"frequenting" poems
Well what can I say, he says I'm an ****
I just told him he was just full of air..
But we were the closest of friends and were
always found close together like pees in a pod.
*"So what's the plan for today windy,
"We just going to gas? or we just breathing in silence?*
**"I thought you were pulling the other cheek,
But all that comes out of you is crap Hahaha.....**
They were always getting each other in trouble with
one thing or another, if it wasn't **** holding wind in,
it was **** whispering in a lift. But not so silently,
more like a tiny trumpet going off for moments at a time.
There was one time were **** was letting off as usual,
but he let just a little too much out, and in that moment
he told ****
*"That was close, I was one **** away from a poo,*
**** couldn't contain himself and amusement turned
to horror as laughter had loosened both there grips.
And now Mr Poo who usually went diving in
the porcelain pools was now frequenting upon both.
I think I'm going to be sick said **** **** laughted and
then another friend of Poo's joined the party, cleanliness
was obsolete, now as it was like a food fight in close quarters.
Poo slipped out to freedom down the trouser leg and "SPLAT,
**** and **** stunned by poo's lack of grace. *"Could have
stayed for a while,* But **** conceded that he would have
just talked crap, like he did every time he popped out
to see his friends.
Well what could be said, a wet wipe, and **** forgot poo
had even been there. But his odour still lingered gently on.
**** was gassing on and **** clenched so not to
expel to much laughter.. especially in enclosed areas.
**** was just gassing, this duo were always going
be the closest of friends.
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 11:36 AM UTC
Pub poetry is a form of performance poetry consisting of the shouted word which has developed in UK urban pubs, dating back to the 1940s and 50s. Words are typically yelled over ambient haphazard rhythms which are not especially chosen for the piece of poetry, rather the poetry is performed over the generic sound of empty bottles and part filled glasses and live samples of patron conversation that will be familiar to those frequenting hostelries around the UK.
Sometimes the audience will employ call and response devices to distract the poet, such as calls of "W##k-er!', with the traditional response of "F##k-You!" before the pub poet continues with his yelled out verse, often read from the beer stained back of an overdue envelope.
The pub poet usually appears on a chair or table, surrounded by immediate family or work mates cheering him on.
Invariably inebriated, the pub poet may not appear to make any sense to the uninitiated - but once you too have availed yourself of your 4th or 5th pint, the words become clearer and easier to appreciate.
No musicality is built into pub poems and pub poets generally perform without backing music, delivering chanted speech with pronounced modulation, broken-rhythmic accentuation and dramatic, though random, stylization of gestures, often resulting in the pub poet losing balance and sustaining a head injury thereby losing consciousness and bringing the evening's entertainment to a premature, but often welcome, end.
It is often noted that many pub poets are remarkably shy and retiring when sober.
Dec 17, 2019
Dec 17, 2019 at 2:38 AM UTC
I am the
SAME
as you
I work in your community
I live in your world
I contribute
(too much)
to Capitalism
by frequenting your local stores
and buying
WAY
more items than
I need
I vote for your President
your Congress
your Governor,
I participate in politics because
I care
about the way
our world
functions.
And yet I'm not equal
I'm not "the same."
As if any of us even know what being
"the same"
means anymore
When I dated men you
ALL
applauded me, praised me
Even when I dated total
********
people said,
"Well you're just too good for him.
But you're such a great person for
being able to see past his
'rough' exterior"
I saw past
SO MANY
'rough exteriors'
And I was miserable
And I forced myself to
PRETEND
to be happy.
And loved
And love-ING.
But then
SHE
walked into my life.
SHE
had been there for awhile,
but I shoved the feelings to the side
because they're
NOT RIGHT
NOT
acceptable
NOT
real
NOT
important
Be with a man they say.
And I followed their rules.
Which lead to alcoholism
drugs
depression
suicide after suicide after suicide,
never
accomplished.
Which reinforced the fact that
my life would be full of
Failure.
And then came the kiss
(when my lips met her perfect lips)
that opened my eyes,
and changed my life.
Now, I may be
Unequal
Rejected
Frowned upon
BUT
There is no frown upon
my face.
For my world is
Complete
Authetic
Rewarding
Real
And I wouldn't change that
to cultivate the appearance of
Equal.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 9:22 AM UTC
A diagnosis of masturbatory insanity
is the inevitable conclusion
that I, as a fellow onanist,
debaucher of sheep,
and baby goat buggerer
have bestowed upon your befuddled mind.
