"butties" poems - Hello Poetry

The Lung. The broken bone branches hang heavy off knuckled tree. As cold and uninviting as wrapped meat in cellophane prison cells and those sweating milk bottles left on doorsteps. Women cry with the blackbirds as day breaks, rousing their reluctant nests. As the shadows trawl in from chicken farms and slaughterhouses, across the squalid estates and past a debt collectors party. A ***** drinks his soot like coffee and waits for another years tide to retreat. Holding pith less ambitions and unmentionable qualifications, stewardess pass, uniformed thoughts and averting faces.. The rusty playgrounds sink into the fermenting wood chips, and a plastic bag runs through the scene; only to commit suicide in the oil ribbon canal. The chemical clouds thicken into a duvet of sky whilst arrows of a natural sun run home with tears of fear on their hot faces. Down here the street lights flicker, and the patched uniforms drape off children sick with the flu that hit the school like a plague. Herding like cattle into the classrooms, to learn about the natural world that is most unearthly to there reason. Lunch bells ring from factories and the sky has drained to a sick -off white. The chip shop sells butties with no sauce nor bun, which machine like men guzzle and slurp. The car parks lay stagnant in the distance and pigeons too fat to fly lay droppings on the bronze statue of a crying hero. As the roaring stops from the factories and high visibility coats are hung, the sky bruises and the men fill the pubs, until wives with children hung on washing lines drag there sweat soaked frames to the table, only to indulge them in a row. Night creeps in, bringing with it the hooded figures that flutter along the streets. Music plays from a vacant building and seems to brighten the night. A silhouette is seen standing on the edge, watching the busses bellow run like migrating snails, filled with the elderly and too young. Cigarettes infest the streets creating a carpet of ash and litter. The city survives, remaining grey, never blinking, never heard.

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Sep 20, 2012

Sep 20, 2012 at 6:20 AM UTC

joseph-burley

THE LUNG

The Lung. The broken bone branches hang heavy off knuckled tree. As cold and uninviting as wrapped meat in cellophane prison cells and those sweating milk bottles left on doorsteps. Women cry with the blackbirds as day breaks, rousing their reluctant nests. As the shadows trawl in from chicken farms and slaughterhouses, across the squalid estates and past a debt collectors party. A ***** drinks his soot like coffee and waits for another years tide to retreat. Holding pith less ambitions and unmentionable qualifications, stewardess pass, uniformed thoughts and averting faces.. The rusty playgrounds sink into the fermenting wood chips, and a plastic bag runs through the scene; only to commit suicide in the oil ribbon canal. The chemical clouds thicken into a duvet of sky whilst arrows of a natural sun run home with tears of fear on their hot faces. Down here the street lights flicker, and the patched uniforms drape off children sick with the flu that hit the school like a plague. Herding like cattle into the classrooms, to learn about the natural world that is most unearthly to there reason. Lunch bells ring from factories and the sky has drained to a sick -off white. The chip shop sells butties with no sauce nor bun, which machine like men guzzle and slurp. The car parks lay stagnant in the distance and pigeons too fat to fly lay droppings on the bronze statue of a crying hero. As the roaring stops from the factories and high visibility coats are hung, the sky bruises and the men fill the pubs, until wives with children hung on washing lines drag there sweat soaked frames to the table, only to indulge them in a row. Night creeps in, bringing with it the hooded figures that flutter along the streets. Music plays from a vacant building and seems to brighten the night. A silhouette is seen standing on the edge, watching the busses bellow run like migrating snails, filled with the elderly and too young. Cigarettes infest the streets creating a carpet of ash and litter. The city survives, remaining grey, never blinking, never heard.

11

Conor's got P.E. , so his kit is washed, I've wrapped his butties in foil, so they don't get squashed, Pork Luncheon meat, in a crispy roll, And a carton of Ribena, to fill that hole. Jess starts College at One, so she'll wake at Five - to , Cheese and Pickle, will have to do, I've had my pint of milk, with three Weetabix, Got a Flagon of Cider, all the boxes are ticked. A days grafting ahead, out near Billingshurst, Laying bricks and blocks, building up a thirst, And home to the hungry, back to the shops, It's either Chicken Kievs, or half-price lamb chops. Custard and Pie, hot milky drinks, Then everyones asleep, except for me, who thinks, About tomorrows butties, fruit and snacks, Calories, nutrition, vitamins and facts. Up at dawn, in an old bobble-hat, Making food for them all, even the cat, A tin of Tuna, he's well impressed, Another flagon of Cider, another sweat-stained vest.

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Mar 25, 2016

Mar 25, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC

ap-staunton

All tomorrows Butties

Conor's got P.E. , so his kit is washed, I've wrapped his butties in foil, so they don't get squashed, Pork Luncheon meat, in a crispy roll, And a carton of Ribena, to fill that hole. Jess starts College at One, so she'll wake at Five - to , Cheese and Pickle, will have to do, I've had my pint of milk, with three Weetabix, Got a Flagon of Cider, all the boxes are ticked. A days grafting ahead, out near Billingshurst, Laying bricks and blocks, building up a thirst, And home to the hungry, back to the shops, It's either Chicken Kievs, or half-price lamb chops. Custard and Pie, hot milky drinks, Then everyones asleep, except for me, who thinks, About tomorrows butties, fruit and snacks, Calories, nutrition, vitamins and facts. Up at dawn, in an old bobble-hat, Making food for them all, even the cat, A tin of Tuna, he's well impressed, Another flagon of Cider, another sweat-stained vest.

20

garage tools orbital sander sanding away big it up for the orbital sander getting sand on now now now hear the orbital sander sand away orbital sander orbital sander orbital sander sand sand sand! like his mate the orbital grinder give it a good grind grind away on the go watch that baby grind away orbital grinder orbital grinder orbital grinder grind grind grind! hydraulic ramp going up and down no car is too heavy fantastic hydraulics touch of a button up down up down hydraulic ramp hydraulic ramp hydraulic ramp lift lift lift! laser gig perfectly aligned laser beam on target crash damage repair perfection laser accuracy beyond compare laser gig laser gig laser gig laser laser laser! boss is doing a ******* eppy the tech is too reliable he bosses and bullies his young apprentices about sweep the floor male the brews fetch the butties you ****** slaves boss boss boss!

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Jan 25, 2018

Jan 25, 2018 at 7:02 PM UTC

nickarmbrister

garage tools

garage tools orbital sander sanding away big it up for the orbital sander getting sand on now now now hear the orbital sander sand away orbital sander orbital sander orbital sander sand sand sand! like his mate the orbital grinder give it a good grind grind away on the go watch that baby grind away orbital grinder orbital grinder orbital grinder grind grind grind! hydraulic ramp going up and down no car is too heavy fantastic hydraulics touch of a button up down up down hydraulic ramp hydraulic ramp hydraulic ramp lift lift lift! laser gig perfectly aligned laser beam on target crash damage repair perfection laser accuracy beyond compare laser gig laser gig laser gig laser laser laser! boss is doing a ******* eppy the tech is too reliable he bosses and bullies his young apprentices about sweep the floor male the brews fetch the butties you ****** slaves boss boss boss!

42

Unstable rabble ill in mind, body and soul unfulfilled and desperately unhappy fearful always, insecure, lacking and inadequate skeletons in cupboards, shaming secrets hidden aplenty false, fake, white-washed and all semblance soulless nonentities vacuous sad pathetic weak and academically challenged majority ignorant belligerent bellicose cowards, drunkards n mob shysters rise, rise. rise jump, jump. jump do the twist n put the boot in stand up and bellow you can't loose your chains your self loathing is too great your shame and pains hurt all the time you are reminded of your insignificance always your helplessness and your weaknesses shames you you always have to fake it, scrape, beg, borrow and steal the aggrieved spectators as talents, wealth and the ritzy drive past rise, rise, rise jump, jump, jump do the locomotion and spread the **** scream and shout hurl slander and lies fight like cowards and bully get badass and wicked and mean get ****** angry and get ****** even leave your bacon butties and fry the greedy pigs forget your chips and come chip the brains of the tyrants hogs put down those pints and lets keep this momentum of hate alive so rise, rise, rise jump, jump, jump do the stoning and lets move like Jagger

0

Jun 23, 2019

Jun 23, 2019 at 3:47 AM UTC

yenson

Yea.....its true.....

Unstable rabble ill in mind, body and soul unfulfilled and desperately unhappy fearful always, insecure, lacking and inadequate skeletons in cupboards, shaming secrets hidden aplenty false, fake, white-washed and all semblance soulless nonentities vacuous sad pathetic weak and academically challenged majority ignorant belligerent bellicose cowards, drunkards n mob shysters rise, rise. rise jump, jump. jump do the twist n put the boot in stand up and bellow you can't loose your chains your self loathing is too great your shame and pains hurt all the time you are reminded of your insignificance always your helplessness and your weaknesses shames you you always have to fake it, scrape, beg, borrow and steal the aggrieved spectators as talents, wealth and the ritzy drive past rise, rise, rise jump, jump, jump do the locomotion and spread the **** scream and shout hurl slander and lies fight like cowards and bully get badass and wicked and mean get ****** angry and get ****** even leave your bacon butties and fry the greedy pigs forget your chips and come chip the brains of the tyrants hogs put down those pints and lets keep this momentum of hate alive so rise, rise, rise jump, jump, jump do the stoning and lets move like Jagger

