"gristle" poems
A normal kind of guy
Just the guy
No cosmologist
Sans Christian
********* the droplet suns
Distant in the blackened sky
Gotta 'and'er some
The bristled gristle
The cryogenic iris
Steel teeth gnashing
Right-toe left
Ardent in an autobiography
Good man
Soft man
Locomoted his GMC
to the Sea
Thought maybe
With precise aim he
could undertow away
paradise.
No pick-me-ups
In copper-channels
That Ionized the pick-up-truck
With archaea iron
that ugly duck
Reminiscent of the man
In all but--
A castaway
Stowaway
The man who never hesitates
Bop upon the interstate
Lost within
concritical maze
Shoring up
Going home
Giving up
Turned to stone
Marble chin
Solumn grin
Chlidren sing
Seeking wings
How'd he know
Where to go
Will he see
What it means?
He's the guy
The one with the lollipop lap
Licking the syrup off the lip
Of a sweet polished sapphire
Gin
And the kids
My god
They think he
ODYSSEUS
And his dog not yet
Dead but depressive in the gloom
Howling into the midnight grass
And the creatures that stalk
With their ******* youth
Soon their weight will hit the deck
And like a noose,
Break the joints
The planks of which would stress
And bend his eyes upon his head.
God willing
Should he be exhumed
His energies excape to the river
And float,
Penultimate,
into the sea.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
Id love a big fat ****
Or a wrinkled up old bag
An ugly looking hag
Who wants a ******* ****
If I had a big fat ***** with a big fat bucket
I'd lay between her fleshy thighs, and definitely **** it
My thrusting **** inside her **** is where I'd like to tuck it
Spunking up would be sublime, when I lick and **** it
When your about to **** the fat, it takes a certain knack
Stuffed up fishy **** ***** or **** ******* round the back
A nice piece of chunky **** with a big long sweaty crack
Fatty *** holes make you hard ,my **** would not be slack
I would ride a big large Gal, just like a waterbed
Bathroom ******* would be fun, as well as in the shed
Spunking up between her legs, cream cheese would then be spread
When both holes are full of *** she can **** my **** instead
And after I have finished, with all of those fat *******
Something different I would want, maybe some old wrinkled witches
All wearing apple gatherers, and big large ******* britches
Older ***** long overdue, scratching long lost itches
A lot of fun I could have, in an old folks place
Disrobed willing grannies ***** stuffed right in my face
At least eight bits of gristle ****** a display of my disgrace
With each granny ****** in turn, if they can stand the pace
As I lift their skirts up their knickers I would sniff
I'm hoping that old fannies good, and they don't smell or whiff
The smell of old used granny **** is probably just a myth
But I won't let it bother me, as long as I get stiff
I wouldn't even care, if they wore crap NHS glasses
As long as I could **** and *** inside there wrinkled arses
I would **** them old ****** , all from different classes
Some of them in wheelchairs and some with heart bypasses.
It's irrelevant how fat you are, I really do not mind
As long as you are willing, and your pussy's wet and kind
And if you like it up the **** then I'm that way inclined
******* ***** is quite fine, so is ******** from behind
So come on girls fat or old, all slags are a possibility
Your sexuality can flood out, there's no need for negativity
I'm willing to **** who comes along, to the best of my ability
Just make sure that I stay stiff, and maintain my agility
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:44 AM UTC
You're trouble, you're toil.
Yes, trouble and toil.
With you I think I'll bring to the boil.
A pinch of salt and a teaspoon of oil
but not too much, your taste it'll spoil.
I'll take off your beard.
To eat that would be weird.
But gristle that makes your knees
into crackling . . .
. . . oh yes please.
With mint sauce on each cheek,
two kebabs that are seekh.
Not keen on the chin
so I hope you don't mind,
that goes straight in the bin.
Chop, chew, swallow and digest.
Can you guess which part
of you I like best?
It's your nose that I grate
all around the edge of my plate
and because I've asked "Please"
that you try not to sneeze.
It makes a much better garnish
than parmesan cheese.
Savoury poetry by Kaydee.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 4:46 PM UTC
I can't believe I bought them.
Is this the top scoop?
I've entered a raffle for
pea & ham soup.
I can't even eat it,
I'm vegetarian you see.
Won't you just change it to
tomato for me?
I don't mind the peas,
It's the ham that's no good.
They slaughter those piggies
screaming, covered in blood.
Eyes bulging, their throats cut.
It's really not nice.
There's so much more to choose from,
not just cakes made of rice.
Have you seen how they nugget,
crispy goujons and breast?
