"buggers" poems
Not another flipping cooking show,
On the telly, it's all go,
Weird concoctions in their heads,
What's up with good old meat and veg?
Judges frowning, watching on,
The clock is ticking, must get done,
Sweat is dripping in their pies,
So some top Chef can criticise?
I'd love that job, the eating bit,
They never eat up all of it,
Sometimes they are just simply rude,
So if they criticised my food,
I wouldn't put up with that ****
The buggers would be wearing it :)
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
of course i ********** every night,
otherwise i'd be wondering
about the next Laika in space
with some next soviet conspiracy
Sputnik hovering while i chance
abbreviate a change on hairstyling
thinking: jeez, this is a little bit too
afro frizzy for a brainstorm,
maybe i better opt for Jamaican dreads?
economics of shampoo usage,
suddenly a large bank account.
i do get the idea behind treating nouns
like albinos... bleach the *******
hang them to dry in Polaroids...
while commercial flights fly at a certain
height, and the rich buggers fly high enough
to jet-stream in the cirrus uncinus bracket...
and they lie to children,
they're talking about strange satellites...
i can't see satellites, not without Galileo's
excommunication apparatus,
satellites, as far as i am concerned
orbit the earth in a non-visible spectrum
of the vacuum... hence their orbiting outside
of the visible spectrum atmosphere of
the earth, i would not be able to see
a satellite for the love of Michaelangelo.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC
My eyes are black holes
Dead, deceased
An ecosystem of decay
a habitat for shattered souls
My eyes are lifeless
Lack luster
Sparkled out
Behind the wall, we are falling
Banging out our heads and hearts against doors off hinges
Against some mad buggers intuitions
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 8:00 PM UTC
Stink up the beer house with unadorned putrid self-thoughts.
Poppy-eyed and hating others is easy for blue bottled buggers.
A sweet thing for you!
A growing circle of six-legged empty.
Filled to the brim with puffed up space. A white brim with a shiny red exoskeleton.
Oh, what a dreadful sight!
Hair strewn across a face and hooked into the teeth of the blushy lullabied insect screech.
Clear liquid not blood, but blood all the same on an empty stomach with full vein-shot bones.
Not milky bones with calcium-love..
A dead, deficient, cracked, neglected, insufficient skeletal frame, limp.
Yellowed with hate-smoke and old book notes.
Splintered, crazed and buzzed through the gridded bulging eye-window of every single one of those insect like Self-Loathers.
Chosen out of pure sympathy "We should talk more"
.......To the sun, the moon and the stars?
Every star mocks,
Every beam scoffs
and every moon likes to deride on the pain that hides beneath the lies of human bug eyes.
A simply formed pound of vertebrate flesh leaks soft plasma on the scaly moth floor.
Oh how we are dusty and unsure!
Forestry consisting of a Sitka Spruce and of a Japanese Larch was a claim I made from the start.
Over gardens of attention arachnid lurking selfish bugs and even those half winged "friend people".
The bell has rung the scariest of chimes and with every soul wrenching 'ding' a furry fang digs at the blotchy eyed, softly fleshed girl.
Oh such a sweet thing to be surrounded by selfish bugs who spin webs with tear stained tissues!
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
She knew, right afterward.
Amazing.
She knew.
I took her word for it.
Oo-Oo-Oocyte!
The largest, roundest cell
Females have. It is
Visible to the eye
Clothed or nakey.
With the largest surface
Volume in relation to
Her cell-fluid-gorged surface.
One is produced ea/month.
One?
Yowza.
Me?
Millions of the little buggers.
Millions! Yeah! THAT’s
The ticket!
And tiny those little tickets are.
Hardly more than a nucleus with
That powerhouse of the cell,
The Mitochondrial outboard motor,
Propelling the tail.
The smallest and straightest
Human cell
(Cool tail, though)
The juxtaposition is kind
Of amazing.
Large vs. small.
Roundest vs. straightest.
Tail-propelled nucleus
Vs.
Moon-shaped cytoplasm.
The opposite, embryologically-
Speaking.
And she was positive,
POSITIVE
We’d conceived.
Roughly 9 months later,
I was there. Physically.
The rest of me was
Possibly sunning in Togo.
