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"cuffed" poems
‘To bed! To bed!’ Said Sleepy-head; ‘Tarry awhile,’ said Slow; ‘Put on the pan,’ Said Greedy Nan; ‘We'll sup before we go.’ (from Mother Goose) They sat at the kitchen table as The candle flickered low, And Greedy Nan put on the pan To indulge her sister, Slow, While Sleepy Weepy Annabelle Blotted her book with tears, And thought of her Beau from long ago Who she hadn’t seen for years. ‘Why doesn’t Roger notice me, Why doesn’t Alan Dell? I’m wearing the dress cut low for me And I’ve hitched my skirt as well. I’ve a pretty turn to my ankle, so You’d think it would drive them wild.’ ‘But men are a mystery,’ said Slow, ‘And Alan Dell’s a child.’ While over the pan stood Greedy Nan, Was cracking a turkey’s egg, A lump of yeast and a slice of beast And a single spider’s leg. With a wing of bat and an ounce of fat And a toe of frog for the spell, She needed to turn her sister off From her crush on Alan Dell. For Greedy Nan was the eldest girl And would have to marry first, The other two would wait in the queue Or their fortunes be reversed, The omelette sizzled, and in the pan She added before they saw, A piece of some Devil’s Trumpet plant For the mating game meant war. She sliced the omelette into half And she served them up a piece, ‘Didn’t you want?’ said Annabelle But Slow enjoyed the feast. ‘I’m not that terribly hungry now I’ve cooked it up in the pan, I think I’ll just have a slice of bread,’ Said the scheming Greedy Nan. They finished up and they sat awhile, And they mused about their fate, ‘If Greedy Nan isn’t married soon, For us it will be too late.’ ‘I’ve set my sights on a country squire,’ Said Nan, without a blink, Lured them away from her secret fire To confuse what they might think. ‘The room is woozy, spinning around, I’d better get me to bed,’ Said Annabelle, while Slow with a frown Saw Dwarves dancing in her head. But Greedy Nan was cleaning the pan To clear all signs of the spell, Her back was turned to her sisters, spurned For the sake of Alan Dell. And when he came in the morning Greedy Nan was sat by the door, While Annabelle and her sister Slow Were lying dead on the floor, ‘I didn’t mean it to **** them, Al, It was only a simple spell,’ But as he cuffed and led her away He frowned, did Alan Dell. David Lewis Paget
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Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
To Bed! To Bed!
‘To bed! To bed!’ Said Sleepy-head; ‘Tarry awhile,’ said Slow; ‘Put on the pan,’ Said Greedy Nan; ‘We'll sup before we go.’ (from Mother Goose) They sat at the kitchen table as The candle flickered low, And Greedy Nan put on the pan To indulge her sister, Slow, While Sleepy Weepy Annabelle Blotted her book with tears, And thought of her Beau from long ago Who she hadn’t seen for years. ‘Why doesn’t Roger notice me, Why doesn’t Alan Dell? I’m wearing the dress cut low for me And I’ve hitched my skirt as well. I’ve a pretty turn to my ankle, so You’d think it would drive them wild.’ ‘But men are a mystery,’ said Slow, ‘And Alan Dell’s a child.’ While over the pan stood Greedy Nan, Was cracking a turkey’s egg, A lump of yeast and a slice of beast And a single spider’s leg. With a wing of bat and an ounce of fat And a toe of frog for the spell, She needed to turn her sister off From her crush on Alan Dell. For Greedy Nan was the eldest girl And would have to marry first, The other two would wait in the queue Or their fortunes be reversed, The omelette sizzled, and in the pan She added before they saw, A piece of some Devil’s Trumpet plant For the mating game meant war. She sliced the omelette into half And she served them up a piece, ‘Didn’t you want?’ said Annabelle But Slow enjoyed the feast. ‘I’m not that terribly hungry now I’ve cooked it up in the pan, I think I’ll just have a slice of bread,’ Said the scheming Greedy Nan. They finished up and they sat awhile, And they mused about their fate, ‘If Greedy Nan isn’t married soon, For us it will be too late.’ ‘I’ve set my sights on a country squire,’ Said Nan, without a blink, Lured them away from her secret fire To confuse what they might think. ‘The room is woozy, spinning around, I’d better get me to bed,’ Said Annabelle, while Slow with a frown Saw Dwarves dancing in her head. But Greedy Nan was cleaning the pan To clear all signs of the spell, Her back was turned to her sisters, spurned For the sake of Alan Dell. And when he came in the morning Greedy Nan was sat by the door, While Annabelle and her sister Slow Were lying dead on the floor, ‘I didn’t mean it to **** them, Al, It was only a simple spell,’ But as he cuffed and led her away He frowned, did Alan Dell. David Lewis Paget
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72
