"gawp" poems
Night falls over Soho and, gazing into some cheap tart's eyes
Over a candelit-chequered-food-stained tablecloth,
Beneath my belt an immense ******** lurks leakily,
The seams of my ****** soaked with bursting lust,
My groin twitching in desire for her wanton arse-flesh.
Streetlight shining through threadbare curtains
Glinting sexily over my hairy pounding buttocks;
My screamed roars of pleasure echoing
In the deepest depths of her tenth-rate mind;
Her poor brain collapsing in mighty mid-climax.
Morning reveals a classy scene to chambermaid's gawp:
Spread-legged cold-as-chilled-salami ****
Puny brainbox imploded like mashed bananas
By staggering rivulets of overpowering *******
Like a duck's entrails in an unwashed sink.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 1:29 PM UTC
Night fell on Montmartre and, gazing into my love's eyes
Over a candelit chequered tablecloth,
Beneath my belt lurked rancid lust,
The seams of my ******* oozing desire,
My groin drenched in desire for his wanton arse-flesh.
Streetlight shone through threadbare curtains
Harnessing proudly over my twitching buttocks;
My screamed climaxes echoing
In deepest recesses of Parisian dawnings.
My clear goal: swallow his salty comings.
Morning exposes a sordid scene to chambermaid's gawp:
Spreadeagled cold-as-chilled-salami bozo,
Puny synapses crushed like mashed strawberries
Blasted smithereens of overpowering *******
Like chicken's entrails in an unwashed sink.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
A "Memories" poem by the immortal Barry Hodges aka Edna
Night fell on Montmartre and, gazing into my love's eyes
Over a candelit chequered tablecloth,
Beneath my belt lurked rancid lust,
The seams of my trousers oozing love's sweet song,
My groin lumped in desire for her wanton arse-flesh.
Streetlight shone through threadbare curtains
Harnessing proudly over my pounding buttocks;
Hermione's screamed climaxes echoing
In deepest recesses of her third-rate mind.
My clear goal: swallow my salty comings, cow.
Morning exposes a sordid scene to chambermaid's gawp:
Spreadeagled cold-as-chilled-salami ****
Puny synapses crushed like mashed strawberries
Blasted smithereens of overpowering *******
Like chicken's entrails in an unwashed sink.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
My biggest fear is that everyone will eventually discover how positively unremarkable the soul beneath this husk of a person always was,
To shy away from the cringing passersby as they gawp mercilessly at the offending blemish of my existence.
I'm trying to learn how to like myself, but it's a pathological, preexisting condition to be able to identify all of the things wrong with me simultaneously as an individual and as (un)contributing member to society.
I don't mean to be so cruel, for I know in my heart that self-love is paramount to intelligent, peaceful, pleasant enlightenment,
It's merely that I sense some ubiquitously negative energy whenever I make the attempt to muster up some sort of internal kindness.
No, it gets wasted on all the strangers and non-strangers in my socially habituating dwelling.
I'll share with them the stars from the sky and the very constellations from their hearts and make them feel positively dynamic and optimistic and they'll walk away from me with a cushy spot for hope in their pockets.
And I'll retreat to the shelter on my back, drained as if the flow of my mind were poured out in a colander, leaving the pulpy, distastefully rude thoughts that remained to wreak havoc on my crippled self-esteem.
I'm so sorry that my kindliness is some lewd pantomime of genuine altruism.
I'm sorry if I destroyed the ethereal, impossible image of who you fashioned me into.
I was always afraid that this would happen.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
Through the night,
rode the poorest knight,
o’er vale, o’er innocent glade
with thundering and beating heart,
that matched the quickened pace,
of the steeds nimble stride.
Tho’ the stormy gale opposes,
and the might of winters snowy,
blizzard, should keep him at bay,
he rises to the challenge
and crushes them ‘neath his heels,
When at times the spirit is low,
and normally a liquor does restore,
he hastens past the tavern,
to where his mount does drink and eat,
and makes fast the saddle,
in order to make advances on his merry
quest.
When the day he has been riding
for presents itself with fate and circumstance,
at its left and right,
and this poorest knight, tho’ stout of heart,
and a little bit stout of figure,
might be bequeathed with one
small gaze at Her.
He had ridden many miles in many days,
for what purpose he had no knowledge,
although, now that fate has blessed him
with the cause of his lengthy travels, and quest,
he might smile, and become the richest knight,
that other might envy, and wonder at,
indeed this is what did happen.
the village, town, and city,
all were amazed that this poor
nobleman did acquire someone
such as her, whose looks were
stunning at the least, and were
nigh short of some divine providence,
and making.
That when he rode through town,
with her arms wrapped around him,
the down did gawp, and wonder how,
that he did prove them wrong, and
hadn’t a care for their rude gawping
faces.
He and She,
carried on unto the sunset,
whereupon not a soul saw them
again, nor needed to,
they knew where to find them,
they were happy, and needed not to
be bothered by the troubled
villagers, and issues.
The poor knight,
is now living as a king,
though not wealthy of riches,
or prominence, or land,
but of the true happiness,
only love can bring.
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 11:54 PM UTC
The blue pales white above the echoing horizon
Seen fourth times, edifice, sea, wire, sky
Venture, traveller, approach him at last
The air blazes all approaching, stabbing the sense
Palpable is none among you, gliding through
The streets, the cars, those striking titans lining
The eclipse, shivering white cloud on cemented bone
Lackadaisical walk, breezed by wind into drowning
Dusk, when the aching red pours, staining blue, lost
Our sky vibrates, oscillating, drums on sea
Vision blurred, though it seems natural, myopia
Taken by the Pan, made real on nature
Isochronal to all around, who watch in vivid gawp
Neither spectacle, sight nor sear, means much to other
The world breathes, not to ignore, or worry
As clouds drift on, through the rose-bleach
The animal clings into itself, all moves toward
Horizon, a carnival to unknown spots beyond sky
Denizens to the untouchable, we onlookers know
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
Let’s go, you and I.
And sweat beneath the African sky
Watch the lions lazing
And the wild dogs playing.
We can sip Amarula
And listen to the hyenas laugh and cry
As the mythical sunset
Silhouettes giraffes and Acacia trees.
Let’s go, you and I
And walk the streets of old town Barcelona.
Find old timey cafe and luxuriate
In sangria and itty bitty tapas
Stroll by Sagrada and gawp
At Gaudi’s home.
Maybe we’ll stop for some ice cream
Maybe we’ll just go back to the hotel
Let’s go, you and I
And swim the blue blue seas of the Bahamas
Nervously Play with the nurse sharks
Hoping they’re not the other sharks
Take those long walks on those beaches
That everyone likes.
We’ll sit on Jankanoo and drink sky juice
Until we can truly reach the heavens
Let’s go, you and I
And ski the Slopes of the Swiss alps
We can stop at small cabins and drink
heartwarming schnapps
Take trains that slink around mountains
And sprint through white capped forests
We can put snow down the backs
Of each others jackets and
Squeal in furious delight.
Let’s go, you and I.
And squish our way through the streets of New York
Relieved when we can pop into a shop
To escape the crowds.
Necks sore from looking up
Small town people in the Big Apple City
Central Park for pretzels and Snapple
Times Square later, neon addiction sated.
And a boat ride to see lady liberty
Let’s go, you and I
And bare our feet in Balinese temples
Speak to the monks in broken English
And then retire to our curtained gazebo
To indulge in the sins they can’t
We’ll get massages and champagne
Then ride our bikes along pothole
Ridden dirt roads.
Let’s go, you and I
And get Nuevo Chic in London’s west end
We can catch a show in tux and evening gown
Then head to the pub and catch a pint
We can walk the trail, hunt Jack the Ripper
And visit The Tower.
Cross the Thames and maybe
No definitely
Another pint in some quaint little place.
Let’s go, you and I
And lie in bed late on lazy Sunday mornings
I’ll poach the eggs and make the hollandaise
You can put some upbeat daytime jazz on
Then we can go sit in the garden
Under the oak tree and read
Each other poetry
Until it’s much much later
...
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
Please do insult me
To the best of your ability
For I can promise you that
To me your words are empty
Please do gawp
Everytime I walk past
I can assure you that
My style is one to last
Please do make an enemy
Out of me if you will
For I've been looking for
Someone to give me a thrill.
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 11:40 AM UTC
In Ancient Rome the Emperors ensured the populace were kept quiet,
With bloodied slaves to gawp at and a stomach filling diet,
Of bread and wine and spectacles before a baying crowd,
Soporific panaceas channelled the roars they were allowed.
But on Bulbaos’ house in Pompeii he wrote “Militat om nes”
Which in our simple modern tongue in an idiom he says
“I am just a lover but I know that I must fight”
His spray can was a chisel and he made his mark at night.
"… Already long ago, from when we sold our vote to no man, the People have abdicated our duties; for the People who once upon a time handed out military command, high civil office, legions — everything, now restrains itself and anxiously hopes for just two things: bread and circuses."
Juvenal AD100
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 3:42 PM UTC
There is a stillness of the night,
and it yearns to me in places,
dots aligned from street to heart -
and that is where it starts.
A hushing breeze – finally –
the lapse of gathered calm.
Through dawn to dark, a beauty black
falls softly in my palm.
Shall you try to eat me?
you spit me out and smooth the frays,
that in the day but tingle limbs
and leave an itch, confused, afraid.
But the city sleeps and I brave a whim.
Not aflame, I am just one.
Survivor of a mundane talk,
that sends a spin which causes some
to laden me a dampened gawp,
Why don’t I just walk? Just walk away!
it is known for me to often stay.
Alas a chance to scuttle to
a central storm of silent peace,
transform motion of small to grand
that surrenders me on bruising knees,
to that time that some have always seen -
a glimmered chance to understand
the source of my serene.
Melted pass, in the dark I ******
a dripping of a solely love,
retrieve my jaded fears that push
and sink to me like a toothy flesh
and rip a smile from ear to ear -
What can I do? When this blooded mesh
is the source that leaks my fine ideas!
Intruder thoughts, retreat to dome
closing slowly, leading home,
a sprightly sprig to dance in-front -
seducing me of what’s to come.
When I arrive, a-new, unknown,
until the door is closed and candle lit,
my-self I sought to laugh, un-wit,
a place lay set with vines and grove!
An open truth, of raw and felt,
a bleach-ed canvas who only sought
a place to ***** their mind to words
not crudely spoke or illy-thought.
Scarcely would it seem to spelt
in skies of which a heart could flutter,
and even through my solemn stutter,
it chimed that time was bought.
And so I have this much more -
through spot-light streets and shadowed doors,
the lastly glow through peeking blinds
that glow and leave me late to lay,
on patterned bed, to rest my mind,
I will weep and inspect my spore -
a speck of drying cosmic spray,
that seeks to soothe my bowing back
from the thought of choking, fleeting stay -
so when my hand moves to adore
the curvature of timeless waves,
it moves, it drives my endless core
and in the night I am but saved.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 7:40 PM UTC
It is 16:18. It is April.
Winter has thawed and all feels new
now that I can sit outside without discomfort,
without pale, immovable hands
and a wind to unsettle my thoughts.
My first beer of the day,
no idea of when the last will be.
An ashtray of previous cigarettes;
two of them are my own.
Always the follower of better men,
of charlatans and well-travelled fools.
I refuse to be a consumer,
yet I live to consume;
the pavement beneath anxious strides,
the warmth between her ethereal legs,
the drug still in my system,
the cold sweats in a half-empty bed.
My first crisis of the day,
exchanging money for a quiet place to sit.
To find my poison, toast my newfound health;
a wealth used to line my stomach,
or else to devour a box of cheap wine.
My last day off work,
last chance to sour in a sulk,
to gawp at the shapes in the ceiling,
to stay up through the Sandman's song.
When will I learn to turn with the world?
To not cling on in desperation
through each changing, unfolding scene.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
We ain't no showcase
not pictures to gawp at
or books you can pick up
so
shut the **** up.
I could tell you all's fine
when
I've drunk all the wine and
the
streets are inviting
but
that's just ***** in a tea cup
and swearing,
so what?
what the **** have we got to
be Christian for?
While they're having their *****
while democracy falls
while the drones keep on flying
I'll keep on trying
to put across the message
that this ain't no picnic.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 7:36 AM UTC
Let's dream and twist the words when they arrive, and if
some words survive,
they are the one's to wonder at,
to gawp and gape and bristle with pride,
to have lived and died in this,
This,
the time of genetics,frantic phonetics, bodies in lines, that like the words twist out of time,
'and all this is mine', said the man on the throne and we should have known, it would have been stolen away.
Dreams for a day and then death,
on the mountains in space we shall draw again breath,we shall ignite and burn,turning out twisting words,black holes for birds to fly in,
plenty of space left to cry in and no one to hear when we do.
Through all of this comes the lass with the kiss which she plants on my lips.
I was wasting away but today I will shine and in time she will kiss me again.
In the drought where the rain was a stranger,I am strangely elated
wondering if this was fated
and if so,
why did I not know?
Am I not man born of man,am I not in the plan,am I out of the loop,
can I ever recoup what was lost?
Shall I toss out my dreams with the greens I can't eat,
Will it be salad,will it be meat,is this meant just to cheat me,to
put me down and to beat me?,this is what survives,
the questions that arise
when all's looking well.
If man makes his own hell then it's inside his head, where the words get all twisted like the blankets thrown down on the bed where he lays,
these are the days of dreaming and death and kisses on lips, where the breathing of life slips slowly away.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
It is hard more than you may ruminate
living with disability,
a wheelchair to make a move,
white cane to ensure safety,
While on other hand,
kids jeer left and right but be
Proud as a peacock in your condition for you didn’t choose it.
People talk,
Some gawp,
Others giggle in your condition but it matters not
Keep your nose to the grindstone because
Fortune favours the bold.
Some of you thought of suicide,
some of you suffered depression,
some of you believed that you are not good enough,
with tears in your eyes, questions you asked yourselves,
how did this this happen?
why am I different?
Who are you to judge yourself?
If you could read my mind
You will see that in you, I see
A tycoon,
Philanthropist,
I see a winner in this journey of life
Get out of that cage of self-doubt and put one's shoulder to the wheel
Don’t throw in towel, remember
No arms, no legs Nick Vujicic conquered without an excuse
You can do it,
Believe in yourself,
No matter how hard it might be,
how painful it might look.
Don’t be too hard on yourself
Pull up your socks in that inflexible locus,
because every cloud has a silver lining,
Head up.
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 10:52 AM UTC
It fills the room and strokes each wall, a stale
and stagnant smoky pall as if the seasons
stuttered in late autumn, and time hangs still
awaiting its post-mortem. Soft moans escape
from urgent lips, the sound of silk on fingertips;
sweat congregates upon our skin and emptiness
pervades within. Tomorrow it will start again,
light tapping on the window pane; the steady hum
of early traffic parking where these autographic
voices whisper, whine and hiss - you cannot take
much more of this. There are those who gawp
for hours in mausoleums, become the very stuffing
of museums. Sentences both short and long
pace the space where time is hung and strung out
on a line its fingers flapping: admit defeat,
it’s to this beat your feet are tapping
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 5:25 AM UTC