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In India pongal is the best festival
It is not a mere ritual
We celebrate it in January
It is very very customary
It lasts for three days
Bhogi,sankranti and kanuma are the days.
On the first day we have a holy bath
Thinking that it sets us on the right path
Early in the morning we sit around the bhogi fire
Thinking it is the demon Ravana’s pyre
We put on a new and attractive attire
Dreaming life is a joyful boat shire
Children make wreaths of cowdung
Throw them into the fire like a gold ring
The villages are full of colourful bullocks
We sing folk songs taking neem sticks
The bride groom leaves for the mother-in-law’s house
The bride waits for him wearing a new saree and a blouse
Father-in-law gives the groom a costly gift
Mother-in-law makes a sumptuous feast
Younger sister-in-law teases the groom
The bride and the groom confine to the room
Mother prepares delicious dishes and pickles
Father goes to the farm worshipping the sickles
On the last day we go to the temple fair
I hope I made the happy pongal very clear
Yours sincerely,
JVL NARASIMHA RAO
Old Deuteronomy’s lived a long time;
He’s a Cat who has lived many lives in succession.
He was famous in proverb and famous in rhyme
A long while before Queen Victoria’s accession.
Old Deuteronomy’s buried nine wives
And more—I am tempted to say, ninety-nine;
And his numerous progeny prospers and thrives
And the village is proud of him in his decline.
At the sight of that placid and bland physiognomy,
When he sits in the sun on the vicarage wall,
The Oldest Inhabitant croaks: “Well, of all …
Things… Can it be … really! … No!… Yes!…
**! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My mind may be wandering, but I confess
I believe it is Old Deuteronomy!”

Old Deuteronomy sits in the street,
He sits in the High Street on market day;
The bullocks may bellow, the sheep they may bleat,
But the dogs and the herdsmen will turn them away.
The cars and the lorries run over the kerb,
And the villagers put up a notice: ROAD CLOSED—
So that nothing untoward may chance to distrub
Deuteronomy’s rest when he feels so disposed
Or when he’s engaged in domestic economy:
And the Oldest Inhabitant croaks: “Well, of all …
Things… Can it be … really! … No!… Yes!…
**! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My sight’s unreliable, but I can guess
That the cause of the trouble is Old Deuteronomy!”

Old Deuteronomy lies on the floor
Of the Fox and French Horn for his afternoon sleep;
And when the men say: “There’s just time for one more,”
Then the landlady from her back parlour will peep
And say: “New then, out you go, by the back door,
For Old Deuteronomy mustn’t be woken—

I’ll have the police if there’s any uproar”—
And out they all shuffle, without a word spoken.
The digestive repose of that feline’s gastronomy
Must never be broken, whatever befall:
And the Oldest Inhabitant croaks: “Well, of all …
Things… Can it be … really! … No!… Yes!…
**! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My legs may be tottery, I must go slow
And be careful of Old Deuteronomy!”

Of the awefull battle of the Pekes and the Pollicles:
together with some account of the participation of the
     Pugs and the Poms, and the intervention of the Great
     Rumpuscat

The Pekes and the Pollicles, everyone knows,
Are proud and implacable passionate foes;
It is always the same, wherever one goes.
And the Pugs and the Poms, although most people say
That they do not like fighting, yet once in a way,
They will now and again join in to the fray
And they
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.

Now on the occasion of which I shall speak
Almost nothing had happened for nearly a week
(And that’s a long time for a Pol or a Peke).
The big Police Dog was away from his beat—
I don’t know the reason, but most people think
He’d slipped into the Wellington Arms for a drink—
And no one at all was about on the street
When a Peke and a Pollicle happened to meet.
They did not advance, or exactly retreat,
But they glared at each other, and scraped their hind
     feet,
And they started to
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.