You looked much prettier with long hair. Don’t - give me that, show me a smile it’s better to be natural oh! look your arms are so hairy, hairier than mine. Not rowdy or older than myself but definitely confident and intelligent and maybe even ‘quirky’ as long as she’s thin and kind. Because I don’t like fat girls how to find your dream woma where to find dream woman online free I think I’m still in love with Grace but she ignores and blanks and shuns me even after I shared so much yet she doesn’t even seem to care hey I’m verrru drunk I see u the little green dot next to your name haha night then iguess I think I just hate women and that stupid insipid conceited ***** couldn’t tell a good guy if he cuffed her clean across the cheekbone and spat in both her eyes
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Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 7:06 PM UTC
You looked much prettier with long hair
He used to drink orange juice out of cups that curved, like his smile used to, licking droplets of orange sun off of his lips; sun beams, that shined from his face, and his eyes, which was unfair because he knew; I'm telling you, he knew, that summer was my favorite time of year. And when the sun hit me, like a thousand arrows, from the bow of Heartbreak, that I would think of him and his orange juice cup. And question all the reseons he sent me letters with different stamps, always scribbled in black lines, like his pupils, when I let him see through the jail bars of my soul, and I asked him, no, I begged him to leave me cuffed to the wall, with no food or water, starving my desire to love again, knowing that if I devoured every word, every sound, and memory, of trembling hands on first dates, leaning in to kiss me, with lips and fists at the nape of my neck, clinging to me like feathers; with every single intake of breath, and caterpillars that wrapped themselves in silk, and waited for days and nights to pass, until finally, they spread their wings to reveal Picasso's paintings, that I would eventually die of starvation, as the words ran out, and the kisses became short, and the butterflies died... He knew. He knew that I loved summer; and the drops of orange juice on his lips.
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Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 1:16 AM UTC
Spoken word.
I feel invisible Yet you claim(ed) I am the air you breathe And perhaps like air I am always present, But presently forgotten The heaviness of your hush is crushing me with empty blows This silence leads me to wander down a path cloaked in a heavy mist That whispers harsh truths such as: Our hopeless, fictitious, drawn out infatuation is like A library book that was checked out last March You underlined and doggie-paged the first few chapters And then left it on your shelf to collect dust all of April and May I foolishly kept begging you to finish the book Read the last sentence Take time to skim over the epilogue Please Find your way to the back cover I foolishly ignored your “I can’t”s And now it’s late August and our love is long overdue, In the opposite sense of what the phrase typically means I write with angry lead because I am too stubborn to admit I just filled a trash bin with tissues And that the cuffed sleeves of my flannel Are damp like grass’s morning dew I have so much more to say, Although I cannot find the words To say anything more than You should’ve written. Because two weeks of nothing Was enough for me to realize that you are just a passing breeze Seldom present, presently becoming something of the past.
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Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
The End
Devilish Grin with a Naughty smile Dark hair Blue eyes spoiled-n-wild Tats two Black-n-blue dark-n-tan white stockings Knee-high high- heels spread thighs Deep breath wide eyes long strokes deeper sighs nail marks blood red already dried move slow Said wise silent screams already tried hand cuffed lips sealed Hair tied Legs wrapped open wide Firm grip twitching hips In joy Toes curled Slip-n-slide smooth ride deep ****** Headboard knocks she replies screaming please come inside
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Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 2:41 PM UTC
****
Bound, wound, and tied up all tight With porcelain features, I drowned in her sight Dominant I control her, she submits to my needs I punish and tease her with preferences of sinful greed Bound, wound, and tied up all tight She lashes and thrashes but I control this fight Blindfolded and gagged, aroused from my touch Candle drips between her hips; she loves this so much Strapped to the bed with a fistful of her mane She enjoys pain and pleasure; I love this **** game Bound, wound, and tied up all tight My fledgling fun toy I command her tonight She moans with pleasures and screams when she’s bad Electricity attached, her fears makes me glad Vaginal to **** play, or no *** at all A new ******* kit arrives; I’m bouncing off the wall Bound, wound, and tied up all tight Under the bed restrains, ****** clamps, and leather cuffs in my sight She’s cuffed, restrained, clamped and all ready She needs me it feeds me and keeps me rock steady She gives me her all in suspended animation Together we are driven by a powerful lustful twisted sensation For Bound, wound, and tied up all tight You’re my favorite present, my fix, and my all through the night
