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Harriet Cleve Jul 2019
To all those skinheads who purchased our boots

especially the British, it's you we salute

with a holler and yeller, the cry of a brute

you kicked many arses, such are the youth

Are you even a skinhead if you don't wear our gear?

a pair of old sandals would not instill fear

practical men's shoes? no one gives a hoot

A foot doing the kicking needs a Doc Martens Boot

Some of you skinheads are now in the ground

Dr Martens left sitting in the 'lost and the found'

I've heard the eulogies, some quite profound

'He loved his Doc Martens!' 'His shoe choice was sound'

For all of you skinheads those boots are your passion

though some of you wore them only when it was fashion

that cherry red smooth with its fine yellow stitching

looked great on the tough guys and the girls who liked *******

We sold the most boots in that Great  London City

where the boot boys are ugly and their girls are so pretty

shining their boots off the nitty and gritty

to the arses they've kicked, we extend our kind pity

So thank you dear Skinheads for all you have done

raising our profile while you had your fun

wearing our cherished 1460 boot

'God bless you Sweet Skinheads!'

It's you we salute!'
Paul Sands Feb 2015
Once I knew a spider
wore Doc Martens on his feet,
eight holes on eight hairy legs
he wasn't too discrete.

He rode a lengthy shadow
while he stomped around the floor
this micro “muy macho”
unabashedly cocksure

I trapped him in a glass one night
And told him at the door
“My wife she doesn't like you
don’t you come around no more”

But spiders rarely listen
and ignoring my request
next evening he returned once more
our octo-booted guest
Harriet Cleve Sep 2016
Skinhead Showdown
Two skinheads rough, hand in hand, were walking down their lane
Rough and gruff, yes very much, and both were swinging chains!
A toothless grin was flashed within the darkened lane  just then
As coming up the other side, two rough old wrinkled hens!

Two old grannies, hand in hand, were walking up that lane
Rough and gruff, yes very much, and both were swinging canes!
Sparks flew then as chain met cane and a massive brawl ensued!
The skinheads knew they'd met their match, that this night would be rued!

You''re both going down! the skinheads roared as violent fists were thrown
But grannies  quick each threw a kick and the skinheads shrieked and moaned
*******! Get out of here! the skinheads roared just then
And a toothless grin flashed within from each old wrinkled hen!

Two skinheads rough, hand in hand, fled back down that lane
Rough and gruff, yes very much, but both were minus chains!
Two old grannies, hand in hand, proudly held that lane
Rough and gruff, yes very much, as each still held their
Both walked off, heads aloft!
Each was swinging a chain!

Old Skinhead
His Doc Martens stared back at him from an old tea chest marked East India Company
a wary apprehension settling from the burly skinhead gazing at his past buried amongst
his chain which showed some signs of corrosion even though it was folded in the deep
blue pockets of his denim jacket awaiting the return of an other era lost in the arms of
yesterdays battles in the dingy London backstreets where his blood flowed in rivulets
of anger soaking the concrete with the indifference of violent confrontations in a sacrifice
to his manhood and the enemies of his youth and he inhaled his memories as if they
were a gift from the war gods of ancient times beckoning him to don his armour and
engage in a final battle and he even thought it over as his seventy year old hand lifted
the chain from its resting place and carressed the steel weapon which had slain his enemies
leaving the bodies on the battlefields of his youth and instinctively a guttural cry roared
from his throat ' Gerrup ye *******! ' as he wielded the chain one final time before his
heart packed in leaving him slumped on the old tea chest as silence settled upon the scene
of his final resting place in the shadow of the East India Company

Skinhead Swansong
Cyril laced his Doc Martens
Prescribed for violent altercations
Ox blooded and ****** weapons
Battle scarred and battered
Essential kit for tours of duty
The last of the Skinheads dressed for battle

The intimidating black gum shield
Filled out his gaunted haunted face
Taking pride in his denims
He gripped his chain and took a swing
The old battle cry resonating from his arthrithic throat
'Ger up ye *******!

He worked up a frenzy and beat the crap
Out of his council bedsit
'Taste that steel!  What did ye bleedin' say?
'Are ye lookin' at  me ye toe rag!
He still knew his lines even at eighty one
It was time to  bow out
He needed some one to bow out on
Skinheads are funny like that
Involve other people for the crack

The Teddy boys were juking it up
Fifties nights for the decrepids
Ducks arses groomed and combed
Dry cleaned rockers in dry cleaned crombies
'That'll be the day when I die'
The old vinyl floor filler whippin' up the adrenalin
Defibrillators and oxygen on standby
Cyril burst in then

He took out two Teddys and worked his Docs hard
Hard men are still hard in old age
Once a hardo always a hardo they say
The chain was swinging now
Wrecking the jukebox and escalating the battle
'Come on ye *******! roared Cyril
Five teddies were downed now
Then the beer bottle came crashing down

