"bub" poems
I assume you once danced the Cabaret
By how you strut your Flexi-Form abroad
This I figure on weeks-by-two per se
The Ardent Friend your Fervour can behold
T'was the Charm which every Fruit can discuss
And win many Smiles for a Pint or Ink
Telling us flat, Life can take us that Far,
In a Bus run by Monday's Downey Sink
Was it wrong to know the Inner-Woman-You
That Principle so many Thinkers deny:
"Thrust-Hub! Buck-Forth! Lev, Lev, Lub, Lub, Le, Loo!
Then Drink your Bub-Clouds to Barrels on high!"
Nah, Forgive my Fishes, Sir! I bestate
You're one Sav Foretainer - Dance with me, Mate!
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:43 AM UTC
The devil's speech say they:
Rolling, clattering, frolicking, hungry.
Billows of charred skeletons embrace the air
Black soot pumped straight from the pyres of Hades
Congealing to clouds of evil intent wherever it roam.
That charred old shell so terse,
Black as sadness and dead as a hearse,
Darling to death as he brings on the rain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
In the coughing desert
Not a thing dares roam
Neither wind nor creature
And neither stick nor stone.
But then the silence disturbed by a horrible shriek -
The railway screams in horror and the train itself speaks, saying
"Tell me, thou innocent,
Why feel you special and best?
For when all is done I take you
And return you to my nest;
Your world is bright and happy
Full of high spirits and song,
Though soon you too shall step aboard
And join my faceless throng."
Hot saliva on the heaving engines:
Weeping, groaning, ghostly, parched.
Rusted joints spewed onwards grinding resisting
Movement spat out like a violently beaded string of curses
Sloppily uttered as incantations of a malformed mouth!
From that charred old shell so terse,
Black as sadness and dead as a hearse,
Darling to death as he brings on the rain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
That dark train cries out and all around
A mourning whimper rises like slumbering fog-
Bleak and yellow it obscures the land
Seeping out insidious in strange locales all:
The old lonely fisherman
Sleeping on his wharf,
The frustrated hawker's
Windblown barefaced booth,
Silent streets crying for attention,
Dark places hidden at the corner of every eye.
That solemn train cries out and all around
Her mourning whimper rises like harrowing fog
Calling all to upright attention and fear.
Looming like a spectre but a breath-span from your window
Slowly closing cold dread claws-
Naked numbness dumb as ice-
Cold dread claws upon thy waist.
And you,
You poor old thing,
Shivering in your pitiful shack of bones,
You never had any chance!
You were only human.
You were only human, you poor old thing.
Barreling on with brimstone slang:
Clang clang! Dang dang! Beelz Bub!
Sputtering an ocean of curses from turgid goat-flesh
Born of sadness to cause even more, yawning great maw
Jowls clanking with fresh hot oil drool steaming stark and lewd, and yet
That charred old shell so terse,
Blacker than sadness and slain like a hearse,
Is all that gives meaning to our every gain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 12:10 AM UTC
Ruby Jeffords was cutting a rug
To the music played by hubby Bub.
Four guitars and a moonshine jug,
Bass fiddle made from a wash tub.
And the music they play is not
Headed out for Carnegie Hall.
While it may not be sophisticated
Everyone is having a ball.
There’s two stepping and stomp
And a lot of big cowboy hats.
It’s a country and western romp
And it don’t get better than that.
The fiddle player is sawing
Like he’s cutting a cord of wood.
The onlookers are clapping hands.
They’d all join in if they could.
And the music they play is not
Headed out for Carnegie Hall.
While it may not be sophisticated
Everyone is having a ball.
The dance floor is so crowded
Some people just sit this one out.
But they add to the joy and spirit
Because they clap loud and shout.
They feel the music and tap toes
Falling into the music and beat.
Bub playing, and Ruby dancing
Everybody tapping their feet.
Ruby Jeffords was cutting a rug
To the music played by hubby Bub.
Four guitars and a moonshine jug,
Bass fiddle made from a wash tub.
And the music they play is not
Headed out for Carnegie Hall.
While it may not be sophisticated
Everyone is having a ball.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
Stopper allsh Chub forsh shrame Good Chinwag, yah?
Arsh sieve Combatibles posh Boys bare playe
Shaye, yay Share! Bar score thore Pieces me - bah!
Mayse Lion bare thine; Yare Deer-Berry splaye
Wot cot Beagle-Risen thorse Polliwog
Spout Arms dash Legs arsh instant forsh shore Sport
Water-Rouse, rebound! Spare Skin-Sherry shogg
Staple coach-wires faye John Tom's Report
Behave, tharne! Parallipparel Shape conduct
Pour-Pore noodlesee Six-Squares shrub contesse
Mare beere yorsh Chest torso-avenue locke
Reprodpress marsh baye Bub-Peppers finesse.
Staye-upon-staye bore thoose talkitook borough
Boy-ish-Boy-font-fare-Potiphar-although.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC
What foes or friends do we perceive when we connect by chance conceived?
Would you care to explain how this is my fault?
Pray tell tis Joseph come to his census.
Come nigh so late to what truth evinces.
Four heed own Lay won knot thin kit sis...
Prays got a buff!
Fine uh Lee…
Coarse sit duhs pour ten dove baa doe mens.
Naughty ville purse say! Oar eve in dud ark Om end...
Shell Ira Bjorn ease? Orb headers till yore effete?
Ike ant aft tub Abe eave oar yew yen owe...
Wall oh win knit.
Gore Ida head.
Yuck use amoeba *** is hint umm eye fall tis zit?
Yuck cues amoeba ditz nada tall mite urn toot ache tub lame.
Bub I...
Hope Joe Ill step pup two wit all
Irie lay trill lee dew
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
The greatest cure for depression
I have ever witnessed
Is a tiny little
cat named
Lil Bub
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
He staggers in, bellies up to the website...
"What'll ya have, bub?" "Whatever's fresh...";
takes a good long pull from the draft on top.
Pounds down shots of shorts, savors
a good 12-year old sonnet with legs.
His wife knows he's here; doesn't approve.
She just doesn't understand...
but you do, dontcha?
Jan 21, 2011
Jan 21, 2011 at 11:07 AM UTC
The hub bub of the local pub,
The endless chitter chatter of pointless conversations,
The no point small talk of weather and how do yous do's,
The noise of comfort and solace,
The shield of silence,
The comfort of anonymity,
This is England,
This is the pub.
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC
Laying naked
In an empty tub,
bottle of cheap bub,
writing ****** poems.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 10:42 PM UTC
When nothing else
inside you
matters except
getting him
that’s passion in a bub-
ble:lust. blushed.
And all he wants to do is bust
a bubble.,; ******
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 11:18 PM UTC
PLEASE NOTE: DIALOGUE MUST BE READ IN A BRITISH ACCENT.
and she, in dismay, said to him
"Benjamin, just who do you think you are sitting there with your **** out like that?!"
Annabella knew right away that what said wasn't valid.
"aww come on Beli, you know what a cheater smells like now dont you?"
"thats enough! go straight to your bedroom!"
"Im sorry bub, but we are still in this chariot, got a few more streets and alleys to be wobblin on."
"why dont you just **** my **** you french kissin mugger. I never want to see the northern lights with you."
"go on then ya **** off with your head"
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 6:04 PM UTC
opportunity
sits in
my
den
and
says
“so what
you
going to do
this time?”
I look at
my pan,
bacon cooking
and sizzling,
and chuckle
him off
“don’t know,
bub”
“haha”
he laughs
“just hope
you don’t *****
it up
like every
other
time”
“yeah”
I say,
despondent,
“me
too”
and I serve
the bacon with
some eggs,
sit down
at the table
looking in at the
den,
and opportunity
watches the evening
news, waiting for
the day's lotto
numbers
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 6:52 AM UTC
*What should never be
Soul separating at the seams
Bullets in my dreams
Me eyeing that apartment on Bub Teems
What should never be
Mama in the bathtub, in the floor
Pinned to the wall, I can't take any more
In my bed shaking to the core
What should never be
Night time screams and deadly dreams
Pounding pulse and silent repulse
Soaking sheets and floor beats
What should never be
Picking up furniture, who's keeping score?
The fresh metal hole in the screen door
Speak of these things never more.*
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 6:33 PM UTC
P.T.S.D.
In a panic of mindless execution.
Power mongers poured their scorn on brothers.
Brothers in arms.
Comrades, friends, acquaintances alike.
All brothers in the band.
Field of war a blaze of claret.
Grass no longer green.
Was a killing field.
Seen all for real.
Now a dream.
A nightmare.
A ruinous one.
Crying.
In sweat of chill he awoke.
Seen too much.
Seen too many.
Destruction in a black robe.
Hub-bub banging in his head.
Night until dawn
The racket ran in side his head.
Visions through childlike eyes.
Disturbed by evil images of war.
Friends massacred as martyrs.
Fight for hopeless cause.
It was meant to be the war to end all wars.
They all lost their lives.
His friends.
Nowhere left to turn
Put a gun against his forehead.
How he felt that bullet burn.
She placed solitary rose of red upon the remnants of his head.
Kissed his memory goodbye.
Dropped to her knees.
Started to cry.
No one could tell her why he died.
A true love.
A good life.
Gone in a gunpowder flash.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
My calling patterns are rather dull.
I’m a sixty year old man.
I get phone calls infrequently
almost never from Sudan.
Then one day I received a call
From some fellow called Abdul.
I thought it was a prank at first,
from students at my school.
He talked of pressure cookers
and praised his foreign god.
I said “it’s a wrong number, Bub.”
And I thought “that was odd!”
That didn’t stop him calling here
Oh, once or twice a week.
I explained I’m not the party
To whom he wished to speak.
(It seems my number was one digit
off from a certain Chechen geek).
After Tax day it got interesting-
all this clicking on my phone.
One time my placed was ransacked
while I was not at home.
Eric Holder, if you’re listening,
I am not the Droid you seek.
It seems the fourth amendment
Must be null and void this week...
I might be your perfect villain:
White, Catholic, and a man.
I know if I made videos
I’d be rotting in the “can”
I knew nothing about the plot,
I’m innocent, you see.
My knowledge, like the President’s
comes strictly from T.V.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 8:46 AM UTC
This may sound a tad bit strange
But I can promise you it's true
It all took place in the fishing town
Of Pleasant Valley one sunny afternoon
All of the sudden fishing line started popping
Out of the lake onto the shore
Not one or two lines, expect as you might
But lines tossed out by the score
Each and everyone had items attached
Some candy bars while others had cans of beer
There were even a few diamond rings
The kind the ladies love to wear
People in surrounding towns soon heard about
All the hub bub down at Pleasant Valley Lake
They all jumped in their cars and like shooting stars
Shot out across the state
They arrived there in time to each grab a line
And give that line a slight tug
Realizing to late, dragged into the lake
Rub a Dub Dub straight into the tub
Just as quick as this whale of a tale got started
All the fishing lines were drawn away
The only ones left were the few who got tossed back
Because the fish had reached their limit that day
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 7:30 AM UTC
**** and mistakes
Go hand in hand.
Time seems fly
Like hour glass sand.
Tried to stop
Failed yet again.
So I sit in the tub
Twisting a bub .
I can see myself
Circling this drain.
Hiding from pain
With pure scream brain.
Been awake for days
Wasting my time.
****** up to forget
The troubles on my mind.
The haunting troubles
Are all self-inflicted.
Struggling to push through
Fully addicted.
I keep ******* up
But it won't be my fate.
I've become someone in not
Someone I hate.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 4:20 AM UTC
You said pass me the blunt
But I wasn’t done
You told me to hurry
But instead I scurry
Urging to breath
And to release
But always needing some heat
Pass me the light
I need to feel right
Only if I could stop
I would feel alright
But all I did
Was get blazed
Instead saved
Only if I didn’t feel at blame
For me being a mistake
I wouldn’t have
Taught you to forget
By getting your state of mind
raised
Now it’s a bub
Now it may go
But my state of mind will stay high
until there is hope
To help me
Redefine
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
A clandestine rendezvous of sorts…Bub brought his bottles and guitar, I brought my charm and natural hair and together we tinkered and wrote and drank and ate and walked and played and left each other even more bewildered than before.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 7:22 PM UTC
Don't be surprised that no one likes you
Its called feelings
Get used to it bub
If your ugly, cry no one will ask you out
Stop trying
It will never work
Just sit in a dark corner
And
CRY YOUR HEART OUT
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 2:38 PM UTC