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Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC
A **** GAME
i am monday nights filled with candlelit journal entries and sipping hot tea while watching rain bounce off the roof and open windows in autumn and messy hand- written letters and white tees and cuffed jeans and pb&j; with the crust cut off and folded origami cranes and watching the sun rise while everyone else is tucked away in their beds and midnight car rides and candid smiles and lists written in blue ink and wildflowers and mountains and birds singing and books and movies that make you cry and nicknames and flannels in the winter and soft music and loud music and moments recorded only by memory and pumpkin pie and forever stamps i am all the little things and if you don’t make an effort to understand why i love all the things i love you will never understand me
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Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
i am me
I was a shirt filed with straw and rags. Pants that hang loose. Jeans cuffed pinned uncomfortably. Nothing to think of; a hat filled with straw. The inability to walk. Pinned to a board. Hickory oak. Chest disproportionate to a small waist. Sleeves flung in the wind. Left standing still; a face motionless. Pinned to hickory oak. A shadow left in an empty field, the boundaries of a checkerboard shirt. The insecurity of straw hands. Pickett fences to the feet of crows, Still she'd visit often. Distance cut short by dark heavy wings. She'd caw in my silence, Not knowing the ability to smile I stood against purpose. She refused to run, poking fun at my hat. The clothes that hung loosely in the wind, scurf tied tightly around my neck. Feeling her ***** the strings of my chest. Strands of straw filled by her need to find a home. Was there anything there at all before that moment. Becoming shelter to the way she pried.
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Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 7:11 AM UTC
Scarecrow
She has a way of tormenting you In every direction you try take She gives you a curfew Hoping, probing, that you, too, slip through the cracks. I wanted to be a astronaut To explore the universe To find my destiny Through the black hole And out Spaghettified or not When my now cuffed-mind Soared the air With wings dispersed in the wind Still when she didn't care And thought I was harmless She tried shooting me down And got one through a wing Now I think I want to be an accountant Mediocre and sane But who wants to have sanity When you can be in it? So I crashed into Hyperion And as high as I am She still sends her vicious winds To try and cut me down But her torment crafts precious stones So in the interim I'll hold on Hoping that I can un-cuff my mind Keeping a birds-eye view Like a leopard waiting for its **** So that one day I can glide the universe Wings distributed out wide Skillful and experienced So she can never shoot me down Now Perched on Hyperion Patient and vigilant I wait
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Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
Society
In My Salad Days Salad Days **Wikipedia: Modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of his/her abilities, not necessarily in that person's youth.**                         ~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Salad Hints of tints of golden pear skins, combine with ruby'd cranberries each a face, the cheeks of alcoholic old men, each wrinkle, a life's recording. All are mates for the marcona almonds nestling, playing hide n' go seeking tween silk sheeted leaves of butter lettuce. All dressed to the nines, underneath a top hatted, cravatted, Fred Astaire marinade. Coated, bathed, loved, protected by a vinegar of balsams, aged grape must, pressed, a lovely, desirable color, a brown and bronzed rust, pressed, then left, to easy rest for oh so many years, like I do, easy resting, when  you feed me in My Salad Days. The Days Though it was a life,  decades destructed Millenniums of de minimus, Forty plus Seders of exile, of hell, Marked by promises, whispers, horseradish tears of Next Year and Jerusalem, Time steeped in a tradition of patient waiting. Each year, recorded by a spot of red wine Purposely Spilled, By my father on unbleached Passover tablecloth, To example, to symbolize that Messiness in life, Is O.K. The Salad Days Salad served with irony generous, When beard greyed and scraggly, White speckled, wisps of sea salt, All my youthful greenery, long wilted. Yet the words herein writ are my Afikomen, my just dessert, My victory song of Hallelujah Just before we eat, celebrating My Feast of Ascension, marking a Delayed Arrival, yet right-on time of My Salad Days. It was only when I was resurrected as two bodies, A pair of cuffed links coupled, In My Salad Days, With the taste of freedom, A first-born infant survivor, Was I rebirthed, and to the fore, risen. When words fell from smiling lips, and Rain and tears flew upwards, and Each and every breath was an Amen.
