"fiver" poems
He sold his pure soul for a fiver,
maybe, the price of a cuppa tea,
sold it to the man of bonds,
of stocks and shares,
who had no cares,
The customer,
he wanted a *** or a ****
wasn't sure which,
either would do.
Glimpsed him out the side of his eye,
what he didn't note was that he cried,
He didn't care the callous man,
Gets satisfaction however he can.
Girl child, boy child,
one thing for certain,
he gave not a ****
He was selfish and cold,
his currency was gold,
pure gold the purity of just past infancy,
crowding in the shopping mall.
The by-passers wanted to intervene,
unable to believe the things that they'd seen.
Day by day,
still the stay,
They should still be free and able to play.
It's life in London, so they say,
Living pain day by day.
Thought that they may find the streets paved with golden kisses,
Home again the other side,
the punter hugs his Missus.
(C) Livvi
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
Oh Eliot, Poor Eliot, Your Fans Hung You in the Closet and I'm Feelin' So Sad^
<>
we tithed thee with donations plenty,
here a dollar, there a fiver, a coupon for free chips,
worthy of somebody’s eternal gratitude,
that would be you,
da Duke, Duke of York
the largest online free poetry site,
a million visitors a day, why you must be
the richest poet online billionaire, right?
you,
da Duke, Duke of York and
occasional poet...
in return, all we occasional poets demand
steady on instant access, immediate satisfaction,
after all, a part time job deserves your bestus-best,
just like every other large online site, that never crashes,
we’re not like just the rest, we are
p o e t s,
occasionally
so keep the servers engines, well stoked with Newcastle coal,
keep them up and running round the clock,
using only alternative energy,
of the unceasing sun light of merry old England!
quit that other job, you must,
instead of giving up on us,
give in to us,
a poetry break, a writing recharge,
though please add a limited liability
clause to the FAQ’s,
that poets’ lives must deal with the hiccup
occasional
you, da Duke, Duke of York,
newly now, an appointment royale as Major General,^^
you, the very model of a modern major general
possessing information vegetable, animal, mineral and
technical,
who knows the Queens of England, who,
maybe even now is telling tales of your heroics with the hordes of
hysterical
occasional
poetical
globalists
demanding
light brigadests
charging the redoubt
and
when you have a moment spare,
a haircut, please.
no, that is not a request,
naturally
<>
10/19/19
Noontime NYC
natalino
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 12:21 PM UTC
This is it.
Your big moment.
Taking time at these crossroads.
Your decision determining destiny.
A moment all your own, never to be replicated.
skittering circuits buzz, obedient to your commands.
Hours lay ahead of you, stuffed and bulging with the static you will consume.
Channel 2 or channel 4?
This is it.
Your catastrophic downfall.
An outcry was made, now the civility is shattered.
the acquaintances you once held as companions,
may now cut icy glares as the senate did to Caesar.
alarms ring, as you feel reduced in their eyes.
You got the wrong change at the cafe,
so you ask for a fiver.
later on,
your banquet awaits, golden and sunbaked.
stewed for months, in rich and creamy crop of the land.
taking your throne, in the cool shaded flank in your garden of eden.
A cup of soup and a bag of crisps.
these grand odysseys still raise up those same emotional epics,
as moments in youth locked in the past.
like lying on a blanket at the very edge of one of the seven sisters.
alas, you are still perched upon oblivion,
cup of tea in hand.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 6:19 PM UTC
Rattle the cassette
with the biro etched “Car Mix”
grab the keys from mum’s bag
“Fill up what you use!”
“…Ok, can I have a fiver then?”
scuff to the car in unsuitable boots
slump in, adjust mirror, checking stupid fringe
which then existed
snap in the tape so the first bars
of G-Funk, grunge or B*Witched pulse
then it’s off to pick up
shotgun
Nov 20, 2021
Nov 20, 2021 at 4:18 AM UTC
9th Floor:
Good for views in real terms equates as multiple times the number
of floors of glares on the stairs, some less random and aggressive as others
Some from young lads
Some from their mothers -
Who’ll squeeze their ******* for a fiver, but its more for inside her -
It’s always an Apache tunnel of prickly vibes and jibes with little to say
And neighbours who turn out to be mental,
Found in the gutter, covered in butter
and thankfully sectioned later that day
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:28 AM UTC
There is no driver - go anywhere for a fiver
Pod - cars troll Milton Keynes by no means
seen piloted in four years time - where's mine?
