"fug" poems
The old saying talks about
Being snug as a bug in a rug
But how can you feel that way
If you never ever get hugged.
If you hug your loved ones
They may not need drugs.
It’s an inexpensive medicine;
The basic household hug.
Worse things could happen
Than to catch the hugging bug.
It’s a better remedy than you
Can find in an apothecary jug.
It doesn’t require prescription
And is no big weight to lug.
You always have one handy,
The standard loving hug.
A hug can be the cure for you
When you are in a purple fug
And your face begins to look
Like a rather dyspeptic pug.
Somebody wonderful arrives
And gives your heart a tug
By giving you the all-time best
Wholehearted, loving hug.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 3:27 PM UTC
Not against the peaks of protest, these aurulent banners and jasperated jaspe so so jargoon! It's like I was suddenly alive, beat-stretched out of winter neige and into the pancosmic blisses of bright and ebullient spring, plugged with an agromania to abide this new formidable friend in the aeviternal beauty of she and I togetherness. Never to spill a morsel of a minute away from us again, upon the newly conjured spirits unto us both. To be amidst a cynosure of such affiation, to be in the temperate or tropical gardens whispering about our mutual love for flowers nad lists. This that precedes us, bright colliding auras in this newfound numinous kindling of us two. Watching it, making it happen- it unfolding before me made me naseaus with excitement, dithering what our next move out to be. I just wanted to kiss her face, her cheeks, put our hands together so quickly, just to let our amorous fug fill the room with silver albuminious smoke from our breaths. Miles below this, round the Earth to other places, there are the fixtures of bright and corybantic life commoved by other nations and other poised people of the light, that I should not be idle in my desires to usher myself into this grand and briguing introduction. So she said, we will play the question game, the inquiry game, we will state the mark, draw upon deep and fantastical recall, bring from our minds the most immense truths and share them, no matter now feral, or caustic, or melancholy- they will be shared until we explode with each other, our intrigues wrapped in our perfervid and amatory excitedness for one another. Too vast with wonder to be afraid of- am I such a fiend for such resplendence. That we could be vitrified in eternity in a veil of fulgurite. So at this nightfall, this acronychal of bloviating bliss, to write and wonder, incessantly in the finest of provincial matters to settle this garden where Thetis lives to be of her, two philocalists in verdant pasture, heaped with matters of the pen and the palm, in the droves of this beautiful advesperating eve- where first I wrote to you, and then I wrote you back.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:15 AM UTC
1909, on top of the dragon.
Marigolds whipping a tepid fug in this small room of stringy daylight.
That place where we fell in love. Where I dropped a hot cup of tea on my pants
And we ate sushi on the beach. I love the beach.
I am not ready for the ice festival or your new boyfriend.
He smells like bad disco and old people.
This piano concerto that I play before bed, before awakening,
I have your black dresser drawer in my bedroom,
It glistens of our days of Jasmine and Roses.
My mind blurs stories of you, her, and the other girl.
Rad violin songs, a friend from Argentina has introduced me to
Mystify me, I cannot hear straight or stand still. I have acquired
A gift for shivering. Still I can feel your talons raking up my spine.
Two fingers! Where? Why? How did you do that thing with your mouth?
I count upwards from you and in my peaking hours of misfortune, I
Never come back down to earth's giant centrality of duel existence.
My gut expands into my chest, my nervous system and anxiety is
All of you, a lot of her, and none of the other girl.
I make half inch black markings on the wall, this curse of feeling and not forgetting
That never goes away.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:45 AM UTC
Better stop and think, you should watch your step
be careful what you say, don't want to get me upset
just button your lip, no need to leave a tip
time to dummy up, go away now and get yourself hip
better pack it up, go live with your mom
the life i choose is a bit too strong
take on a wild girl like me, the kind they say many just hate us
a **** i couldn't give, hey boy i'm not your waitress
"I'm not your waitress"
hey, get your eyes off me
"I'm not your mommy"
don't touch me. cause i don't work for free
"I'm no not some **** waitress"
no oh whoa ...
"I'm not your inflatable dolly or sweet lovely waitress"
i'm sick and tired of your simple mind
can't you tell by now, you're a waste of time
dont push me around, the envelope you've stretched it
my name's not Natalie Step and Fetch-it
this kinda of scene is ill for mental health
you want something? then go get it yourself
take on a power girl like me, the type they say many only hate us
a crap i couldn't give, hey boy i'm not your waitress
"I'm not your waitress"
hey, get your eyes off me
"I'm not your mommy"
don't touch me. cause i don't work for free
"I'm no not some **** waitress"
no oh whoa ...
"I'm not your waitress"
i'm sick and tired of your idiot mind
cant you tell by now, to me you're a waste of time
dont push me around, the envelope you've stretched it
please dont grab at me or slap my hot **** ***
im not interested in you, an old poor white stupid trash
too bad, you look confused and so hungry fool
i wouldn't serve you well: it takes more than any money can do
listen up!
"I'm not your waitress"
hey, get your eyes off me
"I'm not your mommy"
don't touch me. cause no no no ... i don't work for free
"I'm no not some cheap waitress"
no oh whoa ...
"I'm not your missy prissy kiss kiss kissy wa wa wa waitress"
fa fa fa fug-off jocko ****
"I'm not your waitress"
hey, get your eyes off me
"I'm not your mommy"
don't touch me. cause i don't work for free
"I'm no not some **** doh doh waitress"
no no oh oh whoa ...
...I'm not your waitress!
© 2009 david clare clairvoyant music / BMI all rights reserved
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
I wander no longer
I prefer to wait at my master’s chamber
To eat
To drink
To talk of love
He flames my heart
With desire
Never felt before
Enthralled and awestruck
I lose my senses
In
His love
All night long
I am consumed
In a hot passion
Don’t ask!
I don’t
Know
We ever sleep or endlessly frig
Can I even count?
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 2:10 AM UTC
Make a wish, and then its gone
A curl of smoke now a spent dry wick
Happiness held for a moment
Then the sickly spittled cake
For the birthday boy, mum loads him up
And jealous friends crowd round
Skirting round the edges,
Dad takes a snap at mum’s request
Happiness held for a moment
Further out, against the wall
Elderly relatives watch it all
In prickly jumpers, sovereign chains
Fisherman’s friends and pocket change
Slow and still, they watch it all
I unpack the plastic crap my parents bought
Parents doing all they ought to get me hooked
That plastic smell like sniffing glue
The cheap thrill of something new
Happiness held for a moment
Party bags at the door and then its over
Thanks are forced from mouths
By parents eyeing the morning
Outside the orange October light fades
On streets the lamps are lighting
The hush of school tomorrow hangs there
Among conkers and chimney smoke
Back inside my home the smell of boys
Hangs in the air; a fug trapped
In deep pile and double glazing
The telly’s on now and **** are burning in the ashtray
Now they’re asleep, and its over
I sit surrounded in my room at the back of the house
The orange light is coming in through thin curtains
I can’t move for presents, I feel I am imploding
Like a crinkled balloon, expelled of everything
Feeling everything and nothing
Happiness held for a moment
August 2021
Aug 24, 2021
Aug 24, 2021 at 12:52 AM UTC
Guep seeb do fug
Uptoob queev buh
Luft goo dub ug
Fleeg dahs luh
Obku *** qwuarsh
Fab go mud marsh
Me go fabroso
Egvar seeg lu
Xybahso
Imba go mu
Cabbo de
Ogg be
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 10:29 PM UTC
autumn drinks heavily
slides into winter black
singing old songs in the dark
of loss and lack
and imperfect memory
these months weigh more:
grit under the eyelid
cold **** in the soul weight
that scratches and suffocates
but the coals will glow
and windows steam the same,
inside from time to time
and safe
Nov 17, 2021
Nov 17, 2021 at 2:22 AM UTC
Fingers fumble at buttons
liquorice in our breath
misty fug of your name
still lingers on the window
it watches
toes like bent paperclips
fidget impatiently
glass half-full of lemon and lime
little bubbles little fizzes
mute television
goldfish mouths with no sound
this evening
'vamp' your chosen shade
exposed navel heartbeats
blood thump in ear
a sock falls off
the other overboard already
twenty fingers
it's alright
I say it's fine it's alright
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
Do not presume to think dear sun
To ****** away my dreams
The dark still holds me in it’s thrall
Within the great unseen
They will not lift these limbs of mine
They wallow in their weight
Enjoy the burden of their bonds
Refuse to animate
A captive to these strains of sleep
Gladly shackled to my bed
I revel in their sweet confines
My eyelids drawn with lead
I Self sedate with each warm breathe
Benumbed by this safe drug
Which toxifies my consciousness
I revel in it’s fug
I will not wake, I’m staying here
Please do not liberate me
Reality’sbecome too much
For me to cope with lately.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
have I been here before,
the variations of anywhere
framing the limits of waking within a wretched humility?
am I become one of the blown boys, those dear, dear boys
and their desolate, punctual, martyrdom,
or a resolute extra in a post-mortem smack fug
at ease to fester with my wounded, skyward muttering,
where even fake flowers offer injury?
I
easily shaken by bleary imaginings as obdurate
as a politicians dancing lips which, if they are moving,
must be lying,
rather crave the ocean's incoherent, uncorked, yawn
its contorted salutation an easy answer to the hardest ask
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
Bone tired, petal and stem
still crave the light.