0
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
In My Salad Days
In My Salad Days Salad Days **Wikipedia: Modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of his/her abilities, not necessarily in that person's youth.**                         ~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Salad Hints of tints of golden pear skins, combine with ruby'd cranberries each a face, the cheeks of alcoholic old men, each wrinkle, a life's recording. All are mates for the marcona almonds nestling, playing hide n' go seeking tween silk sheeted leaves of butter lettuce. All dressed to the nines, underneath a top hatted, cravatted, Fred Astaire marinade. Coated, bathed, loved, protected by a vinegar of balsams, aged grape must, pressed, a lovely, desirable color, a brown and bronzed rust, pressed, then left, to easy rest for oh so many years, like I do, easy resting, when  you feed me in My Salad Days. The Days Though it was a life,  decades destructed Millenniums of de minimus, Forty plus Seders of exile, of hell, Marked by promises, whispers, horseradish tears of Next Year and Jerusalem, Time steeped in a tradition of patient waiting. Each year, recorded by a spot of red wine Purposely Spilled, By my father on unbleached Passover tablecloth, To example, to symbolize that Messiness in life, Is O.K. The Salad Days Salad served with irony generous, When beard greyed and scraggly, White speckled, wisps of sea salt, All my youthful greenery, long wilted. Yet the words herein writ are my Afikomen, my just dessert, My victory song of Hallelujah Just before we eat, celebrating My Feast of Ascension, marking a Delayed Arrival, yet right-on time of My Salad Days. It was only when I was resurrected as two bodies, A pair of cuffed links coupled, In My Salad Days, With the taste of freedom, A first-born infant survivor, Was I rebirthed, and to the fore, risen. When words fell from smiling lips, and Rain and tears flew upwards, and Each and every breath was an Amen.
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68
There’s an assembly in the making and the suits are all shuffling in for the big event making way to their front row seats ****** in nose   hanky in hand   and all colorfully draped   in those cuffed pin stripes and Jerry Garcia ties *now what would the Grateful Dead or any of their fine entourage have to say about this foul routine?* Apropos of that they’re talking in the 3rd person with tight syllables and wavy hands and all taking a run at the state of the union there’s Valentino and Freddie and good old Sal "look....their fiddling with their nuts!" cries a layman from the balcony seats the Yin and the Yang have got even the most liberal minded scratching their heads as questions fly in from the field: *don’t you know the way it used to be? have you no morals? which way to the exit!?* These front row fanatics have surely been scrimmaging in the corn fields all down in that classic 3 point watching their weight with sample selections from the Spicy House and Yaas Bazaar as members of the congregation look on with envy *pass the aperitif...the big ***** lady is on deck!* Union heads are running rogue loading up on grievances and lines passing files at a make shift pew jumping the bunkers and stepping on clams while the orderlies move in   for governance It’s a bewildered state   and only for the mind of the rigorous Jimmy D would say: “it’s nothing you pussy...to the victor goes the spoils! everyone has a bit of good you know... you just have to find it!" Unrest is growing in the ranks and the masses are unstable Time to hammer down with a formidable brace and two tick play
0
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 8:05 PM UTC
Town Hall
There’s an assembly in the making and the suits are all shuffling in for the big event making way to their front row seats ****** in nose   hanky in hand   and all colorfully draped   in those cuffed pin stripes and Jerry Garcia ties *now what would the Grateful Dead or any of their fine entourage have to say about this foul routine?* Apropos of that they’re talking in the 3rd person with tight syllables and wavy hands and all taking a run at the state of the union there’s Valentino and Freddie and good old Sal "look....their fiddling with their nuts!" cries a layman from the balcony seats the Yin and the Yang have got even the most liberal minded scratching their heads as questions fly in from the field: *don’t you know the way it used to be? have you no morals? which way to the exit!?* These front row fanatics have surely been scrimmaging in the corn fields all down in that classic 3 point watching their weight with sample selections from the Spicy House and Yaas Bazaar as members of the congregation look on with envy *pass the aperitif...the big ***** lady is on deck!* Union heads are running rogue loading up on grievances and lines passing files at a make shift pew jumping the bunkers and stepping on clams while the orderlies move in   for governance It’s a bewildered state   and only for the mind of the rigorous Jimmy D would say: “it’s nothing you pussy...to the victor goes the spoils! everyone has a bit of good you know... you just have to find it!" Unrest is growing in the ranks and the masses are unstable Time to hammer down with a formidable brace and two tick play
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57
The raged little blue eyed girl had so many years from her past she has cried many tears sitting on a bench with her dog Spot at her side hair not comb wearing cuffed up hole's in my farmer jeans Mother yelling, hold still for the picture or you know what I mean. I sat very still with Spot at my side knowing she was not happy nor satisfied Please Mamma, why can't I have a pretty dress? and look like a little girl like all the rest I jumped off the bench with Spot at my side The picture wasn't taken and again unjustified I was punished and locked in the shed Spot was laying out side the door we were both looking through the crack in the floor I could see him he could see me, Felt like I was lock there for eternity, If Spot was only human he could set me free I'm locked up like a animal and he could be me Laying cold on the old wooden floor, Spot don't leave me, don't leave me no more When I get older I'm going to run away some day Take spot and find a home far away
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Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 10:50 AM UTC
The Raged little blue eyed girl
. *Links in the chemist chain laced in a double helix defy the laws of the universe, and the atavistic resurgence creates isotopes of dream passion.      Elements conspire in panic      with a symmetry of casual chaos      that mimics an atomic bomb,      destroying its own creator      in a cruel parody of birth paradox.           Arresting the Iris of Dissolution           with cuffed anxiety drowning           in a pond of helium ore,           carelessly drifting on acid flesh,           coagulating in a soup of memory.* And the paradigm shifts again, reality unfocussed clears, strains, revealing your shuddering form, next to me, keeping me warm. Lids flicker and you open your eyes, shining, smiling in cute surprise. Moving my finger up to my lips whilst I gently untangle our hips.      *Do you remember this night?      Last night, tonight, tomorrow night?      Time begins to slowly rewind,      on the night you blew my mind.* My essence is filled with your heart, a love I have yet to discover. Whilst you wander between the stars, my universe starts to recover. So please don't break this silence now. Please don't shatter this moment long, I want this post ****** memory to remain in the morning when you have gone. © Pagan Paul (04/11/17)
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Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC
Love Remains Elusive
the trouble lies in your thighs plump skin, of pink, apricot, nutmeg fresh flesh fetched far taught to knee, cuffed at ankle red carpet to round hips they ripple, as you stomp as they should you're a peach bottomed girl of pear tree house she is a willow girl her legs, they wind country lanes that slim and thin less lard, longer length one music note to pink, apricot, nutmeg toes pillars under sacred, upholding the light twist of hips is there the same problem does it there lie in that girl's thighs? your thighs are equally moulded pink, apricot, nutmeg soft and plump and trembling, still in mountains, or molehills you're a peach bottomed girl of pear house she is a willow tree girl of birch place together, women you have thighs and neither of those thighs lies
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Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC
trouble in thighs
a magician never reveals their tricks to the joker is what you’d told you that sunday night last september as you had sloppily crashed into a river and made both of our cold bones shiver. we both knew this was not a typical drive down the road because you had broken the moral code and would soon be toad while i lay with still bones and a frantic call home on a stretcher in the back of an ambulance with hands holding my body together as you asked the police to give you a moment so you could have a breather and a smoke or two because you knew you were through. they asked if you wanted to leave me alone and head down to the police station and you just shrugged like this was not your creation because your court costs were more expensive than the knowledge of my pain and i wished I had caught that last sunday night train instead of drinking with you in the rain and making fog against the window pane. i was told not to move as i waited for the helicopter and you were pushed up against the side of a cop car and cuffed with angry resistant will and the tears spilled down hard and fast from your pretty little face because for once i would not save your ****** *** and get you out of this gory mess that had turned your sunday best into a disgrace and made my bones buckle and cry out for some rest for they had been pressed and strained under the now drowned window pane with blood creating a vivid stain. your head ducked down as you were pushed into the back of the car and you glanced up to see my motionless mangled body watching from afar. how’s that for a date night? you laughed as the tube down my throat made me cough and the police officer gave you a stern look before slamming the door on your smirking face so hard that the car shook like my body did with hollow echoing sobs that made my eyes run like the river that had made both of us shiver as you had claimed that the joker would always deliver even if the magician would not reveal their spells for the joker had his own secret way to hell.
0
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
Untitled #2
a magician never reveals their tricks to the joker is what you’d told you that sunday night last september as you had sloppily crashed into a river and made both of our cold bones shiver. we both knew this was not a typical drive down the road because you had broken the moral code and would soon be toad while i lay with still bones and a frantic call home on a stretcher in the back of an ambulance with hands holding my body together as you asked the police to give you a moment so you could have a breather and a smoke or two because you knew you were through. they asked if you wanted to leave me alone and head down to the police station and you just shrugged like this was not your creation because your court costs were more expensive than the knowledge of my pain and i wished I had caught that last sunday night train instead of drinking with you in the rain and making fog against the window pane. i was told not to move as i waited for the helicopter and you were pushed up against the side of a cop car and cuffed with angry resistant will and the tears spilled down hard and fast from your pretty little face because for once i would not save your ****** *** and get you out of this gory mess that had turned your sunday best into a disgrace and made my bones buckle and cry out for some rest for they had been pressed and strained under the now drowned window pane with blood creating a vivid stain. your head ducked down as you were pushed into the back of the car and you glanced up to see my motionless mangled body watching from afar. how’s that for a date night? you laughed as the tube down my throat made me cough and the police officer gave you a stern look before slamming the door on your smirking face so hard that the car shook like my body did with hollow echoing sobs that made my eyes run like the river that had made both of us shiver as you had claimed that the joker would always deliver even if the magician would not reveal their spells for the joker had his own secret way to hell.
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73
allocation of supreme alliteration illustrates perpetual contemplation and concentration that dictates a maligned mastication of federal incarceration of elongated complementary probation leaving you cuffed and based on baseless accusations conducted in aboriginal abbreviations masked task force concluding a course of brevity conducted in coordination then coordinating and copulating condemnation for a homeostasis of thought bought scolded eroded and shot inefficacy perpetrating cultural holocaust irrelevance somersaults galactic static of mathematical bombastic smack addict glued shut in a craft attic floral resurrection gartered section of ****** selection she moves fluid through unaltered perfection of cosmic bypass past the point of extemporaneous infinitude reciprocating fortitude of sinews congregating fabricating visuals of vitality soldering axonal membranes on the cerebellum and cortex simulation of sensual vortex demented fusion more blessed I am that which stands to understand the incomprehensible unconsidered options of racial conflicts the screaming round of unaltered copper fiber severing life from the living only now can we debunk the years
0
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
White Demon
Like the last fire ember keeping is warm For it is our only chance to survive Fading Like a generation of people Killing rather than nurturing Fading Like a little boy's life Running away from his future As his past haunts him And he cannot escape Fading Substance is the only way for him to get away Pain is the only emotion he feels Fading Physical abuse wearing him down Weeping his way to sleep Fading Food doesn't come often Blatant neglect turns to crime Fading Empty, cuffed in the backseat On the road to his new life Fading Jumpsuits were his only wardrobe Though 3 meals a day were beneficial Fading In need of substance once again Craving was intended this time Fading Lying there, cold No more pain to feel now Fading As the sun behind the ocean New life beyond the clouds Fading Like footsteps on the shore Never to come back again
0
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC
Fading
Who else felt the night coming off the tracks, When we first stepped into that crowded, 1 bedroom apartment, For the 21st birthday of a guy we knew (his friends, we didn't)? Strangers derailed and built up drunken tension. That settled once he found the smoke, You found the beer, And I brought the *** I know my regrets. But do you still enjoy the white line you crossed... Off the counter top, Before we left for IHop? You hit me, held my hand, and made me promise in the stall, (where I held your hair just last week) That I won't tell. I won't. We loaded up in the car to go back, But got stopped along the way. Two pipes, one baggie, and an open container later... Maybe birthday boy became a man, Sometime between when he got cuffed... And when he apologized. Was it just me or.... Were the State Troopers cutest when they lined us girls up, Looked at us, And let us go? Just in time for Mother's Day.
0
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 2:31 AM UTC
Dubstep, It's a Lifestyle, Why?
My horoscope told me that I should think creatively today. It told me that I should write and so here I am, attempting to write a poem. Little does my horoscope know that my mind is unable to function. "Write something clever! You will create something great!" My horoscope instructs me but unfortunately that task is easier said than done, but I try because I want to fit in. All the cool kids are doing it. However, nothing but loud noises come out and the writing police come to get things under control. My brain has been arrested for causing a public disturbance. Writers block has taken over. It is a cell block in my mind where all of my creative ideas have been cuffed, thrown into a corner, and forced to *** with rusted metal bars offering no privacy. It's humiliating. As I sit in my little jail cell I think about what I've done and how I could never come back here again. "Next time," my brain tells me, "Don't listen to your horoscope."
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May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
Horoscope
they've been involving themselves in all sorts of corrupt deals and the ICAC is calling them in to give accounts of their underhanded deals many Labor politicians have fronted to tell their tales so have ****** figures who've left not so tidy trails the head of the commission is apprising himself with the corruption stealth the shady deals the money exchanges those fine upstanding legislators caught in the net rife these practices have been... and in time they've been seen to be not so clean dossiers on those who've had their hands in the defrauding game shall have them well cuffed and they'll only have themselves to blame
0
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:59 AM UTC
Corruption (Metaphor Poem)
Oh my mistress of the night, I am but a dog upon your site, oh my mistress wont you walk me? beat me raw when I am naughty? Your hair is long and full of stars, pleas share them with me, choke me hard. Bow wow I say when I am cuffed, Oh Luna my dear I like it woof. Snap your whip and make me swoon make me howl up at your moon but if I've howled unto your liking, let me mount you like a viking.
0
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
Night Mistress
I'm not one for these new times I guess I belong in the past Time once went by slowly Now, it goes too fast I don't know facebook I don't tweet In fact I don't know what that means I belong in yesteryear When men still cuffed their jeans I guess I'm just an old school fool An old school fool, that's me I guess I'm just an old school fool That's what I'm proud to be I guess I'm just an old school fool The good times now are gone No one wants an old school fool I guess that I will just move on I don't get the music now There's no song I like to hear I'd rather sit and read a book Or watch tv with a beer Technology is far beyond What my mind can take in I do not use an atm Because I do not know my pin I guess I'm just an old school fool An old school fool, that's me I guess I'm just an old school fool That's what I'm proud to be I guess I'm just an old school fool The good times now are gone No one wants an old school fool I guess that I will just move on
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Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 6:22 PM UTC
old school fool
No, not short poems. honest to goodness short shorts, jean-like short shorts. No, not those kinds that the young girls wear, jean lookalike stretch fabric, skin so tight it makes their ole daddies' faces wince the same color blue. in the middle muddle of fall, now you write of short shorts? Well, I was told I could not write this till after the summer was final gone from the rear view mirror glass. Once I wrote/imagined about a woman of a certain age, who emptied her armoire drawers, time to transition and take things that could no longer be, to the thrift shop, for others to be thrifty in. Except for one bathing suit, a two piece back from the days, when two pieces meant you were proud of what you had and what you didn't have - the same suit she was wearing grabbing her little son, then a man of six or seven, (now a dad with a son, of three or six or seven), in the photo on the night table, some thirty dreams ago. Man you take a long time to make a point! what's all this got to do with short shorts? one summer day, a woman I know, an actual fire-breathing dragon, went thru the drawers of her ***** blonde armoire. there she "found" a pair of shorts shorts, from some thirty dreams ago. it did not take too much encouragement, just a little courage to try them on, thirty dreams later. now these short shorts were the old fashioned kind, they look liked cut off jeans but were not, they had rolled up cuffed bottoms to increase the illusion. They no longer fit! Yup. ******* short shorts were loose around that curvaceous waist, known as my favorite place., where I rested my head once again, after, we celebrated. that is my poem about short shorts that I've been carrying round until the curfew was lifted. but even tho I like short shorts, I'll never ask someone to wear them, risking scorn and mockery, but I know for a fact, those short shorts did not get thrown out.
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Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC
Short Shorts
No, not short poems. honest to goodness short shorts, jean-like short shorts. No, not those kinds that the young girls wear, jean lookalike stretch fabric, skin so tight it makes their ole daddies' faces wince the same color blue. in the middle muddle of fall, now you write of short shorts? Well, I was told I could not write this till after the summer was final gone from the rear view mirror glass. Once I wrote/imagined about a woman of a certain age, who emptied her armoire drawers, time to transition and take things that could no longer be, to the thrift shop, for others to be thrifty in. Except for one bathing suit, a two piece back from the days, when two pieces meant you were proud of what you had and what you didn't have - the same suit she was wearing grabbing her little son, then a man of six or seven, (now a dad with a son, of three or six or seven), in the photo on the night table, some thirty dreams ago. Man you take a long time to make a point! what's all this got to do with short shorts? one summer day, a woman I know, an actual fire-breathing dragon, went thru the drawers of her ***** blonde armoire. there she "found" a pair of shorts shorts, from some thirty dreams ago. it did not take too much encouragement, just a little courage to try them on, thirty dreams later. now these short shorts were the old fashioned kind, they look liked cut off jeans but were not, they had rolled up cuffed bottoms to increase the illusion. They no longer fit! Yup. ******* short shorts were loose around that curvaceous waist, known as my favorite place., where I rested my head once again, after, we celebrated. that is my poem about short shorts that I've been carrying round until the curfew was lifted. but even tho I like short shorts, I'll never ask someone to wear them, risking scorn and mockery, but I know for a fact, those short shorts did not get thrown out.