Then they come together in the land of never - never
The sat-nav tells us where we're going
ready to alight when it's finally slowing
what will they think of next? Send a text
with your suggestion - normality's in regression
No one is to blame when there's an accident
nothing is seen to describe an incident
however, at least no one can go on strike
and I won't be reduced to travel by bike
The atmosphere is electric, technology hectic
it was bad enough when we decided to go metric!
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 2:20 PM UTC
I was out of my mind.
I realise that now.
Now when I try and remember,
What I said?
How I moved?
How I sounded?
What I looked like?
Where I put that rolled up fiver and dusty dvd case?
I'm embarassed.
I'm cringing at the possibility that I could have slurred about my insecurities.
The notion that I could have danced on top of him like a total novice.
Sounded like a hungry, desperate, stranger.
And looked like a chattering mess.
I found my fiver.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
I'm a survivor
I jacked a fiver
Got on the bus
Beat up the driver
Thought it was funny
Stole all his money
I'm a survivor
Still got that fiver!
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
It’s been 5 months
since I walked his grid, they're
precise measurements now
polished, so not to skid.
Past the shop selling grapes
in bags, bunches split apart
for profits sake, when
really it's all a mistake-
as the person they’re intended for
will slowly slip away for sure.
Gangplank corridor, a bridge
across the restaurant. Through
double door vending machine island,
cups of tea- only a fiver.
Haematology is down there
in that extension,
but first the window walk-
*double glazing, heat protection
convention.*
The architect’s rounded bays to
either side bubble up and out
from the courtyards below. Death
waves from every window, but
curtains drawn so not to show
why, what, who or how.
We wait to be let in the ward;
treading ground so not to drown,
nervous carol singers waiting
to see what audience shall applaud,
airport carousel baggage claim for
luggage from abroad-
“Room 4 on the left” nurse
1 admits, like a lie held
between pale, rose lips.
“Room 4 is open to visitors” both
nurse 2 and 3 say,
but I’m family, I’m here to stay.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 8:05 AM UTC
“Sweet Kiss” was the horse and Frank Hayes was his rider,
Both destined this day to gain fame.
Frank was a stable boy on his first stake horse;
The horse too was a novice, but game.
This pairing went off at 20-1, but was well worth the risk of a “fiver”.
Sweet Kiss won the race and the bettors were stunned
for his jockey fell off, a cadaver.
Frank suffered a heart attack on the last turn
and the horse was the only survivor.
Frank Hayes, undefeated, was interred in his silks.
“Sweet Kiss”, undefeated, retired.
Jockeys are short but have memories long-
None were willing to be her next rider.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
Mr. Ivories
entertains with elan,
daily during cocktails on the mezzanine level.
Jolene always orders a Black Russian,
mine is a Dewar's and water.
We drop a fiver in his basket on the Steinway,
along with a request for "Ebb Tide",
Jolene's personal favorite.
He conjures an image of Fred Astaire at keyboard,
his tails flipped elegantly over the piano bench,
like long black raven's plumes.
Jolene points out two announcers from CNN,
seated opposite. Makes us feel
important by mere association.
Our waitress asks, would we like another round
before the hour's end, as we speculate
about Mr. Ivories' musical propensity.
Time escapes in moonlit harmonic vapors,
leaves us already longing our next soiree.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 12:07 AM UTC
You ask me what my diet is
and I am reminded that for three years of my life
All I had in my lunchbox
were jam sandwiches
Single slices of own brand bread
with scrapings of red in the center
If there was anything there
at all
And I tell you that I've never had a problem
with portion control
You ask me again how I stay so skinny
and I think of all the days I spent
rummaging through bare cupboards
Looking for something I could have
for dinner
As I tell you that I have always
been like this
You wrap two fingers around my
wrist and joke that a breeze would blow me away
and I can see myself now
11 years old and 5 foot nothing
Pushing my sister in her pram
up a hill on the way home from
school
Straining under the weight
And I tell you that my body had
never failed me when it wasn't windy out
You demand to know why nothing I eat sticks to me
But I can't tell you how my frame
hasn't yet gotten used to being full
of something other than rage
And I don't think I would recognize
the girl who wasn't starving
and stuffing her face
So I tell you that I just don't know
You can't help but ask why I didn't just buy myself something extra
And I smile when I think of the small
amount that I had to spend
and the fiver worth of sweets it went on
that I handed to my baby siblings as I shut the door
to their room
On the worst day I can remember
Because they didn't have to be hungry too
So I didn't eat a single one
But I tell you that skinny is just a memory I didn't get to give back.
