"glaswegian" poems - Hello Poetry

So, what do you think about the dynasty of Babylon? Freshly cut potatoes which are deep fried can be displayed upon colorful plastic plates, which may trigger a spiritual sustenance of simplistic expectations which are immersed in Glaswegian nostalgia. Therefore, I contemplate the goddess of the moon, as she is enthroned in Celtic tenements of astral plains. Entrance-ways are characterised by the musky scent of the tomcat, whilst the purring sounds of diesel locomotives echo along the tracks of mischievous linearity. So, although I acknowledge Osiris to be the Egyptian god of the dead, I am tentatively perplexed about Northern and Southern boundaries of grandparental occupation. Shake those sensual vessels of salt and vinegar. Do you know why? Because there’s nothing like it in the cosmos.

0

Nov 6, 2013

Nov 6, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC

david-barr

Nana

So, what do you think about the dynasty of Babylon? Freshly cut potatoes which are deep fried can be displayed upon colorful plastic plates, which may trigger a spiritual sustenance of simplistic expectations which are immersed in Glaswegian nostalgia. Therefore, I contemplate the goddess of the moon, as she is enthroned in Celtic tenements of astral plains. Entrance-ways are characterised by the musky scent of the tomcat, whilst the purring sounds of diesel locomotives echo along the tracks of mischievous linearity. So, although I acknowledge Osiris to be the Egyptian god of the dead, I am tentatively perplexed about Northern and Southern boundaries of grandparental occupation. Shake those sensual vessels of salt and vinegar. Do you know why? Because there’s nothing like it in the cosmos.

4

I was born for Nebraska I was born for the Massif Central I was born for the mountain top shrine with nothing but the music of nature to distract me I was born for the weekly news on some sleepy island in the Pacific I was born for Covent Garden The Pangea of Culture New Orleans trumpets; the flamenco player twisting lime into his drink I was born for the cotton fields I was born for the salt marsh for the tug-boat all out of fresh water I was born for the Ganges I was born in the shadow of the Hajj I was born for the G-dless land of Death Valley the streets of Harlem I was born into the spirit of old Afghanistan I was born on the false strings of liberated women- I was born on a stage of puppets a backdrop of Glaswegian tenements or of fjords unvisited beside Scandinavian seas I was born for Rugby Cement I was born to be fixed in place This wandering mind These restless legs I was born with a travelling soul in a town where I can barely walk

0

Aug 19, 2015

Aug 19, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC

Edward-Coles

Born.

I was born for Nebraska I was born for the Massif Central I was born for the mountain top shrine with nothing but the music of nature to distract me I was born for the weekly news on some sleepy island in the Pacific I was born for Covent Garden The Pangea of Culture New Orleans trumpets; the flamenco player twisting lime into his drink I was born for the cotton fields I was born for the salt marsh for the tug-boat all out of fresh water I was born for the Ganges I was born in the shadow of the Hajj I was born for the G-dless land of Death Valley the streets of Harlem I was born into the spirit of old Afghanistan I was born on the false strings of liberated women- I was born on a stage of puppets a backdrop of Glaswegian tenements or of fjords unvisited beside Scandinavian seas I was born for Rugby Cement I was born to be fixed in place This wandering mind These restless legs I was born with a travelling soul in a town where I can barely walk

34

How ghastly are those camouflaged and articulated presumptions, which are evidenced by their catastrophic and interpersonal lifelessness? It is bad for business, when silent screams echo throughout the depths of unfathomable anguish and cross the mysterious canopy of dendrology. You may have failed to recollect that fried eggs are not dissociated from electrical riffs nor uninvited objects which force their way through open windows. My hunger was sincerely naïve as it surfed the waves of paternal mockery. Therefore, take caution, as you pass those nocturnal insects which flutter their feeble wings in the corner of Glaswegian crevices with intimidating powerlessness.