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77
The beach swept away in the distance, The tide as far out as could be, A couple were laughing and playing there, She’d cuffed him, in fun, to a tree, ‘Now that isn’t fair, Isabella,’ He’d laughed, as she danced in the sand, ‘You’re going to be mine, Richard Andrew Devine Or forever be tied to the land.’ She taunted and teased and annoyed him, He said, ‘I just want to be free!’ She spun on the sand and she held out her hand And she laughed as she dangled the key. ‘You can stay ‘til I hear your proposal, It’s like squeezing out blood from a stone, If you fail to propose, this relationship’s closed And I’ll leave you out here on your own.’ ‘We’ve talked about this, Isabella, And you know it can’t possibly be, I’m already wed, when you came to my bed… For God’s sake, just throw me the key!’ ‘You know that you’ve never been happy, With her, or with all of her friends, It’s time you got rid of the lot of them, It’s time you were making amends.’ ‘I said at the start, Isabella, That a fling was the most it could be,’ A shadow passed over his worried brow As he looked at the incoming sea. ‘That might have been in the beginning, But you know it’s gone further than that, I’m having your child, did you know, in a while And I’ll not have you leaving me flat.’ The sweat had burst out on his fevered brow As the water encroached on the sand, ‘Did you know we’re beneath the high water mark, In an hour or so, I’ll be drowned!’ ‘The choice becomes yours, you must get a divorce Or I’ll just walk away and be free. There’s no going back, I’m determined in that, I’ll be walking away with the key.’ The sea was beginning to lap at his feet, And she to retreat as it came, Then suddenly she was beginning to sink While crying that he was to blame. In seconds she’d sunk in the sand to her waist In terror she cried, ‘Rescue me!’ But he was restrained by a half inch of chain, ‘For God’s sake, just throw me the key!’ ‘How do I know that you won’t walk away And just leave me to sink in the sand?’ ‘I wouldn’t do that, just throw me the key Or we’ll both become part of the land!’ She’d sunk to her shoulders at this point in time And she struggled to pull out her arm, Then raised it on high and she let the key fly As they both held their breath, in alarm. ‘I’ve told her I want a divorce,’ he cried, As the key fell just short of his reach, ‘And I lost the baby a week ago,’ She cried, to her neck in the beach. They stared at each other as she sank from sight Then the water rose over his head, As a little gold key, was swept by the sea To a hand that was already dead. David Lewis Paget
0
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
The Key
The beach swept away in the distance, The tide as far out as could be, A couple were laughing and playing there, She’d cuffed him, in fun, to a tree, ‘Now that isn’t fair, Isabella,’ He’d laughed, as she danced in the sand, ‘You’re going to be mine, Richard Andrew Devine Or forever be tied to the land.’ She taunted and teased and annoyed him, He said, ‘I just want to be free!’ She spun on the sand and she held out her hand And she laughed as she dangled the key. ‘You can stay ‘til I hear your proposal, It’s like squeezing out blood from a stone, If you fail to propose, this relationship’s closed And I’ll leave you out here on your own.’ ‘We’ve talked about this, Isabella, And you know it can’t possibly be, I’m already wed, when you came to my bed… For God’s sake, just throw me the key!’ ‘You know that you’ve never been happy, With her, or with all of her friends, It’s time you got rid of the lot of them, It’s time you were making amends.’ ‘I said at the start, Isabella, That a fling was the most it could be,’ A shadow passed over his worried brow As he looked at the incoming sea. ‘That might have been in the beginning, But you know it’s gone further than that, I’m having your child, did you know, in a while And I’ll not have you leaving me flat.’ The sweat had burst out on his fevered brow As the water encroached on the sand, ‘Did you know we’re beneath the high water mark, In an hour or so, I’ll be drowned!’ ‘The choice becomes yours, you must get a divorce Or I’ll just walk away and be free. There’s no going back, I’m determined in that, I’ll be walking away with the key.’ The sea was beginning to lap at his feet, And she to retreat as it came, Then suddenly she was beginning to sink While crying that he was to blame. In seconds she’d sunk in the sand to her waist In terror she cried, ‘Rescue me!’ But he was restrained by a half inch of chain, ‘For God’s sake, just throw me the key!’ ‘How do I know that you won’t walk away And just leave me to sink in the sand?’ ‘I wouldn’t do that, just throw me the key Or we’ll both become part of the land!’ She’d sunk to her shoulders at this point in time And she struggled to pull out her arm, Then raised it on high and she let the key fly As they both held their breath, in alarm. ‘I’ve told her I want a divorce,’ he cried, As the key fell just short of his reach, ‘And I lost the baby a week ago,’ She cried, to her neck in the beach. They stared at each other as she sank from sight Then the water rose over his head, As a little gold key, was swept by the sea To a hand that was already dead. David Lewis Paget
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