Cyril staggered as his head burst open
His heart packed in and called it a day
A smile came to his face as he took one final look
His Doc Martens oxblooded and ******
The last of the Skinheads bowed out
His chain by his side
Skinheads are funny like that....
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
She had stopped crying.
All evening in her black-mesh coup de voodoo.
On the plane she had been crying
For her Summer pal. Yesterday she had been to market
Big brown bags and white bags, little pink bags filled with crimsony scents,
Capricornia, looseleaf newsprint, postcards, and colored pencils,
She had hands full of handles, bags bundled, stitched in strict Saturday fashion.
He could barely break a step, he could fake dance with her feet on his tip toes.
She was only three quarters the perfect size to fit inside his frame.
The grand disappearing act. And she was only ifs and suicides.
A stranded ray of sun-draped hair on a cooly porcelain forehead, the segments were all just wrong,
Something so wrong, trembling heart cries over a mute coo through a flattened tongue.
The sickle tongue, dodgy on Tuesday's, She had a simple mug, oh! But so cute and soothing, the nape
That wrapped around, my arm lapped its hands in a clapping ginormous duck's bill!
Lapping rhythmically. Thwack! Thwack!
Like no crying I had ever heard. Nor Earthen beauty I had never seen.
Her little lamb legs lumbered over, her awkward thinness and long limbs spilt on top of her,
Her tiny shoulders searching for support from her hips. White aurulent doll head on a stick,
She had sad defeated eyes, whimpering, pathetic,
Too small, and she shuttered and she shook,
And she shivered out every teardrop her body ever made. And she fell back on her bottom, and looked
Up as if to see a white steed standing with her guy striking a poised hand down to her,
He split down the middle, stammering, broken pieces of words crumbling out of his mouth
With eager intentions. He was too weak
To give her his feet, or pull her up in, he hadn't the gumption. He was fully occupied standing,
He wept too; then shuffled a little
Towards where she had fallen. He knew she wasn't right
She couldn't get the devil out of her piercing blue pupils, she couldn't
She lied.
Then she just piled on top of her knees and fumbled as if to rise like a demure lamb trying to rise off its Newborn legs, she just curled her legs,
So stiffly built, and narrow footed, built with such inequality to her siblings,
She got in the way of herself, a little lamb that could not manage.
Too whittled for him, he tried, he really tried, but three years had drained his strength, no real help.
When he sat her upright on her bottom, she opened her eyes, and for a moment smiled, grabbed for His hand but then after awhile she was lost, she lost interest, her pupils wandered.
He was orchestrating everything.
A real project, much more urgent and important. By nightfall she could not stand. It was not
That she couldn't smile or laugh or love, she was born
With everything but the will to live -
That cannot be destroyed, just like a love.
Melancholy was more important to her.
Life could not get her attention.
So she died, with her handles still in her hands, green grass stains her legs.
She did not survive another warm summer night.
And then he wept uncontrollably again.
"The wind is oceanic in the elms
And the blossom is all set."


The boy has come back
From the seashore, and atop the plateau.
The woes of women are like a genocide
In the morning, when the killing is over,
And the heat begins, and the bodies lie,
And stark life moves for its sobbing bones,
The curved women move with fire.
Father Father Father the girls
Are weeping, and crying and I cannot resist that gentle frailty
They are shucked in their skin suits rising from their soporific slumbers
In decadent leathers and frou frou dresses. They cling to bold faces,
Nothing can escape that cold crying of women weeping for their princes.
Blood-letting rage cannot overthrow the meadow from the pebble brook,
As a laden head bleats its tarnished tongue across a milky breast, it cannot
Escape the sounds of blue-stained teardrops cascading across the plains,
The sounds of woolbirds braying while their skins are sheared against the
Sluicing sound of water rushing through the flume.
All summer they have lamented, gorging on melancholy, tottering their cotton pyramid heads,
Shaking their cries in deliberation, bald skinny victim women screaming out!
Cotton-mouthed clams yaffing, hearts in panic, wholes of bodies clambering in a *** of woe.
They roost useless, pollard and wethered, jealous
Squinting out the last droplets of desperation from their eyes, screaming their mouths in awful
Togetherness, this cacophony of tortured tongue-song
They curdle the last notes of despair out under knotted breaths
With every inch of strength left inside them, they bray this way and that.
Their mothers scream out in wretched despair, ahhh!
On distant cliffs, on scrawny legs
Their stiff pain goes on and on in the September heat.
"Only slowly their hurt dies, cry by cry,"
Whipped bodies toting wergeld on a shore.

The Day She Died

Was the gloomiest day of the new century,
The first of calamitous, unfortunate autumns to come,
The first dying breath from piceous lungs.

That was yesterday. Early morning, soft rime droplets
Frosted to every blade of grass, not like any other
Earlier June day we've ever had. In the deep twilight
The syzygy announced the moon and demoted the sun.

The Earth-crisp frost nuzzled snow droplets.
Black bands of ravens whipping. Martens littering
Fresh kills of red-eyed rabbits on stark white stale
Summer lawns. A fox grayed, its cold bones
Mapped by ravaged feasts. A possum prowling
In a spot of tawny light.

The concrete spread into a maze
Of black veins ripening in the acute niello
Destitution of its widening cracks,

And when the summer left
It left without her. It will have to accept,
In the paley dim light of this vengeful wilderness -
She is gone.
But for now the warmth has not returned but a naked, half-pomegranate
Rotten moon for us two.
And a great vacancy in our memory.
Written for Britni West
Catrina Sparrow Jan 2013
a candy apple red heritage soft-tail classic
on a rusted dirt road
i am built of where i've been

the mango groves
the east and west coast
and every camp-ground in canada
this map is my home
let me tuck you into the folds
and sing you to sleep
some place sweet
where the air smells of earth and rain

don't let the concrete tame you

the road under foot is not measured by the steps necessary to travel it
but the way one migrates over the breaking soil
resting between where we are and where we'll be
when our dreams run free
and the tent's set in the pines

running shoes
doc martens
thumb to the sky
pack on my back
black top under bridgestones

let us fly

let us soar


i'll take you with me
like my sleeping bag
and skinning knife
and canteen

be the water that i drink

fuel the fires that propel this engine
drive me to the end of the road
where one can only go by foot
and feather
and foolishness

let's disappear in the fog of the north
the mud of the east
the heat of the south
the haze of the west

let's find ourselves in the topography of folded bodies
tangled up in a flesh scented tent
Edna Sweetlove May 2015
EDNA:  I believe you recently had a gay little adventure, Vladimir. So why don’t you tell me all about it? I can see you are simply dying to get it off your chest…

VLADIMIR:  Well, Edna, it happened like this. I hadn't cruised the ***** toilet in the park for months and I was ******* randy, absolutely dying for a really good session, so I thought I'd go along here after the pub shut and see what was up, see if there was any ******* ******* action. I wore some **** ****** under my jeans, you know the sort of stuff: red open crotch *******, suspenders and black fishnet stockings. My **** kept dribbling as I was in the pub, just thinking of what might happen down the toilet.  At closing time, I left the pub, my carrier bag in my hand, with a big anticipatory bulge in my pants.