0

Apr 3, 2015

Apr 3, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC

david-barr

A Psychological Mortuary

How ghastly are those camouflaged and articulated presumptions, which are evidenced by their catastrophic and interpersonal lifelessness? It is bad for business, when silent screams echo throughout the depths of unfathomable anguish and cross the mysterious canopy of dendrology. You may have failed to recollect that fried eggs are not dissociated from electrical riffs nor uninvited objects which force their way through open windows. My hunger was sincerely naïve as it surfed the waves of paternal mockery. Therefore, take caution, as you pass those nocturnal insects which flutter their feeble wings in the corner of Glaswegian crevices with intimidating powerlessness.

5

A female Buddha, the way she sat, not love making, that some other. Cross-legged, he remembered her, on that blue sofa, the Mahler playing from her hi-fi, her oval face, soft features, that loud laughter, the Glaswegian accent cutting through the attempted English tones. The bottle of whisky opened, the glasses filled, supped, sipped or what ever the word is, it happened. It’s no good taking some people out of the slums, she said, you need to take the slum out of the people. She looked then nothing like the former nun she had been, he thought, perfume invading the nose, her hair piled in some out of date Beehive, some French queen prior to revolution, she sat, glass in hand, other plump hand toughing his thigh, rubbing her fingers up and down. She wanted to stir his pecker, wanted motion through his jeans. He listened to Mahler, gazing beyond her at the painting on the wall, that tat she collected. Her hand rubbed higher, her soft tones suggestive, her talk of slums and slum dwellers put aside. An evening of *** ahead, in bed or on the sofa, with the female Buddha, her plump ******* thighs, arms, maybe lost there amongst the folds of flesh. She despised his Marxian philosophy, loved his ****** prowess, his proud perfect pecker. He loved her whisky, her soft to touch skin, her spread legs to allow him in. The female Buddha gone now, her heart gave out, he was told, and looking back, years after years, his youth misspent at times, too much ***** *** and moral lack, he had moved on, improved, but loved to smile and look back.

0

Apr 13, 2013

Apr 13, 2013 at 2:57 AM UTC

terry-collett

FEMALE BUDDHA.

A female Buddha, the way she sat, not love making, that some other. Cross-legged, he remembered her, on that blue sofa, the Mahler playing from her hi-fi, her oval face, soft features, that loud laughter, the Glaswegian accent cutting through the attempted English tones. The bottle of whisky opened, the glasses filled, supped, sipped or what ever the word is, it happened. It’s no good taking some people out of the slums, she said, you need to take the slum out of the people. She looked then nothing like the former nun she had been, he thought, perfume invading the nose, her hair piled in some out of date Beehive, some French queen prior to revolution, she sat, glass in hand, other plump hand toughing his thigh, rubbing her fingers up and down. She wanted to stir his pecker, wanted motion through his jeans. He listened to Mahler, gazing beyond her at the painting on the wall, that tat she collected. Her hand rubbed higher, her soft tones suggestive, her talk of slums and slum dwellers put aside. An evening of *** ahead, in bed or on the sofa, with the female Buddha, her plump ******* thighs, arms, maybe lost there amongst the folds of flesh. She despised his Marxian philosophy, loved his ****** prowess, his proud perfect pecker. He loved her whisky, her soft to touch skin, her spread legs to allow him in. The female Buddha gone now, her heart gave out, he was told, and looking back, years after years, his youth misspent at times, too much ***** *** and moral lack, he had moved on, improved, but loved to smile and look back.

63

Benedict met Mrs Cleves in one of those out of town bars and they had a few drinks and she told him about her ex and what a ******* he was and how he used to mess around with those air hostesses (he being a steward on a plane) and he'd even boast how many of them he had had that week and Benedict listened and drank his drink knowing that after this they would go back to her place and drink more put on some Delius on her hifi and have *** on the sofa or maybe make it to her bedroom if time and passion allowed but she talked on about her ex and how she met him after she came out of the convent (Benedict couldn’t picture that scenario) all innocent and pure and thought love had been found Benedict sipped the last of his drink noticing how her hair was like that French queen he’d read about who’d had lost her head on the guillotine and still she yakked on about the ex how he liked fast cars and women and drank too much and disliked her Scottishness or her whiney voice Benedict wondered what she was like back then before the pounds had landed on her before age had begun to settled into features and remembered that time they had *** on the sofa and they’d fallen off ( too much ***** or what he couldn’t now say) and the downstairs neighbour had banged up from the room below and she said shut the **** up you old hag and all said in her Glaswegian tones and they lay there on the floor she **** naked and he semi clothed with Mahler’s 5th bellowing in the background and as he came back from his thoughts she was still talking of the ex and he wished she'd finish up her drink to get back to her place for more ***** and ***

0

Jul 18, 2013

Jul 18, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC

terry-collett

MORE ***** AND ***

Benedict met Mrs Cleves in one of those out of town bars and they had a few drinks and she told him about her ex and what a ******* he was and how he used to mess around with those air hostesses (he being a steward on a plane) and he'd even boast how many of them he had had that week and Benedict listened and drank his drink knowing that after this they would go back to her place and drink more put on some Delius on her hifi and have *** on the sofa or maybe make it to her bedroom if time and passion allowed but she talked on about her ex and how she met him after she came out of the convent (Benedict couldn’t picture that scenario) all innocent and pure and thought love had been found Benedict sipped the last of his drink noticing how her hair was like that French queen he’d read about who’d had lost her head on the guillotine and still she yakked on about the ex how he liked fast cars and women and drank too much and disliked her Scottishness or her whiney voice Benedict wondered what she was like back then before the pounds had landed on her before age had begun to settled into features and remembered that time they had *** on the sofa and they’d fallen off ( too much ***** or what he couldn’t now say) and the downstairs neighbour had banged up from the room below and she said shut the **** up you old hag and all said in her Glaswegian tones and they lay there on the floor she **** naked and he semi clothed with Mahler’s 5th bellowing in the background and as he came back from his thoughts she was still talking of the ex and he wished she'd finish up her drink to get back to her place for more ***** and ***

90

She spat out a string of four letter abuse words followed by American ***** you stood at the bar at the base camp outside Stockholm sipping a beer Moira stood beside you in grumpy mood her Glaswegian tones still in the air others in the bar gazed your way amused some giving a small titter if have to share a tent with her one more night I’ll suffocate her with my sleeping bag over her head she said you girls don’t get on then? you said more expletives followed after which she sipped from her glass of white wine you lit a cigarette all the time watching her listening to her talking about the American girl the tour guide and driver had picked up in Hamburg how she spent ages in the shower at base camps across northern Europe how she got her man whom she slept with and what she did and leather said Moira her and her ****** leather I know her sort she added you studied her as she spoke her short stature her wild blazing eyes her hair tight curled her small **** pressing against her tee shirt then she was silent and leaned on the bar sipping the wine grimacing staring at the mirror behind the bar maybe we could swap tents you said you share with the Australian bore and I with the Yank girl that’s a case from the frying pan into he fire Moira said gruffly I’d rather share my tent with a shaggy dog with fleas she said I guess you thought taking in her tight *** some are hard to please.

0

Apr 28, 2013

Apr 28, 2013 at 4:34 AM UTC

terry-collett

EXCHANGE OUTSIDE STOCKHOLM.

