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Michael Cassio Sep 2015
Spice may entice a not-so-nice chunder
Nay twice, nay thrice, an undoubted blunder?
As he threw - as He did chew - we all foresaw calamity
Then we knew - as He did spew -
This is ******* hilarity
Inspired by the experiences of one Fenton four times after consuming the prophetic 'spice bag' and spewing on the majority of wetherspoons in dun laoghaire (four whole times). Also he was sober.
REDACTED Feb 2016
He stands, backs away, gazes,

Maybe...

Choosing from the stacked shelves of colour, sweet and sour, shining over, in, out, around. Tempting a step forward like orphans waiting at the ready to be sold to the mines.

Maybe...

Two arms but a thousand choices. A hundred? A thousand to choose.
His friends have moved on from his isle, to toys and foods, baking stalls of fish and chunder.

Buzzing fluro hyper-emotive lights, his shoulders naked and bare for the world. Not yet lashed and ***** by tendrils of the ****** society. Eels in soup, you know, squirting with thirty boys in ******* to the beat. A dub proposed, seconded, played forward and blasted through fender-box for the dextromethorphan eye to behold.

Bass, Blues and Angus and Julia ring out through the cavernous space in our floating head. A gas burner of sweet Mary Jane keeps the balloon floating high above. Two ***** hang from its base while the **** has long since fallen to the peoples below, blotting out the sun. Shocking pictures of girls, boys and gear sticks. Two babes one pacifier, the new viral hit. 3, 2, 1 your 15 minutes are up and you see no more out of those big naive eyes of yours.
This may come off as a little dated not. written probably 2008ish? I don't ******* know
m1095 Feb 2015
Today I have stagnated,
Wallowed around castrated
by my lack of will
to do anything; still
I've got the time and nought
much to do, although I ought
to use every moment in
some worthy way to win
the game of life which
Everyone plays- it's an itch
that needs scratching,
so everybody's snatching
at others' lives from under
their noses, to chunder
their gains in the splurge
of excess which seems an urge
in this life of woes.
We can never close
our lives.
One strives
to live at his best,
but sometimes we need a rest
from the cold-blooded race
of we people who chase
virtue in theory.
But that's a bleary
goal, as Robespierre found,
and it's enough to astound
most people in the world,
who would rather have unfurled
the flag of greed.

You have to concede
there's a need for this creed
in the breed of people who are the seed
of Bleeding in mankind
Signed,
Me.
Greed had bled it's last lie
In it's depths I've seen it chunder
I've always enjoyed the thought
Blood will flow onto these cold bricks
Copper pennies drop in the fountain
But float on the waterline
I've been waiting for this massacre
They call me 'Jack the Ripper'

*I can't stay here any longer
Giuseppe Stokes Sep 2016
Enter discreetly, and proceed to take a pew;
Artsy fartsy culture camo lines the wall
like morning dew. A raptured window
sits atop a glazing gall, enthralling all;
As fetished hook propels, sinks in and pulls you through.

Decked obsequis with dire strands of self set, alight;
Mixing murmers; Churning, gurning grunts and groans,
stoking sight. Essence blossoms
effervescently, into warbled drone;
Symphony of souls, atoned, erupting, blood accrued might.

Dark set eyes behind the counter, counts another crop;
Foppish foolery as skin set sore adored
by boorish mop; Head of hair
aligned, entwined, principle annulled but ******;
Evoked Muse's invocation, released enormous slop adored.

Finally a noise devoid of touch, howls reified;
Chair despair sets into tumbled, mumbled call,
plea defied. Shoddy surgeon's hand
demands, gropes alleyway to shadowed hall,
Sits abreast infernal mechanites for deified brawl.

Creeping shadows come'a'peeping, Uncle Tom'a'weeping wonder,
blunders through the choice of sticky sheen
Resists the proper plunder. Whirring warrior
begins assault on castles primly stoked for seen;
Seams amended, blackened blood serene provoking chunder stream.

