"knackered" poems
I am but willing prey to the wiles of the full grown moon.
She guards the night sky...
While I patrol these grounds...
Grieving over the seconds that have gone too soon.
I am a vessel... all emptied and barren.
what once was full,
now echoes faint
the glories of yesteryears.
Afloat still, adrift upon the currents... aimless and sullen.
I am a ghost... haunting no one but my own.
Immortalised...
Anchored...
to a body of mist and haze...
Occupying this space where worthy wind had once blown...
I am a beggar offering nothing but my open palms.
Hope etched tight
into my knackered knuckles
and calloused digits.
Please... take them in yours...
soothe them...
grant me your touch, your coveted balm.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
Spank it, **** it,pull it hard, call it a Name,
Make it hard, just us those palm muscles
That have been working over time on this
Single person and their knackered hand.
****** it, shout at it, **** this doesn't usually
Happen, dam why are you not going hard.
Put **** on it make it wet, like in a *****
Just imagine two wet lips legs nicely spread
Apart, just pam and her five sisters and a
Lonely curved palm.
Use your imagination so it,ll stay hopefully
Hard, my god my hands going dead this is
To much like hard work.
Tug in silence or moan out loud, over a magazine
Or over **** on TV, sound turned down don't
Want other to know, what ever floats the boat just
To get to that point that you need to ooze it all out.
But for the love of god make sure your door is locked,
To have your mother or wife walk in saying,
**"WHAT THE ****
You'll be limp in a second, and lost for a good excuse.
Of why you got **** toilet roll and hand spanking
While shouting filthy ***** words out.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 10:10 AM UTC
These hands have clawed with blind eyes
Chipped nails on fingers working on knots and ties
Fingers that recklessly point to reproaches and blames
Never to self, righteousness through arrogant claims
Now aware, these palms have covered my face in contempt
For they've partook in activities; indulgent and unkempt
Rubbed skin raw on life's coarse sandpaper
Ever searching for the coming of the unanticipated saviour
Broken flesh hopeful for newly formed skin
Like tattered souls pleading for absolution of sin
Only skin deep but unfavourable experiences do fester
Expecting the proverbial infection to blow over
Here they are, held unclenched and riddled with pocks
Weathered and sore from time's infinite mocks
Maybe thereafter, will be awaited healing
Perhaps soon after, I will be forgiving
See now... Hands faced up, parted as halves
Asking not for alms but instead your acceptance as salve
Take into yours, these knackered, gnarled up palms
Let your porcelain-like touch relieve like life reforming balm
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
I lie awake.
The half moon,
whose soft white shine
invades my room
and makes the tears that rest on my cheeks sparkle;
illuminates half of my face
so that the moon and I
can become a whole.
Only me
and the silence of 2 A.M.
Outside goes the party-goer
-knackered and filled with a portion of fresh memories
that won't be found in the morning-
to his rest.
Only he
and the silence of 2 A.M.
Outside stumbles the drunkard
-with repressed thoughts and events
that he couldn't erase out of his memory by a bottle-
to his end.
Only he
and the silence of 2 A.M.
Outside staggers the broken one
-with blood that’s drowning in wine and as red as the lips of the woman he tries to forget-
to his death.
Only he
and the silence of 2 AM.
L.T.
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 7:28 AM UTC
Pulling lumps
Out of my neck
Like a knackered
Teddy bear
In the teeth
Of a puppy.
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 4:26 PM UTC
dinner Greenport-side, watching the shuffling ferries do
their sworn duty, a back ‘n forth wearisome toll,
while we sip a rose and a PBR, respectively and with respect
no enthusiasm afterward for anything but an early off to bed,
and slip into pj’s asap
me in my knackered wholly Hanes fundie knickers,
no thinking required
but she
retires, re-attires in a summery combo,
a gray sweat t-shirt and green and white
plaid pj pants
which she is unawares are my favorites
cause they lop off fifty years,
a teenage woman re-incarnate recreated
cause her figure now womanly full,
better than then
morning awake l, a disturbance of the peace,
recall a snuggling a wake up hug,
and her bottoms conspicuously
gone missing
over break fast I inquire
over yogurt and berries and a
smoked mozzarella omelette,
what happened to those plaid bottoms?
assuming I was innocent of any transgressions
as best I could recall
with a sheepish childlike grin,
that made look like she was twenty again,
to match the now yoga toned body,
she confesses:
forgot to tie the bowstrings
and they slipped down to my ankles
blessed and cursed I thought!
too much of a gentleman to take advantage,
AND my situational awareness was slipping badly,
but when a poem comes across,
ready and pre-writ,
I’m still young enough to grab aholt of it
and never let go
6/23/18
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
Just past the Rastafarian berry tree
Where bully beef boys tattooed their love’s names
On the tree’s outstretched arms,
A forgotten remnant lay
In relic and rot, its air choked with damp mildew and dust.
Not wishing to join Garvey’s gang
Or bow before Selassie’s seat,
I left Jah’s clenched jig hanging,
Allowed the inkers to indent incessantly,
Going solo into the house of rubble.
What a treasure!
From smudged, stale mascara,
The aged beauty’s heavy, dim eyes
Cast dim shadows on her rough, ***** neck
On which I now trod barefoot.
Her necklace of knackered newspapers
Hollered hoarsely through the overlying cardboard boxes,
Lowly lisping, ”Sovereign shed my lady once was
And shall forever more remain. Look not at her wilted skin –
Consider only this immortal necklace and live forever therein.”
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 2:08 AM UTC
Coffee, I adore thee,
somehow you never bore me.
Bold and dark or mild and smooth,
you get me up and on the move.
In warm embrace or cool frappe,
mocha, french roast, or tall latte,
crema, sospeso or con panna,
you never fail to make my day.
It’s the best thing ever manufactured,
without it, my mind is slow and scattered,
for a quiz or formulating I’d be knackered,
every morning the Keurig is where we gather.
You pick me up and keep me keen,
in complementing any cuisine,
by delivering a dose of sweet caffeine,
you are the original magic bean.
In doses quick or lingered over,
on mornings with a hangover,
I reach for you, your warm embrace,
the morning fogginess to erase.
The flavors, the scent, which is the best?
They are of compound interest.
French press or espresso - take your pick
- they all provide that delicious kick.
Jitter juice, rocket fuel, cup of joe,
cuppa, morning brew or ristretto,
your flavors please, your scent rouses,
a coffee shop is where the crowd is.
In slang they call it Mormon-crack,
but sugared up or with a snack,
with creamy art or straight-up black
once I’ve got it, you won’t get it back.
Jan 27, 2023
Jan 27, 2023 at 9:27 AM UTC
One morning, Howard was deciding what he was going to cook for today's lunch. Howard was not the worlds best cook, he mainly enjoyed buying ready meals to eat, Fishermans Pie was his dearest. But today was to be different; a change; he would make something from scratch. He decided that Carbonara met his fancy, so he got up from his wearing sofa, and made his way to the half filled book cabinet. 'How to make Pasta', the book read. It was a result for Howard. He clinched his hands on the closed book, and bought it into the front room.Howard opened the book to the contents and turned to page 21, 'Carbonara Chicken Special'. Howard firstly read the ingrediants needed, then popped to the local convinience store to fetch the things he needed. When he eventually started the meal, he was on task and ready to go. So he prepared the sauce, and the pasta, and the chicken. Then put it in the oven, a fourty-five minute wait.Howard was knackered by this time and thought he'd have a quick lye down..."BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP"!!!!!!!!!!!!! This incredibly loud noise was coming from the smoke alarm, startaling Howard! He rushed to the kitchen to discover masses of smoke dominating the room. Howard glanced up at the the clock to discover that he had been sleeping for over an hour. The pasta was ruined and had to be thrown away.Howard was starving though. So he went over to the freezer, grabbed a microwave fishermans pie, and heated it up. As he sat down to eat the meal, he thought to himself; ' Well I gave it a go, one step closer eh'. Then digged into his seafood.
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 4:37 AM UTC
Are you exhausted, shopping all day?
Are you exhausted ignoring me? I won’t go away.
Aren’t you tired of that humdrum existence of yours?
Give me a guitar and you won’t be bored.
A shiny Les Paul or an old Humbacker –
I’ll kick out the jams until me fingers are knackered
And you say, “Are you exhausted?” and I’ll say, “Yes! That’s the one!”
(The name of me album, that is, not the song.)
You should have seen me on stage back in seventy-six,
Jamming with my old mate Jimi Hendrix.
We was gods in them days, we were gee-tar kings,
though I only started playing ‘cause I couldn’t sing.
I played with all the greats, even Chuck Berry
(I strummed along on my guitar while I watched him on telly.)
I taught them all the great licks that made them so famous.
Just look at me now: a forgotten genius.
Now I’m walking the streets with me bottle of gin,
Of course I’m exhausted but I’ve got tough skin.
Now I’m talking to meself in the centre of town,
Yes, I’m exhausted but you won’t see me frown.
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 1:45 PM UTC
He has the heart of a tattered harlequin
Patched and re-patched with rags of broken times that were once good.
The cloth of its chambers is worn and threadbare
Held by the shreds of borrowed nights and comical stolen mornings.
He has the heart of a battered harlequin
And regret has turned his blood to the colour of rust
Unanswered questions congeal and clog his pulse
When he is lonely and aching, time - not isolation- is his worst enemy
He has the heart of a knackered harlequin
Kept moist by whiskey and gin, and uppers and downers that he pops like candy
He has a patchwork sack of a heart
It can never be filled and often feels empty.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 8:54 PM UTC
bought it when his heart stopped.
spent the money wisely
now years later we have
brought it back to life
my decision, his hard work,
said he was knackered at four,
so we sat, talked of crochet
and tarot cards.
today i need tung oil,
with out the gas, i
don’t want wrinkles,
though they are a
way of life
now.
gas checking
forms a crystal finish.
he may use it for his guitar.
sbm.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
Friday:
faux finish line it may be,
but colour me happy
as my knackered toe to tip
crosses it
Oct 16, 2020
Oct 16, 2020 at 2:22 AM UTC
COME ON UNI-TED!!!!!!!!!!
No ****** Rooney
Injured
De Gea injured in the ---kin' warm up!!!
For ---k's sake!
In the warm up!!!!!
Yes! Yes!.....
Oh you ********
Referee!
Are you ---kin' blind?!!!
That was NEVER a foul!
Who's paying your ---kin' wages
Yer tw-t !!!
YEEES!!
MEMPHIS!!!!!!!!
Fabulous goal!
Waddaya mean lucky?
ohh no, kick him
---Kin' kick him!!!
OHHH NOOOO!!!
What the ---k are ya playin' at!!!
THAT was a lucky goal
The ********
Thank ---k it's half time
I need a smoke
Phew, I'm knackered with another half to go
By Phil Roberts
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 1:49 PM UTC
His eyes were bleary
His chest it felt tight
He was bone weary
Just didn’t feel right
But work was demanding
His attention not to stray
Although he was knackered
He worked anyway
For 72 hours each week in and out
He worked on the night shift building cranes to ship out
He built them with pride, his loyalty did show
Through the quality of work and his years on the go
But they shoot horses, don’t they
High up on a crane
It did happen one night
His knee gave a twist
His heart got a fright
He worked through the pain
To the end he did stay
Only after twas done
To his knee his eyes strayed
The knee it was swollen, a great pain in its core
The skin was all puffy, to walk was a chore
The doc said, “It’s nowt--tis but a strain
Get back to work; soon you’ll be right as rain”
But then they shoot horses, don’t they
Years they did pass
But the pain did not leave
So he favoured the leg
With a mind not to grieve
But as will happen
If you must climb like a kid
The other knee went
Much like the first did
Back to the doctor—a new one who found
That with time unattended, injuries compound
“Both knees are torn; and surgery they need
“You must have lighter duties; to your boss we will plead”
But they shoot horses, don’t they.
Back at work
The man plead his case
Even though he was hurt
Could they please find a place?
He’d make hoses
Or sweep up the floor
Work on computers
Any task, any chore
But the boss stood firm, the man was broken you see
No use for him now, no ear for his pleas
“There is work to be done, to that we attest
But I only want you when you’re at your best.”
Because they shoot horses, don’t they.
Still a young lad
His career is cut quick
By two knees gone bad
And a boss who’s a *****
What happens now
To this good-hearted guy
Whose belief in loyalty
Is what led him awry
Well, they shoot horses, don’t they?
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 1:58 AM UTC
There's many pairs I've fathomed
A poets stock and trade
A thousand couples counted
And a hundred poems made
But I'm awash with bafflement
A word eludes my wits
My sleep is interrupted
And it's getting on ****
Nothing rhymes with 'women'
I've run fresh out of words
I'm sick and tired of 'wenches'
And bored to death with 'birds'
It's hard to write a love song
To 'crumpet' or to 'totty'
Yes, nothing rhymes with women
Those women drive me *****
There's loads of rhymes for 'menfolk'
And equally for 'men'
’Aggressive' goes with 'Passive'
And 'Possessive' now and then
My brain is drained and knackered
And almost rhymes with 'lead'
I'd like to rhyme with someone else
And leave them in my stead
For nothing rhymes with women
And I loath abbreviation
There'll surely be no rimmin'
Or unsightly punctuation
The odds are stacked against me
So, exhausted, I persist
To find a rhyme for women
A word to coexist
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
I wear pants under my trousers
A vest under my shirt
Put on trainers to go running
Use a plaster when it hurts
I walk along the pavement
Put my ******* out in bins
Dunk a biscuit in my coffee
Pick up my mobile when it rings
I wash myself with flannels
Go out for a bit of nosh
And if you're spouting nonsense
I'll say you're talking loads of tosh
When I'm knackered I need sleep
I pay the bill after a meal
And if someone's in recovery
It just means they need to heal
I use a rubber for corrections
And when life becomes a drag
I pour a glass of vino
And roll myself a ***
Is weird this common language
I'm still learning the translation
And I thank you for your patience
While I change the situation
To learn the proper lingo
Is now my only quest
So bare with the girl from Blighty
As she tries to do her best!
(C) Pixievic 2016
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
I've pondered why we bring it out whenever the sun shines,
We crack it open, share it out, whiskey, ***** beer, wine,
We look for an excuse, a reason why we drink it,
A christening, a birthday, hell any old chance to sink it,
"Oh look, our Biddy just recieved her shiny little car",
So we get the grog in, the fridge contents won't go that far,
"Poor seany lost his job today, let's cheer him up with whiskey",
The crowd it grows, before ya know, we're all a little frisky,
"And Clodagh decorated her room, ah look, she must be knackered,
Let's have a girly night, and open wine, with cheesy crackers",
So raise a glass, a mug, a goblet, even a champagne flute,
Or even that funny german thingy that measures a beer foot,
Let's toast whatever happens, be it good, or be it bad,
The alcohol will serve us all, ah good times there will be had...
SLAINTE
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 5:28 AM UTC
the city is pink
the clouds are close
the sun will sink
pubs will flood
pavement splattered
with tipsy chatter
from ****** clubs
glass shattered
and mornings knackered
the strangers that find me strange
The heave of an alleyway in a drunken sway
movement
students
cocktails
drunken wails
pool cues
ques for loos
beer gardens
feeling disheartened
potions creating feeling
to disobey trust
emotions blinded
by unnecessary lust
addictive needs
swift gulps of a remedy
morning bleeds
and my head is the enemy
delaying the night to be over
as i wander slow pace
the thought of being sober
the people and the look of my face
the clouds cry as I stare at the sky
I turn down to the puddles to untangle my troubles
the endless struggle to this puzzle
the sky is grey
I run to the train
panting in dismay
at a city full of pain
in a happiness debt
that the journey might reset
I blink
I missed my train
but the city is in pink
I live to love it
I make myself think
so I head to the bar
and I buy a drink
Dec 19, 2022
Dec 19, 2022 at 7:24 PM UTC
Brittle bones,
knackered backs
look where have we been,
steaming
bickering
all within,
faltering legs slipping through the streets,
this man;
would you still greet?
Ashen lungs, falling through
bruised hands;
brimming of stench
been home late,
lately—
this man;
would you still put arms around?
old shirt pieces,
spectacles of destiny
uttering broken-frames;
for a new sweater
weaved into his soul-born.
this man,
would you call a miser still?
Look at those fingers,
go across the keyboard—
Look at the tubelight
light those eyes up
all night.
this man
would you still smile for?
For once,
let me know—
this man,
and his tears;
would you bear upon your lap?
Sep 30, 2024
Sep 30, 2024 at 1:14 PM UTC
Toward the end of it all
my knackered earth beds
sit dishevelled
like a mother’s rushed haircut
tufts of the next growth
brace for another brown-grey winter
while the last redcurrants hide,
blood dark rubies
tucked in dying leaves of neighbour bushes
in the middle, the supermarket spruce
of three years ago
waits its turn
growing done in the throng of all
while the sun played favourites
soon, in the cat pad darks
the ground will be given back to rule,
cold, empty and silent
Sep 17, 2021
Sep 17, 2021 at 12:38 PM UTC
16 stages of falling in love and 13 is my lucky number.
1 – ATTRACTION
Who are you? You are beautiful.
Who am I? I’m…I’m shy.
2 – DESIRE
I think you are beautiful too,
But I’m just a regular guy.
3 – PASSION
No you’re not; you’re hot!
So are you my **** temptress.
4 – LUST
So what do you say lover?
Do you want to go to bed?
5 – NEED
More! I need more! I want you again!
But I’m knackered! Don’t do that. Ok…I’m your slave.
6 – ACTION
Oh my God! Which one? Stop distracting my fun.
Oh my God! This is so good! I think I’m going to…
7 – HAPPY
Well, here we lay in each others arms.
We have satisfied our desires,
Now we just admire each others charms.
8 - SATISFACTION
She smiles at me with a seductive grin.
I can’t! I’m exhausted!
I want to go again!
9 – EMANCIPATION
Your wish is my command! I shall give you your release.
But you will have to untie me first;
Before I get down on my knees.
10 – TOGETHERNESS
Cuddled up together, watching the television;
I see she could be the one.
The one of whom this poem is written.
11 – CONSTANT
The one who has always been my True Love.
The one who will always be there for me, with a loving hug.
12 – HONESTY
I can tell her my thoughts; the good and the unfortunate.
I can be assured that I can trust her,
To not tell the entire internet!
13 – TRUST
For she could be the one in whom I could truly confide.
She could maybe, one day; become my wife.
14 - TRUTH
So my Love, I confess my soul at your feet.
I worship you my Goddess! So I humbly speak.
15 – REVELATIONS
I want you to be mine, for the rest of time.
I want you too, I feel the same,
Will you always remain mine?
16 – LOVE
Now hand in hand we both walk, talking of Stage 1.
Our love has lasted a life time.
It has raised up to about Stage 1.01
(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 7:10 AM UTC
It was getting late.
In a rush the customers flooded.
Desperate to make one last deposit.
Before the bank was shut!
The tellers waited patiently.
For all of them to leave.
Shuffled off in virtual silence to catch the last bus.
They were are rather knackered.
Did not want to fuss.
All feeling rather drained.
Looking rather pale and stressed.
Nearly all dying for a rest.
The bank was shut.
Fridge switched on.
One and one along they come.
Heigh ** (A/O )
Positive,negative.
What's your fix.
Or maybe a cocktail.
I'm sure I can mix.
Said the waiter in black tight tuxedo.
Crisp in white shirt.
I can see him you know.
Behind the bar.
Stood in the corner.
They tell me his name is Jack Warner.
Offers a warning to all the girls.
When running his fingers though their curls!
Gets those bags out.
Filled bursting with claret.
Passes one to the girl on the left.
She smiled fangs bared.
Audacious enough to believe he cared.
The emotionless creep in the immortal sleep.
Waiter turned round and smiled at me.
Fangs glinting in the light.
Obviously only electric.
The vampire bar became a tad hectic.
'Well me darlin', what's your poison'
I smiled real cute with a mischievous grin.
Reciprocal comment came out mighty quick.
Mine's a coke.
I was 'avin a joke,
Don't like them ****** weird folk!
'You ****** vampires make me real sick!'
Left the blood bank.
Like a bat out of hell!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
Once there was Brighton rock, sent with love from Graeme Green.
My early life bore sticks of rock in candy stripes or perfect pink.
My young days were blessed by gift shops and cold cafe winters and buckets of sand.
Paignton, one of several beach fronts that I had encountered.
Another beach I met when I was wee.
Was lovely Weymouth, stocked with historical regency.
Upon the sands was to be found a perfect sculptor played with sand.
A maker of the sphinx,and of cars and crowns.
Stole all the little children's tears and frowns.
Built Neptune complete with his chariot and maybe just another modest castle.
Almost fit to suit a modern day queen.
Mr Punch and Mrs Judy.
The puppeteer's hand shoved up both their bottoms at once.
Poor knackered donkeys plodded.
Their bridles labelled with their names.
All gone now.
Think the animal rights brigade may have stepped in there.
Punch and Judy deemed inappropriate and the sandman left.
Guess they put him to sleep or maybe they're just taxing his sand.
(C) Livvi
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
It’s the one
I’ve heard a hundred times before
track number twelve
belching out the stereo.
It’s either six or five AM
anyway the horizon is orange
like a papaya
and I’m next to your window
with a glass of flat 7-Up in one hand.
No alcohol all evening
but tipsy somehow
maybe the music got some hormones
smiling inside me
or your dancing in next to nothing
gave my brain a vinegary kick.
Now you ask again
I say I have two left feet
you pull an I-couldn’t-care-less face
so it’s settled
I’m dancing but not really
and my arms are thrashing about
so much I worry I’ll belt your lampshade off
and then you jump on the bed
and Teddy goes flying
and somehow I’m quickly up there with you.
We’re teenagers at our first festival
location - your bedroom
headline act on stage
and we’re going effing nuts
at the front shrieking lyrics
hoping our sweaty faces are on BBC Three.
I’m totally knackered so I pant to you
that I’m totally knackered
and you lean in for a kiss
but bump my nose instead
and laugh just as you’ve done all night
so loud so lovely so couldn’t care about
what comes next.
We lie down now
to catch our breath
except you don’t catch your breath do you
it’s just a thing people say
and our four feet are together
naked red sock naked blue sock
you say the song listen it’s ending
so it is
fading away like every night
that comes and then goes.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 5:39 PM UTC