Your insistence in frequenting
the Heinous Sin of Self-Pollution
and self evacuation of one's seed
with mutual onanistic pursuits of sodamistic bed fellows
and other anti Christian pursuits,
have finally brought a visitation of madness
to the perverted soggy mess
masquerading as your brain;
If one may make an
advantageous suggestion
to your befuddled self,
it would be to seek out a restorative nervous elixir
or wrist strengthening electuary,
the former of which would aid in the
"compos mentis" of your good self;
and the latter is extremely efficacious in the
soothing of onanist wrist
and vinegar stroke eye.
but alas; neither is of use against the
" ejaculatio praecox " of foetid poetry..
your Servant, Obadiah Grey.
Secretary for spermatorrhea conservation
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 12:28 PM UTC
sitting at the computer
ranting about global tragedy
but only peeking through the slightest slit
barely noticeable curtain rustle
when a physical knock finds the ominous
wooden door
the passive-aggressive activist waits –
the blog whirrs into life…
instilling motivation in others
for the terrors of GMO crops
and the vast wealth of lies
perpetrated by government officials
while quietly munching corn chips
bought on the food stamp card…
the passive-aggressive activist giggles –
buying filtered water
in plastic bottles
and organic produce
from chain grocery stores
taking out personal loans
to give to charity
the passive-aggressive activist
reads John Trudell
only because he just died –
watching CNN because FOX lies
only frequenting local coffee houses
while investing in French sunglasses
mispronouncing the names of countries
unable to be located on maps
while exclaiming the wrongdoings
of his government
after going to college on federal aid programs
promoting the second amendment
with no intention of ever owning a gun
the passive-aggressive activist
waits --
someone will one day send the letter
proclaiming the importance
of the insights
offered –
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
The silver moon
falls
from sight
as the rising tide
kisses
adjacent piers.
The cool morning
rests
over the gentle bay
as clouds
commute
covering the light of day.
Brown thrashers rhythmically
mimic
stolen song
as they
traverse
the canal.
Barefoot toes
roam
freely
frequenting familiar
footpaths.
Minute minnow mouths
toy
with the bait
bobbing
the cork.
Experienced hands
handle
seafood
adopting its scent
while the blue *****
boil
into crimson.
Afternoon showers
cool
the earth
as a mysterious moon
lowers
the tide.
Night
falls
again
in Mississippi.
Jun 6, 2023
Jun 6, 2023 at 4:21 PM UTC
The visitant frequenting
The dreams of my slumber
In the hours of darkness
Appeared yet again
His face was obscured
By dazzling luminous colours
His aura bled
Deep in the trenches of my viscera
I feel as though
I have been breathless
For a thousand lifetimes
Awaiting his arrival
Hypnotised by the mystique
I felt his soul converge with mine
The phantasma I adore
The skeleton key opening me.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
Oldest of two
Responsible for none
She was always a daddy's girl
And a morning person
She quit a lot of jobs
Before she turned 20
And when she wasn't planning to marry someone
Exactly like her father
They were ripping each other's heads off
Over nothing
She had strong shoulders
Not as broad as her sister's
She started swimming later
She was always more of a runner
Than anything else
Her parents should have known
Not to let so many hopes
Ride on her
Because life savings didn't translate
Into education
Her nose was always sniffing in the wrong books
Nothing on the booklists
Flouting authority was her favorite thing
So all of daddy's money
Couldn't buy her a degree
And all the lectures
She didn't attend
Couldn't make her see a dream that wasn't hers
Truth be told
She wasn't aiming all that high in the first place
A sturdy library
A cottage in the country
A dog
A tattoo sympathetic
Honest-eyed husband
And then she picked all the wrong ones
With every broken heart
And every finished book
She called home crying
"Dad, I can't do this. I am so lost. I see the destination but not the path."
She'd been drinking again
Frequenting tattoo parlors again
It would be a lie to say he wasn't disappointed
When she could have been
A professor, a musician, an author
Or president by then
"It'll be ok," he said
And when she asked why it couldn't be better than just OK
He asked "have you been taking your meds?"
She hung up
And thought back to a time when the whole world tasted like
Beer and pretzels
Before she even knew what beer was
It was a picture on the wall
A curly-headed
Naked girl
Tiptoe on a stepping stool
Making pancakes with her daddy
So when the sun came up
Breakfast would be ready
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 7:27 PM UTC
his teeth were rotted out
but he left no time
for regret
for there is no regress
from the state he finds himself in
how it had come to this
boy, he didn't know
fervent drug use
frequenting their misuse
forget it
for tomorrow, is another day for worry
humbled by his lack of knowledge
beset, on knowing's acquisition
further than the last day
faster too
father lost himself to his ambition
Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 3:40 PM UTC
To being 18 and insecure
Every day fighting more and more
Love hurts worse every time
Losing myself in a poem's rhyme
Missing you always
Endless nights and tiresome days
Your voice echoes in my brain
Over and over, again and again
Useless feelings, my insecurities reign
Covering up my scars
And frequenting bars
Really it's not that great
Eighteen is just ten years of misery, plus eight.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
me and my grandfather, buying candles to place on graves of family members, discussing topics hushed for the public, two hyenas of the graveyard... my grandmother frequenting the grave of her mother and father and nanny like frequenting an armchair... i've heard her cry... like a joy division song: an egyptian will tear us apart! but me and my grandfather the two hyenas of the graveyard - a friendly ghost of resurrected israel, suddenly everyone in western europe starts wearing an arabian scarf in the "cool" and "educated" sector of society of a bachelor's degree... vocal terrorists who only experienced the Blitz but not the holocaust; yes, domesticated cats returned into the hands of the wild by nesting in the graveyard... oh the scent of smoked wood of early winter of Poland in the air, winter in siberia, an air of such cold as if climbing Mt. Everest, walking on the frozen tundra plateau.
why do old men suddenly
get a monopoly on guidance?
why can't youth guide youth?
the old are guided by an automaton
of death, no one guides them
but suddenly everyone younger than
them frightens them!
why take advice from the old
who's sole concern is to die in
their sleep?
if we try transcendental passing
of knowledge we'll be left
with a 100m sprinter in a zimmer-frame
running faster than the the most
agile athlete... why take advice
from the old farts? are we in this
together or not?
are we a wave born in the 1980s
or just cripples of splintered appreciations
of past and future generations?
well, i can't appreciate the culture of youth,
younger than me... but i also can't
appreciate the wisdom of the elderly...
and that's because the culture of youth
is without experience worth a maxim...
while old age has too many maxims...
while we're craving a narration to serve
like a duty to prayer, although lessened
in terms of necessitated gesticulation
for dumb-struck rather than lighting-struck
realisation...
while old men start being avatars of death
and actors of past life,
the youth start to become competitive
and rude and un-guiding...
clench my teeth at the matter...
the young become passports of sight into lives
you sometimes wished you led
but eventually realise by their example
you haven't; and then clap... clap... clap...
you begin clapping... as a cursor to ensure they
do not conjure up an encore.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC
2521-vaalhaai: South African Shark
2522-vaaljapie: inferior wine or acid
2523 vaccimulgence: cow milking
2524: reedbuck: antelope frequenting reeds; lucriferous learning by smart animals
Mar 5, 2024
Mar 5, 2024 at 1:45 PM UTC
you asked me to join you
back to the world that was once a part of us
so, so long ago
for you're still frequenting the same stops
visiting the same people
sharing the same stories
the same
always the same
you don't seem to realize
or to accept
i'd grown tired of the same
bored with the predictable
sick of you
because you're stuck with the same
and you're happy with that
but me, now
i'm different.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
It's another day
But the humming humdrum buzzing in the back of my mind continues and I feel that frequency once more
That bubbling back water tune of my thoughts
Cranking out the Beatles, Bob Marley and that smooth electric Queen ride
While the passing bodies emit the chaos of collective electric sounds vibrating too fast and burning themselves out too quickly
But who am I to tell them to change the station
Click back to something comforting like a Train wreck into those lyrics that make you mellow and keep the heart both heavy and light
Where "she wears high heels when she exercises"
Meets "Imagine all the people.."
Instead of "throwing glitter on the floor" and dressing like a *****
The integrity of a person can be spelled by the inclination of their music choice at least in some part
Where the air headed meets the raging ostentatious celebrity
And the more level seeks words that have space in the general meaning of what it is to be human
Singing beauty up into the thoughts of man
Feeling the frequency of my own mind
And rubbing the fuzzy static of less developed
I am humbled by my selective out cast once more
And find that the understanding of my person
Is not meant to happen here
As much as I would wish them to see listen more closely if not to music
Then themselves
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
Richard enters the same bar he's been frequenting for twenty-three years. His coat whips behind him and his hat nearly flies off his head as he rushes to his place at the bar. He looks at Ron, the bartender, who's been making his living on drunken tips and minimum wage his whole life.
Ron looks down at Richard and offers the man a weak smile. "The usual?"
Richard just stares down at the whiskey stained oak. "Make it quick, I feel like my heads about to explode."
Ron fills up a glass with straight gin and sets it down in front of Richard, who immediately snatched it up and tips it back.
Before the liquid can reach his tongue, Richard's brains decorate the ceiling with a new coat of wondrous crimson paint.
"I really have to work on my speed," Ron groans as he reaches for the mop.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
So, here we are
again. ******* smoke
through glass straws
and frequenting the local
food trucks. Here we are,
pressing our chins
into our chests to see
who has more, only
so we can laugh about
it and somehow end up
losing our clothes.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
I pray for the day.
adults think about what they eat
to fuel their sacred form.