She spat out a string of four letter abuse words followed by American ***** you stood at the bar at the base camp outside Stockholm sipping a beer Moira stood beside you in grumpy mood her Glaswegian tones still in the air others in the bar gazed your way amused some giving a small titter if have to share a tent with her one more night I’ll suffocate her with my sleeping bag over her head she said you girls don’t get on then? you said more expletives followed after which she sipped from her glass of white wine you lit a cigarette all the time watching her listening to her talking about the American girl the tour guide and driver had picked up in Hamburg how she spent ages in the shower at base camps across northern Europe how she got her man whom she slept with and what she did and leather said Moira her and her ****** leather I know her sort she added you studied her as she spoke her short stature her wild blazing eyes her hair tight curled her small **** pressing against her tee shirt then she was silent and leaned on the bar sipping the wine grimacing staring at the mirror behind the bar maybe we could swap tents you said you share with the Australian bore and I with the Yank girl that’s a case from the frying pan into he fire Moira said gruffly I’d rather share my tent with a shaggy dog with fleas she said I guess you thought taking in her tight *** some are hard to please.

84

Serpents writhe across sand dunes where Glaswegian slaughter pronounces her vivid descriptions which are not dissociated from sensuality. There is a certain rhythm to Marrakech vibrancy, and it comes at the price of percussion awareness. It is cold on this night of sombre reflection, where the North Line Express cascades across sectarian boundaries. Please offer me a solid definition of socialism, because my loyalty is laid bare before the perimeters of hatred. Have you ever driven along Bisland Drive? My alcoholic escapades have firmly embedded in the annals of street history. Do you offer your consent?

0

May 17, 2014

May 17, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC

david-barr

Ruchill In The Summer

Serpents writhe across sand dunes where Glaswegian slaughter pronounces her vivid descriptions which are not dissociated from sensuality. There is a certain rhythm to Marrakech vibrancy, and it comes at the price of percussion awareness. It is cold on this night of sombre reflection, where the North Line Express cascades across sectarian boundaries. Please offer me a solid definition of socialism, because my loyalty is laid bare before the perimeters of hatred. Have you ever driven along Bisland Drive? My alcoholic escapades have firmly embedded in the annals of street history. Do you offer your consent?

7

I Think Ziggy’s playing guitar again. And walking on the wild side. I fancy a walk it’s a fine spring evening. And I’ve kept my self busy with half arsed house cleaning. Who knows what’s round the corner? What tattered hymns are being hummed from the leopard skin trolley dollies? Their kneeling for distraught drunken jockeys Discussions which inevitably create fraught tension. That which must be defused Catch a break brother you’re casting successive **** storms. Throw on the parker and thus to the shelter. Thirty six and dour and positively ***** Few dollars in the bank. Show patience and may receive what I deserve. I lean and drool, the swagger of Liam Gallagher and clean my shiny Excalibur. Indulge the kindness of strangers. The merging of unstable behaviour. Shake the snow globe and set tasers to stun I talk to the luscious Lucia. Tell her to skip the small talk and let’s get to marinating the pork Another dumb quirk, dumb dirt that comes from my cracked beak. She considerers me flippant and freakish. I am truly scrooge macduffed She returns to her posh rugby fan with blonde locks and a chin that could hold six pints. I lay this dog to die and meet some more familiar faces. All the venues are familiar. Avast the putrid fog of masculine sweat, the desperate air of ****** puns that drag and caress us in the arm pit of jacks sick giant. None of our jokes make any sense and were ducking and diving into primitive offence. The next few hours are unacceptable and the horror must have me in chained. If I could describe the rest Charlie Bronson would light my *** Woke up next day lying on the wing of a Heathrow aeroplane. Without my trousers. And several tubes in the near regions. And now it come to this. Prison showers and a Glaswegian mans kiss.