Dec 12, 2017
Dec 12, 2017 at 1:31 PM UTC
Cardboard City
land of broken dreams
life on the pavement
existence of extremes
lost my job , my home , my wife
No end in sight of my pitiful life
Down on my luck my life's a mess
living outside as outdoors guest
A kindly gent puts a fiver in my palm
below freezing tonight
so it's
McDonald's coffee and a lip balm
So if you see me asleep on the side of the road
I sleep here because I have
No Fixed abode
thank you
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 3:45 PM UTC
Did you see the paper?
There was another incorrigible kid,
wandering the streets, looking for adventure.
He was just out seeking his fortunes,
maybe a baseball, a nickel found, a lost pup,
when he was converged upon by the local press.
They were looking for a street smart kid,
able to tell them the realities of living on the street,
show them the lay of the land so to speak.
Now, this kid, bright fella, figured he had something here,
Thought, all these folks really liked him.
Were interested in him, actually thought they may have cared.
He showed them the back streets,
the corners where the hookers hung out.
Introduced them to the local dealer, and
made short work of the secrets of a local chopshop.
He really thought they cared,
they gave him a fiver, a bag of candy, a grin,
They talked to him like he was the Man,
he wanted to be, amazed and excited by what he told.
Then they disappeared one day, their story written,
published for the newspaper and the kid was all alone.
All alone.
He was all alone when the chopshop boys and the local **** found him.
Made an example of him for any other fools who thought they knew so much.
Now you can see him, head down, limping, crippled and blind.
I wonder where those people are now, needing a story,
filling their space with black and white lines.
Missing the black and blue bruises they left behind.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 2:22 PM UTC
Falling pink petals
Plinking my head
A saxophone serenade
Kind of kind of blue
A solitary birch among many hundreds
Of deciduous trees, its paper
Bark scored with age
White among shadows
And the endless breeze takes me up
Into Tiffany-blue sky
Pollen clumps litter the edges of lawn
Calliope streaming from a mared and seahorsed
Carousel dances in my head
Disobedient canine in exodus
Defiant against the silhouette
Of a circled dog
Line diagonally cutting across
Wah wah wah as the ducks in the pond
Are chased away.
Endless verdant day criss-crossed with
Walking paths and robin’s-egg sky punctuated
With drifting cotton shapes.
Brazen squirrels accustomed to the pleasant
Bustle and hustle
Bat City, unopened, in my lap
Mothers feeding children
Hungry mouths to breast.
Seeking out a lemonade stand
Near Winter Street in spring
A yellow burst of sour notes sing
On my palate
A bargain at a fiver on a day as this
Soundtrack peppered by buskers and
An ***** grinder turning the crank on his street ***** and
Birds and
The woo of occasional sirens.
A mother wheeling her child along
In a stroller
Mohawked, tattooed, pierced lip and
She smiles on by.
Ivied brownstones and balconies railed
With wrought iron
End our stay
On this idyllic day
In month of May.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:13 PM UTC
A young man with ***** hands
walked into the bar.
He sat next to a blonde
of about the same age
and ordered a beer.
"Don't even try to talk to me,"
she said in an arrogant tone.
The young man didn't speak.
Defeated, he climbed off the stool.
He took a pull from the beer
and then dropped a crinkled fiver.
As he walked out the door,
the girl laughed out loud.
She showed us all
who was boss.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 1:34 PM UTC
smell hell
a rocket rips straight up
white
handsom ambiguous evil
a little bag of *****
whatever, it ****** works
this is different from nothing
this i guess is better
this i love to do
this became my debtor
blanks drawing outlines
wine colours them in
mona lisa nice to meet ya
hows a party of sin
god god off
and we art in heaven
abstainity
roll the fiver
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 11:49 AM UTC
change is either something different
or what you swapped for a fiver
i wish i was the solitude
you kept as our provider
change will come and change will go
and change comes from within
i wish i had the aptitude
you took that on the chin
change it for another day
let it stay where we decided
i wish i was the gratitude
in which you had confided
change is good at what it does
takes me squarely out the comfort zone
i wish i was a multitude
in which i kept my own
change is what we represent
as we slowly get older
i wish i had the attitude
i really should have told her
change is what we saw last week
hit me like a hammer
i wish i had the magnitude
and better grammar
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 8:47 AM UTC
A stroke they said.