EDNA [gulp]  And then what happened, Vladimir, dear?

VLADIMIR:  Once I got to the toilet, I was surprised there was no one inside, but there were a few nearby shadows in the park, people smoking cigarettes, walking round, looking for it.  Once in the toilet, I selected the cleanest cubicle and took off my jeans and shirt and put them into the carrier bag. I replaced my normal shoes and socks with the white high heeled women's shoes I had waiting in the carrier. Then I waited in the cubicle for someone to come into the toilet.

After only a few moments, I heard footsteps and I looked under the door to see who was there at the ******.  It was a short muscular looking man wearing jeans and Doc Martens. I could see he wasn't *******, but just standing there, though I couldn't see his face. I opened the cubicle door and he turned around to see who was there, so I opened the door wide open so he could see me standing there in the stockings, suspenders and silk ******* with my stiff **** sticking out of the hole in them.

He was about forty and very butch looking with close cropped hair and I could see his **** hardening as he looked at me.  I went over to him and took his **** in my hand and he grabbed hold of mine and started rubbing it.  I got down on my knees and took his short, fat, uncircumcised **** in my mouth; it tasted salty and ******* gorgeous. He grabbed hold of the back of my head and forced his **** deep down my throat nearly making me gag.  I could smell the odour of his ***** hair and I loved it.  He said, "Keep ******* it, you ***** ****, or I'll pull your ******* head off." I loved him talking ***** like that to me.

EDNA [getting a bit excited]  That seems very bold of you both.  What happened next?

VLADIMIR:  In what seemed no time at all, I felt him tense and then I got an enormous mouthful of his hot *****.  I'd never known anyone come so much, he must have had a week's worth in his *****.  After he'd come, he took his **** out of my mouth, put it away and zipped himself up.  I started to get to my feet, but he pushed me backwards onto the filthy floor.  ‘You're lucky I don't knock your face in, you ****,’ he said as he went out.  I love my men to be a bit rough with me, so I was very excited by this.  I half hoped he would punch me but he didn't.

EDNA: [wiping forehead] Well, that’s really very interesting. Did you go home then, dear, or were you still up for it, as the expression goes, Vladimir?    

VLADIMIR:  I got up and dusted myself down.  I could taste his come in my mouth, it was ******* delicious.  I was still incredibly excited, my **** was absolutely rigid and I knew I just needed to give it a couple of rubs and I'd shoot my ***, but I wanted more ***, and I knew once I came, I would just feel like going home.  So I went back into my cubicle and waited to see if anyone else came in.

After about five minutes I heard footsteps, followed by more footsteps again and I looked under the door a second time.  There were two men standing there and, by straining my neck, I could see they were groping each other.  One had one hand on the other's **** and his other hand on his **** and the other man was working on the first man's **** as well.  

I let the door open and they both swung round as they hadn't known there was anyone else in the toilet.  They saw me and looked relieved it wasn't a policeman lurking in there.  One was quite young, about twenty or twenty five, but he was a bit skinny and effeminate-looking.  The other one was much older, about fifty, but he was much better looking and I could see he had a huge **** on him.  I walked over to them in my **** rigout and joined in with the wanking.  They both started feeling my **** under my *******.

I turned round and bent over, my hands on the toilet cubicle doorposts, stuck my **** out invitingly and pulled my ******* down to my knees.  ’Why don't you **** me?’ I said, bold as brass.  The older man, the one with the big ****, left the young skinny guy and took up the offer I had made.  He undid his trousers and pulled his underpants down to reveal the full length of his enormous **** and his big hairy *****.  He spat on his hand and rubbed it on his ****, but he needn't have bothered because I had already lubed my **** when I was waiting in my cubicle.  

He slipped his big **** up my moist ******* without much difficulty and then started ******* me gently.  I told him to **** me harder, to **** me harder than he had ever ****** anyone in his life, so he started to really ram it up my hole.  God, I loved it.

EDNA [sweating with mounting excitement and unable to resist touching herself down there]  Mmmmm. I wish I’d been there to see that, I really, really do.  But don’t let me disturb your narrative flow, darling….

VLADIMIR:   Then the young skinny guy got down on his knees in front of me and took my **** in his mouth.  Each time the man who was giving it to me ****** hard into me, I jolted forward and rammed my **** deep into the skinny guy's mouth.  I was moaning with ecstasy as I got ****** and ****** by two complete strangers.  The guy with the big **** couldn't last long and soon shot his load up my **** and as he did it he said, ‘O Christ, I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm shooting my ***** up your ******* *******.’  This made me incredibly excited and I came off in the younger man's mouth.  The skinny youngster was wanking his own **** as he knelt in front of me and I know he came as I felt the ***** splashing on my stockinged legs.

As he removed his still fat **** from my gaping hole, a stream of the older man's ***** ran down my legs.  He said he wished his wife would let him **** her in the ******* like that.  I went to kiss him but when he smelled the ***** on my face from the butch one I'd ****** off earlier, he wasn't having any of it and left with a mumbled goodbye.

The younger man had now got to his feet and was standing in front of me as he buttoned himself up.  He said ‘We can wait a few minutes and then we can do it again if you like.  I'd love you to **** me, you've got a lovely ****.’  But it was no good, the magic had passed and I told him to ****** off.

So I went back into the cubicle, got changed back into my ordinary clothes and left the toilet.  I could feel ***** oozing out of my ******* and I could taste the first load in my mouth still.  I had a smile on my face. It had been a great night out.

EDNA:  [removing her hand from inside her ******* as unobtrusively as possible and trying to disguise the fact she has just had a cataclysmic ******]  Wow, that’s really a very exciting story. It’s made old Edna quite hot and bothered. You really are a very naughty boy, Vladimir.

VLADIMIR: Would you like me to tell you about what happened to me in the old cinema down by the docks?

EDNA: [still throbbing a bit] No, dear, that will be the subject of another interview. We don't want to over-excite our readers, do we?

julian Feb 2012
Heroine, and our hero...

Breaking the bad souls into half

We don't give a **** it's our time to laugh

Heavens await as the shore brings us gifts

She lions dressed in polka dots and Doc Martens

Daily milking makes them smarter

Trees in the forest, land masses rift

The time has come to lose your number

Jenny in a hammock, sleep and slumber
Marigold Jul 2014
I have grown tired,
After only a short twenty years,
Of being something for your eyes.
Tired of slurred compliments,
Uttered from behind glazed eyes,
And catching eyes flick up
from where they had been stuck-
Wow! This person has *******!

Sick of hearing calls and jeers,
shouted from across the street,
from inside of a car,
from the base of an over-sexualised,
and over-sexualising brain.

And so in an attempt to remove myself from such *******,
I have been de-sexualising myself.
I wear long, ill-fitting trousers,
Baggy tops, and thick Doc Martens.
I pull up hair up,
Put my glasses on,
I do not bother with make-up.
I glare and I scowl.
Yet still unwanted attention
Has been able to find me.

Still you grab and grasp at me,
As if I were but a toy at your disposal.
I turned to one,
and looking in his eyes,
I clearly said "No.".
A dog, a child, a human,
Would have understood me;
Yet he did not.

I turned again when his hands didn't stop.
"*******, I said No."
"Slap me, baby, I'm sorry!"
He leered, not sorry in the least.
"I'm not going to hit you.
I'm saying no,
and you're going to respect that."

He left for a moment,
Only to return as handsy as before.

I tell you honestly,
I have no idea
What more I'd need to do
To get some people to see me
Not as a real-life *** toy,
But as a *******
morgan Mar 2014
**** and chips
buried in the bass-line
All shaken heads tossed
listening to the misadventures of a ****-talker
Her lips taught and dry
sporting a second skin of ripped denim
Thick eyelashes caked in spiderwebs
Hustling on doc martens
crunching teeth beneath toes
Ankles taught with leather
A pretty ***** touched
like flowers dipped in chalk
stuck in choke it down memories
Quietly screaming
     look for me
frankie crognale Dec 2013
caramel macchiato flavored coffee with mint cigarette flavored kisses with your dreamboat lover is the quintessence of what i call "perfection".  if there was a way to describe the way your lips feel against mine, i could only describe it as "cigarettes and coffee".  cigarettes and coffee isn't simply consuming caffeine or inhaling tobacco in your lungs, it's sitting on the roof at 1 am looking at the stars with a blanket around the both of you.  it's laying in the grass with a slight breeze blowing making smoke rings between the arduous kisses.  it's simply sipping a vanilla latte on the corner of a new york city street with a cigarette in your hand, making swirls of smoke as more ash forms above the filter,  looking like some sort of bohemian gods. it's walking along a deserted sidewalk in your black jeans and doc martens with a big t-shirt and coke bottle sunglasses on with your lover on your hip and your menthol in one hand and philter in another.  "cigarettes and coffee" is whatever you can interpret as pure bliss; it's simply whatever makes you happy and whatever makes you want to sit in the grass all night and talk about anything and everything.  there's a lot of people that would argue there's no beauty to the feel of tobacco in your lungs and arabica in your mouth, but evidently, they've never tried cigarettes and coffee.
JL Jan 2012
Let's stand around and talk about taxes and crime
Or watch it on t.v
Cool people only getting cooler
As alcohol leaks

I think I remeber leaving a party with you and falling asleep
on a dew covered hill

But I woke up in my bed

The shirt you had warn
Was pink and white through the haze
Remebering your face
But I still couldn't think your name
...I remember that you said you liked only
The old starwars
And your favorite Zelda
Ocorina of time
You got high with me and watched adventure time
And talked to me about the effects of ether on the human mind
You liked ska and doc martens
With only black laces
Japanese tea pots
BC ***
Black Jack Davey
Tattooed on your neck
You told me you were fourteen
When you last wore black lipstick.
"Far out"  
Yellow Submarine
Mushroom picker
Tingling of your spine
As it creeps up your neck
I was about to fall away to oblivion
Until I saw your smiling teeth

I got all the way to work without noticing
And your number on my wrist
Amanda Elizabeth Jul 2015
as the petals descended
i journeyed to the market
swiftly, dr martens thundered
along the clear path
a distant smell of dutch waffles
filling nostrils, though i
had been distracted by the man
plucking the violin, its sound
almost weeping. admiring the nearby canal,
i took a breath of contentment.
6/9/14 i wrote this in five minutes and mrs pesda thought made me submit this to the ****** lit mag
Haruharu Jun 2017
The years of being constantly knocked down are forever gone.

No more heart on her sleeve and clenched fists.

The suffocated voice inside her has grown strong.

She speaks louder than ever, and no one dares to go against her.

The fear in her eyes is replaced by vengance.

A fierce, unpredictable rebel is born.

Heading for war.

She's now ready for anything and anyone.

The most beautiful, savage beast anyone has ever laid eyes on.

With fire in her eyes, purple lipstick and Dr. Martens she is now waiting.

To watch her enemies crumble beneath her feet.

And she breaks into that lethal smile of hers that only she possesses.
Another piece of my life story. Time to move on, get stone cold and stand up tall
Samantha Feb 2014
All the pretty girls wear Doc Martens
And chew bubble gum.
All the pretty girls bite their bottom lips,
Kiss boys with blood
Rolling down their chins.
All the pretty girls wraps themselves up
In apologies meant for their mothers.
Pretty girls are heard, not seen.
Pretty girls forget their favorite poems
As they snort lines of *******
In their boyfriends bathroom.
Pretty girls handcuff themselves
To headboards of beds
In a desperate attempt to stop
Biting their nails.
Pretty girls complain about wolves
Howling in their heads.
Pretty girls want to be like
Other pretty girls.
Got Guanxi Feb 2016
I bet you wouldn't put those tattoos on your gravestone

Not that's it's any of my business,
But you look like an idiot,

And I heard you say that girls name and it ain't the same as the one on your neck as your necking today,

Is it mate,

And I don't mean to come across boring,
But I'm sure your mothers name ain't Tory either.

Necks covered in angel wings,
and misdemeanours;
I hope there's someone watching over you to see you make those mistakes.

It looks pretty cool though - make no mistakes.

But I can see through your thick rimmed spectacles.

Making a spectacle of yourself when you can clearly see.

A small package bugling through your skinny jeans
And of course Dr Martens,

And a quiff that's bleached.

Farewell flower child,
Don't look so amazed and glare,
When people stare at you and your down right ridiculous tattoos,

On the platform after me that's a par for you,

I was only passing through,
With naked skin,
Untouched by ink.

You would think I didn't want to leave a mark in this world were in.
London Underground
Paul Goring Feb 2012
I’d like a black poets’ suit
single breasted
poets’ uniform
a suit
& where would I acquire
the suit
I now desire?

Is there a specialist tailor
the bards of our nation
so similarly
selecting incorrectly
the size skilfully
artfully adding angst ridden

Around the thighs
Shaping bulging pockets
As if a tome of verse
Had just been removed
and ensuring that the sleeves
Were roll-upable
For pub gigs

I’d like a poets suit
in black
well weathered from
earnest waiting
nay celebrating
rail sides in winter
& the last train home

I’d like some Doctor Martens
black & comfortable
for performing in
and neutral fashion wise
in the eyes
of those that look
beyond the book

And I’ll wear them
With my poets suit
My white(ish) shirt
& splendid spectacles
& not only
Will I look like a 'poet'
But I'll feel like one too
Nigdaw Jul 2019
I bought some Dr. Martens
a leather jacket to go with
T-shirts, logo'd
Nirvana, *** Pistols, Incubus

but what I wanted to buy
was the swagger
the intense feeling
of not giving a ****
I'm going to live forever
and there's nothing you can do
about it
with attitude
spitting in the street

I used to watch The ******

I was there as the Police
went in ******* horseback

but the only attitude I found
was the young kid serving
looking me up and down


midlife crisis
you fat, balding
grey haired old ***.
brooke Mar 2014
Early morning before
anyone has ordered coffee
and I feel delicate in the dewy
sun with the heater on low
at my ankles, I reorganize
the drawer below the register
gingerly feeling at staples and
rubberbands, Caleb watches from
the corner on tea with raspberry
in doc martens and ***** trousers
I wonder if I seem as pretty as I
feel or if he feels the staples too and
the dust from gift cards, if my hair
flares out in the light, if I am a brilliant
solar eclipse.
(c) Brooke Otto 2014
David Bojay Mar 2014
im in love with a girl who shakes her head with a cute sigh and smile when i tell her something nice
im in love with a girl who wears cosby knitted sweaters, and responds to my utter nonsense i tend to say
im in love with a girl who makes any destination easy to reach if you hold her hand tight enough
im in love with a girl who i wouldn't mind skydiving with
mother, im in love with a girl who doesn't believe in what you believe in
im in love with a girl that makes me question if aliens are real or not
i used to be so sure of things, now im not
and im most grateful to be part of such an insight of things
im in love with a girl who is anything but a common misconception
im in love with a girl who should smile more often to brighten the days of others, because it brightens mine
im in love with a girl who has her happiness scattered like raindrops on a car window
im in love with a girl who I've adored since the 8th grade
im in love with a girl who puts my ****** bones to work when i smile
im in love with a girl who ive always been proud of  standing next to
im in love with the girl who wears doc martens boots and has the eye brows of a model
im in love with a girl named Denisse
Ksh Nov 2019
In high school, I'd wear Converses.
Or Chuck Taylors, whatever you called 'em.
I'd remember going to a new school, proudly wearing
a pair of Converses with the same blue shade
as my new school's uniform skirts;
how I'd attend Phys Ed with the same trainers,
even though it wasn't a good idea to use them
for physical activity.
I remember riding in the back
of my father's motorcycle as we
did errands around the town,
and he'd indulge me by parking near
a road chock full of thrift stores --
and we'd go in, under a false pretense of
"just checking, just a quick look-around"
and my father would surprise me
by buying me a thrifted pair.
They were either pink, or magenta,
and I was at that age of rebellion --
"no girly colors", I'd shout --
but I'd always wear them out,
and it always made my dad smile.
I once came home with my friends
without telling my father,
and he was out in the front porch,
half-naked as all Asian dads are,
and he was clipping some brand new Converses
on the wash line to dry.
I had been so embarrassed, because this
was the first time that my friends
had seen my father, had seen my house
but all they could see was how kind he was
by surprising me with a new pair.
I had a total of seven pairs of Converses,
one of them he paid his sister to buy for me
from the United States.
I keep them in a box, under the sink,
because even though my feet have grown,
I'm still unable to sell them nor give them away.

In college, I wore Palladiums --
big, thick, chunky lace-up boots
that looked out of place in a college freshman's closet
and more at home tied by the shoelaces to a soldier's bag.
I've moved to the capital city,
away from my little brother, away from my father.
I lived with my mother, who worked and moved
until her body gave out and she'd have to take some days to rest.
She bought me my first pair when I asked;
because she told me that
"first impressions last; but shoes are always what stays in a person's mind",
which was funny seeing as how
Palladium was, first and foremost,
a company from the age of the Great Wars
that manufactured the tires fitted for airplanes;
and that now, decades later, rebranded themselves
as a company with a recognizable design --
channeling urban life, heavy endurance,
and the soul of recreating one's image,
rising from the ashes of the past like some sort of phoenix.
My mother had wanted me to fit in,
yet be unique at the same time,
in a world that moved so fast that I had to run just to keep up.
And she'd buy me pairs not as often as my father did,
but it was always in celebration.
Either for a job well done, a reward for good grades,
or simple because it was my birthday.
Those Palladiums became my signature shoes,
and I was the only one to wear them
inside the university.
At one point, I was recognizable because
of a particularly special pair --
Palladiums that were bright, firetruck red
and had the material of raincoats --
that people would know it was me
even from far away, just by the color of my boots.
I had six pairs in total; all heavy, all colorful,
with different textures and different price points,
and my mother bought me these special shoeboxes
which we stacked til the ceiling, right beside
her own tower of heels for special occasions,
because that was what defined us.

I've started buying my own shoes,
and I'm not as brand-exclusive as I was before.
There's a pair of no-names, some banged up Filas,
even a pair of Doc Martens I'm too afraid to bust out.
They're also not as colorful; because I know that
black pairs and white pairs are easier to style
in any day, in any weather, with any color or material.
Most of them were for everyday use, and it required
a certain level of comfort, a certain level of durability,
that was worthy of that certain retail price.

I look at my shoe rack, and realize
that I am not as colorful as I once was.
I do not have that sense
of colorful, wild, down-on-my-luck rebellion
that my father put up with in my adolescent years.
I lost my drive of being
a colorful, unique, instantly recognizable upstart
as my mother had taught me to be.
My shoes have no stories to tell,
no personality to express --
a row of blacks and whites, the occasional greys.
And when I look internally,
it's the same, monochromatic expanse staring back at me.

I am in a place where
I am everywhere and nowhere at once.
I can't tell whether my feet
are solidly on the ground,
or pointed to the sky, toes wriggling in the clouds.

In an ever-growing shoe rack
filled with old, ***** Converses,
and heavy, attention-seeking Palladiums,
I choose a comfortable pair of plain, white sneakers
and head out in the open,
paving my own way.
I take comfort in the fact
that it's just the beginning.
That I am at the start
of my designated brick road,
an endless expanse before me.
My shoes will acquire color,
my designs will develop taste,
my soul will be injected into the soles of my feet
with every step I take --
forward, backward, it doesn't matter
so long as I keep moving.
Anna-Lynn Mar 2013
I'm a second hand smoker most nights.
I stare into the tip of the burning cigarette ****, waiting for the ash to fall and slowly float onto my tattered, yellow converse.
Each breath deeper than the next. His lips smothering the end until it reaches the filter.
Nothing left but a black and yellow nub. Its life, ****** dry.
With a flick of his finger, it falls to the ground in slow motion. Like we're in an old black and white film.
His cracked black doc martens crushing everything that was left of that tiny cigarette.
We leave, and it just lies there.
As if it were melted into the gravel.
Ripped to shreds and forgotten.
Harriet Cleve May 2019
Cecil the skinhead put his false teeth in.
A new red shirt, cotton lined, showed off his physique.
The boots he wore were a beautiful wine colour.
Blue jeans took the shape of his ancient legs.
Today was his eightieth birthday and he had no cake to celebrate.

Never mind, his council flat still had the feel of a batchelor pad.
There on the wall, next to his samurai sword, hung his chain.
Many a head was cracked open with that weapon.
Swinging it over his head a few times brought it all back to him.
The streetlights in London, broken noses, disgorged eyes, screams from pansies caught off guard by a kick up the ****.

Cecil chuckled to himself and prepared to swallow back a
can of cider and light a cigar for the occasion.

Suddenly, a knock came on the door. Instinctively, Cecil reached for his chain and let the door open slightly just off the chain guard.

Chaos broke out as a boot kicked in the door with the ferocity of a Gestapo officer looking for a head to kick in.

There he stood, **** the Mod, that mad Irish ******* who Cecil had left for dead five decades ago. All his height was gone with time but his knuckles still had a raw edge. With all the force of a decrepit nanogenarian he proceeded to take Cecil on.

Bad mistake. Cecil was always ready for combat. Always had been ever since his dad knocked the crap out of him for practise.

Ironically, the Who was playing on Cecil's old transistor radio.
'You better you bet' became the soundtrack to the next fifteen minutes of mayhem. The Mod was a sly ******* and his hair was slicked with grease; which he used to smear Cecil's eyes.

The chain needs no eyes and it cut a deadly swathe through Micks brylcreem. Once again Cecil put his Doc Martens to good use and **** crumpled beneath a well placed boot to the proverbials.

Cecil did the decent thing and called an ambulance. Said **** was his mate; they had been celebrating his birthday when a gang burst in and gave them a going over. A nice cover story.

That night Cecil hit the town, got drunk, and reflected on his day.

He was eighty, still alive, and still had it in spades.

Then he passed out and never regained consciousness.

No one missed him but I often think of him still.
Amara Nov 2012
I'm death in Doc Martens.
With mint green fingers.
Louis Armstrong hold me down.
This is going to be a long winter.
© Amara Pendergraft 2012
Harriet Cleve Feb 2017
His Doc Martens stared
back at him from an old tea
chest marked East India Company
a wary apprehension
settling from the burly
skinhead gazing at his past
buried amongst
his chain which showed
some signs of corrosion even
though it was folded in the deep
blue pockets of his denim jacket awaiting the return of an other era lost in the arms of
yesterdays battles in the dingy London backstreets where his blood flowed in rivulets
of anger soaking the concrete with the indifference of violent confrontations in a sacrifice
to his manhood and the enemies of his youth and he inhaled his memories as if they
were a gift from the war gods of ancient times beckoning him to don his armour and
engage in a final battle and he even thought it over as his seventy year old hand lifted
the chain from its resting place and carressed the steel weapon which had slain his enemies
leaving the bodies on the battlefields of his youth and instinctively a guttural cry roared
from his throat ' Gerrup ye *******! ' as he wielded the chain one final time before his
heart packed in leaving him slumped on the old tea chest as silence settled upon the scene
of his final resting place in the shadow of the East India Company
Harriet Cleve Jul 2019
Marlo was a poet deep down to the marrow in his bones.
Yes, his vocabulary was crude and expressively challenged.
Only one guy knew his secret. The nerd from apartment 3b.

'Right' said Marlo to the diminutive Dave.

'You are going to write my poems for me! Or you are dead meat!'

Marlo was a Skinhead from Bromley and well versed in the art of bone breaking, skull smashing, soul destroying, and doling out harrowing hidings to the likes of young Dave.
He could swing a mean chain with the best of them,

'What about your Doc Martens? My job is to polish them isn't it?'

'Don't be a smart ***! Marlo said

'I just found out you write poems and they're not bad'

'Now you will be writing mine and embellish the words to sound like me'.

'No one will believe it Marlo, you will be a laughing stock!'

Marlo lifted Dave up to his face and took out a razor blade.

'Don't ever say that again or I find a new boot polisher'.

'What is the poem or poems about?' replied Dave in a choked voice

'The Skinhead life and it's merits' said Marlo placing him down

'What about 'the Tao of Skinheadism?'said Dave

'What the hell does that mean? Are you having a laugh?'

No! No! This is what I mean. I need to write the poem with you.

Okay! Marlo shouted

'I have an hour free tonight! One hour and you better be on song!'

'I'm meeting the lads to collect the money lenders stash'

'Will you be using a pseudonym?'

'You cheeky *******! How dare you? What does that even mean?

Marlo went red in the gills and prepared to give Dave a going over.

'It means a fake name so no one knows it's you!

'You know till you get famous and people discover your talent!'

'Ohhhh' okay then, we will talk about that and all'

'Now stay here till I get back and get those boots polished'

'I want the purple shining!'

Marlo walked out then and Dave had a nosey at his book case.

There amongst the ******* magazines was a well worn book.

'My time in Cell block 19' by Nailer Thomond

Dave saw some scribbled notes then.

'I don't believe it?'

Here were a number of poems and Dave sat down to read them

They were the work of a pyscho and shocked him to the core.

Suddenly the door burst open. It was kicked in violently.

'You! Marlo you ***** **** *******!

'You're coming with me!'

Dave was dragged out screaming 'I'm not Marlo!'

'You lying *******!

Ten streets down Marlo was kicking in another door.

'You're behind on payments, you *******!'

The screams were horrific as Marlo worked his stuff.

In his mind he looked forward to that hour with Dave.

'After I finish with you, I guarantee you will never miss a payment again'.

Ten streets down, Dave was forced into a car and poems were the last thing on his mind.
Jade Jun 2018
The eye of the universe

bats its lashes at a

a single sliver of splintered light

blinking boastfully in the opaqueness–

a crescent m☽☽n is birthed,

carved by the Huntswoman’s

      ➳silver tipped arrows➳

on the night I–

a demi-goddess-

am born.

And this Hunstwomen,

my heavenly mother,

my celestial nurturer,


plants antlers atop my

hairless skull in the hopes that I,

her daughter,

will grow wild

as the deer Her Greatness

has vowed to protect;

as the cypress whose limbs

swell with greenery;

as the moon who must wax

as surely as it must wane;

as Artemis herself,

whom they call

“Lady of Wild Things.”

And I too

am a Wild Thing,

for I am a women

of extremity.

How can I not be,

when I come from a long line

of deities,

whose veins palpitate

with the very atoms of chaos?

How else am to explain the fire

the seethes inside of my soul?

A fire kindled by Zeus,

the Lord of the Sky,

the God of all Gods.

Lightning bolts play hopscotch

across my collarbone,

crack against my ribcage

like Poprocks crack against tongue.

Some days,

these flames enable

the crusade of my passions,

accelerating me onwards,

like the wheels of

pegasus drawn chariot.

But there is such as thing

as being too passionate,

for with great passion comes

great emotion,

and with great emotion comes

the capacity for great heartbreak.

I love with the catastrophic magnitude

of a category five hurricane;

it ’s no wonder any other mortal man

is capable of reciprocating my musings,

for there is no emulating this storm,

there is no matching the desires

of Aphrodite’s offspring.

And you should see my heart

when it’s broken–

the way it snaps so eloquently

like the neck of a swan,

how it metamorphosizes,

scorching itself

to a point of  αγνώριστος



In the pit of my

cracked palms,

I hold the charred










of my heart–

kaleidoscopic shards

jagged enough to draw blood.

When the palpitating ache

in my chest proves to be unbearable,

I sprint to the riverside,

well aware that it is the closest

I will be able to get to the ocean

on such short notice.

I take off my socks and

my worn down Doc Martens

and wade into the water.

Entranced by its

refreshingly cruel coldness,

I baptize myself in its

precarious currents and beg

Poisedon to extinguish the fire in me.

He douses me in his spirit

in an attempt to console the embers

that lick at my heels.

But this attempt proves

to be unsuccessful;

for there is no way of curing

the daughter of Olympus.

Fire and water merge,

imposing on to my being

a molten existence.

I    l~i~q~u~e~f~y.

Tendrils of lava crawl

up my oesophagus,

sear the impression

of a laurel atop my head,

burn so violently,

they turn purple.

“Dear Gods,”

I plead

“Take away this body,

this mind,

this soul–”


a lyrical voice

echoes back to me.

“You must not forsake yourself

like this, ”

she declares.

“The mark of the Parthenon,

of I,

your third mother,


dwells among your fingertips–

There is







in your bones,

an emblem of my wisdom,

of Apollo’s bestowal of enlightenment.

And so you,

my demi-goddess,

must carry on the legacy

of your ancestors through

your wildness

your extremity

your chaos–

your poetry.

For you were made

in the image of the Gods.”
Circa 1994 Aug 2016
Let me tell you about my best friend. He is a trigger, pointed right at me. He is the last moment before dusk - a crisp line of color amidst a wide stretch of grey. With exotic lips, lush with an obscene shade of red-pink. Stout sturdy fingers feed into the wrist upon which I tug so that he is forever hurdling towards me. His limbs are animated by hesitance and laughter. his every pore a perfect seal. teeth like ivory, used delicately to inflict a pain pleasantly. His mind is an etch-a-sketch, a single line of thought expands into an organized madness. he is a man of many sounds, all of which tell you something about him - he is eager, sincere, boyish, enigmatic, pure. eyes alive like two magnetic coils, sizzling like a heated brand. he is more certain of the flicks of his tongue than the movement of his body and this speaks to his priority.  I've never seen a man more willing to love imperfect things. a patron saint in doc martens. he is ever unintentionally the accumulation of these things, to which the sum is incalculable.
PJ Poesy Apr 2017
Beyond the rusty and almost  illegible "NO DUMPING" sign, lies the old dump. Beyond the first layer of recently deposited *******, leftovers of the occasional hobo alcoholic or teen partiers, is the heavy underbrush, a thicket so thick. Beyond that, you begin to get into the good stuff. Waylaid remnants of yesteryears all bungled and tossed about, with plenty of new inhabitants (hatchlings and their recent refugee Canadian geese parents) calmly making good of what surrounds. Lots of rot, as it all sits creekside, gives malodorous inclinations of fishy remains, the raccoons' and martens' cast-offs. Beyond, and beyond further that, if you have stomach enough and don't mind mustering about with muskrats, is a nifty cache. Trinkets are found amongst heaps of broken glass in the beyond beyond regions. Whole or only slightly chipped vessels are gold. Especially, ones that may say, "Dr. Whosie's Whatever Wonderful Tonic Water." Those are the best.

Amongst a treasure trove as this, in its paragon of days gone by, is also a seepage of what may not be as good as the good doctor ordered. It is arsenic, and other carcinogenic pollutants, things unheard of, that would make your molecular epidemiology stand on end. Things an Industrial Revolution left behind, the not so pretty things we find, but do not see. Seepage that sinks into water, under our skin, into Leukemic bones, and beyond words' worries of families affected. Beyond all this, is us, and by stirring it up, we are given a question. Is it better to leave what's left behind in its depths, or are we to pull it out, likely spreading more about, as well as what may be residually left unfound, or do we just stop and think? And maybe get a new "NO DUMPING" sign. Thank you for allowing me this whine. This has been my dump.
In my hometown, chemical pollutant dumping has caused cancer rates to be the highest in our state of New Jersey.
stefan badham Nov 2017
punk rock
punk attitude
green hair
if the older ones don't like us
gob in their faces
if the older ones do like us
gob in their faces
safety pin
stuck in the nose
Doc Martens
spirit of '76!
Unlike Real Punk
Real Punk
Not left-wing punk
Marching against the bomb
Wanting peace
Whilst listening to noise?
Whilst spitting at those
Who share an office with your daddy?
Whilst smashing it all up?
Not that kind of peace eh?
Real punk
would say ******
Because Real punk don't care
It don't watch the language
It would ****
It would ******
Green hair not a necessity
Real Punk
would be anti-punk
Real Punk
Not middle-class punk
Suburbia punk
Safe punk
University punk
Mortgage punk
Part of the System punk
Part of society punk
Adverts for butter punk
none of that ****
Real punk
so she puts on her scratched Doc Martens with the mud-stricken laces - because that’s what she wants to wear - swish and flicks the stick so the surf of her eyes have raven wings - because that’s how she likes to do it - strikes her lips Beauregarde blue - plonks a fedora atop her tiers of panther-black hair - because it’s her favourite colour - her favourite hat - wriggles on three rings - her grandmother’s, mother’s, and the one from Amsterdam - pins the badge GIRLS DO NOT DRESS FOR BOYS on her fluff-stippled dress - because she’s in the mood to wear it - because it feels comfortable - prods a white trinket in her ear that gushes Bikini **** - because she’s feeling like a rebel - fishes for a fiver for bus fare - knows the driver will silently judge her - knows the thirty-something mother will - knows the raisin-faced cane-in-hand man will as well - knows she doesn’t care - sun javelins in from the windows - feels great looks good her version of girl - later when her friends call they call her Wednesday - her kisses tasting of blueberry pie
Written: April 2019.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time as part of Savannah Brown's escapril challenge. 'Grrrl' is a term derived from the music genre 'Riot Grrrl', and is defined online as a 'young women perceived as independent and strong or aggressive' - in this poem the emphasis is far less on the aggressive side of things. Please note that 'Doc Martens' refers to the footwear brand, 'Beauregarde' to the character Violet Beauregarde from Roald Dahl's book Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and 'Bikini ****' to the punk rock band. The captialised phrase is intended to be in an alternate font. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.

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