When children ask for salad
instead of fried chicken fingers
and fries drenched in oil that clog intestines.
I pray for the day,
young and old choose to go organic
and stop frequenting fast fake food joints
When people awaken to foods causing Alzheimer's.
and stop adding to cholesterol count
by changing their diet.
I pray for day soda is no longer offered
as in truth its a great metal cleaning fluid.
When family members
put away cell phones and lab tops
to become a family again.
Yes I pray for the day,
of a decent tip
so... I say nothing and serve,
praying for the day.
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 10:33 AM UTC
There is a higher power in the salt shaker,
and a divine truth found in the tea leaves
that circulate green water
and bring taste to my afternoon.
Customers suffice laden minds through new year's wind,
past recollections of old stores and vacant faces.
There are skeletons in their back pockets
and a common secret behind their eyes.
Each one of us desires time alone or time in company:
the dissatisfied, default state of the human condition.
I fell asleep to a world of smoke and ****
then awoke to words and a sea of coffee chains,
gathering a philosophy from faces in the wood,
and having conversations with my own conjecture.
The black mass of last year is behind me.
It stalks my dreams but cannot sustain through daylight.
Happiness has fallen over me, clumsily,
so like a child learning how to walk.
I stumble out of the door, consulting each car window
reflection, to ensure that my crazy is not on show.
But this is the town that Crazy built.
We walk in patterns, performing domestic rituals
to occupy our mind, amongst societal demise.
It feels as if there is nothing left for us
as the drop-outs drink Special Brew by the gravestones,
and the rich turn tail-lights - tired pilgrim of London.
Only the lunatic fringe still look for contact
in a wireless world of sedentary care,
frequenting the bars that they used to love
before this small town fell to a blue-eyed catatonia.
The milk is settling in the eyes of the chronics;
the old folk coughing blood and ******** in their pants.
There is a higher power in my stride today
and a numinous edge to the girl in black stockings.
She lays out in my mind,
spreading her fingers in temporary joy.
I play the customer and pay for my tea,
for a material justification for why I left the house.
There is time here, to imagine my heroic escape.
How I will shake off all this Crazy,
how I will fall back into shape.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
Once we were children
wandering in the woods without a care
drinking milk and playing pretend
the world was bright and beautiful
and the people we loved were always there
and the only thing we were scared of was the dark
and my father walked out of my life
and I let him.
Then we were teenagers
frequenting the bowling alley Friday night
chugging monster and shooting pool
the world felt a little colder
and the people we loved were slitting their wrists
and everyone was so afraid of growing up
and a boy put his hand in my pants
and I let him.
Now we are shaky adults
haunting local bars and frat basements
sipping whiskey and smoking joints
the world is a horrible place
and the people we love are never coming back
and we've seen all there is to fear
and all the boys want to **** me
and sometimes I let them.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 3:57 PM UTC
Who cares if we are lost?
The translation is a sign
The train of thought was thin
Who cares what words are said?
We packed light
Enter forests cradled in the mountain range
Keep your childish laughter
Leave your drunken meal
Drank river into waterfall
I have nowhere, no war
How to exit?
*****
How to enter?
Clean
Land has lost
Sign out the hive
Retired
Bees are so alive
Wire traps the treason
Factory line sublime
I am a social creature
Frequenting the mall
Travel is my heaven
The lights up in the sky
Driven by a dream
Something I can find
Elsewhere and else who
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 12:05 PM UTC
Come fly with me,
she said,
we can go to Paris,
spend days seeing the sights,
arm in arm
in the Notre Dame,
and make love at nights.
Come,
she said,
we can fine dine
and drink coffee and wine,
you can make love to me
and search me over,
play ***** games
and walk the Champs-Elysees
hand in hand,
kiss and not tell,
you can be my **** boy
and I your **** girl.
But I couldn't go
I had no dough
and I told her so.
So she went with some schmuck
to see the sights and ****
and drink coffee and wine
and fine dine.
I stayed behind
frequenting the bars
and the dames
showing my scars
to those girls
with no names.
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 3:31 AM UTC
The lack of those little things
Having us wonder why
Our lack of those little things
Ushers a pitiful sigh
Frequenting past memories
O what might have been
Stressing and guessing
That old yet relevant scene
Nips and Tucks for those little stucks
That finesse I could not find
Yearning for those times again,
To remove thy finger from rewind.
Hand up high, or put the head in
Tomorrow pondering , O what might have been.
Illiterate to those times past being
To those times of silence we,ve all seen.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 1:10 PM UTC