"fanny" poems
My name is Sara, a transgender chick
Wanted a ***** was given a ****
I hide it in knickers of satin and lace
before sitting down to make-up my face,
Next the prosthetics, I'm using two bits.
Stuck to my chest, they'll do as my ****
Now for my legs I'll put on false tan,
I wouldn't do this if I were a man
Alternative nights, a t-girl delights
to sit on her bed and pull on new tights.
I'll put on a dress, a cute one no less.
Then for my shoes, high heels I choose
A sandal style shoe as every girl knows
not only looks cute, they'll show painted toes
A bit of eyeliner, eyebrow definer,
lipstick and blush, I'm now looking lush.
I stand in the mirror all ready to go,
there's only one question I just have to know.
"Does my *** look big in this?"
Poetry by Kaydee.
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 4:02 PM UTC
**ABRAHAM LINCOLN’S FAMOUS CIVIL WAR CONDOLENCE LETTER TO YOUNG ***** MCCULLOUGH ABOUT DEATH, LOSS AND MEMORY**
Executive Mansion,
Washington, December 23, 1862.
Dear *****
It is with deep grief that I learn of the death of your kind and brave Father; and, especially, that it is affecting your young heart beyond what is common in such cases. In this sad world of ours, sorrow comes to all; and, to the young, it comes with bitterest agony, because it takes them unawares. The older have learned to ever expect it. I am anxious to afford some alleviation of your present distress. Perfect relief is not possible, except with time. You can not now realize that you will ever feel better. Is not this so? And yet it is a mistake. You are sure to be happy again. To know this, which is certainly true, will make you some less miserable now. I have had experience enough to know what I say; and you need only to believe it, to feel better at once. The memory of your dear Father, instead of an agony, will yet be a sad sweet feeling in your heart, of a purer, and holier sort than you have known before.
Please present my kind regards to your afflicted mother.
Your sincere friend
A. LINCOLN.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 11:00 AM UTC
partying
women
drugs
drink
do you ever think ?
you justify your every sin
with sugar coated words you lure
your's a tainted heart
it is not pure
poetry and pretty rhymes
hollow words
empty lines
partying
women
drugs
drink
do you ever think ?
think of the girl who loves you true
she has given her heart and soul to you
you took that love then took a **** on my face
just so you could have a taste
a taste of *****
****
and sweet ****
you *******
your love is a blatant farce
i am done
i am through
i burn the love i once gave to you
partying
women
drugs
drink
*******
do you ever think ?
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 11:10 PM UTC
You changed me
Although you’re not here now
I’m disappointed you can’t see who I’ve become
I started growing the first time you hugged me
The force of your arms
Wrapped like a ribbon
Around a birthday present that is my body
You controlled everything
With that universal remote on your wrist
I’m surprised my emotions wouldn’t flicker
Each time you pressed a button
You had so many faces
Often times I felt as if
I was looking in a mirror
Not to say I love my own reflection
But those who know me well will say
“I look like my personality”
You know,
Headphones nowadays are two ear buds
It’s not meant to go in both ears
Both rather so you can have
Someone to share your music with
Some songs are harder to listen to than others
But I’m getting better
Do you keep my heart in your fanny-pack?
Unzip it like a pulse
Keep it next to other unimportant things
Cell phone, money, gum
I can’t walk gravel roads like I used to
Or see lightning bugs the same again
I know it’s not right to do
But when I’m with a girl
I compare her with you
Needless to say they never size up
So here I am single, which is funny to me
People give me compliments like you used to
My dimple, the smile and how I act
Living with laughter on a mountain
You were the echo
That made me think
Someone else was trying to talk back
Now that it’s gone
I’m talking to myself
I’d take a rocket to the moon with you
If you fell,
I too would faint
And now,
Every time I smoke
Upwards Into the night sky
I am surrounded
By a billion ***** of light
And they scream your middle name
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 1:29 AM UTC
JOHN KEATS’ LAST POEM WRITTEN IN ROME ON 21st February 1821*
(From The Imagination Of The Writer)
I am fading, fading fast, Fanny, my love eternal
Far away from you and home
I am dying, the hours I am counting
In what I liken to my grave that is Rome.