33

Gone are the glory days of jam butties when marmalade was shredded gold and spam pretended to be ham and plum jam tested for a cold. The wireless was our window on the world. The Weekly News and Guardian gave local news, views and reviews. Street chatter made stories that much fatter. That world now reappears to me. But in it I take no part. No good, no bad, no clumsy me, no touch, no sound, no sacred heart-to-heart.

0

Jun 27, 2015

Jun 27, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC

tony-luxton

A Lost World

Gone are the glory days of jam butties when marmalade was shredded gold and spam pretended to be ham and plum jam tested for a cold. The wireless was our window on the world. The Weekly News and Guardian gave local news, views and reviews. Street chatter made stories that much fatter. That world now reappears to me. But in it I take no part. No good, no bad, no clumsy me, no touch, no sound, no sacred heart-to-heart.

12

I was brought up on a council estate, I had 53 aunty's and I was everyones mate, We played out till dark or till we felt hunger, We'd beg mum or dad to let us play longer, I had holes in me shoes but they made me run faster, I had national health glasses held together with plaster, Dried snot on me face mixed in with the dirt, Corporation pop stains all over me skirt, But I was happy, Go of for the day with butties of jam, If we where lucky, some biscuits of me mam, An old fairy liquid bottle full of cold water, There's one we'd always chase, but never ever caught her, We'd make dens in the woods from old boxes and trays, Be princesses in a castle, oh what joyful days, We'd sit in the field, making daisy chains, Play rounders and hido, and loads of games, Run to the mobile for a 10p mix of sweets, Sit on the curly wall at the bottom of our street, Pinch a bunch of flowers from St Gregs ground, And say to mum "honestly they where found", Get grounded for giving cheek or answering back, Walked along the ralla, the old train track, Wait for the icey, all of us in drones, To ask him politely for any stale cones, Played out in the rain, got soaked through and through, Just some of the things we used to do, In those endless summers of my past, That have gone far to fast, But they have made me who I am now, A ****** of Mother and a miserable cow. Haha joking, I'm proud of my childhood, I was very lucky.

0

Jun 1, 2014

Jun 1, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC

christina-ford

Perfect childhood

I was brought up on a council estate, I had 53 aunty's and I was everyones mate, We played out till dark or till we felt hunger, We'd beg mum or dad to let us play longer, I had holes in me shoes but they made me run faster, I had national health glasses held together with plaster, Dried snot on me face mixed in with the dirt, Corporation pop stains all over me skirt, But I was happy, Go of for the day with butties of jam, If we where lucky, some biscuits of me mam, An old fairy liquid bottle full of cold water, There's one we'd always chase, but never ever caught her, We'd make dens in the woods from old boxes and trays, Be princesses in a castle, oh what joyful days, We'd sit in the field, making daisy chains, Play rounders and hido, and loads of games, Run to the mobile for a 10p mix of sweets, Sit on the curly wall at the bottom of our street, Pinch a bunch of flowers from St Gregs ground, And say to mum "honestly they where found", Get grounded for giving cheek or answering back, Walked along the ralla, the old train track, Wait for the icey, all of us in drones, To ask him politely for any stale cones, Played out in the rain, got soaked through and through, Just some of the things we used to do, In those endless summers of my past, That have gone far to fast, But they have made me who I am now, A ****** of Mother and a miserable cow. Haha joking, I'm proud of my childhood, I was very lucky.

33

When you put pigs in charge of Democracy you get pigswill and muck!! playing ***** chess and eating bacon butties unaware of the irony enough said!!..... Within the dialogues of Plato, the founding father of Greek Philosophy – Socrates – is portrayed as hugely pessimistic about the whole business of democracy. In his Book Six of The Republic, Plato describes Socrates falling into conversation with a character called Adeimantus and trying to get him to see the flaws of democracy by comparing a society to a ship. If you were heading out on a journey by sea, asks Socrates, who would you ideally want deciding who was in charge of the vessel? Just anyone or people educated in the rules and demands of seafaring? The latter of course, says Adeimantus, so why then, responds Socrates, do we keep thinking that any old person should be fit to judge who should be a ruler of a country? Socrates’s point is that voting in an election is a skill, not a random intuition. And like any skill, it needs to be taught systematically to people. Letting the citizenry vote without an education is as irresponsible as putting them in charge of a trireme sailing to Samos in a storm. Socrates was to have first hand, catastrophic experience of the foolishness of voters. In 399 BC, the philosopher was put on trial on ******* up charges of corrupting the youth of Athens. A jury of 500 Athenians was invited to weigh up the case and decided by a narrow margin that the philosopher was guilty. He was put to death by hemlock in a process which is, for thinking people, every bit as tragic as Jesus’s condemnation has been for Christians. Crucially, Socrates was not elitist in the normal sense. He didn’t believe that a narrow few should only ever vote. He did, however, insist that only those who had thought about issues rationally and deeply should be let near a vote. We have forgotten this distinction between an intellectual democracy and a democracy by birthright. We have given the vote to all without connecting it to that of wisdom. And Socrates knew exactly where that would lead: to a system the Greeks feared above all, demagoguery.

0

Jan 18, 2020

Jan 18, 2020 at 9:30 PM UTC

yenson

Ketchup on bacon...ignoramuses in town....

When you put pigs in charge of Democracy you get pigswill and muck!! playing ***** chess and eating bacon butties unaware of the irony enough said!!..... Within the dialogues of Plato, the founding father of Greek Philosophy – Socrates – is portrayed as hugely pessimistic about the whole business of democracy. In his Book Six of The Republic, Plato describes Socrates falling into conversation with a character called Adeimantus and trying to get him to see the flaws of democracy by comparing a society to a ship. If you were heading out on a journey by sea, asks Socrates, who would you ideally want deciding who was in charge of the vessel? Just anyone or people educated in the rules and demands of seafaring? The latter of course, says Adeimantus, so why then, responds Socrates, do we keep thinking that any old person should be fit to judge who should be a ruler of a country? Socrates’s point is that voting in an election is a skill, not a random intuition. And like any skill, it needs to be taught systematically to people. Letting the citizenry vote without an education is as irresponsible as putting them in charge of a trireme sailing to Samos in a storm. Socrates was to have first hand, catastrophic experience of the foolishness of voters. In 399 BC, the philosopher was put on trial on ******* up charges of corrupting the youth of Athens. A jury of 500 Athenians was invited to weigh up the case and decided by a narrow margin that the philosopher was guilty. He was put to death by hemlock in a process which is, for thinking people, every bit as tragic as Jesus’s condemnation has been for Christians. Crucially, Socrates was not elitist in the normal sense. He didn’t believe that a narrow few should only ever vote. He did, however, insist that only those who had thought about issues rationally and deeply should be let near a vote. We have forgotten this distinction between an intellectual democracy and a democracy by birthright. We have given the vote to all without connecting it to that of wisdom. And Socrates knew exactly where that would lead: to a system the Greeks feared above all, demagoguery.

10

Like its my fault you are amongst the Seventy percent of the worlds poor and under-privileged mass but our feral chavs can talk after-all you're brimming with bacon butties and full of fish and chips while you collect welfare money and zoom to off-licences for ***** be proud you're in the same league table of poors as Calcutta street beggars of those from the shantys' in S. Africa or favela in Brazil or bridge sleepers in Gambia they don't get welfare or have the hot chippie or kebab shop round the corner as for ***** they say we can't even afford food for belly much less ***** so our western seventy per-centers fighting elites why not give up the bacon butties and the pub trips and the weeds and crack smack and go spend a month in Africa where the sun will roast you and toughened you up and street life will learn you to hell then come back and fight your war against the elites cos as you are now you're just cannon fodders with full stomach and useless idles like all that is my fault, n'est-ce pas ?

0

Jul 13, 2020

Jul 13, 2020 at 3:26 PM UTC

yenson

n'est-ce pas ?

Like its my fault you are amongst the Seventy percent of the worlds poor and under-privileged mass but our feral chavs can talk after-all you're brimming with bacon butties and full of fish and chips while you collect welfare money and zoom to off-licences for ***** be proud you're in the same league table of poors as Calcutta street beggars of those from the shantys' in S. Africa or favela in Brazil or bridge sleepers in Gambia they don't get welfare or have the hot chippie or kebab shop round the corner as for ***** they say we can't even afford food for belly much less ***** so our western seventy per-centers fighting elites why not give up the bacon butties and the pub trips and the weeds and crack smack and go spend a month in Africa where the sun will roast you and toughened you up and street life will learn you to hell then come back and fight your war against the elites cos as you are now you're just cannon fodders with full stomach and useless idles like all that is my fault, n'est-ce pas ?

26