Now the Peke, although people may say what they please,
Is no British Dog, but a Heathen Chinese.
And so all the Pekes, when they heard the uproar,
Some came to the window, some came to the door;
There were surely a dozen, more likely a score.
And together they started to grumble and wheeze
In their huffery-snuffery Heathen Chinese.
But a terrible din is what Pollicles like,
For your Pollicle Dog is a dour Yorkshire tyke,
And his braw Scottish cousins are snappers and biters,
And every dog-jack of them notable fighters;
And so they stepped out, with their pipers in order,
Playing When the Blue Bonnets Came Over the Border.
Then the Pugs and the Poms held no longer aloof,
But some from the balcony, some from the roof,
Joined in
To the din
With a
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.

Now when these bold heroes together assembled,
That traffic all stopped, and the Underground trembled,
And some of the neighbours were so much afraid
That they started to ring up the Fire Brigade.
When suddenly, up from a small basement flat,
Why who should stalk out but the GREAT RUMPUSCAT.
His eyes were like fireballs fearfully blazing,
He gave a great yawn, and his jaws were amazing;
And when he looked out through the bars of the area,
You never saw anything fiercer or hairier.
And what with the glare of his eyes and his yawning,
The Pekes and the Pollicles quickly took warning.
He looked at the sky and he gave a great leap—
And they every last one of them scattered like sheep.

And when the Police Dog returned to his beat,
There wasn’t a single one left in the street.
K Balachandran Jan 2013
A rain cloud, I was
in one of my incarnations,
heavy and pregnant with water,
it was proud,
billowing, adorned with
lightening's golden thread,
it poured in torrents,
with roars of thunder,
then sped through the fields,
that became fertile,
farmers with their ploughs
and bullocks came out,
the fields were bright green
with dancing rice saplings

Some other time
I was an ecstatic  bulbul,
mango blooms told me amorous tales,
I voiced each in  snorous ghazals,
The rice fields were ripe,
musky scent was ******,
Women came in waves
and harvested the rice,
their songs were on romance,
ardent love and parting
hearing the bulbul
they perfected their singing.

A long time ago
I was a goat's kid,
I sprang around and danced
in the harvested field,
the cloud wanted to pet me
but she was so far,
bulbl sung a special tune
for me for a while
Looking at the green grass
on the other side of the fence
I would think wistfully,
what life would bring.
Jataka literarily means horoscope;, the term is more famous as the fables chronicling Buddha's past lives
Ken Pepiton Aug 2018
The fire knows nothing but burning,
we know breathing that way, naturally done for
our own sake.
We old still know sake and grant mean true immaterial things.
Sake and granted we take to mean

my good, your good, good sake grant me take me con

mentis sans carne

by golly.

Dada-esque wire spoke far writing ease
e everything e-literate e-mail

---
the boinin' in d'boozum, dat be da ting, da ting con sum in all ya'lifes.
be knowin' dat, be knowin' a-dam lie.
Jah know y'know, don' be sayin' no y'don'

Be happy. Jah know haps be hap'nin' allatime. *** sum, take wha's granted,
take all fo' free.

You got nothin' t'boin, nothin' to oin, be a bird brain seein' stars fo'

no. birds be sleepin' when stars be seen so birds consider nothin', sidereally.

Hmmm. Quit?
Walk away, say, I got nought to say I ought t' say.
No way.

Temporary tempt-test-u-us sitchee-ations,
suffer it so. It don' hurt t'say no f'now so

How'd that that shiny critter know my game? How'd it know,

I think
thisaway and it is gone, forever. (which has begun, btw)

-----

The biosphere is regaining consciousness, Capitan.
Shall we continue burning?


What's the bullocks count?
How did those Dada ideas survive this long? Or are they gone, such non-sane suggestions, fountains of living waters flushed to oblivion?
Isabella OBrien Jan 2013
I intently studied this nauseating flirtatious jive
shared badger from you to me of our relationship already framed and fitted
we never fell asleep at decent hours, ****** dry
we were just another product of society
we questioned the reality of a world never belonging to one
so to be swayed in the music cold, taking it upon ourselves to never hold our heads too low
we connected the tissues past pure plentiful parking spaces
I saw it happen to us, taken over by fixation
letting words fall from my *** into the world where you stood bewildered, courageous lark it was, you made me into girlish shrieks
expecting a slight coldness from you I decided to sulk eating the dust
I attracted my own thoughts remaining unhappy as you were oblivious our chosen concrete pathways: the negative.
Child, as we were envisioning snow angel memories
hallucination, love, courting to a distant yield.
Child, a rush of adulterate naked plea
who wandered busy streets grasping mace and typewriter keys
make fun with your water bottles I'll dedicate a song to you
Child, salting your French tongue we shall fall apart only once we lie beneath the ground curtaining our once frenzy shell
Child, who put her ******* to the air as she wrapped her ******* with bandage
wearing those skinny jeans a hipster queen lenses in front of her face never did a thing
Child, make away with a masculine feverish clean your witch hands do graze his bare skin
Child, who broke glass bottles on her head to prove she was real, grew lady ***** as they were called
in an effort to uncover what happened to the corners in a circular prism
bid farewell your worrisome thoughts of homicidal suicide
Child, scare the stop signs, the fragility of your former state has asthmatically fallen
do not break me in half though your capable eyes do trace the outline of my body and feel my bone hidden beneath thin skin and weak muscle, veins of blue
Child, who tore out the steeping cool of a farfetched acid tripped visionary iconic lie crucifying their  dirt stained bare feet to welcome pain, a hello name,
Child, who blasted **** yo couch into their ****** distilment we have nothing to lose let poured
down CO2 fill my lungs as I readily lie hiding from herb grace o’Sundays
oxytocin expelled from our uteri we turned our back on the slight touch of pale skinned parts
skipped meals skipped beats my heart weak fluttering grows strong with the running of my fingers in
your fresh cut hair
they questioned my appetite, whispered missing, she never met the standard, they had forgotten
we let ourselves become our own nonconformists but we never admitted to it
we yelled Bullocks at those who threw us into a status quo social movements mainstream.
craving to be old fashioned, we lowered the skirts in our mind and forgot to swat the message that
our ******* made us inferior
Futures of Singularity we were scared of an age of machinery
tossing our new cameras flat screens cellular devices iproducts we read books and intelligence floated above us.
Martin Narrod May 2017
Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weigh the bricks of suicides, concrete block tourniquets from the migraines of English turnabouts. So there's some surplus of surprise in them, in an integers shock-appraisal face-lift on Catholicism's lobotomy to cuckhold housewives seeking collagen, or the thick dark-skinned forearm-******* insider's swinging in the houses of the denizens, or repurposing their malign from their unused vaginas, to **** the dust off such scab-covered stitches, which is like vacuuming between the loose inner-leg space of a succubus.

Bring out the gimp! Any fetishized leather-wearing hungry miner for the oral tongue-slapping mouth-dance might do, as long as the dom can subdue that sub tied to the stocks voted on for the public to use, there might be screaming, squirming, and scoffs, but there's nothing left for him that Marina Abramowicz hasn't already proven she's willing to lose. Plus, in this small town not far enough from Laramie, there's still too much fat to chew through, too much flab to tuck the **** into, where even the F.U.P.A. so deep that a *******-day or deity might need the leverage of a boot to get even Ron Jeremy's **** unglued.

Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.
Ryan Gabrish Apr 2013
Less ‘ave a spot of fun, shall we?
Sumfin fun to do in ma spare time fo no particula reason,
An’ I like ta share it wif you.

Drop the T’s and pronounce yeh U’s like ew’s
Enunciation is key on heavy consonant words.
Forget practicality an be silly wif it.
Pretending fo a moment,
That there is a glob of peana butta,
On the ref of  yeh mouf.

****** ell and bullocks only take it so far,
Yew must remain natural wif towne
But, simply mumble mimzy’s
Followed by ratulsnakes ‘n’ wota fawllls.

Tha best practice comes wif accenting ull day.
An than ull tha kids will think its ace!
Dowent get aggro, jus ease into it.
An fa ***** sake its Herb not erb.
Randhir kaur Sep 2016
With your satiny hairs,
You amble without a normal foot.
But with a pristine look,
Your big eyes shines luminously.
Dear, Maybe people call you a handicap,
I call those bullocks a madcap.
Interestingly, what, I am a handicap mentally, here I reveal.
Everyday I fight inside the close door when night falls.
A few days ago your eyes have cried a lot,
Let me clear here, you are a daring person.
It gives me a reason to fight with his servants openly.
You are a bizarre, I don't know you Monica Sharma.
Though we did not shook our hands at all,
But whenever these eyes squints you,
A new story creates a History...
Its very weird we do not know each other but still can relate my past with you and your name itself was a blow to me. This write is not for sympathy but my respect towards you of what you are. Though you are not different but extraordinarily different in your swag.
Kisi apne ki yaad dilati hain aap..
Dani Cunningham Jun 2011
Once we lived in a steam-punk wedding cake

the walls tasted like crème cheese icing

everywhere dripped chocolate rust

wheels and gears- pumping out bliss

the house would tick us to sleep

a quiet tock that snuck into our hearts

we beat together-our 3 tiered home and us

and we hung pictures of mixed historical value

the first time someone held our hands

the names of flowers we invented

and the towers twinned together- breathing in city air



Once we lived in a steam-punk wedding cake

The universe kissed our toes

In our rose petal beds

As we nibbled our marshmallow pillows

And greeted the cooler side with the grip of tiny fingers

We wore silly hats

And talked in accents no one could identify

We made our own curse words

That sounded more magical then rude

And we hung pictures of mixed historical meaning

Cartoons from before nickelodeon was bullocks

Our middle names in Braille

And the Kennedys on their wedding day



Once we lived in a steam-punk wedding cake

The home of chocolate fortitude

Where some days we wouldn’t turn on a light switch

And let the candles guide our imaginations

Down dark tunnels and secret gardens

There was never any hunger

Tears only came from happiness

We made capes out of our bed sheets

Chased each other under beds and hid in closets

Peeking out because being caught was our goal

And we hung pictures of mixed understanding

The 8 dirtiest jokes found in ancient art

That day when the sun felt like it would never stop playing with the moon

The day we stood still long enough to know the color of our eyes and the outline of our toes on wet grass
Martin Narrod May 2017
Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weight some surprise them, in an integers shock-appraisal. Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.
Beth Ann Burford May 2013
The beauty of evil is the good that transcends it.
We are not victims, we are survivors.

You are a canvas.
Personality paints your eyes red and your heart blue.

Nothing more than a mortal shell.
Bullocks.
Everything we adore is harbored in the backs of our eyes.

Blink.
Matt Mar 2016
I watched
Those ex-military Brits
Go on an expedition

They climbed Mandela
A 15,000 foot mountain
In New Guinea

They had to travel
Into unexplored territory

They were there
On a tourist passport

Even the local tribes
Could not give them too much
Information
About where
They were going

They found
Four or five porters
From a local village

One kind hearted man
They named him "Superman"

He spoke one of the dialects
Of The first tribe they encountered

They spotted boys across
The river
Picking berries

And then the elders came
They explained to these tribal leaders
Their mission

They told them to leave their land
Or they would be dead in the morning

They were moving into unchartered territory
The cannibalism had stopped completely in some
Of the tribes in the 50's
Others still maintained that practice into the 70's

They journeyed farther into the jungle
Heavy packs

And they had to carry two sets of gear
One for the jungle
And one for the mountain terrain

Hardy Brits they were
Rugged too!

One a retired Royal Marine
Who was more accustomed
To carrying a heavy pack

The other a retired tank commander
They had been on many expeditions together

One suffered from a type of trenchfoot
Oh the wet conditions!
And leeches too were a nuisance

They left most of their food at
A storage dump
And took four days supply
As they scouted ahead
They were down to just nine bananas

Only the local "Superman"
Would accompany them
Were they were going
The other porters stayed

They came across a family
In a house on stilts
In the middle of the jungle

And my you should have seen
The look of shock on their eyes
As they peered down on those Brits!

They were tapping their heads
And pointing to the sky

The coming of the white man
Their guide told them
That to them this could mean
The end of the world

The Brits and their guide
Mimicked their gestures
And bowed to them on their knees
To show they meant no harm

One villager in the home
Pointed a bow
At one of our courageous travelers

They decided it was best to turn back
Better not to end up as part
Of the evening stew after all

They finally reached the foot of the mountain
And the porters were not sure
If these men had the strength
To summit the 15,000 foot mountain

They were weary from making their way
Through the jungle
The struggling with heavy packs

The porters had often built bridges
Out of sticks
To help them cross streams

And they described what a simple
Type of living it was
Their comrades the porters
Helped them accomplish the task

And enjoyed helping them too

They did reach the summit
And one shouted, "bullocks"
Just for the fun of it

They had grown beards
And had lost quite a bit of weight

One proclaimed
He knew he would be there one day
After seeing Mandela Mountain
On a map

Thank you for filming your journey
This one was en expedition
For the ages

Bless you and your comrades

For you are
The Brits
Who Braved Mandela Mountain
shaqila Jan 2013
Why can’t blue be blue instead of signifying sadness, calm, the ocean, bla, bla, bla
A thorn among the roses is a thorn among the roses
Why should it be a misplaced identity or an unwelcomed companion?
And why the hell does the crow have such a bad entanglement
As a messenger of death
When a crow is a crow is a crow
But wait, you say
This is stuff of Poetry, is it not?
Ooooh Bullocks, Poetry!!
An apple is an apple and not the forbidden fruit of Eden!!
Anna Zagerson Dec 2012
Such ordinary lives
Such ordinary paths
The Sandlers and Bullocks are all such you’s and me’s
Ordinary kisses with ordinary loves
Ordinary divorces from ordinary unloveds
Ordinary kids setting up ordinary traps
For ordinary folks who moved ordinarily too fast
Through their ordinary youths to get to their ordinary futures.
Sarah Q S Nov 2015
My friend Ed said,
"we're pals
I'd rather we remain that way,"
I said, "I feel rejected now,"
He said," Bullocks,
It's better that way",
I said, "*******,
But yes, I know it's better."

It's too late now
I've fallen for my friend Ed.
His smile makes me want to drop my knickers
When he sings
I'm aroused
I'm lost in wild territory
Running with the wolves
Hungry
To taste you
Drink you
Touch you
Smell you
Lick you
Again.
Come back to suckle my breast's
Touch my skin
Kiss me
Explore me again.

He is my friend Ed
Who want's to be pals
because, " it's better that way,"
Last train
what a pain
Someone sick on the platform,
Someone got no style or panache.

I watched them dash hell for leather and whether that made them sick I don't know, but I think they should go by bus, no fuss then, busses come when they want to and if they want to spew
let them.

It made me late
Only slightly though
and if they puke I don't
look,
that would be impolite.

I'll get home tonight at some time, put the kettle on and smoke a rhyme or just write a smoky line,
but it won't make me sick
make me pick on my scabs or grab a granny or bottle,
a glass of wine I could throttle right now.

This last train's a cow
full of bullocks and bullspit and
people are quite sick at people who puke out their innards while heading Westwards on a downward spiral.

I need antiviral
an
innoculate
to precipitate a
reversal of
fortune.

Nearly home now
Off the mad cow
and feeling
ill at ease.
Alexander Coy Nov 2016
i brush my teeth;
gargle and spit it
towards the sky

if i close my left eye
and squint with the right
i can see our astrology
signs align

i feel you next to me,
nudging against my tumor,
relaxed i submerge myself
in Arabic

there is no pain here,
no past hurts to haunt
the rest of my days
on this earth

and so i bring you
in closer, more closer
than i have ever brought
anyone

and with that,
comes the almighty
fear of God

i pray that we love
each other like
we loved one another
centuries ago...

never mind the
bullocks.
They must have ***** the size of bullocks
but sadly their brains are the size of peanuts,

you can't win them all.
IncholPoem Jan 2019
Sometimes    your
  
time  may  be  bad
for dinner's  Christmas
  pizza.


   Sometimes   flying    birds
may  come  down
to  meet  you after
your  failure n  exam.

Sometimes   rushing  bullocks
may  return from
cultivating  land  to
fight   with   ox  for  ***.



Sometimes   tops may  not
move  on   palm
die   due  to rise
cost  of  palm oil.
Just dug up my Twitter page
Which i'd buried years ago
Like a dog, who'd found a bone
That they didn't want to know

So had a casual look around
To see what i could see
All seems a bit hysterical
And not the thing for me

It's awash with multiple red herrings
And other fishy things
And stuff that falls from bullocks bottoms
And persons that know everything

I twittered, and twattered, and tweeted
But luckily, i did not swear
There seemed to be a few narcissists
But others in despair

So i'll think i'll stick with face-ache
And instagramps as well
As i ponder upon the mysteries
Of planet Earth, on which we all now dwell

by Jemia
Brian Turner Aug 2020
Copter blades awaken me
I start the march to the bus stop
The soldiers march to the safety of the barracks gap

Storytellers abound
The craic is good
We knew, he knew, she knows
Did you hear?

Weather draws in
Wet rain again
Patience is tested
Staring out again

Will it clear?
We have some work to do
Bullocks to dose
Lamb to stew
Memories of growing up in Aughnacloy (It means 'Field of stone' in Irish)
Daan Feb 2019
Who determines what we read
when the medium is the seed
and the message and the plant,
when we feel we scant, we can’t

deliver our intended products.
To be too honest, it is bullocks

to get your knickers in a twist
over this, when this is just for you.
When all you seem to do to you seems just for you,

what are you supposed to do.
What am i supposed to do? I told myself, advised me
to pick my own sense and purpose, when

my service is or turns surplus.
Have you ever felt surplus to yourself?
JaxSpade Apr 2020
She wore green lipstick

I never seen a girl wear it
                    Like thiz b#%!

It was like a green light
                     In my eyes
And I became the traffic
With mine

...We kissed

And all over my face
Was that green shidt

                 She left

My flesh a shade of moss

She was trying to be goth

But I took it all off
With my good mood
And bullocks

She wore green lipstick

     And I split those lips
     With some love
     And a long tongue

                       Vicious

I never seen a girl wear it
Like this b#%!

                   She was delicious
On the other side of the fence

And she sure is a whole lot greener
And well kempt

A little greenage

             Was all I needed
             For a lil

Photosynthesis
Yenson May 2020
So we know they are from
less privileged backgrounds
and not privy to a broader scope of references
with limited mentality and stunted erudite analysis
so lets be kind and help them in this their assigned mission

Let start with pink
and see rainbow delight again
we should not forget the Italian connection
for art for art sake can be triangular or even Cubism
take your pick and don't sully the party with your trust issues

The betrayal angle is good
so that should be layered on sumptuously
Screaming No No Nooo No rudely should be helpful
but the Preachers link and I'll never 'forgive was a wind-up
I confess now, for I knew all I say would be relayed and weaponized

So far so helpful I hope
the thinness bit is childish
the dramatics and power-play politicking is all contrived
there's a kind sensitive soul hidden behind the projected facade
examine things again I had switched off the second it became unreal

This seed of doubt concept
is hogwash with poppycocks and bullocks
the perception assaults is nothing but puerile theater
we're talking Philosopher grade here not John at the pub
anyway hope this helps a little to concentrate your mental harassments

You obviously have
nothing better to do, the gangsters have you in pockets
like I said to her, please make sure you get something out of this
for if I am going to be made a foot soldier for punks and lowlifes
and waste time energy and efforts I'll want more than arms and legs

The thing though is bullies are just talent-less stupid inadequate s
so I wouldn't hold out much hope. break a leg, luveess !!

— The End —