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of this wilting wall the colour drub
souring sunbeams,of a foetal fragrance
to rickety unclosed blinds inslants
peregrinate,a cigar-stub
disintegrates,above,underdrawers club
the faintly sweating air with pinkness,
one pale dog behind a slopcaked shrub
painstakingly utters a slippery mess,
a star sleepily,feebly,scratches the sore
of morning.  But i am interested more
intricately in the delicate scorn
with which in a putrid window every day
almost leans a lady whose still-born
smile involves the comedy of decay,
deep in the blackwood
beside yellow skunk cabbage
a jagged spectre
stands astrde a tiny stream
twixt ferns and huckleberries
its twisted thorn covered limbs
looking cruel and alien
they gesture menacingly
and they win the argument
so i make a wide detour
and think how appropriate
that this bizarre armored plant
be called devil's club
Choka
M Catherine Nov 2015
They feel like breathing
For the very first time
And the only thing I can gasp
is your name and I'm
finally pretty **** close
to feeling happy, maybe free
It doesn't matter if people
stare and laugh because I'll be
In different mindset
High in those clouds
That smell of your jacket
and the echo of your name loud.
They squeal when they do the math
put two and two together
They spit out my name like
disbelief, but there are worse to weather.
Clothes pulled and coats cover
The prints I'll never explain
to my parents, for they'd not understand
How much I crave for you again and again
They call you the pervert, the gross one
obsessed with the next hookup
But it's really mostly me
whose *** drive will really drub.
M.C.M
This day winding down now
At God speeded summer's end
In the torrent salmon sun,
In my seashaken house
On a breakneck of rocks
Tangled with chirrup and fruit,
Froth, flute, fin, and quill
At a wood's dancing hoof,
By scummed, starfish sands
With their fishwife cross
Gulls, pipers, cockles, and snails,
Out there, crow black, men
Tackled with clouds, who kneel
To the sunset nets,
Geese nearly in heaven, boys
Stabbing, and herons, and shells
That speak seven seas,
Eternal waters away
From the cities of nine
Days' night whose towers will catch
In the religious wind
Like stalks of tall, dry straw,
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my swan, splay sounds),
Out of these seathumbed leaves
That will fly and fall
Like leaves of trees and as soon
Crumble and undie
Into the dogdayed night.
Seaward the salmon, ****** sun slips,
And the dumb swans drub blue
My dabbed bay's dusk, as I hack
This rumpus of shapes
For you to know
How I, a spining man,
Glory also this star, bird
Roared, sea born, man torn, blood blest.
Hark: I trumpet the place,
From fish to jumping hill! Look:
I build my bellowing ark
To the best of my love
As the flood begins,
Out of the fountainhead
Of fear, rage read, manalive,
Molten and mountainous to stream
Over the wound asleep
Sheep white hollow farms
To Wales in my arms.
Hoo, there, in castle keep,
You king singsong owls, who moonbeam
The flickering runs and dive
The ****** furred deer dead!
Huloo, on plumbed bryns,
O my ruffled ring dove
in the hooting, nearly dark
With Welsh and reverent rook,
Coo rooning the woods' praise,
who moons her blue notes from her nest
Down to the curlew herd!
**, hullaballoing clan
Agape, with woe
In your beaks, on the gabbing capes!
Heigh, on horseback hill, jack
Whisking hare! who
Hears, there, this fox light, my flood ship's
Clangour as I hew and smite
(A clash of anvils for my
Hubbub and fiddle, this tune
On atounged puffball)
But animals thick as theives
On God's rough tumbling grounds
(Hail to His beasthood!).
Beasts who sleep good and thin,
Hist, in hogback woods! The haystacked
Hollow farms ina throng
Of waters cluck and cling,
And barnroofs cockcrow war!
O kingdom of neighbors finned
Felled and quilled, flash to my patch
Work ark and the moonshine
Drinking Noah of the bay,
With pelt, and scale, and fleece:
Only the drowned deep bells
Of sheep and churches noise
Poor peace as the sun sets
And dark shoals every holy field.
We will ride out alone then,
Under the stars of Wales,
Cry, Multiudes of arks! Across
The water lidded lands,
Manned with their loves they'll move
Like wooden islands, hill to hill.
Huloo, my prowed dove with a flute!
Ahoy, old, sea-legged fox,
Tom *** and Dai mouse!
My ark sings in the sun
At God speeded summer's end
And the flood flowers now.
I had too much,
Swirling in a bar,
Swells after swalley,
My girlfriends gone
And I, lost, alone with
Familiar strangers.

