"nappies" poems
Let us begin in the factoring of gin where the malefactors and blaggards try hard not to show us a grin.
and begin.
Factor out taste and factor in waste in the factory, in any case nobody cares,and the gin could be anything from nappies to ****** toys for the big boys and pearls for the girls,but we call it gin.
and begin.
They're all scammers,flim flamming their way from the start to the end of each day and we pay,through the nose,for **** knows what,(a touch of soylent green),get your brains on toast,shin for sunday roast and the marketeers,new age buccaneers blow us out of the water,someone should have taught me how cruel this life can be.
and we begin.
Back in the factory buying up gin with a passion,the fashionistas get ****** on the fumes and the poor people are shown only crap filled back rooms where the gnomes sit to **** out, tomorrow we'll sit out in the sun,spit out what's home spun and make money from telling funny jokes to the poker faced liars and the gin filled flash buyers who have bought up our Christmas and resold it to China,
'and it's another fine mess dear Laurel,please pass me the bottle of 'mist chloral'.
'Why certainly' said Stanley who seemed ever so manly in the valley when the dolls had gone home.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 5:31 AM UTC
All I have left is her silver spoon
and in the corner her high chair
I wanted to watch her grow up
had all her schooling planed
but she upped and crawled away
all because I confessed that I was gay
she was too small to realise
that when I said that I meant happy
but it looks like now
that I won't be changing any nappies
no more goo goo gar gars
no more sunshine in my life
for she's upped and gone
just her silver spoon in my hand
she's finished with me I understand
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2011 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC
Lunchtime stroll = ugly couples, prams pushed by youth, smell of corn on the cob,eyebrow maintenance, baklava.
Dull train update: man who looks squeezed at both ends, like an accordion, with glasses, a lucozade bottle half empty, lady appears perplexed by a crossword clue (but it may be sudoku).
Clouds outside seem to cover the black to white spectrum.
Dull train update: a sign, a lyric repeating itself 'an even cash flow: this cannot be underrated', the cranking of metal the smell of meat.
50/50 weather.
Left foot, loose lace
and canned laughter follows him everywhere but he feels nothing, inside he is empty, save from a series of ropes and pulleys that control his movements.
The parents are being pushed in the swings by their offspring, grown men in nappies crushed up in bulging prams. Cats eating dogs. Humans ******** on pigeons. It's all a bit weird today.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 3:27 AM UTC
who's afraid of
someone who downed 140cl of whiskey
going blind blah duck blah
qua qua quack for each and
every dwarf like ***** wonka tasting cyanide
saying: it's syrian blue cheese, or else middle
eastern schnapps! refreeze! refreeze the snowman!
we got a bucket-load of adverts in nappies
for charity companies; every parishioner on the ready...
gluttony regurgitated go! blow inserted into the
word blah, akin to bloat but with blah the cursor.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 10:59 PM UTC
They’re watching in the avenues
They’re watching in the rain,
They’re waiting for the animals
To cause our children pain.
They join in condemnation
They point the finger straight
They single out the people
Who dispense biff and hate.
They stand in haunting fog and mist
Those children who are dead,
They stand and watch in legions
And wait with mounting dread.
For somewhere in this fair green land
An adolescent mum
Is thrashing her young children
Until they’re bruised and numb.
A baby crying in the night
A baby much in need
Of nappies and a tender hand
Than punches and a bleed.
The little ones are dying
Broken & obscene
Their little bodies black and blue
From beatings in between
Collections from the dole queue
**** ups in the shed
Cigarettes and hopelessness
“P” your dull mind dead.
The Moaris say its Pakeha
The cops say crime don’t pay,
The politicians shrug and sigh
And look the other way.
The population wrings it’s hands
And gets on with it’s life
Whist violence and brutality
Still cause our kiddies strife.
No one’s owning up to this
No one’s taking blame,
The ******** flows in rivers
And the world has turned insane.
We must find a leader
To take this thing in hand.
Eradicate the baby bashing
From our PC land.
Fling abusers into gaol
And lose the ****** key
Take the kids & farm them out
To families good & free.
We break the cycle hard & fast
And teach the lesson straight
Abuseing kids will see you GONE
Inside..incarcerate!
Where’s the leader, burning bright,
Where is courage in this fight,
Who will lift the banner high
Who will rise up and defy
The apathy , the poisoned sloth
Indifference of the public cloth.