Followed Zeitgeist back to Black. Slow daunter back to blue;
Repairs conceptions of the Self within the mirror visored stew;
Anew the reckonings of where and why, Oh how freshly do they die
As left to see another in thyself, and loudly to decry:
Decry the aspects of bad health, no longer put upon the shelf
Stealthy pox and watermarks depart to leave aesthetic wealth;
Dealt in depths and crepts of cunning folk behind the trademarked lens
Obssessed with visibility, maneuvures us towards our end(s).
Whit Howland Aug 2021
Bundle
of newsprint

in the driveway
on Sunday

thunder
up and chunder

whirlwind
funnel cloud

life and pages
now torn

asunder

whit howland © 2021
A minimal abstract word painting.
Safana Feb 2021
Just surrender do not render
Remember!
A calendar is an angle grinder
lowering it's apple pie order
in asunder,
in this life everyone is attender
so, never turn intentions into deficit disorder...
Be less backhander
but a big band leader
or a bidder instead of bar attender,
be more as binder and bleeder
and blender like blinder
to mix not a terrible blunder
Spending a lot like a boarder
in a border seems like a bounder
or a ******* of a dark from light builder...
This world, is a cigarette holder
that chunder with a collider
for every commander of order
or conductor who consider
one contender and converter
who convert court order
from the defender...
All natural recorder
and descent recorder
will speak out in order
not disorder
at coming days without divider
for embroider...
Always be motive like first *******
to cross feeder
of a road or a river with fender
without fender ******...
And the first aider
for first of fender
never, every day flop like a flounder
because some days may end up as
street fodder
so foist upon everyone to
take white collar in folder...
And every founder is a freeholder
not a freeloader...
Hate no one but *******
like an American Gerry mander
who tried to steal the national gunpowder...
Down to the header
is a beautiful herbaceous border,
in a hidden agenda
carrying by a Highlander
to summit it to the lowlander,
why wondering?
for this life made to order
through mail order
not for only majority leader
and markets leader,
this is what paupers mounder
about social grinder
when expecting all infrastructures mender
to come on his hand without milk powder
as a minder to all childminder...
But, a fake minder- reader
will be misreader
appeared to be money spider...
And the cardiac carriage that moulder
in a time of ******
of a serious offender
who drives his life like off-roader
as an offsider with oleander...
for every out rider
who decided to work with outsider...

We hope to be blest to ride on a panda
for our commander to pander
our beautiful wishes and to work
more than plodder
Do not render
Kurt Philip Behm Sep 2023
Academicians …
masticating and
grinding their ‘truth’
Spewing out
what they would have us swallow
in gagging choking egotism
Regurgitating it back
in the toxic chunder
of a narcissistic reality
Papering the walls
of modern thought
with the bibs of their retching
As they hide within
their ivory towers
—festering in mass

(St. David’s Pennsylvania: September, 2023)
Steve Lee Brooks Apr 2018
Fresh sprung breeze's through the fray is this happy summers day  
a day of joy a day of light a walking romance through the park
The tide it turns as often do the silent echo strong and true
A shadow born beneath the clouds its thunder roar a sacred sound.
The Devils echo a dark embrace clouds all the sunlight from this place.
The storm it wanes the storm it dies and soon the storm doth turn to ice
A frozen floodland in the dark a frozen rotting pregnant lark
A silent whisper, a laugh it sounds seems to rumble from the ground.
The air is thick yet cold as ice your heart you feel it chunder twice
What is this darkness, spirit and glow that fills these cavern walls so slow
Again you hear a whispered laugh it travels through the rocks it harks
'your mine you know, I'll fill your mind with all the searing pain and sound a thousand nightmares strong and true I'll fill your mind with stick fast glue'
And so my nightmare tale doth end of happiness when it offends the forces of the powers-be when darkness calls, life as a bee.
A poem from my book `Woodwhispers` published on Amazon.

— The End —