Came along like a puncture,
eked the breath out from him.
Not a surprise but still
a hot bullet to the chest.
Been told his organs
were wilting with age,
raisin wrinkles sprinkled
across a seven-decade face.
Wheeled the body away,
blades of grey hair,
lumpy veins that tore
through his skin.
He knew it was coming.
Wished to kiss his wife again,
eleven years after their last.
Her name was Mary I think.
Cancer.
Had a passion for horses.
Just yesterday
put a fiver on Lust for Life
and Magic Touch.
Both came in, he’d have had
fifty quid. Lucky ***
At the bookies they all loved him.
When I collected his winnings
I had to explain.
I think they knew
before I opened my mouth.
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 11:26 AM UTC
i am a drug, abused drug abuser,
you like to pick me up, take a drag
rip a piece
and throw me away in your disgust,
wear me thin...
and while you work on breaking my spirit
i inhale of my own poision..
pulling clouds of happiness into my lungs
for the low low price of my sanity
you picked me up one night and screamed
threw me to the corner and as usual
but this time you cried
you said"im sorry"
i don't know what that means
my soul is gone, i sold it to the devil for a fiver,
grinned as i counted the cents and he laughed away
my anonymity is stripped even the walls know my name
i dip my head as i walk down the street i don't want to meet their eyes
it hurts ,
to see that emotion,
happiness? content? i don't know
since you picked me up like a piece,
and started burning away my sanity
i became a drug
but im in limited supply
L.G
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC
his hipster beard -
mandatory accessory for this
gentrified borough of Pittsburgh -
leads him back and forth
from the kitchen to the tables
he serves more tables than he should
I wait too long for my
overpriced salad
as he drops a plate of greasy wings
in front of a table of oblivious
professionals who
judge him
find him wanting
without ever looking up from their phones
a small bead of sweat accompanies him
when he drops off my check
I pay with a twenty and he brings me back
a ragged five and a one-dollar bill.
I know what he did. Fuck.
god ****** hipster server trying to fleece me
playing on social pressure
betting on pocketing that faded fiver
that he did not earn from me
I force him to break that Lincoln
I tip three bucks
because I ****** well won’t let him get the best of me
my indignation is an all-American righteousness
so much so that I forget -
forget I paid four times what the salad was worth
forget he doesn’t see a penny of that profit
forget that he makes less than three bucks an hour
forget that without tips he won’t make rent
I forget all of this in my pride at catching a huckster
who just wants to keep the lights on
one more day
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 3:36 PM UTC
The image of a woman stuns me -
My fiver year old daughter’s flower,
Left in green thin wrap to wilt
Now stuck through the water
In the giant plastic glass
I keep by my sink, opening,
Vibrant, in the incandescent light
As I brush my teeth and tongue
Spitting dreams one instant, then
Studying tooth stain and belly
Overlapping the new day
And my naked soul diffused.
A pink carnation spreads across the bath
As much aware of me as the effort
Needed to crush the moist petals
Isolates intent from joy
And fragile insights blossom
Into observation nearly lost.
Now, I delight; though, only now
A giant plastic glass filled
Sustains a few moments: embellishes
Simple life almost lost unnoticed
In the crisp and folded expectations
Of foregone conclusions.
Her mother stands naked too, her hand
Touching her soft skin wilting softer
And her soft ******* softer still – and desire
Crumbles unnoticed in a delicate heap -
Yet an unearthed Flower ***** the air and
Blooms easily through its final hours.
It somehow makes sense that
My daughter’s flower blooms
While the image of a woman stuns me,
And the water and light infuse my soul
Tightly aware that confounded and confused
I comfort her like a stem.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 2:38 AM UTC
See the flower girls go by
holding petals up to god
holding hands before the lords
and shouting out “come buy”.
they dip their pens and write in pollen
they offer crimson roses
for a fiver, see them
take a knife and form the petal
into the perfect, imperfect shape
of a star.
See the crowds that gather round
and coo and cry in awe
at such beauty and such artistry
see them cheering at the sound
of dripping life from dripping fingers
slick and
wet and
red.
for a fiver see them
the maddened flower girls
holding hands before the lords
and shouting out “come buy”
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 1:57 PM UTC