The fug has muted us
putting aches where shines were
but the yearning for the thorn and burr
of every normal day persists
My skin is ready to be kissed
with burn and nettled rash again
to give me pause for actual thought
Feb 28, 2021
Feb 28, 2021 at 9:31 AM UTC
Good morning.
Lean into the good,
even if a hangover fug
has you in its grasp,
breathe deep.
We still have grey days
to argue with, some tears,
til greenery ensues
when lost, hidden and new truths will return.
So make the morning good,
with toast and jam
or salt, fat and shenanigans.
And for your soul,
despite the impotent bitterness
of prevailing winds,
prop open the door a little.
Jan 1, 2021
Jan 1, 2021 at 4:42 AM UTC
So I just thought I'd sit here for a moment and reminisce
It's a chilling feeling thinking bout all the times I've missed.
getting sick of corner living,
Don't know why I got used to the pain,
Probably because I've been grabbing matches by the flame
shouting out
WHO IS THIS KID, WHO IS THIS MAN, WHO AM I!
I light another
while I'm burning CDs filled with beats,
and at night I smoke my blunts straight to the dome so I can feel a bit more at home.
See the fact of the matter if the woman has noticed,
That this man has lost his focus,
and just the quick like hocus pocus,
Houdini back into focus.
and now boys to high up to come down from neverland,
So I guess that means he'll changed his looks, so he wouldn't appear to be such a ************* crook.
Acidic dripping form of ma become a figure of captain hook.
And the passerby gawks and quivers at the sight of a boy who casts a phantasm of a man,
but felt good because they knew that they would make a change if they could,
And I a phantasm of man speak: Is it I you are afraid of heard no reply
Said fug it lit a cigarette while he
spread his black and tattered wings
and flew out into constant existence
while finding out the at the same time
the only meaning to life is simply living with new found meaning.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
A grotty morning.
Grass pecked by frost overnight,
lead fug in the air
and I'm walking a mile
in uncomfortable shoes.
The receptionist
warbles a song I don’t know.
Ten minutes of maths
followed by the typical
compote of questions again.
Two year four children
navigate me past classrooms,
primary colours,
shaking hands and nodding heads,
facts that drizzle over me.
Hours pass, phone cries.
The answer swells blister-like.
It’s thanks but no thanks.
He pours advice, wishes well.
I hurtle back to the start.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 11:58 AM UTC
hair like melting bronze
long and thick as honey
coagulated to the waist
mellow slosh of water
viridian wrinkles
reflect a singed tangerine
shade of the bridge
a miserable dense fug
up above her head
lips like lavender
black sweater collar
cuddling her neck
and freckles dusted
slapdash on those cheeks
little marigold flecks
but her gaze grasps you
you can’t look away
she’s detained your attention
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
Cobbles wet
air thick
unviewable.
Feeling the weeping
victorian brick of
railway arch
Warm fug of
pigeon feathers
ammonia droppings
and the playground
of houses ruined
by bombs in the
reign of hate.
Elsewhere london
swings-
A small boy lost in pea soup
(in the grate
banks of coal
glow and flicker
pictures, movies
of the soul)
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 3:38 AM UTC
We sit in manicured silence
A sterile, germ free environment
But still we share the air
In this room,
Breathing and rebreathing
Our own and each other's fumes.
I can smell your eau de cologne
With a hint of toothpaste,
Though not enough to disguise
The lingering fug of cigarettes
In hair and on clothes,
Unchanged since yesterday, telling
Of that drink on the way home in the pub,
Your hands shake a little, yellowed fingers
Giving away your nicotine addiction;
So doc how's the state of my health.
Jul 5, 2019
Jul 5, 2019 at 12:38 PM UTC
If the music don't **** you the brandy will,
film of nicotine on the TV screen and
the stale smell of socks emanating from
the wardrobe,
if the strobe light don't get it
neither will you.
I fight through dimensions to get your attention and
you're ******* into a MacDonalds,
21st Century Box,
proudly presents,
the future or as near as we can tell it,
48 chicken nuggets and fug it who the hell would want that many?
maybe 24 chickens?
If the music don't **** you and
Macdonalds don't fill you
you're ******
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
1909
on top of the dragon.
Marigolds whipping a tepid fug in this small room of stringy daylight.
That place where we fell in love. Where I dropped a hot cup of tea on my pants
And we ate sushi on the beach. I love the beach.
I am not ready for the ice festival or your new boyfriend.
He smells like bad disco and old people.
This piano concerto that I play before bed, before awakening,
I have your black dresser drawer in my bedroom,
It glistens of our days of Jasmine and Roses.