They've found faeces and gristle
in a food safety test.
So don't think that these people
have your interests at best.
Look it up, do your research
and I'll give it a rest!
Poetry by Kaydee.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 12:28 AM UTC
I get the crust and the gristle of a thistle once a missile shooting out into the sky and I cry, wonder why. Never sure what I feel for the meal of a deal and then words more like air slip the breeze in my hair, butterflies in the skies killing what kept my alive. Oh too bad, well how sad, if the songs last lines din't matter it'd harm, it'd make the soul so very mad. Here I fall, there I stand like a robot dancing to the tunes. It's demand. Hear I laugh, hear I cry. I hear the screams and feel the burn, so why? Why unsure, of what's telling me my life is so impure. Threatened heart, from the strings that wrap it, tearing it apart. Feel the clench of a bundle of what you yourself have drench and so benched. And you threw to me the horror show, I never so have thought would reckon me to be. I, to be, it's master and it's longing family, here I cry. Hear "I" cry. For I exist in heart, but never, not in mind. There I stand once again as a memory of all that I pretend. If I tried, to be real, the pieces fall apart inside. So I hide, then I quiver and I shake as 'me' is inside. I can touch to the shelter covered in the unbelieving, underachieving to be who I know I am to be. Or at least what you see. I crush the old me and start anew, though I grew. I, immortal to myself have stomped the true. And I become something greater than simple little shrew. Do not lie! For I see with one eye, the look through me. What you see is a host, not the ghost, that lives on. "Awh, look at me. I'm so strong!" Laugh along. Child there. Where? Oops, forgot to care. Now I stare, towards the end that's never ending like this script. Never ending. Twist and bending. Don't kid me, I'm no kid. I'm the body of a youth, but I am dead. I've destroyed myself, if others didn't do a perfect job. Hold up stop! I'm letting go, a bubble that will pop. It will burst, destroying me, if it doesn't **** me first. Here I stand. Hear I cry. There I go. I have died.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
this dust-rolled
brown moth
is
patterned
with a band of white
to stand for winter,
when it was just a flimsy bundle
of gristle and sticks
and all the boys in the summertime are sticky and
unclean
like the mouths of dogs -
pink where the sun can't lick
the backs of their necks are baked red brick
girls wear bronzer
piled on thick.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale ***
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.
When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of *******
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.
When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!
When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.
Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
5.3k
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale ***
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.
When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of *******
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.
When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!
When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.
Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
4.9k
The bar behind the theatre was nearly empty apart from a couple of gay boys.
Well, it was a gay bar, so no ******* surprise there.
I glanced at the fat one and decided, 'No thank you very much,'
as I have noticed fat people often smell unpleasantly,
maybe it's the sweat trapped between their ********** that does it.
But the other one was very cute and I decided I would have him.
In those days, it was regarded as 'de rigeur' to buy a lad a lager and lime
before dragging him home with you for some nookie,
so I coughed up for a half pint with charm and grace.
Sadly, he was no great shakes in the conversational stakes,
but was I after intellectual stimulation? No, I ******* wasn't.
Anyway, once I'd checked his passport to ensure he was over-age
(no one wants any ******* trouble from the bigoted morality squad)
I dragged him back to my elegant bachelor orgy-pad
and stripped him off to investigate his lithe little body;
a nice smooth little **** and a reasonably clean ****
What more can you want from a one night stand?
After a bit of a damp snog and a good old *****
I lubed him up and gave his *** a right good poking.
He moaned a bit, but then who wouldn't moan,
with seven and a half inches of thick gristle shoved
all the way up their sphincter? I know I would.
After I had filled his rear end with love juice a couple of times,
I felt that kicking out was the name of the game.
Generously, I gave him a half-crown for his bus fare
as he said he was a bit short of cash, being unemployed.
It was the least I could do, as he had three miles to go home,
and it was raining cats and ******* dogs outside.
After he'd left, I checked out the bed sheets (as you would)
and was irritated to find a few skidmarks there,
or they may have been where I wiped my fingers
after having eaten a bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk.
A quick sniff confirmed my worst suspicions though.
'Ah well, true love always comes at a price', I reflected,
as I scraped the worst bits off with a nail file.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
Thrums the bee waggle-dance in a haunt of Indian horsepaths,
Or the shaking leaf one second past the strike of galloping rain
/ Parsimonious lightning, thrifty in its jagged stalks
Against this night of heavy-hearted oaks /
Then the hay-fringed bale of sleep, rolled into a valley of slowed breathing,
Through parting cloud-diabolique, poison-peers the wet toadback of Autumn,
Glowing moon-gristle in the bosky wolf’s beard with its wireframe of teeth.
Sep 30, 2021
Sep 30, 2021 at 8:19 PM UTC
Now here you come again to fetch me from the sea,
Ballast in my bones, this girl was born to sink;
A cautionary tale, I slip between the wood,
Limbs whittled thin and feet stained with soot.
But never-mind the waif; she waxes so pale
Drunk on dejection, I ponder the veil
Leaden and listless, for the sirens will sing:
Amaranthine is the color I bleed for the sea.
So I’ll spit out my sorrows wherever they listen,
Pumped me with pills and said that they fixed it.
The darlings have died off; the dolls are all broken,
Just left is me, thin-skinned and soft spoken.
And I’d rather lick knives than chew on love’s gristle,
Like a dog on a chain, I’d run when you whistle.
Far from it now, yet lost in the maze:
Chasing ways out for the rest of my daze.
Dec 18, 2022
Dec 18, 2022 at 2:18 PM UTC
Your ****** terrain framed by grizzly
gristle
and the batting stalks that give glimpses
of the bright bear cubs held within
hide the warm sunken caves
in your cheeks.
But the soft woven cover that so
delicately protects you still whispers
"come."
"come hibernate in my jawline."
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 6:24 PM UTC
Tortured people tell themselves the past never happened.
They sit and reminisce about memories that they created.
Their hands are brown and worn down,
looking like a sibling of the ground that will eventually be a tomb for their bodies.
The teeth are fake and so are the smiles.
Hair falls off like rusty leaves brushed by a breeze, warning of the death of winter.
Limbs turn into string, ******* hang, and guts grow; like pregnant, stray cats.
Whenever they die, their houses will be eaten by their children, and not even a piece of gristle or a picture frame will be left.
The house will be nothing but a sun-dried ribcage:
a discarded postcard with the address marked out.
The children will sit and talk of their parents, repressing the abuse and the inability to meet expectations.
The children will work in sterile cubicles, thankful that their hands will not be stamped by calluses, yet knowing their fathers would not approve.
The children will open up the dust-blanketed boxes and stare at old family pictures, not able to recognize the people who smile and have perfect posture.
The children will lay in bed with their spouses and say, to no one in particular,
'Why was it never enough?
What did I do?
Was it me?'
The children will be tortured by these words,
by lives that weren't in technicolor,
by the paranoia of being tolerated instead of liked,
by the anxiety that a paid-off house
and nice car couldn't alleviate,
by themselves.
The children will retire and will have realized that they worked their entire lives just to enjoy ten years.
Their hair follicles will let go of strands and locks,
like a dandelion being stripped by the wind.
The enamel on their teeth will corrode and, before long, they will be thankful for the sensitivity of their teeth because the coldness of senior-citizen-discounted ice cream will be one of the few things they will be able to feel, let alone put a genuine smile on their face.
They will sit on their recliners, stare at their keyboard-kissed fingers and tell themselves the past never happened.
Because that's what tortured people do.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC
the sum of my parts
is not greater than i am as a whole, no,
i am not simply a collection of scars
and ******** storylines, oh,
i
am more than
the gristle and bone
the fibers interwoven through my arms
my lily-white striped clavicle
this corpse is my throne
i am not simply a ******
i am a ****** with a history
i am mauve valleys' majesty,
i am more than just my regrets
and my atrophies
and if it's not commendable, well, at least it's a story.
i,
simply because of my condition,
have lived through more than you could imagine
i have burned down in the depths with fire-skinned demons-
with messes deeper than your credit-card sins-
and i
have managed to get through it
these are my battle scars
i've fought ******* wars
and yet you shun me as if i'm not a hero
as if i'm not honorable for just making it
but i know you simply don't possess the tenacity
or the strength of wit
to deal with my ****
there's no reason to reproach
the type of behavior which keeps me alive
when i've done greater things than you ever will
stop staring
like i'm some sort of reject
like i'm something to pity
like i'm something worth nothing
like i can't recover
this is just a bad habit
and though you may find it disgusting i know i
can find worse dirt staining your mind
even if i leave this life
without a square inch of me unscarred
i have never backstabbed
i have not given in
while your inky secrets stay unspoken,
mine are imprinted upon my skin
and darling, that's all there is
if i am hateful, i will show you so
i have nothing to hide
my mouth isn't lipsticked shut
so what
if i cut
i'm still a good person
and though my battle is visible
there is nothing more around the corner
i am here to stay
so are my scars
and that's all there is to say
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
The ground looks so
Appetizing
From up this high
I wanna find out if I can ******* fly
I wanna feel something before I hit the
Bottom
I would love to relish in your blood-soaked nirvana
I made you as comfortable as possible while you slit my throat
I may be dead but my
Wings are sewn with a different thread of gristle and bone
If redemption is real and I have time to ****
I wonder how the fall will
Feel
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC
He sneaks in the night,
and grinds upon the gristle of your bones -
in a cloak woven from the finest skin,
from the chimney he descends and creeps through your homes.
For old Saint Nick
is the propaganda before the fear,
his legend created to cover
the sick evil that manifests itself into cheer.
What's that thumping on your roof?
Trust me, it ain't no reindeer or adorable little elf -
before you can scream the world's black before you;
just another stolen skull upon his shelf.
For Krampus is one nasty wicked little devil -
so lock your windows, barricade the doors;
with a magic key he enters
his shadow bleeding blood into the snow-dusted floors...
lice jittering in the fur beneath his mangey pits,
and eldritch horns jutting from his head
he's a carnivore of the festive spirit;
his hunger and blood-thirst never truly fed.
And upon the Eve of this coming Christmas
he's got an exciting new trick -
for once he's gonna spare all the naughty children,
and instead devour our beloved old Saint Nick...
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 6:27 AM UTC
Ramble shamble gamble preamble .
Wild child dialed beguiled .
Crawl small ; fall tall ; wall all ; mall brawl doll you all .
Black sack fact track Jack smack wack maniac pack . Back hack , knack
flack , lack kayak rack tack .
Phone roan tone zone bone hone ; drone known . Own moan loan .
Talk rock ; gawk hawk ; shock lock ; **** dock ; balk , stalk walk .
Bristling gristle glimmer glisten .
Quaint paint saint feint aint .
Expressed suppressed repressed biased .
Ecstatic emphatic fanatic .
Lecherous treacherous .
Obtuse abstruse .
Whirl curl ; hurl furl .
Test west quest ; jest guessed ; blessed best crest behest . Conquest ,
invest zest ; rest nest .
Cohort cavort . Gulch mulch .
Raven haven saven braven .
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 5:46 AM UTC
There's blood on the floor
And gristle on his cleaver
\
Masks in the box at the corner
of the small apartment flat
/
Hidden behind a moto-helm
Driving by fun, of the socio-style
\
Richard, Phil, Charlie, the gang
Over the head, face remains changed
/
Travel through the Phonehom
Slashing through the fleshy barriers
\
Coming on a grisly scene
Awaiting something new to see
/
Quick rap-tapping
Keyboard strokes
\
Pushing through the double doors
This is it folks
For the US, for the US!
The Ruski's will fall
But these two,
At the moment, don't know it
At all
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
There was a young lady called Gristle,
Who once cleaned her *** with a thistle,
It did not work well,
And left quite a smell,
Which left her alone under mistle -
toe.
Jun 16, 2010
Jun 16, 2010 at 12:38 AM UTC
Mildew clutched tight,
hollow-boned, manic thrusting,
marionette-faced, barrow-lunged,
nails bit to the bone-gristle,
lips raw with spit-polish,
redacted eyes, redacted eyes --
two palpable creatures,
transient drifters of soulspeck,
one unraveling the other constructing
one unraveling the other constructing
forever,
sallow truth would dissolve skin.
Lips read: founder a self.
Rusty copper
with adamantine eyes.
Steel core, unbroken by absence.
Drown in opposite directions,
oceanwater salve, yes
calloused tongues jostle,
ribbed in salt and rust.
Unlaced corset,
striped sweater,
grunged trainline veins
run on endless.
A clock,
abandoned in the middle,
I think once
it very much mattered.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
What are we, really?
For as long as we have been able,
Humans have looked skyward and wondered.
Wondered about the timbre of our voices
About the pastel shades of our skin.
When we are cut, why do we all bleed the same red?
About our origin.
About our purpose.
About our murky past and our luminous future.
What are we, really?
As a species we are collectively stumped.
We have journeyed far.
From trepanning the ill, ventilating their skulls to drive out malevolent spirits,
To carefully calculating the oscillations of distant stars.
And yet,
Despite our ingenuity, despite our ambition, despite our progress,
The truth still escapes our inquisitive grasp.
What are we, really?
Are we god's chosen flock?
Are we simply another infinitely random arrangement of carbon atoms? Flesh and gristle and calcium deposits?
Are we overgrown simians with overgrown egos and obnoxious sense of importance?
Or are we a simulation? Ones and zeroes on the motherboard of the cosmos?
What are we,
Really?
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC