"minge" poems
there is no better shoe
breezed and open
leather soles
reeking from my trips
to here
and there
when i go to wash them
on sunday afternoon
i always find a stinging lizard
but i know its mostly my environment
if i could move
should i relocate
there should be far less pain
nothing to ***** about
a new space means
the denial of spiders of the mouth
denial of room temp pasta salad
denial of eat hate pray
please
let me wash your feet
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 8:39 PM UTC
A Barry Hodges poem by Edna
I remember a girlfriend called Mary
Whose ***** was exceedingly hairy;
She came from Newcastle;
And the stench of her ********
Converted me into a fairy.
Thus I rejected your Glorias and Glendas
In frilly white bras and suspenders;
And sought sweet catharsis
From the nice juicy arses
Of poofters and other gay benders.
Redemption came to me from Millie:
A big girl, a well-padded filly;
She was just a Geordie
And really quite ******
But her **** smelled as sweet as a lily.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 12:43 PM UTC
**** you and your dear old trains,
hard seats and beat staff selling
rip-off chaff on chariots of mass
profits. The **** merchant gazes
through dead eyes and scratched
plastic as he charges up my **** with
an astronomical figure. A smile
on his bosses face as he races
into his office with more bloated
profits is all he can think of as he
sinks my high hopes into an oblivion
of rage. **** off" I tell him as he
flashes his price, 'that's twice what
I've already paid', but "mind your
language" is all he says as if that's
worse than ****** a man half your age.
He can't use his brain independently
from the movement of his masters
strings, he must watch the news
as if he's staring at his personal
kings - what a ***** All I can do now
is accept my fate of a few boring dates
with the telephone and my mates
at East Mids Trains, but that's in the
future and the **** merchant's in the
past, now I speed towards memories
I hope will far outlast that **** behind
the plastic and the ***** to whom his
thoughts are cast. Bring on
The Big Smoke.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 4:05 PM UTC
How I love the smell of your *****
As you straddle my eager open mouth
My tongue licks at your mighty ****
As your canines brush my engorged ****
How I love the taste of your throbbing ****
O the feel of your spotty **** in my hands!
How my tonsils risk a ****** good bruising!
And lo! my ***** get stuck between your teeth!
Then your ***** gushes down my hungry cake-hole
And my salty ***** juices run down your fat chin -
But the best bit so far, is if we skilfully manage
To let fly two foetid mutual simultaneous farts.
But now, folks, we get to the really good bit
The bit which we have both been waiting for:
Out come our joint warm streams of diarrheoa
Drenching our excited faces in noisome filth.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
A cottage in the country a woven roof of thatch
In the kitchen a fat lady her knickers on the latch
Pulled down past her chubby thighs exposing her hot hatch
Within those apple gatherers a juicy damp wet patch
Wearing an undone apron with her bra unclipped to match
A wooden spoon is waiting she's cooking up a batch
Arthritic hands maybe a snag but not much of a catch
Spoon up her hole to stir the bowl using her wide ******
Two 44dd mixing bowls a mixture of flour and ginger
Sugar hurled and butter twirled with her vigorous ***** ninja
Spoon dripping salted essences oozing down that wooded stirrup
Ground cinnamon is added with her special golden syrup
A touch of soda bicarb an egg mixed in with her *****
Spoon inserted actions ***** squeezing wince and cringe
Shaped and cut a ginger nut ***** mixing makes you ache
Ovens hot sheet trays are got greased slid inside to bake
A warming up made from her cup is this a big mistake
Gingers fine if dough is prime so now who's on the make
Your on the rise what a surprise now you are awake
Placed on the side with tarts beside I wonder what's at stake
Rampant ginger smells so good some pieces fall and flake
In bed with tarts a fancy start when Fred has had his cake
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 12:47 AM UTC
There once was a woman called Ange
She was diagnosed with the Mange
She began to whinge cos it was round her *****
That was the end of old Ange
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 8:13 PM UTC