"limey" poems
They've been working on this for years
Inside the government
To try a replace the brain of man
With that of a purple eggplant
This idea to me sounds genius
If you know what it is that I mean
People round here might start making sense
Pass the veggies if you please
They called all the top notched scientists
And vegetarians throughout the land
To see what would be the best variety
In this eggplant transplant experiment
They settled on the aubergine
Great Brittan's joy and pride
When it comes to the perfect eggplant
Those Limey's will not be denied
They were afraid if they went to the private sector
That person would surely be missed
So they grabbed someone unsuspecting
Inside of the government
They told the low level employee
A bit of truth mixed with a little white lie
They needed him for his vast understanding and knowledge
Plus they'd be serving cookies on the side
They added a little something to the cookie dough
That knocked the governmental genius to his knees
Plopped him down on the gurney
...Let the experiment proceed if you please
They cracked his skull wide open
Where upon they couldn't believe their eyes
Right there inside of his cranium
Already an eggplant did reside
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
touch
bumpy
sandpaper
ridged
crusty
sight
half moon shape
yellow
green
purple
taste
lemony
cherryee
limey
purpley
smell
good
like sugar up my nose
like lemons
like cherry
sound
crunch
squish
crackle crackle
yum yum
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope -
She casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
And stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
The stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
Where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
Where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
Whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
Though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: “her age? a sweet 16,
With child, ***** her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.”
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
In limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
And all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
Which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
Neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
“She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
But Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire -
Beyond the nave, a gravelled grave, the final Rectifier”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 8:07 AM UTC
Time or the essance of Death
distilled.
No matter the who -
Someone , some force
snowballed.
The greatest daylight robbery -
that of our TIME.
TIME.
is not money
"At least in my books"
-me.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
Oh tell me where has England's glory gone,
Lost golden days of beef and lukewarm beer?
Now it's polenta in a gastro-pub,
Chilean Chardonnay, Tequila Slammers.
Her Empire proudly pink on schoolroom maps;
India, Afric, source of plundered loot galore.
All gone, all gone, black faces back in charge
And black drug pushers stalk old London's streets.
Fat huntsmen dressed in pink, all banished now,
Their yelping foxhounds ripping prey apart,
Celebrating sick English country ways
Before returning to their mortgaged homes.
City yobbos yelling down their mobiles,
Fatcats slurping up their creamy profits;
All the public cares about is football
And the *** lives of the media's darlings.
So where has England's honour gone today?
Up the American military ****
Our government showing its smug disdain
For what decent people care and think.
We've sold out to baseball caps and burgers,
And imported TV shows for the mentally ********
A visitor attraction for obese rich yanks to drawl
"We're real glad we saved these Limey's ***** in two wars".
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
"This"
Your skin - my skin - and 3,000 miles of our own glorious sin.
It's my fault,
blame it all on me,
because I avoid my fear for more of your,
yum yum yum.
And I need to take more:
I want to kiss your heart, it endures our passion, our lust, our art.
Together,
1 on 1,
so undone,
and I allow you to see my light,
so limey bright.
We've created our own coating of sensational torment -
and I want to only breath your smell.
Sweat trickling down your pleasure trail - in the heat of the night - I will lick in delight.
My ultimate pleasure, my illumination.
You are radiance, you set my soul alight.
I want to kiss your heart, it stumbles in my art.
What we are, what we are, drift what may, my radiant star....
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 8:01 PM UTC
The average worker can work for 15 hours
A man can provide for his children a meal a day
Children lose the ability to educate themselves
Once they start work, a stated routine, a stated marriage
They are someone else's property
Man is the only creature, that let's their fathers die in the jungle
And their mother die in someone's arms
Man is the only creature, that can tan-hide his brother
But, there is a stated routine for the brothers
For the brothers need to be bred for work
Like milked cattle on milch barns
All standing in long lines waiting for the next mile of grass
Man can **** man over some grass and coke
By grass I mean land
By coke I mean a limey drink for 20 cents
I guess men could be better without their possessions
Imagine it without the drugs or bummed smokes
Imagine life without the movie stars and all the signs
There is a stated routine in how we keep buying
Putting our mattress kings to sleep on cushioned beds
While our workers eat the pavement and dirt every fine day
Like I said man can **** man, over money and love
How ironic that money buys love.
Jul 4, 2020
Jul 4, 2020 at 2:56 PM UTC
He's just fiction for now but soon he'll be springing to his feet
bouncing off my Apple screen...
leaping from my Final Draft program,
and -- he'll start to scream his dialogue at me...
(PROTAGONIST)
****** hell barefoot Mary Joseph n' John
what n' the limey beans took you so long----
What?! All to give me a **** voice?!
You haven't even given me a choice - mate!
Come on...come on..hurry up
we've got one heck of a writing date!
I've been locked up in here - like forever---
all up inside your brain...
while you were...What?!
trying to come up with a title n' What?!
My **** name!"
I'll have to answer him...
(ME)
"I know, I know --
I'm slow...
it's just this whole time
(a beat)
I was carefully crafting your backstory
I wanted to give some obstacles
give you some powers n' incredible force
so you'd have a way to chart your course...
then rise like Hercules or Thor - you know
to give you some kind of wonderful glory
I wanted to give you a fantastic story!"
I was...
In Search of ________All of The Above
Last but not least...
I wanted you to fall in Love."
(PROTAGONIST)
Is that why you've got me all dressed up
like I'm going to ****** church?
Man, these shoes make me feel like Lurch...
(ME)
Wait! Did I just hear you say feel?
(PROTAGONIST)
Yeah, like -- duh! Don't you know ....
you've just made me real?
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC