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Obadiah Grey Dec 2013
Sphincter factor nine approaches
food for the fish n roaches
methinks its time for me perhaps
to open up the rearward *****.


------------------------------------
AAChoo !!

Oh, liddle sister, Josephine,
you sure don't keep your
nose real clean.
got stalactites
o' pure pea green
my infectious sibling
snot machine.
----------------------------------------
I thought that I might shoot the breeze
with God or Mephistopheles
and ask them please to ease my wheeze
of my bad back and dodgy knees
---------------------------
Croak with the raven
bluff with the crow
the urchin
the field mouse
beneath the hedgerow
in a flurry they scurry
away away go.
Yelp with the *****
howl with the hound
and bay at the moon
till the sun comes around.
------------------------------------------
Gino's bar and grill.

Away, away afore Bacchus
doles out befuddlement
and Morpheus has his way,
lest I awake to find myself
in the company of
sodamistic bedfellows
with buggery in mind.
---------------------------------
Harry Potter has grown a beard
he lives alone and turned out weird.
Dumbledore, Albus, no more
turned his toes and 'ad a snore,
Voldemort, who's *** is taut
has no nose with which to snort.
====================

Ahem !!

Behind two Lilies- sits Rose,
then Daisies
for two and a bit rows.
with Poppy, and *****
Petunia, Primrose.
and Bryony - who gets up
- my nose.
----------------------------------------------
Amen.
God bless the Cows - for beef burgers.
God bless the Pig - for their bacon.
God bless the wife n her sharp knife
for the slice of their **** she's taken.

-------------------------------------------------
We can, no more fetter the sea to the shore
nor the clouds to the sky
or tether the glint
in a lovers eye,
As sure as the shore loves the sea
so shall I love thee, together,
together for eternity,

-----------------------------------

It bends for thee
sweet chevin,
the cane thats cleaved
by three,
wilt thou now
sweet chevin
yield, my friend ,
for me.
-------------------------------------------------
There's Marmalade then Marmite
and Jams thats jammed between
the buttered bread of bard-dom
a poets sweet cuisine.
---------------------------------------------
I took up campanology
and fired up my ****.
I rang that bell
to ******* hell
till the busies
came along.
--------------------------------------------
so, I've been whittling away
at a buoyant ****-
fashioned something approximating
a poo canoe-
in it, I intend to
surf the **** tsunami of old age
to-- death;
I have named it Public - Service - Pension.


----------------------------------------------

A surreptitious delightful tryst,
with my honey, my sebaceous cyst.
she's my pimple, my wart,
my gumboil consort.
she's the zip, in which
my *******, got caught.
--------------------------------------
Frayed at the bottoms
ripped at the knee.
baggy and saggy
big enough for three.
faded and jaded
and stained with ***
but I'm due for a new pair--
Yippeeeee!!

---------------------------------------

Ther­e's Cockerel in my ear
and he bills and coo's for you
whenever you are near
goes - **** a doodle doo !!!!!,,,,,,,,

---------------------------------------------

Oh,­ for the snap shut skin
in the blue twang of youth
and to un-crack the spine
on the book of love.
now the gulping years
have flown away
we take sips of the night
and are spoon fed the day.

-----------------------------

Zeus made the Moose to be somewhat obtuse,
a big deer- rather queer- I fear.
then God gave him the nod to look funny and odd
the spitting image of you - my dear !!!

---------------------------------------

Knobbly Nobby.

Nobby has a great big nose
a great big nose has he,
and nobby knows
that his big nose,
is big, as big can be,
nobby has two knobbly knees
two knobbly knees has he,
his knobbly knees,
are as knobely
as knobbly knees can be,
don’t pity dear old nobby
for soon it’s plain to see,
that nobby has a great big ****
as big, as big as three !
now nobbys **** is knobly,
as knobly as a **** can be,
so nose and knee and ****
make three,
and we - are ****- ely.

----------------------------------

The Woman that wouldn't eat meat,
had reeaally, reeaally big feet,
her **** was as big as an hermaphrodite brig
and her **** were as hard as concrete….


--------------------------------

Hearken the clarion call of the crows
afore the snow-
they caw,
hey, get your **** into gear lads-
we gotta feckin go !!!

-----------------------------

Gods pad

I took a peek within
your house
wherein on pew, I spied
a mouse,
and in his hand,
a Bible clasped,
and out his mouth,
a parable rasped,

---------------------

I'd say she had
a pigeon loft in
her eyes and
bluebells up
her nose.

But then again
I wear a flat cap

and stroll through meadows.

----------------------------

Would you care to buy our house?
It's minus Mouse n devoid o' Louse,!
Spiders, Roaches, Bugs or other,
have all been eaten by my brother,
snaffled up n swallowed down
then jus' crapped out a - yellowish brown.
so would you care to buy our house?
from an oddly pair -- devoid of nous

-------------------------

Though the Crows got her eyes
and the Worms got her gut.
comes as no surprise
death can't keep her mouth shut.

-------------------

Bevelled slick edges
and reeaal eeaasy slopes.
Chilli dip wedges
with fresh artichokes.
Wanton loose wenches
and swivel hipped ******
Daft dawgs and dentures
and granddad - who snores.

-------------------

Been whittling away at a buoyant ****
and fashioned something approximating a canoe,
in it, I intend to surf the **** tsunami of old age;
I named it, "Public service pension"

-------------------------------

.
Well,
     I could wax on the wings of a butterfly
but, I ain't that kind o' guy.
rather kick the nuts off ******* squirrels
pluck the wings off - blue assed fly.
I'm the stuff that flops off dog chops
when he's up for it and high.
an infection in your sphincter,
a well
that's jus' run dry.

----------------------------------------------

befeathered­ and bright scarlet
is my ladies bonnet,
jauntily askew and -
lilting on a paramours
grin.

"- Gladlaughffi -"

I'm reliably informed that dear ol' Muma
sported a goatee around his **** sphincter,
now, whilst this is merely educated speculation
from my esteemed friend his "groom of the stool" ! 
who was in fact required to wear a mask,
ear muffs and a blindfold whilst he went about his business,
He did possess reeaaally sensitive fingertips
somewhat akin to a blind man reading brail,,
and, swore blind that said "**** sphincter' spoke him in Arabic
and asked him for a quick trim, (short back and sides)
I myself being a practising proctologist of some repute
am inclined to believe my friend the "groom of the stool"
as I've come recognise -- Arsolian when I hear it !!!!!!!!
-------------------------------------

In a Belfast sink by the plughole
where hair and gum gunk meet
'erman the germ-man  and toe jam
bop the bacillus beat.

________

Doctor this I know as fact
that I have a blocked digestive tract,
I'm all bunged up and cannot go
my trump and pump is - somewhat slow.
I need unction jollop for junction wallop
some sorta lotion to give me motion.
If you could please just ease my wheeze
then I needn't grunt and push and squeeze.

-----------------------------

They are breaking out the thwacking sticks
and sparking Godly clogs
pulling tongues through narrowed lips
at the infidel yankee dogs.

------------------------------------

As a paid up member of the
lumpen bourgeoisie poetry appreciation society
I can confirm without fear of contradiction
that poetry is indeed baggy underwear
with ample ball room, voluminous in the extreme
and takes into account
the need for the free flow of flatulent gassiness
that is the want of a ****** up poet.

-----------------------------------------------

She's a rough hewn Trapezoidal gal
a gongoozler o' the ol' canal.
She's copper bottomed n fly boat Sal.

I'll have thee know that
that there hat
is a magic hat,
it renders me invisible
to the arty intelligentsia
and roots me firmly
in the lumpen proletariat .
-------------------------------------------------------
Said the sneaky Scotsman, Jim Blaik.
if the pension, you wish to partake,
bend over my son, lets get this thing done
and cop for this thick trouser snake !!

I met my uncle Albert,
down at Asda, in aisle three;
he got there in a Mazda,
jus' a smidgen after me,
said he'd traversed Sainsburys,
Tesco Liddle n the Spar,
but not one o' them flogged Caviar
Truffles or Foie gras.


He sidled past the pork pies
streaky bacon turkey thighs
a headin for the french fries
n forsaken knock down buys,
shimmied 'round the ankle biters;
expectant mums to be,
popin pills for bloated ills
in the haberdashery.

Fandango'd o'er the cornflakes
and the spillage in isle four

-----------------

I'm linier and analogue,
a ribbon microphone man
mired in the dust of the monochromatic,
the basement, the attic.

------------------------------

Simple simon met miss Tymon going to the fair,
said simple simon to miss Tymon - "pfhwarr what a luverly pair"
of silken thighs and big brown eyes and scrumptious wobbly bits,
Said simple Simon to miss Tymon---------- shame about you **** !!!

So sad sweet Shirl thought she'd give a whirl to clubbercise n pound

Squat, slightly,
tilt head 45°
and squint.
See the shimmering blurry
dot in the distance?
That, timorous ****,
is ME !
Fast twitching my
narrow white ****
to the pub.

There was a young lady named Sue.
whose ***** and **** was askew,
whilst taking a ****
she'd aim it and miss
and she lifted 'er hat when she blew.


Oh Mon Dieu !!

Obi.
PFL Jun 2016
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
Obadiah Grey Jun 2010
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 ***, 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.
Nigel Morgan Oct 2012
Dear -----
 
How bland and stark that greeting sounds
when I so wish to say much more than
dear, you know, my dearest at the very least,
my sweet companion, friend and keeper of my
heart, such silliness I know, but that first word
to me brings to itself so much that lies
beyond what words can rightly say, it is
a kiss, this dear, a touch of my lips against
your slumbering brow as I stretch myself
to leave you sleeping that deep-before-waking
sleep . . . and then your name again again, again.
 
Apart from you - I so often fall and recollect
a scene, a moment shared, as yesterday,
before we went to bed, you held against
yourself this frock you’d found and liked
a linen dress its colour almost blue or almost
green and mused that dresses seem to suit
you now and that was partly my desire to see you
so attired, perhaps to feel the naked form of you
reflected, as though mirrored in movement, there
being no division or divide your whole length
down, the hang, the fall, the rearranging crease,
the gentle border fold between the hem and
stockinged leg I love to wonder at, and place my
hand like this, and this, and stroke with fingers
flat towards your knee, towards your calf.
 
All day I struggled not to leave my desk
and tasks that crowd and seek and crowd
my whole attention’s span; my children always,
all but one away, apart and living separate
lives without my care. So slowly I assembled
letters, written in my cursive hand and enveloped,
stamped, then laid to rest against the picture
frame, which shows your almost smiling face
I caught when sheltering from a morning’s rain
in Cumbria one spring, when we had lain in bed
and heard the river sing, the birds fly, our hearts beat.
 
Please know I sometimes need this time alone:
to set myself anew, to gather all the wonder
that is touch and tenderness of being close
to you. So I, like Kathleen darning every sock before
a poem might be sought or bidden, cleaned my
room and made three lists, and finally, tempted by
the late September light, walked and walked a while
beneath the chestnut trees - to and fro and to -
and seeing leaves begin to turn and fall,
the path a litter of knobbly shells, the fruit
gone into children's bins and bags, found
just one - and kept it for my love, my dearest,
kept it for my heart’s desire, my undeserved joy.
I hold this polished ‘buckeye’ in my hand and bring it
to my lips: to feel its coolness, its texture polished
richly brown now printed with a kiss.
 
 With love and in friendship

-----
I  love to write letters, but this is I think my first - in verse.
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.
Tessa F Aug 2013
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.
diana_rae Sep 2009
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.
Akemi Mar 2016
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
12:28pm, March 7th 2016

I'm no different.
Terry Collett Jun 2014
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.
MONKS IN AN ABBEY IN 1971.
Jake Espinoza Feb 2011
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.
cheryl love Nov 2015
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.
John Carpentier Dec 2013
I sit in front of fire
while you stare out at falling snow.
In many ways we are watching each other,
despite the many miles between us.

You are so soft, so simply bright
in the way you burn
despite your icy blue eyes
and your freezing cold fingertips.

I watch hunks of cherry wood crackle,
fading from red to brown to black,
and I cannot help but wonder
if you see me in falling flakes
as I see you in flickering flames.

Perhaps there is a frozen lake you have trudged past
with a smirk,
thinking of all the ice
I blanket my bed with,
only to have it so mercilessly melted by you.

Or maybe I am a fallen tree
you amble over, taking care not to break my branches.
I am not just torn and toppled,
but also unseen:
my chestnut and emerald now snuffed
by silent, muffled snow.

Yet I am still a mighty pine
and not some timbered log
as you navigate my wreckage with care.
I like to think that is when you see me:
in knobbly, solid roots still holding on with stubborn strength.

And then I am not just needles and bark,
but fallen ice,
now a part of some new whole.
And you are not just brilliant tongues of ruby and ochre
but also the gold of glowing embers,
and the black of burnished soot.

You are the fire and the fuel
just as I am the falling and the fallen.
There is fresh snow and rotten wood,
leaping flames and tired ash,
and we cherish it all the same.

I douse my fire
and you climb past your pine.
I ***** out a brilliant blaze with a half smile,
knowing it will not need to warm me
for much longer.
rainydaysunday Sep 2013
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.
Lot Oct 2018
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.
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.
Written: November 2013 and March 2014.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, starting at 21:38 and finishing at 22:08. During this time, I changed the battery in the clock on my wall while writing a poem about the process.
Ben Jones Nov 2015
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

**
Misnomer Jan 2012
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.
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.
Written: February and March 2014.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time for a university class - a sort of follow-up to older piece 'Vein.'
Olivia Kent Dec 2014
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
Lily Monroe Dec 2011
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?
Lexander J Apr 2016
Age Of Apostasy

I was born with the sun shining upon my skin
I was born into a world saturated with sin
pestilence shone, through his void grinned
for the second I broke from the womb the sky above dimmed

birthed not from a mother but a sick man
my coming heralded an end, the age of apostasy began -
those I loved killed by the evil inside
cursed by a Devils backbone, there was no where to hide

[but inside their minds]

now I live with the beautiful people and their screeching cries
I avoid their clumpy fingers, their black empty eyes,
vying for flesh and choking upon lungs of rubber
floating with a ghastly gracefulness that makes the north wind shudder

[bullet wounds
gunshot holes -]

with the devil inside I know only fear
knowing nothing of love, my soul bedridden and queer -

[maggots and live thriving
between fleshy folds]

in the distance a woman cries, piercing the silence like a bell

surely that can't be -
surely that can't be the scent of *** I smell?

Alas 'twas only wishful thinking, my pretence playing unfair,
the beautiful people finally had prey and were stripping her bones bare -

ruthless, ecstatic, bodies twisted and vile
clutching strips of flesh only then did they laugh and smile.

The Beautiful People & The Mannequins Of Plague

I walk amongst the beautiful people
hide my face within the shadows around,
with lungs of rubber and skin that's latex
they drift about our world without a sound

[so deliciously dark
twisted and vile
they grin from faces ghastly
rotting and puerile]

formerly they were perfect humans
whose selfishness strived for more,
so they re-constructed their bodies and faces
using skin harvested from the dead and poor

[bullet wounds
gunshot holes
maggots and lice thriving
between fleshy folds]

organs replaced with mechanical components
immortality sewn together with surgical stitches,
greed and jealousy bloomed inside our narrow minds
thus we began practicing the work of witches

but the stolen skin rotted upon their ancient bodies
leaving their yellowing, pestilent, bones bare -
to defy death plastic and rubber were used as replacements
but of mortality they were now forever aware

[clumpy fingers, bloodshot eyes
midnight dreams plagued with their shrieking cries]

for upon the pursuit of immortal living
we lost the people we once used to be -

now I flee their hungry gazes and grabbing fingers
living only with empty shadows for bittersweet company.

The Beautiful People II*

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!
Vitis Lio Feb 2014
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.
For H.B. and W.B.
Thomas clark Mar 2016
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
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
Written: October 2017.
Explanation: A poem written for university in my own time, influenced by the work of Liz Berry. Changes are very possible. It is written in a slightly exaggerated version of my accent. Please note that Wrigley's refers to the chewing gum company, DJ Caspar to the musician, year three's/year four to students aged between seven and nine in England, Blu-Tack to the putty-like adhesive, 'Ingland' v Brazil to the knockout round match in the World Cup of 2002 (David Beckham and Teddy Sheringham were players at the time), TA to teaching assistant, Woolies to the former British retail chain Woolworths, Pritt-Stick to the glue stick adhesive, and Watson to the actress Emma Watson. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
NOTE: Many of my older pieces will be removed from HP at some point in the future.
Lexander J Sep 2015
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!
Diane Jul 2017
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.
L Seagull Nov 2017
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
Inspired by the relationship with my mentor and British series Merlin that I sometimes watch with my kiddos
..and you know because you've done it too

looked in the mirror and thought who
wouldn't want this chunk
this fabulous looking hunk of man

then

wonder if my *** looks big in this
look at the pecs
get yer specs on for these
don't
don't
don't look at those knobbly knees

krap

so you spend some quality time
putting your clothes on
composing a rhyme

no one will see those knees.
Kaley Kerchaert Dec 2016
K's
kickbox, kickoff, kebbock, kibbutz, kolkhoz, kebbuck, kajeput, kwanzas,
killjoy, klezmer, khazens, kickups, knuckly, kleenex, knobbly, kingcup, kunzite,
koji, kyak, konk, kep, kip
Iska Aug 2018
Snow looks like it's striped the world
Striped it down to the bones
And trees are knobbly fingers
Clawing towards the dreary sky

— The End —