They circled me,
Paddling, soles holey,
Rafting under rafters,
My red hair drawing
Them in, motley moths
To a flame, locks lit by ****
And glinting with flit of glass
In peat drub smoking pub.

One brave soldier, sailed
On over and our glaze eyes
Danced, deftly avoided any
Glance as we swayed, silent,
His breath was dank, of sea,
Moist and salty on raw flesh,
I could nae help but wake from
Dream by the scent of only you,
But it wasn't you dreamful laddie,
In shelled ears some brigand shot,
Sprayed a cold loss awakening,
His words, nothings, oak aged,
I felt loudly drowning, caught
In a corner of rusted, hulled
Ship now sinking, he threw
Himself a line and I saved
My soul, a life preserved
By a leaving, breaching
Heavy waves, bobbing
Into the out of doors.
Thomas Thurman Sep 2010
Oh, many bounds I've beaten well,
And many more I'll drub,
But through this maze I'll take the ways
That lead me to the pub.

Where worries may be left behind,
Where life's despair may fail,
Where peace has smiled on pints of mild
And blessed the winter ale.

Where folk may laugh, where folk may spend
A moment free from fear,
Where smiles may bless a game of chess
Beside two pints of beer.

And in my mind I see the bar,
The beers' familiar names!
The window-seat where old men meet,
Where children play their games!

Where still you'll find a Sunday lunch
On Sunday afternoon,
And God's own pie, denoted by
A number on a spoon.

Oh, many weary miles I've trod,
All filled with life's alarms,
But in my brains it still remains
My local Carlton Arms.
Brent Kincaid Oct 2015
Twinkle, star, you are
So high, up in the sky.
And Little Muffett Miss
Has gotten so ******;
Very upset that from
Someone else’s thumb
That was stuck in a pie.
She didn’t know why.

So she cut off tails
Enjoying the wails
Of sightless mice
Though not nice
Not fooling around
She’d blow the house down
Then give a harsh drub
To three men in a tub.

She swiped all the ciggies
Of three little piggies
But she could not see
Why everything was threes.
Narcissistically proud
She was laughing out loud
Then she started to croon
About a cow on the moon.

She looked for a fiddle
She could hey ****** ******
But when she got there
The cupboard was bare
So, she left the dog home
And began to roam.

On the way past Saint Ives
A man beating his wives
Muffet did begin
Beating with rolling pin
And the guy ran away
Not seen since that day.
Miss Muffett turned old
Folk tales into gold.
Bob B Mar 2017
Denial gets you nowhere.
When there's a problem, face it.
If it's a major challenge,
Open your mind and embrace it.

The trouble is a problem
Won't go away on its own.
Don't wait until
The flower is overblown.

If a situation
Affects our national security,
Can a solution wait
For some remote futurity?

Bury your head in the sand
If your mind is closed.
But if you do, remember:
Your rear will be exposed.

How to solve a problem
When our leaders drub
Twaddle into our heads?
Ah, that's the rub!

How to get to the bottom
Of what is happening around us
Is problematic when
Efforts are made to confound us.

What is clear to some,
To others is quite blurry.
Suspicions arise when something
Is covered up in a scurry.

To know or not to know?
Is that the question that taunts us?
Why didn't we stop it?
Will be the question that haunts us.

- by Bob B (3-30-17)
C X Rutledge Nov 2014
Sharpen my wits against a heart made of stone.
With a chisel and hammer in hand, I create a stone man from the beating, marble, monolith.
My thoughts pantomime a mythos ripping through the blood-brain barrier, causing hemorrhaging in the form of hands held towards the sky.
Barbarism takes the form of intellectualism, and as a consequence adorns sadism.
Waging war within, trying to conquer both the left and right hemispheres of my world.
But I'm simply made of stone; a monument to my own malicious, tyrannical, self.
Someone, please, come and tear down this statue.
Anyone, please, take this chisel. Drub down and crumble this creation.
For the those that can hear, please,  come and set me free.
Feeling good today.
Smit Oct 2016
I see the mist a little fady
Oh! I love my white lady
He left me thru the curb
I’m fighting like a drub
I know I ain’t sober
‘cause I see the mist a little fady
Oh! I love my white lady
I met her after he was gone
She’s with me through all dawn
Can’t you see I’m happy now?
‘cause I see the mist a little fady
Oh! I love my white lady
She ain’t got bosoms
But she’s being kind for some
That babe got me none
‘cause he sees the mist a little fady
Oh! I love my white lady

20:19
Monday
27 June 2016
©SmitFairytale
White Lady: Slang word for *******
MST Mar 2014
This pressure is like a waterfall,
as I topple from the force into the water.
I'm submerged in everything you've created,
and drowning in your dissatisfaction.
I can feel myself within your thrall,
as you begin this bloodless slaughter,
my lungs begin to feel weighted,
and I am unable to do any action.

But I have been tossed in a lake before,
and was expected to drown in the pool,
all thought I would die in the bathtub,
but luckily I know how to swim.
I will collect myself out of this mental war,
and not be played as a fool,
and it will be my turn to drub,
and I will make it to the water's brim.
Les silhouette Sep 2015
And so he proved me wrong;
All those thousand thoughts that kept me awake;
Are no longer my dreads.
He sought help to drub my fears
He was there. All along.
(alternately titled: impossible mission goes awry
probably mortal enemy cast spell binding jinx)

Both mental versus
physical tasks necessitate
laser sharp attentiveness
triggered within blinks
similarly on par when people toast
momentary instance utter silence

before more'n one
wine glass simultaneously clinks
cheering hurray, especially
if delicate circumstance
incorporates telecommunications downlinks
critical vital communique transmitted courtesy
think outlier (christened

Saint Matthew Scott Harris)
with acute instincts
held hostage between warp,
and woof fifth of dimension
far away beyond where
outer limits exhibits kinks

nsync with twilight zone
dwell alienated ratfinks
resembling authentic animated
Doctor Seuss characters
where one after another
third eye blind winks.

Lame excuse told cosmic speck (me)
sending yours truly on wild goose chase
an underhanded way to rub
inept feeble poetaster punster
out webbed wide world existence
purportedly great eats boasted
deep inside black hole pub

must make posthaste
to nearest galactic grubhub
mission control haint made no flub
boot deliberately thought
ineffectual doling out futile drub
cuz mister flibbertigibbet (me)
ostracized from highly selective club.

The aforementioned synopsis and
ultimate banishment cheered with big bang
decreed courtesy kangaroo court
constituting beastie boy gang
think star wars movie,
where farcical charges *******
offering accused two choices,
either to hang
suspended (think piñata) and beat

to (fictional) pulp
torturers obviously ignoring pang
of utter emasculation, but rather sang
a song of sixpence
while downing flasks of vintage tang
crafty entrepreneur William A. Mitchell in 1957
******* drinking vessels
resembling Chewbacca's oversize ****.
---------------------------------------------------
Lyrics­

Sing a Song of Sixpence
BY MOTHER GOOSE
Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened
The birds began to sing—
Wasn't that a dainty dish
To set before the king?

The king was in the counting-house
Counting out his money,
The queen was in the parlor
Eating bread and honey,

The maid was in the garden
Hanging out the clothes.
Along came a blackbird
And snipped off her nose.
Lavanya Jain Jun 2020
It was a late midnight
and the radium stars on the ceiling wall were shining bright.
The wheather was pleasant,
the aura was warm.
I was sleeping with Noddy, in my arms.
Then A sudden heaviness in my head
broke my sleep
The pain was growing so steep
That I couldn't get up.
I tried to drub
but Some thing was pulling me in my bed.
I could feel something leak
out of my nose.
It was blood , spurting out
flinging the coze.
Severe nosebleeds,
was a common symptom
of my disease.
But this one was differing,
My nose was blistering.
I knew it cause I've had many before
But this time my throat became sore
And soon i lost all control over my nose,
All I could do was doze.
My mind, I tried to divert,
So I looked for Noddy,
his cap was as red as his shirt.
Then I tried to call for aid
But by now not just my head
also my arms and legs
heftly weighed.
The pain was only growing more,
worse, than ever before.
It was as if the red water was flooding,
Unstoppably my nose was bleeding
Then with a sudden strangeness,
something leashed my lungs
Now I was breathless.
I don't wanna a die, I wanna play with my dolls,
I spoke to the dream catcher ,
That hung on the wall.
I was ailing and weak
my vission was turning bleak.
Soon i was left with none.
All I feared, was oblivion.
touka Dec 2019
she must be in such pain
I always think
I always, always think

but still her ire gets the best of me

her pain is not quiet, not to me;

it's thrashing, kicking
screaming, crying, willing
to wring the garrote
of her small hands
around my neck

it's her quivering lip
spilling forth short "I'm sorry's" and
calling for my embrace
and then her small frame turning
to drub on the same wounds again,

again,
again
again, again
again again again again—

the flame's rising
and rising,
and I'm quick to rush in!
but I'm too small,
like spit on the fire

it's too hard,
it's too hard,
it's too hard


and even more I ruin my size

tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow
tomorrow, tomorrow

there is always tomorrow

like I'll wake up
with my wounds gone
Let's drub with a lug-nut lug wrench a Hindu Goddess Kali thuggee drugged **** with a lung-plugged ***** who hugs snugly as smug
Jack Klugman was in a back rug bin singing songs black pugs sung

Homosexual "marriage" is for everyone. A normal person has just as much right to "marry" a ****** as Elton John had to marry a woman. **C'mon Tina, give me your precious things tiny!
Hmm... on second thought
lemme join anorexic club
until rib cage protrudes taut and visible
doubling as drum to drub
synchronized within heart of darkness,
especially when electrocardiogram exhibits
absolute zero vital sign,
cardiac arrest translates
as cessation to lub dub,
hence yours truly

declared dead as doornail,
coroner report deems arrhythmia
directly linkedin to deliberate Machiavellian flub
courtesy the missus attempt to poison me
actually aborted cuz nanobots
loosed upon body gripped with rigor mortis,
a minor inconvenient truth
cuz odorless and tasteless deadly toxins
rendered me convalescing
from bout with death, an oxymoronic
former slenderman gourmand.

temporarily deceased
until said microscopic robots
avidly analogous to frenzied
figuratively hogtied pigs
buzzfeeding at a trough
creating porcine hubbub
invisible nanoids (0.1-10 micrometres)
accomplished programmed task
whereby fatal microbes they did scrub
away leaving me fit as a fiddle.

No matter she thoroughly, painstakingly
and lovingly didst strew
haphazardly she threw
leftovers together,
this blustery march like
November twenty six figuratively view
wing the remaining thirty plus days
of two thousand twenty one
thoroughly cooked in microwave until...
poor excuse for my meal appeared
with consistency of shoe leather.

Think the missus not afraid
of Virginia Woolf keen to experiment
treating me like the Gingerbread Hag would
questionable resultant glop pantomimed
for my guessing pleasure
never in bajillion years
as amateurish Marcel Marceau charade
performance courtesy the spouse,

an entrée she gave - yours truly
immediately sought to evade
me subsequently evincing
horrific puckered mealy mouth
as though I swallowed hand grenade
figurative exploding oral cavity
feeble futile gesticulation inveighed.

Thus, methinks himself wise
to don cooking apron
please do not ask why
trumpeting self as master chef boyardee
so move over wife and allow husband to try
his hand (using skill - let) me prepare Thai
and/or other Asian cuisine dish,
cuz when free to potschke

(To fuss or "mess around"
inefficiently and inexpertly), I haint shy
to blend (indiscriminately) ingredients
ofttimes yours truly barley able to ply
boiling water since significant other
does not give this garden variety
and generic, gimlet eyed
gourmandizing guilt free
Earth friendly gumption goaded guy.

Every so often yours truly
gets so hungry, he could eat a horse
(yours truly jest kidding hoof course)
truth be told, I only eat one meal per day
all day from son up to son down, me a force
tubby reckoned with,
who if he gives way to vice
event chew wooly experiences remorse.

Hum glad to share mine reasonably rhyming hook
twenty six letters linkedin amidst
various combinations, formations, permutations,...
allows, enables, and provides a look
into the mindscape of Matthew Scott Harris
doth show himself with steely dangling
nonsense with sense and sensibility he forsook.
(a poetic partial fiction
blended, diced, fricaseed,
marinated, mixed, pureed, sautéed,
stewed... with fact)

Hmm... on second thought
lemme join anorexic club
until rib cage protrudes taut and visible
doubling as drum to drub
synchronized within heart of darkness,
especially when electrocardiogram exhibits
absolute zero vital sign,
cardiac arrest translates
as cessation to lub dub,
hence yours truly
declared dead as doornail,
coroner report deems arrhythmia

directly linkedin
to deliberate Machiavellian flub
courtesy the missus attempt to poison me
actually aborted cuz nanobots
loosed upon body gripped with rigor mortis,
a minor inconvenient truth
with earthling in the balance
cuz odorless and tasteless deadly toxins
rendered me convalescing
from bout with death, an oxymoronic
former slenderman gourmand.

Temporarily deceased
until said microscopic robots
avidly analogous to frenzied
figuratively hogtied pigs
buzzfeeding at a trough
creating porcine hubbub
invisible nanoids (0.1-10 micrometres)
accomplished programmed task,
whereby fatal microbes they did scrub
away leaving me fit as a fiddle.

No matter she thoroughly, painstakingly
and lovingly didst strew
haphazardly she threw
leftovers together,
this blustery march like
November twenty fourth figuratively view
wing the remaining thirty plus days
of two thousand twenty three
thoroughly cooked in microwave until...
poor excuse for my meal appeared
with consistency of shoe leather.

Think the missus not afraid
of Virginia Woolf keen to experiment
treating me like the Gingerbread Hag would:
questionable resultant glop pantomimed
for my guessing pleasure,
never figure out in bajillion years
as amateurish Marcel Marceau charade
performance courtesy the spouse,

an entrée she gave - yours truly
immediately sought to evade
me subsequently evincing
horrific puckered mealy mouth
as though I swallowed hand grenade
figurative exploding oral cavity
feeble futile gesticulation inveighed.

Thus, methinks himself wise
to don cooking apron
please do not ask why
trumpeting self as master chef boyardee
so move over wife and allow husband to try
his hand (using skill - let) me prepare Thai
and/or other Asian cuisine dish,
cuz when free to potschke

(To fuss or "mess around"
inefficiently and inexpertly), I haint shy
to blend (indiscriminately) ingredients
ofttimes yours truly barley able to ply
boiling water since significant other
does not give opportunity
to this garden variety
and generic, gimlet eyed
gourmandizing guilt free
Earth friendly gumption
generic goaded guy.

Every so often yours truly
gets so hungry, he could eat a horse
(yours truly jest kidding hoof course)
truth be told, I only eat one meal per day
all day from sunup to sundown, me a force
tubby reckoned with,
who if he gives way to vice
event chew wooly experiences remorse.

Hum glad to share mine reasonably rhyming hook
line and sink cup hated
twenty six letters linkedin amidst
various combinations, formations, permutations,...
allows, enables, and provides a look
into the mindscape of Matthew Scott Harris
doth show himself with steely dangling
nonsense with sense and sensibility he forsook.
(on second thought lemme join anorexic club
until rib cage protruding taut and visible
doubling as drum to drub
synchronized with heart that goes lub dub).

She painstakingly lovingly doth strew
haphazardly she threw
leftovers together,
this snowy December seventeenth
two thousand twenty
thoroughly cooked in microwave until...
poor excuse for my meal appeared
with consistency of shoe leather.

Think of the missus not afraid
to experiment buzzfeeding me
questionable resultant glop pantomimed 
for my guessing pleasure
never in bajillion years
as amateurish Marcel Marceau charade
performance courtesy the spouse,

an entrée she gave - yours truly
immediately sought to evade
me subsequently evincing
horrific puckered mealy mouth
as though I swallowed hand grenade
figurative exploding oral cavity
feeble futile gesticulation inveighed.

Thus, methinks himself wise
to don cooking apron
please do not ask why
trumpeting self as master chef boyardee
so move over wife and allow husband to try
his hand (using skill - let) me prepare Thai
and/or other Asian cuisine dish,
cuz when free to potschke

(To fuss or "mess around"
inefficiently and inexpertly), I haint shy
to blend (indiscriminately) ingredients
ofttimes yours truly barley able to ply
boiling water since significant other
does not give this garden variety
and generic, gimlet eyed
gourmandizing guilt free
Earth friendly gumption goaded guy.

Every so often yours truly
gets so hungry, he could
(not neigh sayimself) eat a horse
(yours truly jest kidding hoof course)
truth be told, I only eat one meal per day
all day from son up to son down, me a force
tubby reckoned with,
who if he gives way to vice
event chew wooly experiences remorse.

Hum glad to share mine reasonably rhyming hook
twenty six letters linkedin amidst
various combinations, formations, permutations,...
allows, enables, and provides a look
into the mindscape of Matthew Scott Harris
doth show himself with steely dangling
nonsense with sense and sensibility he forsook.
Travis Green Oct 2022
Your extraordinarily macho and glossy body
Enthralls every part of my phenomenal presence
Makes me exalt in your oiled and corking hotness
Nuzzle your chunky hunky muscles, your proportionally broad chest
Taste your amazingly unbreakable and captivating thighs
Kiss your hard, hairy legs, console the soles of your smooth feet

Marvel at your unconquerable universe like
The stupendous scenic view of seamless serrano street
Take in your smashing swag of aromatic and impassioned splashiness
Fall into your artfully ardent awesomeness
Converse with your wickedly well-bred world
Swirl my hands around your seductively cut and sumptuous abs

Massage your wondrously jaw-dropping shoulders
Worship your delicious, hot buns
Rub your tight, delightful boy ****
Become drunk on your stunning luminous funk
Probe your innermost top-hole dreaminess
Make a ****** approach to your dopeness

Be romantically linked with your enchantingness
Service your perfectness, roll around with your machoness
Get it on with your mad hot boss charm
Put my back into it, sweat away, go all out
Drub my deliriously passionate
And ungovernable love into your consciousness
Let's drub with a lug-nut lug wrench a Hindu Goddess Kali thuggee drugged **** with a lung-plugged ***** who hugs snugly as smug
Jack Klugman was in a back rug bin singing songs black pugs sung

Homosexual "marriage" is for everyone. A normal person has just as much right to "marry" a ****** as Elton John had to marry a woman. *C'mon Tina, give me your precious things tiny!

— The End —