My mind blurs stories of you, her, and the other girl.
Rad violin songs, a friend from Argentina has introduced me to
Mystify me, I cannot hear straight or stand still. I have acquired
A gift for shivering. Still I can feel your talons raking up my spine.
Two fingers! Where? Why? How did you do that thing with your mouth?
I count upwards from you and in my peaking hours of misfortune, I
Never come back down to earth's giant centrality of duel existence.
My gut expands into my chest, my nervous system and anxiety is
All of you, a lot of her, and none of the other girl.
I make half inch black markings on the wall, this curse of feeling and not forgetting
That never goes away.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 6:23 AM UTC
I walked along the shore,
orchestra of shushes
as water slopped
across my bare toes,
jangle of pebbles
as I placed one foot
in front of the other.
In the distance
the orangeade tang of neon lights
punctuated the view,
electric hyphens
from the arcades
crammed with Irn-Bru-skinned tourists
there for a week
on this comma of coast.
In the winter it is different.
A silver fug that sweeps the streets
like the cocoons of a thousand ghosts,
machine jingles muzzled,
cafes only drip
fed with regulars
from around the corner
coming in to pick the horses
for the 2.10 at Uttoxeter.
The phone quaked in my pocket -
my mother, calling me home.
I passed the sandcastle rubble,
slobber of seaweed
like the drool of a kelpie,
my socks speckled with sand
as I texted back
on my way
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 11:57 AM UTC
If there was mire
you'd lift me above,
if all was hate
you'd provide love,
if you were a soul mate
you'd give me a hug
and clean the air if I was choking on fug,
and chew for me to get rid of cud,
and find me dry land in days of flood,
plasma me up when short on blood;
you'd walk me if my legs were spent
you'd give it meaning if I don't know what it meant,
you special shimmer,
you're heaven sent.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:12 AM UTC
That which I breathe in and exhale
That which shows itself as fug on the window panes;
Is this proof of the warmth, or the cold?
It howls in the evenings,
angry and desperate as
it whistles through buildings,
the shush of trees, thejingle of roof tile shingles,
the eery groan between the cracks.
Is this a war cry or a lullaby?
The cold bite on skin,
the thrash on limbs,
the buffeting -- upward, downward, wherever,
intent on making man fall;
Is this the trial or the sentence?
Dec 10, 2019
Dec 10, 2019 at 6:03 PM UTC
1909
on top of the dragon.
Marigolds whipping a tepid fug in this small room of stringy daylight.
That place where we fell in love. Where I dropped a hot cup of tea on my pants
And we ate sushi on the beach. I love the beach.
I am not ready for the ice festival or your new boyfriend.
He smells like bad disco and old people.
This piano concerto that I play before bed, before awakening,
I have your black dresser drawer in my bedroom,
It glistens of our days of Jasmine and Roses.
My mind blurs stories of you, her, and the other girl.
Rad violin songs, a friend from Argentina has introduced me to
Mystify me, I cannot hear straight or stand still. I have acquired
A gift for shivering. Still I can feel your talons raking up my spine.
Two fingers! Where? Why? How did you do that thing with your mouth?
I count upwards from you and in my peaking hours of misfortune, I
Never come back down to earth's giant centrality of duel existence.
My gut expands into my chest, my nervous system and anxiety is
All of you, a lot of her, and none of the other girl.
I make half inch black markings on the wall, this curse of feeling and not forgetting
That never goes away.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 6:23 AM UTC
I SAW THE BEST MINDS OF MY GENERALIZATION
wearing halos of fog,
opening their eyes with a burst of surreal an' shattering
the beacon of light
with a splatter of the gray matter... afterwards it all became
so fug'n trite.
I'm phrasing perfect with a hint of propulsive barb'd barkin'
—Man, I am aching to blather,
**** man, it's more than butt-cheek chatter—
it BBBBBBBBBButt bubbles with a puhcussive tootin';
a howl absurd!
I raise a cup & say cheers t' Allen Ginsberg
"O BLOATED BLUES an' DECIBELS DANCE
t'BALLYHOO'd BE-BOP FLUNG
An' BOMBS BUSTIN OPEN with Gear's CLAWING
t'BE AIRBORNE",
Yes, he SITs IN a SPACE SHARE'd with us;
finger snappin' & poetry clappin' from
a heavenly ladder's rung...
A MAD HATTER's CHINA TEACUP is filled
with continuous soft crackling liveliness of effervescence...
and buoyed by the holy soul jelly roll that moves
through here now.
So let us praise and bestow upon him,
a heartfelt bow before we etch on the walls
of my primitive pome cave
our beatnik chorale reverberation of "AND HOW!"
By "ooznozz"
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 7:57 AM UTC