"bruv" poems
taller as a twisted fable skyscrape- - -
felt beyond the limits of a clan; yer
density is a moot point (whatdidyawant)
and heights are reached where heights are
found beneath belief in factuality- - who
wrung the cash register any apt poem could
be you to a clean home obsessive compulsive
but valid poetics - - valid music in the dharma
dance of life.
edward scissor hands with cloths on the palms
instead and 'DO YER DISHES' the psalm you
sing for cleanliness is next to godliness &&&
cathedrals of the genuine soul were never designed,
simply found an ancient artifact in the labyrinth of
yer soul (z)
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
The pen, they say, is mightier,
but is it keener than a knife?
This brittle blade of insolence,
unleashed to lash at life.
'Yeah, innit, Bruv, he got right up in my face,
cos my phone was out in lesson time
and he called me a disgrace.
Like, so, whatever, mate,
I told him where to go,
trying to tell me English,
while I'm textin' my new hoe.'
The pen is not mightier,
it is tarnished and obtuse,
a vision of a different age,
wrought blind from its misuse.
Its sapling song of innocence,
split south across the grain
and cast across the classroom,
yanked up and lobbed again.
'Do you get me, Blood?
He was pointing at a seat,
expectin' ME to sit there,
as if it were a treat.
I told him where to stick it
and called him out a clown,
I **** this one-way death pit
as I'm walkin' round and round.'
The pen should still be mighty
and not a strangled stream,
that's crawling up an incline,
like an M. C. Escher dream.
Its muddy banks lie dormant,
both acorn and an oak.
'Cut that **** you KEENO,
let's **** off for a smoke.'
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 4:47 PM UTC
Marching, hopping, running, waddling
down the street, people with working feet
oblivious to the stares of the woman
in a chair.
Why would they see her?
She's not even their height!
They are just people plodding and
plotting, lives rotting slowly away.
But, back to the woman in the chair
Snooping on the crowd
Watching the mothers tug at toddlers reins.
Rowing teens shouting "bruv" a lot!
She's mocking the crowd in her own way
She has become them, just invisible.
She likes it like that, knowing of you
Yet them not knowing of her.
Her awareness is acute, sees the businessman
in his suit. The homeless man in his home
called box, the elderly matrons
moaning about bingo.
The drunk with his bottle clutched as tight
as the baby clutches her bear.
The smokers all congregated at the altar of tar
The shopkeeper eyeing the kids, missing the thief
The security guard, guarding the pretty
Little things, no, not the jewellery the
teenage girls! Oh, his eyes are popping!
His legs are twitching. His fingers itching to touch!
Along with the sights are the sounds,
shouting, laughing, heckling and coughing
Smell,also plays a part in people watching
fast food, sweat, the great unwashed.
All plodding along, flocking like birds
clogging the street, swapping gossip,
unaware as always of the
young woman in a wheelchair.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
i'll let you on a little secret... spaniards are gigolos to the slavs... cheap-shit, chinese rolex beauties, which is why the english are prone to vacate there: oiling up to get a quicker suntan than an essex lass turning orange-brown in the space of a weekend's session at a u.v. parlour.
westerners define western slav as cleaner material,
if not simply the plumbers and electricians,
got a blocked toilet? get a pole
to unblock it. but you see... the thing is...
the slavs see the spaniards as
euro-trash... cheap-shit-cancerous-suntan...
spaniards are cheap **** to the slavs...
western european nations (excluding
the germans) invokes a sense of self-worth
that, like a tapeworm feeds of the slavs migrating
without colonising... when the western
powers migrated and colonised,
never really preparing themselves for jihadis,
st. john the decapitating tyrant spoke to st. george's
dragon with a cockney accent:
oi bruv bruv up up mate! score us an eight's worth
of 20 quid!
so while the high tier of europe speaking deutsche anglican
rather than deutsche swiss keep time and
penny flip: carnal heterosexual or just plain ****
the slavs mock the same tier with a choice
of holiday resorts exploited... next to the fake suntan...
because spaniards are like albanians for the slavs...
oiled up cheap-shit material for even cheaper literature
of the handsome, blue eyed, dark haired (well oiled)
stranger... selling pomegranates... that a fair maiden
might succumb to... selling her virginity the fiftieth time.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
The tube, the box, the artificial world
sat squarely in the corner of the room
where once a conversation had unfurled
now stagnant silence peering from the gloom
in want of fun, folly, artificial joy,
no thoughts created, only thought consumed,
where once the pen was our most cherished toy,
now stands the box in which we are entombed.
George believed control through that which we hate
Aldous through bombardment with things we love,
The threat of this electric ******
I fear much more than Orwells famed Big Bruv.
So turn it off, take down a book and find
the thaw to melt the snows that freeze the mind.
Mar 13, 2011
Mar 13, 2011 at 11:18 AM UTC
I type on them
I love them
creative juices flowing
my ideas spreading
across internet explorer
sik wan bruv
peace out muvafuka
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 9:40 AM UTC
Ah them little flags, who is hoisting
those flags, is it you? And please do tell,
what in tarnation do those annoying
little flags do? Perhaps it is well
to use them to flag a ***** poem
that is inappropriate and that
offends. However, I wrote a poem
about cold snowy Oslo, and drat
if it didn't recieve nineteen of
them little flags. If I can't write on
the subject of snow so pure, what Bruv
is a girl to write about, c'mon?!
Please use them flags for offensive poems
and f*ing leave the rest of us alone!
Nov 20, 2019
Nov 20, 2019 at 2:12 PM UTC
What's up bruv",
"Chill out bruv',
The social's divided much unloved,
"But thatz so true like",
"Innit like",
Bourgeois reinvented social tikes.
"What about it tho"
"Not at all tho",
Feared difference from the status quo.
"Nah fam",
"Wid de fam",
Cult disciples of instagram.
Communaholics,
Vitriolic,
Diabolic,
Gamesters,
Influencers,
Society's single use redeemers,
"Link me up"
"Whatssup"
The Gen Z get-up.
Mar 10, 2020
Mar 10, 2020 at 8:08 PM UTC
Ignore the lyrics.
You can't pursue love. You don't find love.
Love's not a thing to be kept or to be had -
it's a doing word
that you just have to work at.
Love is a language expressed in deeds
and sometimes needs to get ****** to best succeed,
with a focus on what is needed whatever the cost
it’s a no-greater-love
that a friend gives on the way to the cross.
It’s a by-this-they-shall-know-you love
A lake-side more-than-these love
A one-another-as-I-have love.
A recognition of our debt of love,
So live relaying a reaffirming love,
Fulfill the greatest command of love,
Greet each other with a holy kiss of love
Build each other up with a that much stronger love.
Bear the heavy fruit of love
until it ripens into a truer love
that resembles in some small way
the seed that was that original
no-greater-love,
cos without love,
well, bruv
you and I,
no matter how loud we sing,
our branches are bear,
and we are nothing.
May 27, 2020
May 27, 2020 at 4:19 PM UTC
Already done that bruv
gone through the whole gamut
got fed up
and stopped.
what you do
is not up to me
it's up to you
but it'll **** ya
take the luck from ya
and put ya down.
just saying bruv
it's a hard time
coming back.
May 30, 2025
May 30, 2025 at 3:54 PM UTC
Beeloved?
The third date was ok, Humble thought.
At least this time Blondebee didn’t look so bored.
She was up to her elbows in shopping bags.
Humble paid for the dinner and they had a laugh.
They ended the night on a triple date.Bee-Real and Love-Bee and Tiny Dancer’s date was late,
So Tiny ended up talking to Blondebee until Buzzie arrived.
They all had fun and then they said their goodbyes.
Humble walked Blondebee home and wanted a kiss goodnight,
But she said “Er, excuse me, not tonight.”
She was his friend, so why couldn’t he love her?
Humble’s confusion reigned, love was hard; oh brother!
Humble wasn’t happy, but he’d been single long enough,
And last night they all had a lot of fun.
He thought it worked well when they were all with each other,
But the two of them alone were far from lovers.
Humble remembered what The Queen had said.
Jeez, it’s like she’s in my head.
Did she see this all before me?
The psychic foresaw this eventuality.
Humble talked to Bee-Real about his situation.
Sorry Bruv, I only know real love, and not infatuation.
You like her, and she likes you.
Where’s the problem? What you gonna do?
(C)2020 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Nov 7, 2024
Nov 7, 2024 at 3:21 PM UTC
Are you free? Are you smiling? Ate yin crying why you smiling? Are your tears drying? Stalking you when you crying.
Are you lost fading away somewhere in a dream crying. Why you never smiling? Why is he writing words that feel exciting.
Hears another poet his poetry is amazing writing, speaking and talking. Words are always stalking amazingly different.
Special like hey may be words can be crazy lost in a maze. Hey well that's so crazy. Pad locks broken cells, Padded rooms personality!
Wat you saying Bruv are you walking and talking? I'm not stalking I'm not saying that you boring!! Excuse me for yawning.
This poem reads random find the meaning and thank me. Read it again and understand shy the words seem to be buzzing.
They touching and blushing letters smiling and crying. It's amazing my writing poetry is exciting. Like riding my first bike it felt like I was flying.
Always smiling excited like lightning meeting fire, ice freezing and frozen winds like rainbows never dying.
Colours miss matched looking tidy, amazing to your eyes read my poetry I'm always writing.
See poetry is the mirror reflection of why the words are always silent.
Silent but violent thought provoking got you thinking is love really amazing?
Does it have your heart blushing and asking questions that are always searching for something.
So tell me what you thinking? Writing words that are dreaming, my pen has me playing hide and seek.
Now I'm looking searching for something. The letters looking at me smiling like it's funny, I'm running but always writing. Never stopped addicted to words and letters my words never stoping.
JidosReality 8.6.14
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 7:15 AM UTC