"noisier" poems
I heard the world's loudest **** today
It echoed round the town enough to say
*"I am a **** of great renown and fame,
I am a **** who's worthy of the name
Of* KING of FARTS!" Unthinkingly I sniffed
And, let me tell you, I have never whiffed
Aught so potent, dank and dread and foul
Blasted out from heaving human bowel
As that king of farts I smelled today
And which took my ******* breath away.
Who was the pumper of that putrid beauty?
How many curries in the line of duty
Had he consumed? It must have been a man -
No pong so strong ere blew from female can.
Can no one answer yet my urgent question:
And say who suffereth such dire indigestion?
O heavens! his torment must be something chronic.
Can no one subsidise a high colonic
Irrigation to prevent another
Noisier and more noisome than its younger brother?
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
Beat-Up Old Car
Vastly under-appreciated possession
In dull blue, a MK1, no less, with original rust
Inside lingering scents of Exchange and Mart
top-notes of WD-40 and miscellaneous mix tapes
A car like this gets into your life
in lumpy knuckle-barking unsubtle ways,
stays there in subtle ones
That long drive back to Yorkshire
in the quintessential exemplar
Clutch cable snaps.
****** and Crap.
Hardly helpful but can be accommodated
with enough thought
rough though it is
on starter motor
and nerves whenever
anticipatory powers inadequate
and we are forced
to a complete red-light stop
Brakes dodgier, exhaust noisier
than ideal or legal
Gender-ambiguous
elderly tyres flirt outrageously with slick tarmac
Showing their canvas underwear
and male-pattern baldness
Keeping this unstable, unsafe, unreliable
ultimately essential lump of metal
moving and on the road
is a fine art
Engaging, fluid and intense art;
The Clash and The Specials
Costello and The Cure in support
A distraction then
getting hauled over by plod
somewhere near Bury St. Edmunds
Thatcher's boys.
Tax? MoT? Insurance? ID?
No real interest shown
Any passengers in the back?
Clearly no. Pickets?
Pickets? What?
Please open the boot sir... Oh.
On your way lad. Drive carefully
I was, officer, I was
More than you will ever know
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
You cannot fix
a person with missing
pieces.
And I have
fallen apart
so
many
times,
the pieces don't even
fit anymore.
To live in
pieces of your remembrance, I
wonder
how tomorrow could
ever follow today.
Empty rooms,
noisier thoughts.
The edges
have begun
to ***** away
at my heart.
And it
bleeds words.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
**The young people have exalted notions, because they have not been humbled by life or learned its necessary limitations; moreover, their hopeful disposition makes them think themselves as equal to great things and that means having exalted notions.
They would always rather do noble deed than useful ones. Their lives are regulated more by moral feeling than by reasoning all their mistakes are in the direction of doing things excessively and vehemently. They overdo everything they love too much hate too much and the same with everything else. (Aristotle)**
The Hereford cattles talk quietly among themselves
The commute home on the B train was noisier than ever
The passenger beside them youth squirmed and frigid
Youth of today is selfish and only think of themselves
If you asked for a passed, they will give you a laugh
If the elderly asked for the seat, they will give it to
Their backpacks, and scream louder, old geeks
Discipline, like if it’s outdated: no structure
A lost generation without stability:
A dark history, I lay awake and wonder
How can we fix this? Problem, problem
And more problem heading their way
While in the field the Hereford cattle
talk quietly among themselves
Nursing their calf without being asked of their mothers
to cover up their babies faces:
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 6:44 PM UTC
good god a gaggle of girls
read the dispatch thrice; the hierarchical lines some straight and some dotted but all I know they got a genealogical baseball team femi-nine
and maybe an NFL eleven when the twins get older
(husbands and sons ride the motorcycle bench and
back up if necessary, and good for musical accompaniment)
~oh yeah,
for Medusa~
this megillah message team meant for me to assauge my
mother hubbard accusations only partial reveals the player’s names:
but if you google a
gaggle of strong women you become informed there is a:
Queens Esther, Miriam, an Eve, four matriarchal outfielders, Batsheva pitching and only Ruth, can catch her **** curveball
in between an occasional poem gig whose costs are covered
under the mental health clause of a health care plan
but only in
California
too cavalier, get it, you prefer this perhaps
sinewed strength in arms that can
carry three children at once,
age is not a factual issue,
for there is an army of
women soldiers who are a troop contingent,
everyone’s back is covered always-full stop-
they curve like the Earth’s crust,
magma formed strong and mineral rich,
curved to better resist
the comets the heavens cannot resist
to send & test the mettle
of a gaggle of stronger women sinewy arms entwined
reenforced
alas
the grandpa must here resist and rest,
lunch prep before Sgt. Stubby movie at noon,
in reclining chairs they ride like wild horses
and all our shushing noisier than their giggles
just google a gaggle of strong kids,
you’ll see what I mean
in this, we do possess a giggle of expertise
sunday 10:15am
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 10:28 AM UTC
I want a life of quiet wildness.
A soul roaming free
in a forest
made for me.
The steady
drop
drop
drop
of rain landing on each leaf.
Ive been running through the green in my mind,
while walking through the day to day.
A safe haven of feral peace where I listen to a loud world through the ears of a quiet spirit is what I require.
The world seems to be getting noisier,
but the untamed parts seem to be vanishing.
Like entropy,
is the beautiful chaos seeping out of the world...
...or out of me?
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 9:08 PM UTC
10W X 3
It wasn't the rooster's crowing,
that woke me
this morning.
The neighbor's pet's
loud declaration
intensifies.
blatantly,
it is moaning.
Nightcalls are
noisier tonight
mating's unfinished
dauntlessly, cat
keeps calling.
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 8:07 PM UTC
she is comforting herself can’t you see that.
the way she lies on his chest listens to his heart beat slower slower after fast.
i simply speak what is on my mind why do you love me because because starry moon child you are made up of all the things i cannot grasp.
the way he bends she bends loud bubbling *** noisier and higher pitched keep it down shhh don’t wake the neighbors.
the way she gasps he gasps look what you did
is that from last time or this time
last and the other one from now
let me see the marks that were made no wonder she never stayed.
red. as the lips you have touched. the remedies on my tongue. the stains on my toweled thighs. the handprints on my *** the hearts above my head.
his head will lie between her thighs. his hands will find their way back to gripping hips. leaving the marks. her back will remember its familiar curve.
why do you love me?
i wasn’t expecting that question.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
In bitter winds the little Pipistrelle bats
Flitter hither and thither
Into the hills,
Around tree-timber limbs
With brittle twigs.
They wing their way
In thrills
Of twists
And turns.
Meanwhile, deep down below
The cows moan,
Roaming through the range.
They moo while they chew the cud,
Ruminating their food
Grazed earlier from prairie meadows.
Through the long day
They are accompanied
By flocks of birds
Twittering and tweeting,
Much noisier than the bats.
A feather flung chorus
Singing operas and arias
Amongst the misty trees.
Word composers love these things:
Mother Nature wrapping us
In her arms
And filling the air
With sights and sounds
That sooth the soul,
Sending us soundly to sleep
While those bats
Come out to play.
Paul Butters
© PB 26\11\2020.
Nov 26, 2020
Nov 26, 2020 at 4:53 PM UTC
Conflict and rage is all that is left.
My mind is shattered, my body restless,
The feelings of mine have turned to ice,
As if the life lost all its spice,
And became the victim of sacrifice.
If I could cry, that would have been nice,
But the broken and torn person would not suffice,
To exist in this world,
You must understand
The game of dice
The game of treachery taking its stand,
I feel numb, not ready to move,
I smell of ashes and residue,
And it seems to refuse,
It seems to refuse ,the darkness within me,
It seems to refuse, the emptiness within me,
I guess that is how you live and learn,
I guess that is how your weaknesses burn....
Aug 11, 2025
Aug 11, 2025 at 9:15 AM UTC
I bet the sounds inside my head were noisier than the sounds of cars that jammed in the middle of traffic in Surabaya.
Especially when it comes to rush hour.
I often caught myself were slowly dying.
And I'm not even sure who the hell I am.
But I'm always like this, isn't it?
Isn't it a tragedy?
For being someone who watches me with misery.
That's why I made this poetry.
But someone out there is despising this part of me.
I wrote this because my capability with words that I put and I spend to think are well composed than the words that I never been able to say out loud.
So please, honks by all means.
So I wouldn't hear the sound inside my head was talking about.
Feb 5, 2021
Feb 5, 2021 at 9:23 AM UTC
No breath, no heartbeat, inside dreams we tend to feel infant and vivid. The great fall or *fairy *** bite tongue and taste the blood...we people flood limits. Hearts spin, No... Love spins at times we crush our own doves like hard twins. Anticipate the future, big dreams, true being...I'm marching loyal with all, I look back to secure, and 'true scenes' short keys to insert and free the mental. The flesh gets raggedy and within cash trades shortcomings, gradually we getting thin. Newspapers now reads child mates goat, politicians come live now to fake votes. Grown foods to feed us, you...touch your soil for mankind, neither do I wish to view a grown foetus. Water is no longer priceless, a bottled value, go ahead your highness...sparkle freedom and add a flavour. Nothing can reciprocate the Life of Lakes, Trees and Landscapes, it seems as we move forth the noisier it gets, Escape? Change needs a push, you can't hide behind the bush. Love, loathe, friends and foes in war when peace come to shove, we call a Truce...And if God's Equation solves the coffins, then I suspect his Creation can solve the orphans etc....
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
A six year old once
Thought of a great plan
A huge kite
Made out of ivory sheets,
Broomsticks and yarn spool
Finish it before evening
Tie himself
Ride the breeze
And fly to the moon
He knew every evening
Winds died out by the time bells ring
In temple at street corner
And be finished before seven thirty
When mom shouts him down the roof
One of the troubles
Was he didn’t have anyone
To hold the string in place
But tying the kite to
Iron grill would work he assumed
But his sister won’t tell him
Where the glue was
And he didn't have enough string
To reach the moon
So he borrowed some
Wool yarn from an unfinished
Sweater grandma made last year
A matching red for my kite
But much to do
With not much time
Sky was getting orangier
Mosquitoes noisier
Time for quick decisions
Sitting on water tank
Gazing at the sky
Kids flying them like inebriated pilots
Failing and falling like leaves
Thinking of those fools
I could do better
Fly higher
If only a bit older
Three decades later
Searching for a forsaken photocopy
He found a drawing
Made on a summer evening
A red kite smiling in clouds
With a half moon behind it
Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 7:11 AM UTC