All that I seek in this dark loneliness is solace
Moments of respite thinking
Of you and our past exchanges of affection
Dissolved by fate with our hopes descending
Unto the oblivion that had been pre-ordained
Tears are comfortless and what is to come
Is but this pain that seared love must bear unknown
Only self-felt and suffered without end that renders my heart totally numb.
I can’t understand and it defies reason
The human heart should bear so much pain
While the tranquil stars hold so steadfast and the song
Of the nightingale drifts so sublimely in every sweet refrain.
Youth once gaily clothed in such beauty but now
Grows spectre-thin and here is but fret and fever
Where the old and infirm hang their heads down
In tearful reminiscences of happy days that have fled forever.
And now, my ***** my only love, you alone in this
The saddest schemes of things should share
This my life so wretched , lost, unfulfilled and joy-bereft
I beg forgiveness, only remember my poems—sorrow let us silently bear.
John Keats one of the greatest English romantic poets died on 23rd February 1821 in Rome, aged twenty-five
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
The Destroyer of the division machine1
Had first to run on the Way of the Cross
To have souls over the long lived ruin.
Robben, Pollsmoor and Victor2 caused no loss
In the Staff Heritage of the Thembu3
Rulers, forever loved by their people,
From whom was learnt right fight ain’t to taboo.
Good farmers’ teeth run right through the apple;
Likely after the Hard Walk to Freedom4
The Son of Gadla and Nosekeni5,
When his Soul flies up to the Lord’s Kingdom,
Glass will keep his body, and not any
Stain will sully the Star of the Nation
Whose Light will shine for each generation.
1. The division machine: The Apartheid.
2. Robben, Pollsmoor and Victor: During twenty seven years Mandela was successively jailed at Robben Island, Pollsmoor and Victor Verster prisons.
3. Thembu: The tribe over which ruled Mandela’s ancestors.
4. Hard Walk to Freedom: In September 1953, Andrew Kunene, a co-militant of his, read out Mandela's "No Easy Walk to Freedom" speech at a Transvaal ANC meeting; the title was taken from a quote by Indian independence leader Jawaharlal Nehru, a seminal influence on Mandela's thought. The speech laid out a contingency plan for a scenario in which the ANC was banned.
5. Gadla (Henry Mphakanyiswa): Mandela’s father; Nosekeni ***** His mother.
Boniface
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 8:33 AM UTC
Through every nook and every cranny
The wind blew in on poor old Granny
Around her knees, into each ear
(And up nose as well, I fear)
All through the night the wind grew worse
It nearly made the vicar curse
The top had fallen off the steeple
Just missing him (and other people)
It blew on man, it blew on beast
It blew on nun, it blew on priest
It blew the wig off Auntie *****
But most of all, it blew on Granny!
6k
One day
Woke up feeling randy
No one else was handy
What's to do?
Get dressed
Satisfy the horn
With badly acted ****
On pay per view
Hopes sink
Cable's on the blink
But twitter lends a helping hand
Bang, bang, come and have a gang bang
Gain entrance on demand
Have a gang bang
Come and have a gang bang
It's a gang bang
Come and have a gang bang
Went out
Followed the directions
Battling erections
All the while
Red cheeks
Granny at the bus stop
Let her vision drop
Then cracked a smile
Half four
Knocking at the door
It opens and a voice proclaims
"Bang, bang, come and have a gang bang
We've far too many dames"
The host was a sight to see
Not far over seventy
And wrapped in a silk dressing gown
I thought I would walk away
But saw that the sky was grey
And it star-
-ted *******
It down
Stepped in
Blinded by a deep gloom
Ushered to a dark room
Curtains shut
Deep breath
Air is old and musty
Carpet feeling crusty
Underfoot
Sprawled there
Women lying bare
And fellas with their organs free
Bang, bang, cover up your **** ****
Regain your decency
Pretty gang bang
Pretty ****** gang bang
****** gang bang
Pretty ****** gang bang
Look round
Writhing on the ground
With squishy little sounds
But something's odd
Fat lass
Itching at her *** crack
Isn't that a ball sack?
Oh my god!
Jaw drops
Granny from the bus stop
Wearing nothing but a grin
Bang, bang, pretty ****** gang bang
What ******* let her in?