Who will rise and make a stand
Make us proud to love this land
Who will rid us of this thing
WHO WILL MAKE THE GAUNT GHOSTS SING ?
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
12th August 2007
Nov 22, 2009
Nov 22, 2009 at 8:18 PM UTC
Mandibles make their own hoarding,
but they do not make it as they please;
they do not make it under semiconductor-selected civilians,
but under civilians existing already, given and transmitted from the past.
The trailer of all dead gentians weighs like a nipper
on the brandishes of the lob.
And just as they seem to be occupied with revolutionizing themselves and thistles,
creating something that did not exist before, precisely
in such equipments of rheostat crochet they anxiously conjure up the spleens
of the past to their setter, bother from them nappies, bayonet slouches,
and cottons in organ-grinder to present this new scheme in wound hoarding
in timpanist-honored disincentive and borrowed larch.
Thus Luther put on the masseur of the Appearance Paul,
the Rhapsody of 1789-1814 draped itself alternately in the gully of the Rook Requisite and the Rook Empress,
and the Rhapsody of 1848 knew novelette bicentenary to do than to parsonage,
now 1789, now the rheostat trailer of 1793-95.
In like mantel, the belch who has learned a new larch always translates it backfire into his motor toot,
but he assimilates the spleen of the new larch
and exteriors himself freely in it only when he moves in it
without recalling the old and when he forgets his navy toot.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
Would have been sarah,
missed it--
missed smoking the Cuban cigar;
getting ****** wetting her head,
I missed throwing up at her birth
reciting nursery rhymes
changing ****** nappies
and more much more;
I missed it,
the day she took her first step
I wasn't there,
didn't weep with pride
at the sound of her laughter
hold her hand
or walk her down the isle;
I didn't do it-- wasn't there,
-- but neither was she,,
Alan nettleton.
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 9:47 AM UTC
After each honey-dipped dispute the hapless toddler bounces on a squatter’s mattress,
Teething and drooling like an adorable zombie, gormlessly tossing chewed toys and causing a mess.
On a drenched bed drifting in a flooded car park, the infant paddles towards a collapsed lamppost using a G.I.JOE.
Strobing, the broken light dances in the gloomy water and animates the odd objects below.
Inquisitive, the primal child scales the desecrated metallic obelisk with caution.
Oily and perverse the rain-greased pole requires instinctive body contortions.
Briefly understanding the enormity of the ordeal the naïve kid starts to scream and clings,
Prays for mum, for help and repents for all the bad things,
He thinks he has done. He loses his grip and slides down, landing on his grimy float,
Skimming like a stone across the charged lake, he bounds over used nappies and punctured plastic bags in his boat,
And settles like a fallen petal. He is safe and apologetic.
Though he finds his feet and jumps ignorantly again. His capacity to learn is pathetic.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
Remember man; when you were young; a helpless baby
And its uncertain; if you will survive or die young maybe
You want a good posture but you couldn’t sit yourself
You wet and excrete on your nappies and you couldn’t clean yourself
Your bones and muscles are weak; with low resistance
There’s nothing you can do on your own without assistance
When you’re hungry; you can’t tell or feed yourself
You can’t concede a solid food; there is no teeth in your mouth
Then you start growing up and you start to crawl
And every time you stand up; you can’t move; you’re scare to fall
He’s scare to take a step; he needs a help to walk
Now this kid is developing and growing tall
Now this kid is grown up and he is mature
He walks around, dine along through sea and shore
He boast around and regard himself independent
He goes up and down thinking he’s something special
He act like he made himself and forget his origin
His earlier age of stand and fall; he’s forgotten everything
But soon you’ll get to a stage of trash and no road
If by chance you live long and has the chance to grow old
And once again you will be dependant and weak
You won’t be able to stand or move unless you’re supported by stick
And once again you can’t stand you’re scare to fall
You can’t take a step forward; you need a help to walk
Upon your bed lying helpless; unable to perform your role
Death stood by your head; waiting to take out your soul
And that’s his end; now again your soul is relaxed
Just like a kid; now again they give him a bath
His body is under the ditch; six feet and his soul on the other side
Now he understand the reality of living under the sand
Your wife, children and friends and wealth are all gone
That’s when you will understand the concept of life is not fun
You’re alone on your own under the last mansion
And the company that remain is your good and bad actions.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 2:56 PM UTC
Quiet Jane,
Your mind was insane,
Your thoughts fell to the
bottom of the earth into
a pit of burning fire and
as it fell, it yelled out your name.
Oh, Quiet Jane.
Pictures around the room,
Framed with macaroni and glue.
Windows stained with the cracks from
the fist of Quiet Jane.
Empty cartridges laying on the floor,
Holes in the wall and in the door.
Twenty old bottles of Gordon's gin,
Smoky room, the walls are caving in.
Pacifiers scattered around the table,
Unused, but open nappies in a cradle,
But no small child seen wandering the hallways,
What's going on, where's Quiet Jane?
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 4:46 AM UTC
Yesterday, they said there would be a hurricane
but I didn't listen, yesterday
Today I needed supplies, food, nappies, formula
and I was out of time. I had to drive
So I set out into the dark, just me and the baby
we didn't have far to go, not far
Yesterday I wouldn't have picked up a stranger
in the street, 'cause yesterday
was when I learned my lesson
today he was slogging against the wind
and rain, with rags covering his feet
We ended up inside his space
where he carried my baby girl
and laid her next to the fireplace
and he took me down the stairs, by the hand
where he looked at me like he truly cared
and calmly chained me to the wall
where I stood tall, until I crumpled
I was never going to get out of there
All I wanted to do was feed my baby
All he wanted was my baby
I died nightly as he raised my little girl
I cried daily as I saw her become a woman
inside her completely undecided world
He bought many more women to himself
as I looked at him from the wall
hating every single breath that he took
He never noticed as I shook
while he bragged that his baby girl
was growing to be a Doctor of great repute
I just wanted to puke, she was becoming the person
I always thought she'd be, except for me...
She came to see me one day
my baby girl, lied to... standing there
She never really decided to accept what her
Daddy
had to say, as he gave to her tons of excuses
why she couldn't go below the stairs
but by then she was curious
and what she got when she was there
was me
her Mommy
in all my glory, even though I thought
she never saw me, but she got the story
and as he walked down the stairs
in the middle of the night
he didn't see her waiting
she waited for the fright
the look on his face said he did it
because he cared
but as a Doctor she didn't dare
pretend that he was slated to be long
for this world, because in her hand
where her fingers curled, was the injection
that would make sure that he kissed a long
Goodnight
he raised her with all his might
to be something I would have been proud of
She made it right...
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 6:07 AM UTC
It's strange to think,
I could have had a very different life today.
Pens replaced by immunisations and teething gel,
Notebooks become ****** pads and nappies that smell.
Tiptoeing round building blocks and toys that rattle,
every night sleep being a constant battle.
Making bottles of powdered milk throughout the night,
wishing for hours in which I could write.
It's strange to think,
I could have a very different life in ten years.
I could have been an editor of a publishing house,
instead I’ll have to watch re-runs of Mickey Mouse.
Instead I wait for my daughter to come home at 3 o'clock,
while I search her room for that one missing sock.
It's strange to think,
I could have had a very different life.
A negative can sometimes be a positive.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
Why do bracelets fit up our noses?
One of many problems life poses.
Such as how do nappies keep in the poo,
until it squirts out and lands in my shoe.
Food is fun to play with and throw.
Toys taste good, though Mum says "No!"
Pets are for hugging,
sisters for bugging.
Tears can come after laughing,
but go quickly with hugging.
One thing goes well with all the above,
the happy wee children surrounded with love.
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 2:27 PM UTC
I feel like Nietzsche's Bridge,
a transition for my child
to be the man I never could.
He is so gracious there crawling through black tunnels,
dampened with squid ink
dodging the dirt and grime that I left behind.
He is already smarter than me, I think.
Could it be that he is meant to love
all the world I left unloved and untraced?
Finding allusion where I create bitterness, and hate.
I bought so many toys,
and he swallowed so many parts
to make room for my affection.
He wants me to be there, and I am
in corporeal spirit and empty words.
I might say 'you're a good boy'
or
'congratulations on your drawing'
and he'll spit
'thanks daddy' and look dead with flies stabbing at his apple.
It was of me, of course, that he drew.
My head covered with nappies, my arms in yellow and blue.
No torso a blob, a perfect circle, whole,
too naked for the choir to sing.
It was the most handsomest I ever looked,
no Elizabeth Armada painting could be more true.
Oh beautiful Lazarus,
how I wish you could
emancipate me
from this gluttonous guilt.
I dream of you child.
I'm choking on this quilt.
Come back son.
Come back.
LONG TO REIGN OVER US
GOD SAVE OUR QUEEN
He's 26 now, unemployed, reading about books.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
Mother said
you were to go back
to Mrs Clark’s house
for tea after school
and she would pick
you up later
after work
and so when
the bell went
for the end
of the school day
you went with Mrs Clark
and her daughter Helen
for tea and Mrs Clark
talked all the way
to her house
her words rough
as hewn stones
going over your head
to which you just nodded
or shook your head
and when you arrived
at the house
which smelt
of past dinners
and washing drying
and the baby’s nappies
she said
What would you like for tea?
Bread and butter
bread jam
bread and Bovril
or dripping?
and how about
a large mug of tea?
Helen said
I’m having bread and jam
and a mug of tea
why don’t you too?
you said
Yes that will be fine
and shyly sat in a chair
by the window
looking out
at the backyard
where washing hung
on a clothesline
and an old doll’s pram
sat rusting by a wall
and Helen came
and sat next to you
in her grey skirt
and off white blouse
and swung her legs
back and forth
under the chair
her white ankle socks
and black scuffed shoes
coming in
and going out
of view
and she said
After tea
I’ll show you my dolls
and the doll’s house
my daddy made
out of orange boxes
and as Mrs Clark
made the tea
you sensed Helen’s small hand
run along your arm
which set alarm bells ringing
in your head
and a sweating in your palm.
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
MY MOTHER’S HANDS
My mother’s hands
washing potatoes
washing kids
washing pans.
My mother’s hands
on bitterly cold days
******* yet more washing
on a pregnant line
the line growing nothing but
nappies
her hands blind
with the cold.
My mother’s hands
ironing clothes
ironing clothes
ironing countless knickers
for my seven sisters.
My mother’s hands
taking my hands
in hers
such love...such laughter!
My mother’s hands
patting talcum powder
on another baby’s ***
Mum being Mum.
Me, kissing
my mother’s hands
for all...they’ve done.
******
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 4:39 PM UTC
primal screaming
going back to babyhood
watching yourself melt
as others melt around you
come on, lets try a little relaxation
but first, change our nappies
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
Monica rode her bike
to Benedict’s house
and waited there
for him to come home
after his morning shift
at work
then they both
walked down
to the espresso bar
by the iron
railway bridge
and ordered two coffees
and listened to Elvis
belting from the jukebox
never told my mother
where I was going
Monica said
why not?
Benedict asked
because she'd not let me
come otherwise
Monica said
why not?
he said
because she thinks
you're too old
I’m only16
she knows I am
I’m the same age
as Jim
I know
but she thinks
I’m too young for you
but I’m 14
not some kid
in nappies
Monica said
so where
does she think
you are then?
she thinks I’ve gone
for a bike ride
what if someone
sees you with me?
what then?
she won't find out
Monica said
but if she does?
he said
I’ll just say I met you
while bike riding
and we had a coffee
and chat
he smiled
and shook his head
no wonder
she gets annoyed with you
well a girl's got to find
her freedom sometime
she said
he looked at her
sitting there
in her white top
and blue jeans
and pink socks
and open toed shoes
she had applied lipstick
probably borrowed
from her mother
he thought
where now then?
she asked
she drained her coffee
someone had put on
a Beatles' song
on the jukebox
you should have told
your mum
you were coming with me
then we could have gone
somewhere else
he said
we still can
she said
then she'll wonder
where you've got to
she won't
Monica said
she didn't look convinced
let's go back to your place
and see her
and I can explain
he said
not now
Monica said
next time
he frowned
OK
he said
let's go back to my place
and we can go ride
some place
OK
she said moodily
and they walked back
to his house
and got their bikes
and rode to the bridge
down the lane
and set down
the bikes by the hedge
and walked through
the woods
he thinking
of the Elvis Presley film
he could have taken her
to see
and she
thinking
of the last time
in the woods
when they kissed
and she wanted
that moment
of thrill again
and over head
the sound
of thunder
and beginning
of rain.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 1:39 AM UTC
*ona mruga oczyma jak sra, czy jak szczy*?
(concerning one of my cats in the garden
easing the **** or bladder,
whichever - imagine saying it's a baby
when it's should be said: retract that idea of
nappies and breastfeeding, watch Prometheus -
girl quick on the mark, alien tadpoles ahoy!);
you'd love to see the rainbow of curses
i littered the ground around me -
all because i overslept my doctor's appointment
over the phone -
hell knows no womanly furies,
it's kitted out with them as standard -
mind you, it's about time to encounter
if not simply invite Dr. Zhivago to cool
things down -
such trivialities as only a woman
might know to be the basis of infuriated assault -
and about a thumb's length of whiskey
on an empty stomach, and three coffees...
shit's buzzing...
after vacuuming the house i make my oaths:
yes, the 21st century Homeric heroes to mind,
our modern heroes: heroism equivalent of
paying the gas bill -
entertainment value? zilch:
unless you're bound to be watching Odysseus
take the longest yawn spanning into the 22nd century.
no... i didn't have a rich father, but
they managed ******** into my mouth anyway,
no wonder all i get to say is: it stinks -
alter?
*nasrali mi do gęby,
nic dziwnego że mówie: smród!
smród!
nie jeden balas w szambie tym samym
demokratycznym słowem powie: smród
i rozkaz męczybuły nad głos!
a tu jakiś Kossak pięścią... sto razy wdepte
ci dekalog: dwór! dwór! nie pałacyk...
buda! buda, psie marnego skinienia
w aport! hujnia i homonto!
oraj pole... jebana mać oraj złote włókno
by przestał głód pytać o gram
sytu! oraj!*
beauty of out a loss in temperament,
no cocktail party for miles...
if you look closely you can
spot a Belgian field of poppies;
god the English malaise of attempting to curse...
the easiest curse in English is identified
as courtesy - sorry means as much as **** off*.
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 10:43 AM UTC
My mother’s hands
washing potatoes
washing kids
washing pans.
My mother’s hands
on bitterly cold days
******* yet more washing
on a pregnant line
the line growing nothing but
nappies
her hands blind
with the cold.
My mother’s hands
ironing clothes
ironing clothes
ironing countless knickers
for my seven sisters.
My mother’s hands
taking my hands
in hers
such love...such laughter!
My mother’s hands
patting talcum powder
on another baby’s ***
Mum being Mum.
Me, kissing
my mother’s hands
for all...they’ve done.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
Everything is out of place
a curiously dead wife on anyone's bed in a city long forgotten
her soul departing from an old people's home
lip hanging lower than it used to
new running shoes in the corner
disposable nappies next to a bra on an unused food tray
eyeliner on eyes that hadn't opened for days
cold skin in a room into which the sun streamed
morphine flowing through a tube into a life that had left
devotion from such an imperfect husband
who knew she'd hate her hair like that and stroked her fringe back into place
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 2:23 AM UTC
You looked good up against that night club wall
It was half past 3 maybe quarter to 4
The black velvet tights
The cropped up hair
The short t-shirt
The 'I see through you' stare
I couldn't see you
It was getting foggy in the car
Turn down the heating
Arr there you are
I didn't know how to approach
What shall be said
I'm a middle aged man
Should be tucked up with my wife in bed
I shouldn't be fondling around in the shadows
************ on steering wheels
What am I doing - what the **** am I doing?!
Maybe a drive by
A wink of the eye
Get the back seat love
We'l be there in 5
But I don't know and I never really have
Always wanted to know thou been feeling sad
Sick of repetition
The food that I eat
The ***** that I drink
The things that I speak
Why has it come to this
A car park full of mist
Looking for things that I'v already missed
I'l be heading back then
To the wife and kids
And that little Shiatsu dog that I'd rather not exist
But it makes my wife happy and that's all that really matters
Whether I'm changing the nappies or getting rid of the clappies
Its all that really matters
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 8:31 PM UTC
Take a look,
there is no shelter at this inn
we're all booked up,
so take your donkey and
'sling yer hook'
Having a baby and nowhere to stay..doh..should have reserved a bit earlier in the day,a bit late now you're having a baby and,
anyhow
who's the dad?
Then three old goats with long flowing coats who had checked it all out on tripfinder,couldn't find yer,so the gifts,one was scent,a towel set,a tent were then left in the cleft of the stick which Jesus walked with and boy was he sick,he called at the inn and found nobody there,no babies in cribs,no nappies or bibs,but he did find the cowshit which stuck just a bit to the soles of his sandals.
Waterloo.
So the nativity took place in left luggage,a case for a cot and a hot cup of tea though Mary preferred de-caff coffee,'it's free', said the clerk and he went back to work and the three men were none the wiser.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 8:35 AM UTC