better this night.
So when he meets
the maker,
He won't say
hey faker,
but fakir,
magic maker,
dervish swayer
and
*"you my kind of poet,
let's make us some
smiling mischievous trouble,
give away whatever it takes,
love potions number nine,
winning lottery tickets
for everyone,
you and me,
scheming schematic
crazy man poet and god,
to make it happy-en."*
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
Eóghan,
Hail, o pasture o' yers
'ere mo chrói,as red as fire
Yer lovers walkin down the road o' me lonely town...
With wheat yer fields sown
Eóghan,
Drunk,i danced,sang the ol' song o' ancient rovers
Calling yer name like blatherin' sober
O brother me sweet fag,me ol' stout,nothin' reefin me like this longing fer ye
Drunk,i,slappers snoggin' me
Eóghan,
Me boyo o' Cill Channaigh....
'up the yard' they told us,so ****** wrecked o' this life
Me mate ye,yonks ye been gone,
I still can see yer new basser o son....
Mate,
On the greens walkin' ye gawkin' at the stars freely
Yer grand shoes stompin' heavily
Mo cara,mo chrói,missin' ye like a ****** rover to his ol town
Yer green eyes,a pint o' stout,dancin' mateys,waitin for dawn.
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 10:11 PM UTC
lil boyo peep lost his sheepand did'nt know where to find hersearched the valley's far and widethen found her with a minerhe never heeded gossipor the rumour tumoursand thought the sheepy storieswere down to valley humour miner with his trousers downmade boyo feel quite illhis sheep was stained with coal dustand was'nt on the pillsad tears welled his eyesas he told his mam.don't worry bout it sweetheartour mary's got a lamb
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 1:30 AM UTC
they write me:
You know,
when I wrote my 1st poem,
at age 16,
didn't 'Love' it,
just felt it,
had to be said,
was the best way,
to write,
what I was feeling...
Today,
breathe Poetry
like its the only breath I can take,
physically hurt
when
I can't write...
cry, laugh, sigh, gasp
when read others works
but bleed internally
with words
that only make sense
inside a head that's
been bashed
against a wall repeatedly...
funny how emotionally
you can choke upon
a million words that
have no sound,
that can't speak...
It's funny
how you can't say the words
but upon a page they leak,
like a broken pen
in a pocket of a white dress shirt...
funny how the stain hurts...
for it's really not that funny
Reply
Take your message in both hands,
twisting it this way and that,
to the window,
to the spring morn light's clarity,
then to the mirror,
held to my chest,
where it's reversed,
murmuring 'hello old friend,'
this same message
in my files,
written when a
laddy boyo of sixteen
oh how came this message
back to me
so many decades later?
the answer simple,
some stains upon you
are bleach and time resistant,
for who you are,
decades later,
never changes,
and for
some stains,
I am grateful
that this is their,
and our nature too...
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 9:07 AM UTC
*every time a poem completed,
its state of affairs, certified & feted,
the boys gather 'round, for serious
series of slaps on the back, and
drunken wisdom words,
"you'll never do another one, better, boyo!"
and the dread of correct
feels me up,
filling me up
with cream filling
whipped up
anxiety
of the now seizured defeated*
as I grab a clean sheet from top of the stack,
and the retired muses overhear,
delightedly, whispering to each other
just loud enough to hear
me shaking tremble,
"*and right they are,
and write they are!*"
and yet, ex-poet, still a fool…
9:42pm
Wed Aug 6
2025
Aug 6, 2025
Aug 6, 2025 at 9:43 PM UTC
.*i've seen cover songs
being overplayed:
t.a.t.u.,
snake river conspiracy...
of the smiths': how soon is now?
mind you... do you feel that
chernobyll itch? do you?
i like this quote:
the loudest applauses
craft the most silent encores...
who was it? i guess it must haven been
me,
if it wasn't me, then...
we have a problem.....
well thank you,
the danes found out...
the warsaw pact attempted to keep
it hush hush....
i am:
the sleeping diatribe*...
such a spectacular disobedience
to having fathomed
the obedience
to the last remaining iota
of a purpose....
friend to boyo fiend,
and the jargon buste (adjunct)....
while toying with
being enemy to the squish
and the tentacle lover
of lost
& last concerns...
serves you a: counter sushi
masterpirece with a worth
of herrigs....
to mind a counter with...
you know how "god" abhors
"original" sin..
what becomes "sin"?
well... "unoriginality"...
i too hate & abhor the platitude
of plagiarism;
i'm a blatant Evangelist
at this point...
i'd rather die...
before i'm reborn...
then again... i'd slso act
like Jack Nicholson....
but then again my demands
are worth are shutters squat...
to mind...
what becomes a Led Zeppelin
"original" sin...
tobacco shutters...
taping-course:
wet tobacco...
not chewed, rather, smoked...
whatever...
people will never believe the victim...
they will, when there's
a dead body... otherwise...
dead wise no war no death sold...
apparently the dead
are "wise" when there's no war....
then again...
when war...
the "wise" also claim:
there are no casualties....
who needs them?
no one can recognize them, anyway...
mother death justice earth:
who can blindly recognize either!
the twin justice,
that justifies encompassing both...
the joy that originates
from wet.... tobacco;
i don't care who's to blame...
all i care about is that...
someone is actually claimed,
as requested
for being made to claim blame.
now god, now no god,
now the infantile man
with a belief in a god,
now a memorable
now a seriously acclaimed man
of concrete disbelief...
that... pristine atheist...
i too hold my claims
to be of barren wastelands
in order to have them
be made for the worth of them
being cherished.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC