"knobbly" poems
Bless all the barmaids that have ever lived
who carried featherlite, n knobbly ribbed,
who listened to waffle n crap I spoke
who granted liddle me, a slap n poke,
who parted ***** whilst in drunken stooper
n gave the bird, to the party pooper,
the big ones, the small ones, the fat n thin
god bless slappers, that invited me in,
bejeezus begorra, mag da horra,
bless all barmaids, I'll **** on the morra,
big **** big *** n the ones that pass gas,
god bless the ones that I’ve yet to harass,
for whisky, for beer, god bless ya m’dear,
even big sally; fer the gonorrhea.
Alan nettleton.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 10:08 PM UTC
If I were tickled by the rub of love,
A rooking girl who stole me for her side,
Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string,
If the red tickle as the cattle calve
Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung,
I would not fear the apple nor the flood
Nor the bad blood of spring.
Shall it be male or female? say the cells,
And drop the plum like fire from the flesh.
If I were tickled by the hatching hair,
The winging bone that sprouted in the heels,
The itch of man upon the baby's thigh,
I would not fear the gallows nor the axe
Nor the crossed sticks of war.
Shall it be male or female? say the fingers
That chalk the walls with greet girls and their men.
I would not fear the muscling-in of love
If I were tickled by the urchin hungers
Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve.
I would not fear the devil in the ****
Nor the outspoken grave.
If I were tickled by the lovers' rub
That wipes away not crow's-foot nor the lock
Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws,
Time and the ***** and the sweethearting crib
Would leave me cold as butter for the flies
The sea of scums could drown me as it broke
Dead on the sweethearts' toes.
This world is half the devil's and my own,
Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl
And curling round the bud that forks her eye.
An old man's shank one-marrowed with my bone,
And all the herrings smelling in the sea,
I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail
Wearing the quick away.
And that's the rub, the only rub that tickles.
The knobbly ape that swings along his ***
From damp love-darkness and the nurse's twist
Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle,
Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast
Of lover, mother, lovers, or his six
Feet in the rubbing dust.
And what's the rub? Death's feather on the nerve?
Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss?
My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree?
The words of death are dryer than his stiff,
My wordy wounds are printed with your hair.
I would be tickled by the rub that is:
Man be my metaphor.
2.2k
I remember creeping reverently past
The yawning maw
Snarling braches, overgrown foliage
Sad eye sockets
The defeated roof
Listing drunkenly to the left
The black spirals on the ground
Where the fire had scored earth bare
Crouched from the sanctity of the sidewalk
Damp palm snaking back to
Clasp tight
My best friend’s hand
Fear skittering up our spines
We skirted past poisonous green weeds
That swayed in the yard
Unkempt and our eyes
Darted, seeking, feral
For movement in that open doorway
Her shadow
The witch
Years pass
Looking out into suburbia
Manicured green boxes
And cookie-cutter plans
From my own cracked window
My newly acquired reno,
I spot a flash of moving colour
From beyond the overgrown hyacinths
A tousled flash of curls between the green
Puzzlement ripples as
Three lanky preadolescent forms
Snake from the protection of my shaggy firs
Thin chests taking a breath before
Their whippy arms point accusing
And I barely see a flash before
The clutched rock leaves the
Stupid-looking red headed one’s hand
Crashing through my upstairs master
And I hear it
Witch, witch, where’s the witch?
And I feel it.
My eyes beadily narrow
Peering over my bulbous nose
Shoulders hunching
Toes curl
And I reach for
The broom leaning next
The painter’s cloth
Grabbing on with knobbly fingers
Hurling myself
Out
Of
The door
Their eyes widened
Disbelieving
As they spot me
And thumbs clutched between index fingers
They run
Leaving me cackling
Breathless
While my familiar
Looks up from
Sunning her black self
On the step.
Sep 2, 2009
Sep 2, 2009 at 7:49 PM UTC
You are a part of my heart
That cliche fact is a given
But you are also a part of my knees.
You catch me as I fall to the floor
You hold me steady as I search up in the sky
You withstand the scrapes and the bruises
And I hug you up against my chest when I'm sad.
I never used to like my knees
All scarred and knobbly and in the way
But as your eyes drag over me
Inch by inch
And I try to see myself the way you do
Inch by inch
Every part of me that has been so gently touched by your fingers
Becomes a piece of artwork.
And because of you, my dear,
My old and worn out knees
Are a picture frame window into my heart
You dusted out so kindly
That I can't help but cry.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
You were always rotting
I never noticed
They remind me of you
Skin wrapped around ankle bones
Wearing through their soles
It’s different here
Guess some just rot faster
I peeled back the covers and found only the lacuna
The blue orange fuzz
Delineating the shadow from the concrete
You grew apart and dissipated
Smoke settling into cloth
The back of my sleeve
How come?
How come?
Everyone is always leaving
Warping through their bodies
Did you ever finish your story?
Soft knuckles rapping on your door
Knobbly knees
I know it’s selfish
Perpetuating the fabric of your existence
Like a categorical imperative
A crumpled head filled with spirits
Is carried to the tip
It happens every Monday morning
Hollow men run the streets
But they leave the rot
They always leave the rot
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 6:30 PM UTC
The old monk
with Parkinson’s disease,
bug eyed
through thick lenses
spectacles,
his fingers
shaking the host,
is unable to find
the tongue
in sick monk’s
static mouth.
I weeded
the cloister Garth
flower bed,
back aching,
God
at my young
bent shoulder.
The youngest monk,
squat and black robed,
holds the ewer,
while the abbot
holds between
knobbly fingers,
the aspergillum,
to bless the monks
in the choir stalls,
after Compline,
before
the Angelus calls.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 2:14 PM UTC
Hurricanes and foghorns mixing up a ranch on the outskirts of Nowhere
The candlemaker doesn't seem to mind
Reading and rereading collapsing tomes
Cluttered desks, but all is calm inside.
Twisted in corruption, knobbly fingers shaking
Here's a man we'd call wizened.
He's seen all sides of the foreground.
There's a path around his house where nothing grows
His soles made it
Silent and statuesque he trod
Quiet and calm in his solitude
He fears nothing but unrest.
Cryptic script mars the mahogany dresser
A source of comfort, pride
Mystery of bygone days of the infinite October
When the sleepy sun would kiss the earth goodnight
When the dust would catch the light
A gift to the eyes as they lay themselves to rest.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 5:05 PM UTC
There she is again
dangling her legs
in the pouring rain
like wet coat pegs.
With knobbly knees
and sticky out hairs
A big loud sneeze
all over the stairs.
She is on the naughty step
for doing things wrong
She does not need help
It does not take long.
She opens her mouth
and says all the wrong things
Well we know what is heading south
it is her little wings.
She will be a flightless fairy
it is a fairy's way to go
She will be scared and wary.
Is that not so.
She has had her redemption
a one way ticket to her goal
Sitting is now an exemption
although she is a naughty soul.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 8:40 AM UTC
Summer stops and then I begin
rain drops fall on each protruding part
of my body.
My breast, the
small
Of my back, my
knobbly-knees.
And I imagine those drops
recognizing something inside
of me
that others don't.
And I imagine
that something to be
a One of a Kind
Trait.
The rain finds me
when I can't;
The rain reassures me
when insecure is
All I feel.
I catch myself in storms
I am falling from the clouds
To nourish
those who need it.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
The goddess wakes,
with purple nails and brittle scales.
She stands,
Knobbly knees like hairy trees outstretched against their seams.
Her steps veer,
Joint’s scream while needs poison her bloodstream.
Her reflection gleams,
There’s something vile about her denial.
She sees,
through a screen but the fog won’t clear.
Blind to her sunken cheeks and pale lips,
to the knives jutting from her back,
that leave bruises like inkblot fiends.
She doesn’t mind,
The constant shakes and extreme regimes.
She smiles,
Don’t worry it’s just a lifestyle.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 9:44 AM UTC
My clock has stopped.
It says eight forty-four
but it's nine thirty-eight.
It stopped when I wasn't looking
or was looking but didn't notice
a few days ago,
the knobbly black fingers
frozen, pointing west.
I take time off,
feel its chilled curves
dig into my palms,
another river among many.
Held up to my ear
a soft heartbeat,
my thumbs squash
numbers three and nine.
On your back.
The old red tube removed
with my nail
like flicking a splinter
out with a needle.
In snaps the new guy.
With one spin of the white wheel,
a new breath.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 5:10 PM UTC
In the valley of no ambition to possess,
Gather a conference of noblesse.
Couples there to embrace their once in a life permanence,
Atop the reflective mirror,
Thousands of creatures, jealous, are deprived the chance,
In this waterless land hides Venus’s lake.
On one leg and bended neck eminence,
Flamingo courtship:an elegant finesse.
Ballerinas dancing coupled pirouettes,
Partnered together beyond death,
Angels clad in mango pinkness, the epitome of grace.
PFL
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 3:53 AM UTC
tonight there is no room,
no bed for soft heads to converse,
with knobbly knees bent out
in soft chattering--
from cold? hardly.
dawn mimics a dove,
with her white limbs,
off-plummage,
driven to some point
that has faded to your crescent brow.
tomorrow the siege will pull
at your echoing streets,
splitting hair strings off end
until you find earthen creatures
tugging at the hem,
at the toilet,
swallowing their hollow drums,
counting a mistress' scarlet nails
and her emerald brooch.
tonight i am quiet
with a bed.
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 9:29 PM UTC
A tangled forest gathers moss
Bedecked in cobweb candyfloss
With thistles nestled all across
To snare uncovered skin
The fronds of creepers slowly slip
And feelers find a tighter grip
Your cheeks to lash and ankles trip
The air is growing thin
A withered river ever slank
It slithers past the riverbank
But dither not upon its flank
Nor drink a single glass
For out of sight, and deep there in
Are gnomes and other fairy kin
With knobbly nose and hairy chin
Who slink up through the grass
**
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
He picks up a twig,
a thin knobbly wand
and drops it in,
watches it turn,
twist like the hour-hand
on a clock around the bend.
Now a stone,
a grey sphere
plopped into the mix,
as a magnet
sticks to the river’s tongue
and won’t budge.
He calls me over,
‘can you see our faces?’
The melting mirror
gurgles along,
doesn’t know
we are there.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
My inspiration;
I dream of a nation
where the implantation
of dreams ceases all death-
to hungry slaves, those crying
babes, on mommy's sunburnt
knobbly thighs. And in divine truth lies
an interrupted sigh by the girl with wide eyes
who sits in a room in which Big Brother ensues...
These words spoken by scholars who want my golden
dollars, my earned debt, my love and respect, how do we go on?
How do I prove wrong to those bodies standing higher preaching to a
double bladed choir...ready to make words.
but what?
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 8:16 AM UTC
In the middle of the darkest room hid smiles.
Smiles of the followers.
Smiles of the players.
Smiles of the thespians.
Bespoke, dressed as lesbians.
Smiles of the slayers, who dissected the players.
Who did stand on the stage, spitting some vile rage,
of tyrants and elephants,
while wearing tight underpants,
that strangled their ********
The fellas that was.
Some had big feet,
other's knobbly knees.
All the smiles seemed to fit and that's about it.
A great night was had and no-one was bad.
Came in much too early and now I feel sad !
(C) LIVVI
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
i,m charming and witty
sometimes i,m funny
i aint a millionaire
but i aint short of money
i,m a canny lad
my hearts in the right place
just a shame
i got a ugly face
but i do look good
wen i turn my back
but if i face you
cover my head with a sack
i got big ears
and my eyes are brown not blue
but if i i say i love you
you,ll know its ttrue
my manhood is just average
i got sum manboobs too
i got knobbly knees
and my y fronts stink of poo
so wat i need is a blind girl
with no sense of smell
and 1 whos deaf too
so her friends cant tell
guess wat i,m saying
is i,m insecure too
if you still talk to me
respect to you
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
a wodge uh Wrigley’s
‘ard an knobbly on thuh underside
uh desks
shufflin’ tuh DJ Caspar
in thuh ‘all
unduh thuh gaze uh
year three’s
it were
packed lunches,
dislodging mi brace
from thuh roof of mi mouth
like extractin’ a tooth,
scoffin’ bars uh white chocolate
years-old Blu-Tack
stamped black intuh carpets,
grey plastic-y chairs,
writin’ learnin’ objectives,
underlinin’ dates
with shatterproof rulers,
I upgraded tuh a pen
in year four
same time
remember listenin’ on the radio
in Scottish Clark’s mobile
when it wuh Ingland v Brazil,
summer uh ‘02,
thuh likes of Sheringham, Beckham
in audio only, no picture,
and thuh TA came in
‘alfway throo a lesson,
said ‘we’re out’
and the time
I cort that cricket ball,
dived and it stung mi hand,
a crimson-drizzled palm,
throbbin’ ring
and the time
we played football wi’ tennis *****
and I blurted intuh a trio
uh eager classmates,
a tumble-shirt compote,
knee flecked wi’ grit, mi own spit,
skinny whispers uh blood
and thuh time
I plagiarised Potter
around Azkaban,
got a Woolies notebook,
ragged Pritt-Sticked cuttins’
of Watson in the pink ‘oodie,
but it wuh the seed
for thuh next decade and more,
standin’ up,
tellin’ a story,
somethin’ or othuh
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 2:47 PM UTC
I can’t sit still
on the bus today.
I’m looking down and
from side to side.
I make circle around my left thigh with my hands
like I’m trying to tie a rope around it:
a portable measuring tape.
I tighten the noose. I try not to
groan. I dig my nails
right in. I’m wondering why
I take up so much space.
I loosen my grip and
put my feet up on the chair in front of me
and check my knees are looking sufficiently
knobbly today. I’m wondering why
I take up so much space.
The sweaty, red-faced punter
who got on at Busby and sat down next to me
smells like all the things I hate about Glasgow:
cheap ***** stale cigars and
a sausage supper. Greasy chips drowning in vinegar, choking
on salt.
In the space between us
he shoves his rucksack.
When I feel it against my leg I
flinch. Another sensation connecting me to
this world.
I slide to the right, apologising to Mr. Greasy Chips like
I’ve done something terribly wrong and I
just don’t want to feel—
I don’t want to feel the fabric touching my body.
I’m wondering why
I take up so much space.
If I were smaller, just a bit smaller
there would be enough room
for his ******* bag.
I can’t sit still
on the bus today.
I’m coughing because of the stale cigar smoke and
some guy’s cheap aftershave
and I’m wondering why
I
take up
so
much space.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 12:04 PM UTC
His hands
Knobbly and callused
Either very warm
Or very cold
He was always prone
To extremities.
His hands
Big and enveloping
Either on his keyboard
Or his guitar
But always there
When I need them.
They are my float
And my anchor
Respectively.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
I add insult to injury and bleed into the glass
they've starved this world and left me 'til last,
only through alcohol and drugs can I truly escape
but now I sit here knowing it's all too little, too late,
I tried curing them with injections of compassion and remorse
alas they only mocked me with smiles that were forced,
with greedy eyes that lingered upon my untainted flesh
'twas clear their resentment was caustic, broodingly fresh
hating their bodies and all that could be seen
so precociously perfect, but with souls disgustingly unclean
infected with an obsession mutating into disease
humanity swallowed by the cravings they strived to appease
they are the Beautiful People, yes I have spoken of them before,
but I must mention their ghastly existence once forever more,
for now I have been abandoned in this world barren and dead
my body digests itself as my nose and ears drip red
I'm not well, my skin has grown pallid and lumpy
my fingers twisted, knobbly and clumpy
they scream in the night, they scream in my head
my mind polluted with the paranoia the drugs have bred //--
*[come with me, take my hand
I will lead you to the promised land]*
wind howling, breathing heavy, lazy
visions of hope going increasing hazy //--
oh please-
please-
listen to me before my conscience fully dies
whatever you do //-
DON'T LOOK INTO THEIR EYES!
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC
I know a dragon
Ancient and humane
He resides in the cave
He calls lovingly a shadow box
From which he peers
Into the innermost of you
Outstretching a pair of knobbly fingers
To pull the sting out
With a gentle smile
And advice to watch the shame
As if a curious child
Not knowing yet the fear
Of failing
And like a child he smirks at you
With a glance blanketing your doubt
And he could stay in his cave
For ages on end
And he does not like loud parties
In palaces that wouldn’t fit his frame
His fire deemed to hide
Inside the safety of the shadow
To protect mortals from
Being burned alive
By the terrifying truth
Of his breath
Yet with all his strength
He fears my eyes
For he is not accustomed to be seen
And he is angry as much as pleased
To find he is not the only dragon
In the room
How happy I am to find my kin
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 11:55 AM UTC