Kind of freaked me out,
The birthing process,
The first time.
My son. My baby boy.
Our child.
5/28/91.
I’m more proud and more
Astonished at the man
My little baby has grown into
With each passing day.
Golden child, beginning
Life with blonde hair,
Almost white, darkening
As he grew into the French-
Indian DNA of his
Mom’s side of the family.
He is so much like
His Mother, for which
I’m very happy,
Because his Mother
Is simply amazing
And worthy of an entire
Slew of poems just
To describe her.
And I’ve another
Golden child
Gold blessing vein running
True and deep, different
Than his older brother
Of seven years,
Yet similar, opposite in
Some ways, having grown strong
As the little plaything for
His older brother’s friends,
Making him very tough,
Strong as a team of oxen,
A work ethic he inherited
From Dad, Mom, Brother
Yet fitting together as
Loving siblings can
When they have God
At the center of their lives.
Thank You, God, for
My two sons.
I’m protective, but I know
They do not belong to me.
They are Your blessings
To my wife and me.
They are Your blessings
To this world, set in motion,
Wound up to take what they see
And make it better, and
To prevent it from getting worse.
They will do Your work.
We were the biological
Vessels that delivered
Them from Your world
Before
To this world,
Now.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
So aye
We wir watchin
that David Attenborough
or tryin tae -
fower weans tearin up the joint,
an she's like,
See if youse dinny shut it...!
an aw that, ken -
You no gonny tell thum?
So ah'm like,
"Aye.
Wheesht, youse."
But it wis amazin, like.
These fish.
Years oot at sea.
Tiny wee at first,
dodgin sharks an jellyfish
an aw sorts,
awa oot, miles fae land.
(*God! Youse! Take it up the stair!
Tell thum, you!*
"Aye, boys. Listen tae yir ma.")
Then wan day, like
they get the urge, ken?
Got tae go.
An in they come,
surgin fae the sea,
these sleek, silver bullets
fat wi feedin.
(I'll no tell yis again!)
Nothin, an ah mean nothing
is gonny stop them.
Waterfalls? Nae bother.
Just pure hungry
fir the lassies, ken?
The boy Attenborough sais
they dinny even eat!
(*That's it! Ah tellt ye!
Here you! Take some responsibility,
wull ye?*
"Eh? Oh, aye.
Away tae yir rooms, boys -
yir ma tellt ye.")
These pure ***** divils
will loup up sheer cliffs,
baws burstin, bi the look ay it.
Poetry in motion, ken?
Like, ah dinny ken, pure water
brought tae life, an that.
Jist pure savage.
An then, haw -
they find the lassies!
An it's jist, like,
'splurge'!
Done the deed.
Gemme ower,
job done,
deid.
An there's this shot.
Ripplin shallows,
just fill ay the twitchin bodies.
Craws an bears an that,
queuin up fir the bonanza.
Jist, like,
totally
spent.
An she's aw,
*Here, is that no terrible?
Pair buggers!
Eifter aw that!*
An ah'm like,
"Aye."
But see inside,
ah'm thinkin,
"Lucky,
lucky ********
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
I'm a captured tooth nerve
amalgam appeased
restrained in containment
by my keeper
then I can be a prisoner
escaping the jail
my warder has lost
the keys of control
on dark days
my fathoms swirl
in murky mass
infused with blinding kelp
on good days
my porthole shows
clearness of eye
the glass reflects well
just to confuse
my ores composition
is misunderstood
the translation
metamorphic
changing
minute by minute
hour by hour
these ones are buggers
my microscope
isn't good with definition
will I or wont I
who knows
my borders are contested
being diplomatic
I make pacts and treaties
no monicker is required
the tried and tested
gentleman's agreement
that will do
my margins
can be thick or thin
comments fit in
usually they range
between
insult and praise
depending on the mood
I oft go to open cut mines
to find common minerals
which are useful on a daily basis
real effort is called for
when I delve into deep shafts
sometimes gems are quarried
precious ones to behold
well enough said
a letter is to be written
dear meditative home
we're returning soon
if we're delayed
after hours
p.s. leave the porch light on
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 5:52 AM UTC
Work your fingers raw for a pittance
and you wish one day to bid good riddance
to your destiny,
good riddance to your destiny
Looking up you see them grinning down
but ask why they keep winning
and they'll label you the enemy
they'll label you the enemy
So you've got three kids and you're ******
because your salary's been cut
and you're burning up the furniture
you're burning up the furniture
Well they can trace their ****** blood generations
and their current lordly station
is their holy primogeniture
it's their holy primogeniture
You can sing and dance apologise and grovel
You can mark your x and **** off to the hovel
that you'll never own
the hovel that you'll never own
Meanwhile they will never leave the school
that tells them they are born to rule
till we vote the buggers on the throne
we vote the buggers on the throne
This land ain't your land
this land ain't my land
not the Glasgow dockyard
nor the empty Highland
this land is their land
it's bleed you dry land
and you'll be laid to rest here
beneath the wonder why land.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
I am actually a huge fan of Banksy and thoroughly enjoyed Dismaland but the A level kids I teach at a school just down the road from Weston couldn't get in because they've got Art P2. We wrote letters and sent emails but had no reply. They were very disillusioned by it all so their art teacher decided to take them to Dismaland and show some of their work on the grass outside. Security were not impressed and called the police. We made a film about it and I read this poem at the gates. This is the first part.
So this is where this tale will start,
Of What is Banksy? Who is art?
You're the joke now, don't you see?
This ****** ticket lottery,
For crazy cats who play the rules
Not you poor buggers stuck in schools
Can’t press refresh at the stroke of ten
Cos that's exactly the time when
the bell rings for art to begin
The irony is lost on him.
No tickets in your grubby hand
Cos schools cant afford the broadband.
Don't look at me with dismal faces
You lot sure are going places
Yep, you're all sat on a train
Going to weston in the rain
Who do you lot think you are?
No movie queens nor a rock star
You don't fly in from LA
You don't even have a card to pay
No Damien's, No Brad. No Suze.
Pack up your dreams kids,
Born to lose.
Like a load of buckets to the factory gate
Where we'll have to stand and stand and wait
He is not Wonka, he's not your friend,
This Charlie gets nothing in the end.
So looks like we might not get in,
Stare them down kids, take ours to him.
Banksy Inc. has made these choices,
But they can't silence all our voices.
Helllooooooo Banksy?
Are you there?
Going to show these kids you care?
Open up those hallowed portals
For this lot of mere mortals?
They've brought stuff they want to show
It's really very good you know
Because they made it from the heart
Not for a calendar of street art
You know? Like how you used to be?
Before they showed you on TV.
They protest about stuff for reals,
And soon be snapping at the heels
Of all the London folk in there
Sell for a million but pretend they care.
Come on Banksy they'll be good
Take their selfies like they should.
Come on Banksy, just be nice,
They'll snap up all your merchandise
And shuffle round the park like drones
Take out pocket money loans.
Listen kids, this isn't working,
Banksy's in his rolls and shirking,
We don't need to storm the walls
We can show them we've got *****
By standing here and giving free
What they've all spent five quid to see.
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 3:47 PM UTC
All the morbid sad poems
Are like little wicked gnomes
Gnawing at my ankles
Beckoning my downfall
Their little beady eyes
Glare hungrily at me
But who am I to stop them
When I can hardly flee
Maybe I should swing a left
Try a new approach
Kick the buggers in their teeth
And go out on a shopping spree
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
When you see
the colorful little buggers flying,
it's somewhat comical,
almost amusing,
as if God gave
these winged creatures
the prettiest array of feathers,
the most beautiful beak,
on the planet.
But they pay for it,
it's huge,
it's so doggone heavy
they can't keep
their headsup
in flight.
Well,
maybe that's not funny,
they could hit
somebody
or something,
knock themselves out!
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 7:15 AM UTC
Here's the story told to me about our glorious infantry.
Louts,rapscallions,friends battalions
arm in arm and full of glee
marching off to join the infantry.
In the rear lines drinking fine wines,hock,moselle,some burgundy
and some drinking ginseng flavoured tea from some far flung idea of Empire
while only half a mile along the road the whole world was on fire,
were the fat arsed generals with their horses, waiting on their second courses,
crepes and franzipans and to a man they didn't care that the war was waiting there,
'let the ******** wait',they'd say,
after all that was the gentlemanly way.
The bullets striped us left to right and falling into our own falling ***** we'd call for mum and dad
aye lads
aye lads
war is bad
but for the buggers at the rear who never so much as once came near the sound of a gun,
war was fun a chance to socialise,
society is full of lies and leaders they were not.
But death's got their number on his shell,they'll soon be joining us in hell,
so ****** them and sod the lot
were in a spot,we'll not get home,splintered bone and mangled limb and corporal thinks it's still a sin to swear
well ****** him as well,we no longer care.
As we share a final smoke,Johnny tells his favourite joke about three generals and some place called,but I forget the punch line as the time has come for one more bullet,one more gun and silence.
In Croydon,Roydon and North of Watford Gap,families are spoon fed some wholesome krap from drip fed Sergeants,battle,shield and argent,honour King and all the other little things that the senselessness of death brings home.
Let them keep their fields filled full with glory,we know the ***** **** filled story,
war is bad
war is bad
I'm glad that I cant fight no more.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:32 AM UTC
Blokes in the bar sure do say some weird stuff
Like "love to **** her ******* and eat her ****
Seem to have animals on their mind all the while
"I'd like to see her ***** or do her doggy style"
What does all that mean? I'd really love to know
And how does a woman have a nice Camel Toe?
If a woman comes close and she's a real **** one
One of them may say "I'd like to give the ferret a run"
A bloke went to the toilet seemed quite annoyed
Said he was gonna shake hands with the unemployed
"You mean syphon the python" asked one of the men
"Not really, just shake hands with the wives best friend"
He said he wanted a ***** to his wife late last night
"Gee mate you shoulda seen it, I had a mongrel alright"
Apparently she said "no" and he threatened to leave her
Said he wasn't hanging around if he didn't get any ******
Fred said his wife was gorgeous and he had always adored
But lately she was off *** didn't want any more pork sword
Frank's wife was the same and she hardly left the cottage
Would never let Frank touch her or play hide the sausage
Max, reckoned he'd nearly had more than a man could take
Couldn't get near the missus with his one eyed trouser snake
As for Gerard, He said "think my wife's taking me for a sucker"
"Told me to keep away with the blue veined custard chucker"
A **** dark woman walked past, Marty said "I'd give her a ride"
The barman just laughed and mumbled "they are all pink inside"
Jack joined in saying "leave it alone Marty or you'll get blisters"
"Besides, if you turn them upside down they're definitely sisters"
In the bar I heard a bloke say "I'd give her the old Wham Bam"
"Sure would like to get the old love muscle up her bearded clam"
As the bar closed Jerry joked " If the flags are up at my place"
"I'll put my ***** between her ***** give her a pearl necklace"
All these men laugh and joke as the barman says to the group
"You buggers won't get any because you'll have brewers droop"
As I finish my wine and leave someone says "on ya bike ya miser"
Do you know what they are on about? because I'm none the wiser
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
"I'm a father, and I don't do a few things.
A father doesn't babysit his kids,
what are you part time?
Wake up, if your thinking this,
your not father material
your a ***** bank for hire.
I don't get drunk in-front of my kids,
you slurring your words.
Anger making you lash out.
That's a problem, you see
love is kindness, not anger and grief.
"I'm a father and I do a few things right.
A father reads to his kids, imagination
ignited in little minds.
"ROAR" went the dino baby as
it showed mummy and daddy
its new voice that it found.
Trees trembled and the earth
did jump for this little dino
showed off the voice
"ROAR" it never knew it had.
A father looks after them when there sick.
Team mummy and daddy.
Snooty Maggie,
that's mummies section.
Green little monsters popping out of noses,
slim trails on white tissues, so gross.
Buggers make daddy heave.
Pukky Pedro,
now this is daddies area.
scrap the chunks,
clean the sheets, give them a shower.
Now get the bucket, that rests next to the
little ones bed.
Sleep my baby, mummy and daddy are close.
A father is meant to show love,
don't be a part timer.
Were meant to be proud of what we have or had
with the love of our life.
We created someone,
who will bring a smile to eithers face just with a look.