0

Jan 10, 2015

Jan 10, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC

jack-kelly

5AM Salute

I Think Ziggy’s playing guitar again. And walking on the wild side. I fancy a walk it’s a fine spring evening. And I’ve kept my self busy with half arsed house cleaning. Who knows what’s round the corner? What tattered hymns are being hummed from the leopard skin trolley dollies? Their kneeling for distraught drunken jockeys Discussions which inevitably create fraught tension. That which must be defused Catch a break brother you’re casting successive **** storms. Throw on the parker and thus to the shelter. Thirty six and dour and positively ***** Few dollars in the bank. Show patience and may receive what I deserve. I lean and drool, the swagger of Liam Gallagher and clean my shiny Excalibur. Indulge the kindness of strangers. The merging of unstable behaviour. Shake the snow globe and set tasers to stun I talk to the luscious Lucia. Tell her to skip the small talk and let’s get to marinating the pork Another dumb quirk, dumb dirt that comes from my cracked beak. She considerers me flippant and freakish. I am truly scrooge macduffed She returns to her posh rugby fan with blonde locks and a chin that could hold six pints. I lay this dog to die and meet some more familiar faces. All the venues are familiar. Avast the putrid fog of masculine sweat, the desperate air of ****** puns that drag and caress us in the arm pit of jacks sick giant. None of our jokes make any sense and were ducking and diving into primitive offence. The next few hours are unacceptable and the horror must have me in chained. If I could describe the rest Charlie Bronson would light my *** Woke up next day lying on the wing of a Heathrow aeroplane. Without my trousers. And several tubes in the near regions. And now it come to this. Prison showers and a Glaswegian mans kiss.

34

i just want to stay up to midnight and watch the footie... see, already, it's there, he wannabe blind man turning phonetics upside down using optical symbols to sing with his eyes closed and acting out a sloth piece of a stage's curtain call for encore, footie can be american slang for football: or ensure a bag of flour explodes while i get scalped; otherwise footie means football: you know it's round enough to be kicked rather than thrown for a touchdown... never got the hang of it... n.f.l. means as much to me as does excess of hair on a cranium crop of expected hair with no beard, and vice versa, loss of hair and a donned beard for the plucked sucker of the 2nd ball drop... baldy over here met elvis and in levis took to a cattle stampede with aria: la la la lee lo lo he he (mike jackson slam dunks a quack for the moon pond, like it was n.b.a. anyway: walking on ice the musical... now the encore... signature the sound of applause); so this married man is rebelling...watches football till midnight, rebel... watches the footie... a. foot, i.e. b. foot, e c. foot eeh d. footy e. foo' tea f. foo' tee now you guess the accent... cumbrian? glaswegian? north london or brick lane? which? a, b, c d or e or f?^ see what happens being judgemental and sober? you get drunks doing picassos! and that's not good not good one bit for the worth of investment in plagiarisms. the stressor marks / diacritical marks missing in english obviously gave us scot spelling and a welsh 1 + 1 of a middle finger longbow stylistic for the v long before churchill... i wanted gaelic i got trainspotting spelling... about as relevant as catcher in the rye relevant by now... so... don't teach accent rubrics... and you'll get a heartfelt superiority in the former colonies, while the pigeons coo: or simply curl the famished tongues that were silenced for man to speak in spasms of an electrician checking the sockets for an electric depth of the pigeons' coo into an aqualine echo of a sneeze, if not snorkel or a gesundheit. ^*i hate how syllable splitting into compounds show diacritical marks all too relevant, missing.*

0

Jan 10, 2016

Jan 10, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

married man's rebellion

i just want to stay up to midnight and watch the footie... see, already, it's there, he wannabe blind man turning phonetics upside down using optical symbols to sing with his eyes closed and acting out a sloth piece of a stage's curtain call for encore, footie can be american slang for football: or ensure a bag of flour explodes while i get scalped; otherwise footie means football: you know it's round enough to be kicked rather than thrown for a touchdown... never got the hang of it... n.f.l. means as much to me as does excess of hair on a cranium crop of expected hair with no beard, and vice versa, loss of hair and a donned beard for the plucked sucker of the 2nd ball drop... baldy over here met elvis and in levis took to a cattle stampede with aria: la la la lee lo lo he he (mike jackson slam dunks a quack for the moon pond, like it was n.b.a. anyway: walking on ice the musical... now the encore... signature the sound of applause); so this married man is rebelling...watches football till midnight, rebel... watches the footie... a. foot, i.e. b. foot, e c. foot eeh d. footy e. foo' tea f. foo' tee now you guess the accent... cumbrian? glaswegian? north london or brick lane? which? a, b, c d or e or f?^ see what happens being judgemental and sober? you get drunks doing picassos! and that's not good not good one bit for the worth of investment in plagiarisms. the stressor marks / diacritical marks missing in english obviously gave us scot spelling and a welsh 1 + 1 of a middle finger longbow stylistic for the v long before churchill... i wanted gaelic i got trainspotting spelling... about as relevant as catcher in the rye relevant by now... so... don't teach accent rubrics... and you'll get a heartfelt superiority in the former colonies, while the pigeons coo: or simply curl the famished tongues that were silenced for man to speak in spasms of an electrician checking the sockets for an electric depth of the pigeons' coo into an aqualine echo of a sneeze, if not snorkel or a gesundheit. ^*i hate how syllable splitting into compounds show diacritical marks all too relevant, missing.*

51

unto Stratford-upon-Thames tomorrow! nicely attired blue zamsz (suede) shoes - o brother i'll attire myself for the occasion, not like my english teacher told to walk the suit and tie respectable while his sermon on Led Zeppelin's black dog and Miles Davis' kind of blue prior to hitting the prelude of a mid-life crisis, quote: 'if you ain't got this album aged 30 there's something wrong with you', of course the Glaswegian accent got lost as a fake typo... me throwing chimney bricks on Prince's St., a **** you at the moon... i too lost the fight given a scare acknowledging accommodation and the privy of churches' allowance for an upkeep of bishops and beggars! highlands 'ere aye come! bonny lass bonny cheap expression for a haggis! anglo twin made sure i'd investigate the Irish... Cambridge wouldn't do the qua foreign... leisurely a Viceroy Raj... and Sri Lanka on the oyster of intrigue, a pearl gem polished for a few satiated. yes, i know the affair, Led versus Spirit and the song Taurus and Stairway... but still Spirit's conceptual album: the twelve songs of Dr. Sardonicus, a pillar of prog rock.

0

Apr 28, 2016

Apr 28, 2016 at 8:42 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

tomorrow

unto Stratford-upon-Thames tomorrow! nicely attired blue zamsz (suede) shoes - o brother i'll attire myself for the occasion, not like my english teacher told to walk the suit and tie respectable while his sermon on Led Zeppelin's black dog and Miles Davis' kind of blue prior to hitting the prelude of a mid-life crisis, quote: 'if you ain't got this album aged 30 there's something wrong with you', of course the Glaswegian accent got lost as a fake typo... me throwing chimney bricks on Prince's St., a **** you at the moon... i too lost the fight given a scare acknowledging accommodation and the privy of churches' allowance for an upkeep of bishops and beggars! highlands 'ere aye come! bonny lass bonny cheap expression for a haggis! anglo twin made sure i'd investigate the Irish... Cambridge wouldn't do the qua foreign... leisurely a Viceroy Raj... and Sri Lanka on the oyster of intrigue, a pearl gem polished for a few satiated. yes, i know the affair, Led versus Spirit and the song Taurus and Stairway... but still Spirit's conceptual album: the twelve songs of Dr. Sardonicus, a pillar of prog rock.

29

*** yir ******* skids outta m'ah 'uckin feece! god i love that place, glasgow is like birmingham of the north... a rotten scow to nowhere, unless it be a place that spoke: deep-fried mars bar for breakfast - you scurvy worth of the tangled sailor! **** gods took to the twallop, and i takes me to the rool ups! got a bargain with a shrimp you belfast ***** my **** you 'av! next time they sing: sweet dover, i'll have you marrying the ***** cult of: shard! ye storm ah heed! **** me an' timber twice: V fooking eye of ye, hire-crane! ******** twice, three times removed the drunk... huh?! it's all plus minus with me by now... ha ha! had a cousin, didn't say why, cursed & numbed the cuss words like a nun ought to know why... so i says me: lingua the leash - earn the ir - softspot for the tucker-jacks and the irish lepers: shauns they called them... he he... look at me: all smug and waiting for brussel sprouts out the paan tree... what's with these wallaby terms? panchree? panna quinoa, panna cotta? ******* as clingy as those pepsoowongs, or wangs or pepsoos. as the english queers say F F Θ, but then pull out a churchill - and vey v girman vey such & such... they and way become indistinguishable - churchie and the welsh abbey become one and the same with either V as "peace", or the V and the welsh longbowmen **** you... v'eh point... wayward: too soon... vuck! wook? wookie? va va voom! woonder-brum, brimming, bra bra bra... ha ha ha... dried it all off with the giggles... then it became apparent: the man settled for the dozen, whether it was a dozen of ostriches, hyenas, bunches of lychee, leaks, bulgarian strippers - or worse... a dozen of english rhetoricians, notably gay; **** what a gamble.

0

Sep 21, 2017

Sep 21, 2017 at 10:38 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

glaswegian dublíneesh

*** yir ******* skids outta m'ah 'uckin feece! god i love that place, glasgow is like birmingham of the north... a rotten scow to nowhere, unless it be a place that spoke: deep-fried mars bar for breakfast - you scurvy worth of the tangled sailor! **** gods took to the twallop, and i takes me to the rool ups! got a bargain with a shrimp you belfast ***** my **** you 'av! next time they sing: sweet dover, i'll have you marrying the ***** cult of: shard! ye storm ah heed! **** me an' timber twice: V fooking eye of ye, hire-crane! ******** twice, three times removed the drunk... huh?! it's all plus minus with me by now... ha ha! had a cousin, didn't say why, cursed & numbed the cuss words like a nun ought to know why... so i says me: lingua the leash - earn the ir - softspot for the tucker-jacks and the irish lepers: shauns they called them... he he... look at me: all smug and waiting for brussel sprouts out the paan tree... what's with these wallaby terms? panchree? panna quinoa, panna cotta? ******* as clingy as those pepsoowongs, or wangs or pepsoos. as the english queers say F F Θ, but then pull out a churchill - and vey v girman vey such & such... they and way become indistinguishable - churchie and the welsh abbey become one and the same with either V as "peace", or the V and the welsh longbowmen **** you... v'eh point... wayward: too soon... vuck! wook? wookie? va va voom! woonder-brum, brimming, bra bra bra... ha ha ha... dried it all off with the giggles... then it became apparent: the man settled for the dozen, whether it was a dozen of ostriches, hyenas, bunches of lychee, leaks, bulgarian strippers - or worse... a dozen of english rhetoricians, notably gay; **** what a gamble.

72

Yiska lit up a cigarette; eyed the Indian woman sitting on the opposite sofa who moved beads on string, muttering words in her own tongue. Next to her sat the the Glaswegian, stoney eyed, inhaling deep, gazing at the beads and fingers moving them along, muttering four-letter obscenities just under her breath. Benedict sat next to Yiska watching smoke from his cigarette rise in twirls above his head. Yiska sat with him at dawn, both alone, both smoking, her head on his shoulder, his hand on her thigh, both boringly playing I-spy.

0

Jan 12, 2019

Jan 12, 2019 at 12:22 PM UTC

TerryCollett

Once On a Locked Ward 1971.

Yiska lit up a cigarette; eyed the Indian woman sitting on the opposite sofa who moved beads on string, muttering words in her own tongue. Next to her sat the the Glaswegian, stoney eyed, inhaling deep, gazing at the beads and fingers moving them along, muttering four-letter obscenities just under her breath. Benedict sat next to Yiska watching smoke from his cigarette rise in twirls above his head. Yiska sat with him at dawn, both alone, both smoking, her head on his shoulder, his hand on her thigh, both boringly playing I-spy.

33