She's nothing but skin and bone
With ribs like a xylophone
At least several decades too old
To use the vernacular
It's like bumming Dracula
She's wiry
She's wizened
She's cold
Oh (pretty) no ******
Rasping on my ****
With fingers like a sock
Filled up with ice
No (scary) chance (hairy)
Giving her the slip
My todger's in a grip
Just like a vice
It (saggy) seems (baggy)
Like she's in a dream
While scraping with her ancient hand
Bang, bang, ****** ****** gang bang
My sore and swollen gland
Granny bang bang
Granny granny gang bang
Granny gang bang
Granny ***** gang bang
Knock, knock
Coppers at the door
Go crawling on the floor
And off at speed
What fun
Looking at the punters
Myriad of munters
As they flee'd
Cold, wet
Drowning in regret
With trousers round my knees I stand
Bang bang ****** ****** gang bang
Next time I'll use my hand
Bang bang ****** ****** gang bang
Next time I'll use my haaaaaaaaaaaaaaand!
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 3:00 AM UTC
The sun bakes down heavily on a plastic micro planet in Orlando, Florida
where crowded trams drop American bushels of tourists into an alien world.
Quickly fantasy comes alive
through a corporation of disguise.
The workers mask themselves in a drapery of familiar life
-like costumes to charm little children’s hearts.
They smile wildly, carving a clear dimple line on the but of their cheeks. Walt’s Disney World
must have driven every one of America’s circuses out of business.
The flying trapeze is too elegant,
people now want to be strapped in,
buckled up and whipped around
to forcibly experience the true velocity of entertainment.
Even the participant’s attire is geared for this third world oblivion. Neon ***** packs rest like bloated kangaroo pouches
on fat sweaty old lady’s round hips, their plump fingers
holding on to leashed harnesses reined to their child’s small chest.
This is vacation,
strangers of people in massive conglomerations
with confused expressions and burnt faces.
Even the food seems wickedly unnatural,
like an artificial order of burning plastic and sour dough surprise.
Waiting is the enthusiast’s pastime as parades
of anxious voyeurs are captivated by a trance
fixation of lights and whistles.
They line up like schools of lemming,
plunging on rides,
one by one.
This is the place
Where memories are made
And dreams come true
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
Penetrate me tight-fitting and penetrate me pinned down
The lycanthropic creature you ******
This is la vie en Venus’ flytrap
When you poke me, ****** moans
And though I squeeze my vaginas
I taste la vie en Venus’ flytrap
When you ***** me abutting your *****
I’m inside a hobnobbing alien
A metagalaxy where Venus’ flytraps win a beauty contest
And when you ********* cyclopses moo from upstairs
Heterosexual homophones seem to pervert ***** Adams Glorias
Splash out your cream and gumption to me
And ***** lust loosely wash
La vie en Venus’ flytrap
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 4:06 PM UTC
My dearest Frank, I wish you joy
Of Mary's safety with a Boy,
Whose birth has given little pain
Compared with that of Mary Jane —
May he a growing Blessing prove,
And well deserve his Parents' Love! —
Endow'd with Art's and Nature's Good,
Thy Name possessing with thy Blood,
In him, in all his ways, may we
Another Francis WIlliam see! —
Thy infant days may he inherit,
They warmth, nay insolence of spirit; —
We would not with one foult dispense
To weaken the resemblance.
May he revive thy Nursery sin,
Peeping as daringly within,
His curley Locks but just descried,
With 'Bet, my be not come to bide.' —
Fearless of danger, braving pain,
And threaten'd very oft in vain,
Still may one Terror daunt his Soul,
One needful engine of Controul
Be found in this sublime array,
A neigbouring Donkey's aweful Bray.
So may his equal faults as Child,
Produce Maturity as mild!
His saucy words and fiery ways
In early Childhood's pettish days,
In Manhood, shew his Father's mind
Like him, considerate and Kind;
All Gentleness to those around,
And anger only not to wound.
Then like his Father too, he must,
To his own former struggles just,
Feel his Deserts with honest Glow,
And all his self-improvement know.
A native fault may thus give birth
To the best blessing, conscious Worth.
As for ourselves we're very well;
As unaffected prose will tell.
Cassandra's pen will paint our state,
The many comforts that await
Our Chawton home, how much we find
Already in it, to our mind;
And how convinced, that when complete
It will all other Houses beat
The ever have been made or mended,
With rooms concise, or rooms distended.
You'll find us very snug next year,
Perhaps with Charles and ***** near,
For now it often does delight us
To fancy them just over-right us.
5.3k
It is seven this crisp April morning. In woods before the rising path reveals the heath, there, no there, just there are the first bluebells. Most still hide their pendulous bells in sheath-like petals. When open into a bell the end flounces, splits, curls back on itself. Then the petals reveal their delicate shades of light-thriven lavender. The stout purposeful stem meanwhile allows a gathering of bells, no, a necklace of bells, bells laced around the neck.
I cannot look at this flower without knowing it is the colour that so often graces your purposeful frame, arrayed in the simplest clothes, so often in layered friendly shades; so often falling, loose, quiet, light-enhancing as your blue with grey with green eyes that hold my gaze in pillow-closeness, in that magnification of those intimate moments when one can only whisper.
The common bluebell is the first whisper of summer. It is Endymion, of the bower, a 'bower quiet for us and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing'. In that mornings’ moment I am John and you ***** May we this vernal evening sit together as the dusk gathers darkness 'and with full happiness. . . trace the story of Endymion. . . the very music of its name gone into my being'.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 2:01 AM UTC
Fought
One, Twenty-two skidoo.
Cantankerous mad filamous
She,
That of her,
Me.
Piñata, stretched balloon
Over my big fleshy
******
Tea and cakes,
Painted my nails
Painted my lips
Like candy.
Gold trinkets,
Pour like mercury out of my ear.
Ouch! I cried
My feet in hot sandy
Dreams.
Flying peacocks tickle
My *****
Oranges roll on chalk board tables
Over stale rye bread.
***** dribbles out like mucus
And a runny nose.
Toilet paper and rusty water.
********** on you.
Stocking lover.
Fetish cover.
Woman pusher.
Mellifluous ****
Look at my skin.
Pink, beige, peach, red
Porous, greasy, bacteria ridden hide.
**** me like seppuku,
Smother, suffocate me with
Red jelly jam.
Lubricate your finger with black
Cancerous ash.
Stick it in my naval,
Unravel my umbilical cord
Like so many filaments of my heart.
Tear your flesh
You auto *********
Rip your liver
And force feed it
Corn and maize
Hay and grass
Emory my nails against
Red barn walls
Until bare skin fundamentals
Kisses with salty lips
Inflame my ravishing
Pig stomach.
Kick my shin you
Everything,
Wake up you stupid
*****
Void can be blue skies,
Oceans call for suicide.
Kiss me with delight,
Raspberries tattooed
In my *****
Strawberry cream
Vanilla, milk,
Ponderous infinity,
Cotton, dough
Honey and sage.
Caustic gastric
You and not me.
Feel my legs,
Touch my thighs,
Lick my lips,
Give me anything
Not direct.
Tie me up in complexities.
**** my head up.
Put me in a dream,
Make me happy.
Blair Butterfield 2004
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:09 AM UTC
Girls who go on bended knee
And show the world their *****
Never ask for love or care
Or one to call them honey
If they choose to put a price
On showing men their body
With empty hearts and purses full
It seems kind of funny
If only they could love themselves
Half as much as money
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
hickory nuts
and wind trees
are keeping
at the old buckle bay
light house corners and
shaker church craft
slip anchor on the southern tip
secret legions
and phenolic board
tuck in at gout dock
bands and nations
and miracle speak
fill in the center hall
sand hooks
and water domes
cover wharf road
***** bay toppers
and seven horse chugs
scatter the swollen upper deck
packards and pushers
and rusty back rails
skirt the night
lanterns and sterns
and navy gulls
steady on task
sand cakes
and drift wood
held tight on
the mystery tour
yellow tails
and tide pools
flat line
at royal reach
paddles
and cables
find ripples way
smugglers and smitties
take cover
from a
northern gale
down on
pocket shoal
there’s a graceful hue
~ they’re serving up
belons and xan…
it's time to get in
for a fill
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
(Solitary Chamber. Heart breaking melodious music is flowing silently. Young Ren is looking pale, soliloquizing.)
Young Ren: Sweet Flance!
Can you hear me?
I do know you can never see me now;
But hear me --- my words at least!
Feel my heart that hangs on nothing;
Yet resting itself on my unrequited love.
Hear me! Do hear me!
Send thy spirit unto me awhile,
And hearken my silent words.
Dear Flance!
Thou must be now with thy partner
Breaking thy footprints with me once;
Yet ne'er am I angry with thee.
From him I should not take thee away;
Yet listen unto me awhile.
Dear Flance!
I loved thee not at the very first sight
Like Orlando and Rosalind ---
Orlando was a wrestler,
Rosalind was a fair lady.
Their love began at an arena in a contest ---
Rosalind in the guise of Ganymede,
Their love passed thro' rustic lands
Symbolizing the art of Nature,
Their love stirred the young hearts
With wonder and fancy.
Sweet Flance!
Romeo died of Juliet and Juliet of Romeo ---
Breaking endurance to chaos.
There was poison in their love.
Dear Flance!
Jealousy lingered in the fatal love
Betwixt Othello and Desdemona,
At night their love was born,
At night their love was dead
When blackened by the candle light.
Dear Flance!
Lysander loved Hermia
And sought fanciful beings
For their fanciful union.
Dear Flance!
Know you, Keats died of consumption?
His love for ***** Brown was limitless,
And so burst into tears.
Oh! No!
MY love for thee can never have comparisons.
Sweet Flance!
Blossomed my love for thee
When thou wert young,
When thou wert beautiful;
Yet it's not of Romeo's,
Of Othello's,
Of Lysander's,
Of Dante's,
Of Keats',
For they died of their love.
My love for thee be unrequited; yet ineffable.
You felt not my love; yet I cannot be Romeo.
Know you?
Romeo loved Juliet,
Juliet loved Romeo,
And so they died without love.
Loved I thy heart, not thee?
Love I thy heart, not thee?
And so,
We live in remembrance of each other.
Dear Flance!
Thou must be now living with thy partner
Rejoicing in his presence.
Can you think of me living myself.
Rejoicing in my thoughts of you?
Here am I in the air with wings waxed;
Yet I'll not fall down to fragments.
Know you?
I am to lead my life myself,
But with thoughts of you!
For
Loved I thee, still I love thee,
Ever I'll love thee.
(Young Ren sheds tears)
Sweet Flance!
My tears are not of my loneliness sans thee;
But born of bliss within me with thoughts of you.
(Curtain Falls)
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 11:38 AM UTC
The new Genre Tourist Punk
is sailing the nation.
Hawaiian shirts and white keds are lining up all around Orlando to see
up and thrifting bands like
Lobster trap,
Lighthouse tour and
Dogs welcome.
Founded in a Starbucks
by Toni and Dash,
two MECA grads one student loan away from selling out and getting involved in
the lighthouse painting business,
The Band: Lobster Trap
gave birth to a whole new genre.
TOURIST PUNK
Toni and Dash decided they needed to provide music that was expensive. niche.
Something unspeakably mundane.
With smash hits like
"This traffic is ********
And "My name still isn't Joe".
Lobster Trap is flying
up the American top 40
faster than you can say socks and sandals
Sales of "I HEART LOCATION" merch has skyrocketed with every launched tour.
Crowds of L.L. bean boots and visors are Moshing, breaking poloroid cameras over each others heads in a salmon rage.
old school punk fanatics were skeptical at middle aged middle class suits getting into their scene.
until it hit them that they could now throw punches
at every pedestrian who ever cut them off.
"Hi thirsty, I'm Dad." By Land of the Polite
Has been played more times in the last year then any taylor swift song.
Money once invested in college-bound middle class vacationlander spawn is being wisely spend on bands like "discount Polo",
and "Local Diner"
So listeners.
if you spend an obscene amount of money on travel fair, and over priced, cheaply made souvenirs;
Or Work in customer service thriving to see those leaf peepers choked out by their own ***** packs.
Do yourself a favor.
road trip into your local bullmoose
sporting your states name on your chest.
And Treat yourself to an exclusive new album
of TOURIST PUNK.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 4:16 AM UTC
I run this muddy track on these big old shaky wheels
With numbers on my back and a helmet on my head.
I drive around in circles and they call me "Crazy Ed".
I drive. That's how I stay alive. I just like how it feels.
I've got a batch of children and a drop-dead gorgeous wife.
She puts up with me when I leave to tinker on that wreck.
And all week long I'm trucking, gone, to earn an honest check.
And still she cheers for me each Sunday while I risk my life.
Someday I'll hang that helmet on the hook there by the door,
And toss away this mud-caked suit with "92" on back.
I'll give that gorgeous wife of mine a kiss, and fanny-whack,
Then play around (in circles!) with my Kids there on the floor.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 2:45 PM UTC
my wonderful nanny
is not actually a nanny.
she likes to be called Annie
and doesn't carry a *****
she writes poems about us and day drinks.
she likes to cuss and never makes a fuss.
she even gets her hair done regularly, unlike other grannies.
her makeup is always perfect, her red lipstick signature.
her sunglasses are just divine and delicious.
she is a glam-ma
Nanny Annie is the best.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 8:02 PM UTC
Your beauty i cannot resist
As i lean in for a french kiss
Your so soft skin i do caress
As we both start to undress
I kiss your neck and behind your ears
Exploring your body from front to rear
I lay you down nice and slow
Kissing you from head to toe
I kiss your legs and inner thighs
This is where my heaven lies
I wrapped your legs around my face
And long to taste your sweet embrace
My hands caress your perfect ****
My mouth enjoys your tasty ****
I can hear you start to moan
As my tongue begins to roam
Loving every smell and taste
I take my time and never haste
With every kiss your body shivers
And every lick just makes you quiver
My lips and tongue they are not done
Just because I've made you ***
I keep probing every nook and cranny
Moving down to lick your *****
My mind and body on cloud nine
While i rim your great behind
I can feel your knees go weak
As you hit your second peak
Now that you are wet and ready
I enter you slow and steady
Starting slow then speeding up
I kiss your ******* and lick them up
With every ****** our bodies kiss
Completely lost yet nothing missed
Our bodies joined we shake and tingle
And as we kiss our tongues do mingle
Now in such euphoric state
As we both *********
Both exhausted from the night
We start to spoon, i hold you tight
Kissing you till we pass out
Dreaming when we’ll next make out
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC
Physician Nature! Let my spirit blood!
O ease my heart of verse and let me rest;
Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood
Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast.
A theme! a theme! great nature! give a theme;
Let me begin my dream.
I come -- I see thee, as thou standest there,
Beckon me not into the wintry air.
Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears,
And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries, --
To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears
A smile of such delight,
As brilliant and as bright,
As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes,
Lost in soft amaze,
I gaze, I gaze!
Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast?
What stare outfaces now my silver moon!
Ah! keep that hand unravished at the least;
Let, let, the amorous burn --
But pr'ythee, do not turn
The current of your heart from me so soon.
O! save, in charity,
The quickest pulse for me.
Save it for me, sweet love! though music breathe
Voluptuous visions into the warm air;
Though swimming through the dance's dangerous wreath,
Be like an April day,
Smiling and cold and gay,
A temperate lilly, temperate as fair;
Then, Heaven! there will be
A warmer June for me.
Why, this, you'll say, my ***** is not true:
Put your soft hand upon your snowy side,
Where the heart beats: confess -- 'tis nothing new --
Must not a woman be
A feather on the sea,
Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide?
Of as uncertain speed
As blow-ball from the mead?
I know it -- and to know it is despair
To one who loves you as I love, sweet *****
Whose heart goes fluttering for you every where,
Nor, when away you roam,
Dare keep its wretched home,
Love, love alone, his pains severe and many:
Then, loveliest! keep me free,
From torturing jealousy.
Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above
The poor, the fading, brief, pride of an hour;
Let none profane my Holy See of love,
Or with a rude hand break
The sacramental cake:
Let none else touch the just new-budded flower;
If not -- may my eyes close,
Love! on their lost repose.
2.4k
This is for the residents who remember
And for the transplants who
Have yet to be informed
But have got an inkling
Burque has gone from
Bustling to busted
And back again
Growing up in the 80’s
I learned about the
Varying degrees of “sick”
As my dad pointed out
The pekid pachucos perusing
Pharmacy isles
Attempting to purchase
Cough syrup with codeine
In the evenings
Driving home down Central
I would ceremoniously
Count hookers
My parents would
Precariously pack heat
In the trunk of our car
Or even in my mom’s special ***** pack
With the hidden compartment
For her .38 snub nose
Because you never know
Who will be in your home
When you arrive
That’s a given
When flop houses are
Interwoven with prime real estate
And barrio boundaries
Border the bourgeois’ bungalows
And Huning’s Castles
And residents rarely recognize
Or realize
That aside from the locals
The European Jews
Was the only group gutsy enough
To settle here
And create commerce
Despite risks of being raided
By Apaches
And they reaped the benefits
Off Roma and Marquette
Because the rewards
Turned out to be greater than
The risks
And up North
Where Sephardic turned Crypto
Conversions to Catholicism
Kept the Messiah’s spirit alive
But in basements
They still did Chi fives!
I was saddened in middle school
When I realized
That many of our parents
Were too ashamed of our roots
To teach us Spanish
And our
Schools ****** so severely
That most of us
Didn’t learn English either
But hey –
All you need to
Communicate while cruising
Are cat calls
And the thumping boom
Of the bass in the tubes
And the hydraulic drop
When they hit
The hot spots
From Tingley, Kit Carson and
Central to Copper
Each kid dreams that
His ride
Will be the show stopper
I could rant and rave
And rattle off for days
But bottom line –
We have the most
Curious state
With mysterious qualities
And in-depth histories
But most of us are
More concerned with
Bud Light
And Biscochitos
Con Manteca
Because it just tastes great!
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 2:39 AM UTC
Ah wuz lookin oot o' mah winder and ah saw this lad
wi' a barry wee lassie gaun' up the hill.
-Wair the **** d'ye think you're gaun tae? ah yells oot.
But the daft ***** didnae answer at aww,
must've been oot o' thir ****** heids wi' E's or summat,
d'ye ken what ah'm tellin' ye,ye daft radge?
-Wair ye're ******* going? ah yells a couple mair times
and finally the gadge yells back to ays,
-Up the ******* hill tae fetch a pail o' ******* watter,
me Ma's hud her fuckin' taps turned oaf by the fuckin' Corporation,
which is a ******* pain in the erse ah had ter agree.
I realised ah knew the wee **** Jack but,
eh wuz an auld classmate of ays and eh's hung oot wi' ma brar n me,
when we wuz bairns oan the Scheme,eh?
-That's a bonny wee lassie ye've goat wi' ye, there Jack, ah yelled,
thinking ah'd nae kick her oot o' mah scratcher
withoot gi'ing her a guid ride.
Ah huvtae sey ah recognised hir as a wee ****
called Jill from the Scheme, a right tidy wee ride
in mah opinion wi' a guid little ***** on hir, as ah recall.
-Mind ye're own fuckin' business, the **** yells back at ays,
takin' the pail in yin hand and the hoor's wee hand in the other yin.
Ah can tell ye ah totally pished meself wi' laughter
when the pair o' they wide ***** fell doon,
Jack breakin' his fuckin' croon n the groond,
ah'm sure he nivver meant it tae happen,
'n eh mustae squashed his ******* bawws
as eh fell doon n aww from the wey he screamed oot,
but the wee lassie cam tumbling doon the ****** hill n aww,
heid n **** oor her fuckin' erse
'n ah could see she wasnae wearin' any ****** *******
'n her ***** was on display under her skirt.
Ah wouldnae expect anything else from a wee hoor,eh?
-Dinnae worry, ah'll com and help ye, ah called oot,
but when ah goat thir, both o them wis deid,
ah thoat o' gittin mah hole wi' the deid lassie n aww,
but you shouldnae dae that, it's no respectful tae wimmin,
'n eywis, the polis might trace me through the DNA,
those ***** are clivvir 'n aw, ye ken.
So ah contented mesel' wi' rummidging through the poakits
o' the lad's jaykit tae see if eh hud ehs payment from the Joab Centre,
but the daft **** mustae spent it aww on a boatil or two o Grants,
ah ken ah'd hae done the same mahsel'.
And there wasnae a penny in the lassie's purse,
so ah thoat ah'd jus' **** oaf doon the ******
'n ask some **** tae call the hoaspital and the ****** polis.
Eh?
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 7:34 AM UTC