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 7:28 AM UTC
.oh look, i can take a screen-shot... so i don't appear as some rambling internet lunatic... sorry about the outcome of what my original ought to have looked like... out of my Pontius' hands... just like a retired person doesn't understand mobile phones... me and a.i.? can we go back to when i could have understood Dunkirk?!
ever notice this?
the NPC meme...
see the transformation
when you insert...
eyebrows?
\ /
. .
/_
_
oh look, a rabbit?!
volatile buggers...
listen...
what?!
i didn't say anything!
i couldn't get the angle right...
does vvvv or wwwww
represent a grrr: of frustration
of clenched teeth?
let's see...
\ /
. .
/_
_
satan! oh, hey bro, thanks
for coming...
\ /
. .
/_
vvvv
**** that's not going to work...
you can't craft memes using
letters, letters are too complicated
for a meme...
you need the reserve bank of
punctuation and "punctuation"
markers...
****
my bad...
you know... the nights that i spend
listening to music,
and not listening to alt. media
commentators?
SLOUGH, S'LOW,
SL'OH....
the hours pass, slow...
if they ever translate...
oh look... 'ere one...
'ere one for the memes...
__
ΙΧΘΥΣ ιχθυς / __ /|
|__ |/
kevin & perry go large...
what?
*big fish, little fish,
cardboard box*?
don't know the dance routine?
it's a ******* classic...
a bit like the Sheryl Crow
debut album.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 10:23 PM UTC
She didn’t want the feelings anymore.
She didn’t want the lingering sadness after a short high of happiness.
She didn’t want the questions eating her up at night.
She didn’t want the worry of what she was and what she wasn’t.
She didn’t want to wonder if she was doing things right or completely wrong.
She didn’t want to be the home to violent hate for herself
but the same home to a vibrant and gentle love for him.
She had to get it all out.
She needed to reach down and take all that was within and put it outside of her.
She needed to **** what was in her.
She needed to purge all of the bad that was disguised as good.
These pretty butterflies fluttering through her belly had to leave.
Her stomach and her throat and her heart were no longer their flying grounds.
First, a few fingers reached
but didn’t get the job done.
Then a forceful full hand with nails full of flesh and blood tried to make its way to the creepy little critters that made her stomach tickle with sadistic love
but to no avail.
Finally, a full hand and half a forearm tore through the esophagus and the stomach lining.
At last, she could get them all out.
She sat hung over the toilet with a satisfying pain
that a pretty devil told her was the only way to get the buggers out,
the feelings out.
Slumped over the toilet,
she noticed there was a sweet and sour twinge of numbness dressed up as happiness running through her mind.
Hundreds of dead, black, sad butterflies floated at the top of the toilet.
They were all out.
She didn’t have the feelings anymore.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC
Mr Finn wrote
on the blackboard
about 1066.
I sat watching
what he wrote
in his neat hand.
The Battle of Hastings
was underlined
in red chalk.
I'd been
to Hastings once
with my grandparents
sat on the beach
with bucket and *****
and ice cream
the hot
orange sun
in the sky.
King Harold
got an arrow
in his eye
the teacher
had written.
I tried to imagine that
bad enough getting
a fly in the eye
or piece of grit
but an arrow
O ****
I mused.
William the Conqueror
won the battle
brought the Normans
with him I read.
Dennis next to me
whispered there are
some Normans
up our street
tough buggers
he said.
One of the sisters
is on the game
my mother said
Dennis informed.
I tried to guess
the game
that sister played
but gave up
maybe rounders
or netball
I mused.
The teacher stood
by the blackboard
and talked
about the battle
the weapons used
the numbers killed
and what
happened after.
Dennis talked on
in an undertone
of the Norman mother
slept apparently
with her husband's
brother.
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 10:04 AM UTC
It’s very nice in Heaven
Very gentle underfoot,
God’s temple is so icy calm
And that’s conservatively put.
There’s three flags at the gateway
They’re there to set the pace,
Hebrew blue and Moslem green
Under Christ’s bewhiskered face.
Hindu’s have got a leg in
And Zen for Zen’s sake’s there,
But the Proddies and the Catliks
Are in dispute as to what is fair.
Amazing how they bicker,
The Proddies and the Micks
You’d think in time they’d sort it out
Take the Irish…Silly ******
Getting back to Heaven…
The golden pathways there
With avenues of crystal gems
To welcome you upstairs.
And high above a shining light
Burning in the sky,
Which symbolizes passion,
I suppose, or pigs that fly?
This symbolic high Heaven stuff
Is very hard to read,
It could be ornamental
Or perhaps, exactly what you need.
One thing’s very certain though,
When you glide into this place,
It pays to have a solemn look
Of seriousness on your face.
They don’t like silly buggers
Who joke and act the fool,
Commitment is the keyword
And the Bible is the tool.
Confusing when you get there
You’re read the riot act
And threatened with damnation
If with the Devil you’ve made a pact.
The heavy condemnation
The steely searching eye
And then the tome of absolution
Because He loves you, so must I ?
So think upon it brother
If you think you cut the cloth,
Then walk right up and wing it
With the Angels, like a moth.
But should you have your doubts
I suggest a quickish about face
And leg it with the villains
To that other warmish place.
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
28 April 2009
Feb 8, 2010
Feb 8, 2010 at 4:27 PM UTC
For an age I stared at that heron
my camera poised ready to prove
that if you stare long enough at a heron
the awkward buggers just will not move.
But the moment you put down your camera
and move your eye line a little to one side
the sod takes off while you’re not looking
and there’s loads of loud groans in the hide.
©Joe Wilson – The Unmoving Heron! 2014
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 5:12 PM UTC
It was the day after
JFK got blown away
and Judith saw Benedict
briefly after work
outside the gas station
where he worked.
Shame about the President,
she said, I quite liked him.
Yes, ****** Benedict said,
why do they do that?
Why blow away a good man
When there are plenty
of bad buggers to blow out.
Judith looked up at the moon;
her coat was buttoned up
tight to keep out the cold.
How are you? she asked.
Benedict gazed at her.
So so, bored with the job,
**** gas and oil and all that
moaning from the customers.
It comes with the territory,
she said. Apart from that then?
she said. He smelt her perfume;
it was different from her usual.
New scent? She smiled. Yes,
glad you noticed, she said.
Bought it from my own money
instead of having to borrow
my mother’s. That other stuff
was your mother’s? Yes, she said.
God, no wonder it was bad, he said.
She hit his arm. Only joking he said.
How can I tell with you? she said.
When I smile, then I’m joking.
She sniffed the air. Frost coming.
He looked at her walking beside him,
her hands in her pockets, her headscarf
on her head, her hair escaping,
the moonlight catching it.
Cold? he asked, I know how we
can get warm. Not tonight and not
how it went before, she said.
Shame, he said, the moon’s out full
and the stars are bright.
Do you love me? she asked.
Of course I do, he said.
Then wait, she said.
He wanted to hold her hand,
but it was shoved in her pocket.
Can I kiss you? he asked.
She stopped by the roadside.
The hedgerows were like
small dark walls, trees stood
like silent giants. She took out
her hands and held him close
and they kissed. It was the first time
they’d kissed in a while, he
recalled the time before, her lips had
pressed lightly then, half not wanting
to, half unsure. He sensed her lips
there, the pressing was firm, her
warmth warmed him. He held her
about the waist, wanted to touch
her skin, her nakedness. Their
lips parted. They stood looking
at each other. He saw her eyes
catch moonlight, tears reflected.
She sensed a growing apart, she’d met
another, at work, in the town,
wasn’t sure where it would go.
Benedict sensed uncertainty there,
something out of place,
a connection loosened, despite the kiss
and hold. The darkening night,
the biting of the cold.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 2:12 AM UTC
only English has disgraced itself, as a language,
it didn't learn from it's other Latin
orthographers, whether french or german,
just didn't learn from them,
i mean, English, the language,
could have started improving its style,
its orthography, adding accents, here and there,
improving elocution, it's worth the
particulars in harbours, ironically it isn't
a universal language, there are no universal
instances in using it, there are plenty
of particular instance that do require stresses
and other such involvements,
but the six brothers dreamed up too much
technology prior, the Grand Father of the Empire
split the cabbage patch between the five brothers:
gave much to the American son,
much also to the Australian son,
much also to the Canadian,
the South Africa got a part of Europe from the 1940s,
the Caribbean son received a pretty sunset,
the English son got ****** in the ***
and given what the newspapers are covering
i'm really sceptical while only children migrants
are welcomed... ********** the tournament
of who can shove an ice-cube into a teenagers
*** to make **** *********** seem cool?
really sceptical while the prime minister only
wants children... come, you following-up
the hot topics in british journalism?
but like i said, the one chance the English language
had to improve itself, to succumb to the
judgement of the preservation of the Latin via
a - z was to add diacritical marks, instead the internet
emerged and we simply got an Eaton mess...
look how mishandled English is among the young!
omni acronym omni short-script,
omni dyslexia,
lazy lazy buggers... while the Germans are fiercely compounding,
Rindfleischetikettierungsueberwachungsau
(law delegating beef label monitoring) - now let's
do some syllable surgery on it to get a tennis ball
bouncing rhythm:
rind' fleische' tikettierung' sueber' wachungsau' -
or thereabouts in Pomerania - and the French
such hark rather than trill Rs and produce excess
spelling via tongue ties upon tongue ties
(every time i hear it i just hear bubbly blue
bubbly blue bue bue and Moulin Rouge cancan) -
English is shrapnel, empty pistachio shells in comparison,
and yet still the internet proved how ugly
things became... *** LOL (e.g.); and yet i'm
finding it the most effective language for volume.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 4:37 AM UTC
I swat futilely at the moth
whose larvae happily eat
my bedroom carpet
here for my nightly ritual
antacid
teeth clean
bed
suddenly I wonder
at my own mortality
where is this all going
then I smell it again
odour of rancid sweat
only in one small area
but no mistake
it feels as though the moths
and someone have unfinished
business here
a carpet to eat
a life not long enough
to achieve everything
still hanging on
not quite ready to leave
so maybe we never have enough time
to be satisfied
still, no heartburn tonight
and my breath is minty fresh
(I can almost hear those buggers chewing
as I go to sleep)
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 2:00 PM UTC
twenteesventh.
you write of dismembered leaves,
enhaloed lust(wtf)
pains too sweet because they’re youthfully incomplete,
using incontrovertible idiocies like
dry rain droplets shining like sunlight,
edible goodbye cheerios,
edible didactics, teaching “frosted flakys”
poetic methadone methodology,
poems hats with rhyming lyrics
that taste like that burnt eyelids colored
a blood stained mustard yellow, (yum),
beyond burger veggie based satyrs,
the happy gladness of sadness,
reversible rivers flowing heavenwards,
***** ******* you want an
infernal cataclysm...
really?
dechambered hearts, ventricular mysteries,
brains wearing wooly sport jacket helmets
and other Olsonian beauties,
like I write with succinct passion,
me, who gets eaten alive by buggers saying
“too long,” “too long,” “needed a mid-poem napt”
non-lexical non-commonsensical ecumenical hysterical
chemical verbal reactionaries
and then you wonder why
PEOPLE ******* HATE POETRY?
jes kiddin’ a leetle
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 3:48 PM UTC
The gramps today feels somnolent
My gardens eminence is overseeing the weeds
A good cutting for the high grass today
Pesticides to get the bugs high
As I will spray spray spray
And **** those bugs away.
Languid little creepy-crawly's
Will get smallie
And fallie
Down the hole I created for them.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 11:04 AM UTC
The authorities can authorise as much as they please but they have no authority over me.
it's the rule of austerity
It's a dog eat dog and if you're down on your luck,you might as well **** on it,they don't give a **** and once you've feasted on failure it don't hurt a bit,
and a pound in your purse is as much of a curse as no money at all,you want to buy this,you want to buy that but you ain't got a bit of food in your flat.
'Live off the fat of the land',
like those buggers in Whitehall who sit on their hands and yet still have hands free, as they wave them around to try and authorise me.
And in those ivory towers the powers that be who think of roast beef and not about me,carry on, as if it's all tickety boo,
but you know,it was never like that as you sit in your flat with no food,the TV shows a riot,you should think why not try it and you're becoming unglued,
falling to bits and it's them effing ***** what's to blame.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC