"nowt" poems
How can my eyes hunger for tormentors bodies
where in my soul can I find desires for sadists
Eves threw on fitted coats of Marquis de Sade
borrowed his manuals and added even more pages
pierced the heart of a Dove defending his nest with lethal pins
And in joyous indignities with devilment aplomp
they reclined and crackled in wanton doltishness
He thinks of and desires us and wants to make amor with us
How can a heart marinated in love truely sincere
a soul ready to die rather than any harm to Eves
Be mother or sister or perchance even a stranger
alas in utter ********** and grotesque situation dire
Come undone with healthy pristine heart ripped to pieces
hung drawn and quartered and sliced in tiny morsels
Like fish baits for mice and minnows or hens clucking
All at the hands of Sirens who worshipped in Satan's cravens
How can a soul with only the spark of Salvation aglow
where it once housed his heart and enduring humanity
With brimful joy and devotions in fitting measures true
as all Eves where to him nowt but sisters and earth angels
Now his burning blood runs cold like rivelets in the Arctic
their words ring hollow and smiles shows rapiers of snakes
Nothing stirs desires for all Eves now seem and look like wicked corpses
Delilahs' wrecking vengeance on Samsons in wickedness supreme
[email protected] rights reserved
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 4:31 AM UTC
It's Sister Lucy not Sister Bridget
who's the crush on the young priest
Father Joseph Magdalene said,
Mary said is she the one? as she sat
on Mags bed listening to music
on her record player I thought
you said the Bridget,
Magdalene sitting beside Mary
passed a glass of lemonade to her
and said nothing certain
you understand just the rumours
I've heard but don't tell
the parents or my arse'll
be slapped for spreading the rumour,
have you a ciggie?
Mary said
putting the lemonade and glass
on the bedside cabinet,
Magdalene poked under the mattress
and took out a squashed pack
of 10 Woodbines and said
open the fecking window
or Ma'll know we've been smoking
and she'll have a moan
and passed the packet to Mary
who took a cigarette
and put it in her mouth
and went and opened the window,
Magdalene took a cigarette
and stuffed the packed
under the mattress again,
Mary sat down and said
have you a light then
or are we to fecking **** on air?
Magdalene took out
of the pocket of her dress
a box of matches
(liberated from the kitchen)
and struck a light for them both
and put the matchbox away again,
they inhaled and sat in silence,
the record played( Billy fury)
and they tapped their feet softly
and nodded their heads,
so what are you doing
about Brian Brady?
Magdalene asked,
what'd you mean doing about
I'm doing nowt with the ******
it's him who thinks I'm going
to be doing things the soft loon
Mary said,
you seemed to be encouraging him
the other day Magdalene said,
ah was fun only I'd not let him
near me in a serious way
no more than the holy Joe himself
Mary said,
smoke filtered ceiling ward,
a car backfired from the street below,
Magdalene leaned in close to Mary
I'm your best friend
and I get jealous of the likes of him
being too near to you,
O he's nothing to be worrying yourself
about him Mags he's just a loon
as boys are Mary said,
Magdalene held the cigarette
a way from her lips
and kissed Mary's cheek,
Mary sighed and said
he's nothing I just give him
the tease he'll get nothing
from my ****** money box,
they both inhaled and exhaled again
and watched the smoke
rise ceiling ward,
the sound of Magdalene's ma
downstairs singing along to the radio,
Magdalene's hand went on Mary's thigh,
a bright sun in a blue Irish sky.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
Red haired dame
black roots
dark brown eyes
thin lips
but smiles neat
handles the cell phone
between thin fingers
nails chewed
adding tabs
suggesting networks
that work best
thin tattooed arms
small busted
maybe less expensive
but it's better
she says
Johnny smiles
notes the small stud
in her lower lip
knows her cell phones well
that's for sure
he knows
next to nowt
just to switch
on and off
and send a text or two
and call
now and then
but it's Johnny daughter
who's buying
not he
he's just the onlooker
taking notes
for a poem
just like this
mental note as poets do
to catch the essence
before it takes flight
like some rare moth
into the night.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
Magdalene watched Mary
bend down to put on the LP.
The Beatles. They’d saved
up and bought it together.
She took in Mary’s stockinged
thigh showing through the slit
in the side of the school skirt.
Mary placed the LP carefully
onto the turntable, with her finger
put the needle arm down onto
the vinyl. The music started up,
Mary stood up and sat next to
Magdalene on the single bed.
Magdalene sensed her there,
her thigh next to hers, her
warmth, their knees almost
touching. What did your Ma
say when you said you bought
the Beatles? Magdalene asked.
She said nowt, Mary replied,
but Da said it was a load of
***** and where did I get
the money from to buy it?
John Lennon's voice sang
over the twanging guitars.
Magdalene said, did you
tell him we bought it together?
Mary nodded. Her hands
pushed between her thighs,
her young face lit up by
the room's light. Don't you
think Paul's a dish? Mary asked.
Magdalene shrugged her
shoulders, studied Mary’s
knee where a spot of flesh
showed through a hole in
the black school stockings.
She wanted to move closer,
kiss the cheek, place her
lips on the skin. She breathed
in the borrowed scent that
Mary wore. Said she'd liberated
it from her Ma's room. Mary
talked of the boy they'd met
in the woods above the school.
Tried it on so he did, she said,
over the guitars and Lennon's
loud voice. Magdalene wished
she could put her hands where
the boy had tried. I put him
straight, Mary said, kneed him
where his fatherhood might flow.
Mary moved up and down on
the bed in response to the music.
The bedsprings complained.
Magdalene sensed the movement,
took in Mary’s behind going up
and down on the bed cover.
Glory be. She wanted to kiss.
Needed the hand to touch Mary’s,
the skin to join up with hers.
Downstairs a voice bellowed
to keep the ****** noise down.
Mary sighed and bent down
to turn the **** the thigh
revealed in the skirt's slit,
the spot of flesh through
the hole in the bended knee.
Magdalene captured the image.
Hid it in her memory bank for
later, for bedtime, for the cosy
pretend hold, maybe more if in
her dream she was lucky and bold.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 4:31 AM UTC
There’s nowt like some rapping
To get my feet tapping.
Alesha Dixon’s the *****
That got me mixin’
Today.
Saw her on a recording
Doing rap for Piers Morgan.
That might be pararhyme –
At best -
But who gives a dime.
Just feel like rhyming
With impeccable timing.
Let’s shimmer and shammer
And give it some hammer.
Alesha’s sure got glitter
There’s no gal fitter
No wonder she is
All over Twitter.
She’s as smooth and silky
As a pint of bitter.
These rhymes
Like chimes
Make me feel so fine.
Well that’s me done now
I don’t quite know how
This mood came over me.
It is infectious
She leaves me breathless
But hey I’m out of time,
What a crime.
Paul Butters
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 6:46 AM UTC
Im a time in space, a space in time forever it seems to be in a locked in a race. Cosmic karma kowpowing me in the face.
Blackhole of despair stealing all my air, wonder all around me. But stuck in a rut, so I just dont care.
Love is within me, but never found without. Tears I cry that streak across the night sky as moving as a meteor shower.
Like a comet blazing fiercely when your near, but fading to nowt in the depth of space. No one to hear me scream out.
To be the darkside of the Moon forever there, but forever lost. Never to be gazed upon, never to be touched.
I'm a rocket man, with my course set, shame we're not going to intersect. Lost in space just as in love. Never to feel that gentle touch or the deep throb of wanton lust.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 4:28 AM UTC
they've now got a toehold in the place, they're well established
they've now got a toehold in the place, they're well established
nowt will move them, these parts suit them
nowt will move them, these parts suit them
these parts suit them, they're well established
they've now got a toehold in the place, nowt will move them
the board is crammed with their posts, over a hundred counted to-day
the board is crammed with their posts, over a hundred counted to-day
no doubt they're insistent, they'll not be nudged
no doubt they're insistent, they'll not be nudged
over a hundred counted to-day, no doubt they're insistent
they'll not be nudged, the board is crammed with their posts
some aren't impressed with their carry on, what bugbears they've become
some aren't impressed with their carry on, what bugbears they've become
they need to be escorted from here, HP management isn't listening
they need to be escorted from here, HP management isn't listening
what bugbears they've become, they need to be escorted from here
some aren't impressed with their carry on, HP management isn't listening
the board is crammed with their posts, they're well established
they need to be escorted from here, what bugbears they've become
some aren't impressed with their carry on, no doubt they're insistent
they'll not be nudged, they've got a toehold in the place
over a hundred counted to-day, these parts suit them
nowt will move them, HP management isn't listening
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 9:09 AM UTC
The fireside retreats
into the wall
as another TV Christmas special repeats,
with its sound echoing in the hall.
Tangerine,
Satsuma,
Clementine-Orange
peel litters the tabletop;
orange runway for the action figures,
plastic arms, moulded hairs.
Nina Simone plays loud,
'Nobody Knows When You're Down And Out',
Christmas is over,
and now there's nowt to do.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 12:58 PM UTC
Wi yer eyes stingin n wet wi tears
N muk bungin up tha nose n ears
N a white rimmed ed where thi's ad thi hat
Up tha floats on't lift like a drownded rat
After twelve hours tha's pretty dun in
Whilst t'other folks as been kippin n dreamin
Tha's bin diggin n drillin like summart daft
Now up tha floats on't hydraulic raft
The cold morn air meks tha lungs urt
Cause tha's bin breathin muk n dirt
Fer nigh on forty years or more
That most folks wudn't ave on't floor
N as tha washes all't muk away
Tha knows thas sum that'll allus stay
N whilst outside tha luks nice n clean
Tha's stuff inside thi th't'll never be seen
Until o course tha's gon n died
N them docter fellers tek a look inside
N in amazement they'll stand n stare
At all that muk th't shudn't be there
N wen tha's ded it'll be nowt new
Not too a bloke what's lived like you
Fer now tha's on'y six feet under
Wen undreds is what thas bin used to
N't Crowner'll say thi ad a natural death
Not like them th't had their last breath
At sixteen, seventeen, twenty or more
When sum big explosions brought ceiling t floor
But a doubt if tha'll think it wer thi turn
As tha lays there nattering t worm
Crawlin in n out o yer ears
Not much t show fer sixtyodd years
Still what else cud you ave dun, that's it
But follow yer old man down pit
A mean even his dad was a facer tha knows
Kem out at thirty wi' ands like claws
Ah well it's time fer sum grub
Then half-a-dozen pints't pub
Wi an hour or two o noonday sun
Then back t wife fer an hour o fun
N be six next morning I'll be feelin well
As I teks yon raft t bowels of 'ell
Thirty shillin a week be summer the reckonin
Ah but then they can't see yon worm beckonin
Remember this is a 'Performance Poem'
and the style of writing acts as a
speech prompt. The accent is loosely
Yorkshire. A 'Crowner 'is an old word
for a Coroner.
I hope you enjoy it.
© David Irwin Phillips 2008
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 2:03 AM UTC
Where is the terror please in a blameless mind
Show me the pain and fears in a brimful loving heart
Find me the nightmares 'n demons in blessed slumber
Wish me the tears in pious gratitudes real and plenty
Produce a charge sheet of dark deeds and secrets hidden
Bring witnesses of a stained criminal past and stolen items
Front me a past lover with tales of **** or ****** misdeeds
Show me anybody truly implicating me in any foul deeds
Ask my betrothed of ever knowing me drunk and disabled
Dig out any associations of me with friends of ill-repute
Point a day I conducted myself disgracefully 'n disrespectfully
Stand out a neighbour I went begging and borrowing from
Twirling taunting is nowt but delusions of ****** fantasists
Nothing to do with one devoid of fears and guilt of the neurotics
Show us the happy contented one who gives time to mudslinging
Even the most basic of intelligence tells us this is an impossibility
There are nasties out there kicking a poor policewoman in the head
There are repugnant foreign Taxi-drivers prostituting teen girls about
There are hate filled Terrorist willing to **** innocents unflinching
While our deranged think school playground antics is all they're worth
These are the ones that salivate in front of computer screens
Unwashed Keyboard cowards parading malfunctioning brains
Attention and ambition lacking deficits sad subhumans waiting to be fed
How can wasted western fodders impact on my consciousness or even my subconscious
Those by their evident actions already show they lack rationality, intelligence or understanding
Inadequates whose only recourse is to showcase their inferiority in pained envy and jealousy by trying to bully
Insignificant runts who can't better themselves despite opportunities abound
Dr Livingstone come see what your children from your Great Empire has become
You told our forefathers you came from the very cradle of Civilisation
A land of freedom and great knowledge
How come now your childrens are pathetic ignorant irrational insecure deluded cowards
What to do with morons other than to pitifully toss them a morsel of our talents once a while and laugh as they feed hungrily
You gotta laugh!
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 10:36 PM UTC
Lesbian, bisexual, transgender, gay
What are they all only labels anyway?
Nowt of individuals do labels say,
Truth be told all they do is get in the way!
What is it with this need to put labels on?
What we really need is to see the person!
To judge others only by labels given
Is stupidity, hard to be forgiven.
So it is with gender, race, colour or creed;
And all other labels we just do not need.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 5:29 AM UTC
who was responsible
for the queen's ultimate disappearance
who took it upon themselves
to seek her clearance
over quite a length of time
those of a regal pedigree
have been unexpectedly vanished
from the monarchical tree
these culprits cannot be
traced anywhere on the ground
its as thought they are secreted
beneath a shadowy mound
and we aren't able to stem
their anti regal sentiment
which is ever hardening
like a ten ton cube of cement
exhibiting the crown's
bloodline doth bring vaporization
where there will be nowt more
espying of a visitation
danger is omnipresent
and its peril aimed on any empress
an unknown body of disfavour
not requiring her impress
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 9:48 PM UTC
His eyes were bleary
His chest it felt tight
He was bone weary
Just didn’t feel right
But work was demanding
His attention not to stray
Although he was knackered
He worked anyway
For 72 hours each week in and out
He worked on the night shift building cranes to ship out
He built them with pride, his loyalty did show
Through the quality of work and his years on the go
But they shoot horses, don’t they
High up on a crane
It did happen one night
His knee gave a twist
His heart got a fright
He worked through the pain
To the end he did stay
Only after twas done
To his knee his eyes strayed
The knee it was swollen, a great pain in its core
The skin was all puffy, to walk was a chore
The doc said, “It’s nowt--tis but a strain
Get back to work; soon you’ll be right as rain”
But then they shoot horses, don’t they
Years they did pass
But the pain did not leave
So he favoured the leg
With a mind not to grieve
But as will happen
If you must climb like a kid
The other knee went
Much like the first did
Back to the doctor—a new one who found
That with time unattended, injuries compound
“Both knees are torn; and surgery they need
“You must have lighter duties; to your boss we will plead”
But they shoot horses, don’t they.
Back at work
The man plead his case
Even though he was hurt
Could they please find a place?
He’d make hoses
Or sweep up the floor
Work on computers
Any task, any chore
But the boss stood firm, the man was broken you see
No use for him now, no ear for his pleas
“There is work to be done, to that we attest
But I only want you when you’re at your best.”
Because they shoot horses, don’t they.
Still a young lad
His career is cut quick
By two knees gone bad
And a boss who’s a *****
What happens now
To this good-hearted guy
Whose belief in loyalty
Is what led him awry
Well, they shoot horses, don’t they?
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 1:58 AM UTC
Sit tight. Do nowt. Say nowt.Hear all. See all.
Watch the deadly idiotboard of news unfurl.
Watch the deserving rich desert the poor.
A featureless snowstorm of foreign fear,
eyes glazing over, lacking focus. Fearing
zealots within and without. Without power
of intervention. Beyond comprehension.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC
I rest in the quiet thoughts
that might involve tired arms
and unadorned hearts and faces
to fantasise boredom with you
is a new low/high to replace
my easy crippling everyday nowt
I currently know that
to fall asleep with you
unwashed and noisy tired
is all I think I need
Oct 17, 2021
Oct 17, 2021 at 2:45 PM UTC
Strolled through the door wearing nowt but a grin.
Seeking nothing more or less than a sweet bit of sin.
Dire need for crazy *** smacked her smartly on the chin.
She's determined to win.
She gets under his skin.
Naked as this day were born
Torn heart's broken again.
And they cry and they lie and they curl up and die.
Feelings are reeling.
They're strung on balloons.
Cascades of lust as we're shooting the moon.
Wearing nothing but Sunday on Monday.
(C) LIVVI
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 6:04 AM UTC
I really really
must not scratch
this itchy itchy itch
but what to do
when all your hands
just want to do is scratch
Diagnosed this morning
by Doctor Wicky Wong
I don't like the look of those
he said
Neither do I
I wished him wrong
Back I went this evening
as more spots they had appeared
He looked a little closer
muttered words I could barely hear
off work 3 days not 1 he said
Contagious these may spread
So here I am at home alone
with nowt to do but write
a load of twaddle on the page
as shingles rages rife
when what I'd really love to do
is sleep say nighty night
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC
There was something
about the peasant in her
as she lay there
in the tall grass
the sun shining on her
the white clouds overhead
birds in flight
there was that aspect
of the peasant
in the simplicity
of her manner
the gesture of hands
the look
of the big blue eyes
and the skirt pulled up
nakedness revealed
and he
lying beside her
taking in
her whole aspect
the summery smell
the heat
the almost airlessness
about them
distant train
steam sounds
and she said
you're to tell
no one of this
( she had said that
about the first kiss)
and he said
of course not
whom would I tell?
he lay his head
on her soft big *******
cushion like
as if afloat
she murmuring
more words
he lost
in the softness
of her
the scent
of her mother
(borrowed lavender scent
from the dressing table)
if my mother ever heard
she said
there'd be hell to pay
so say nothing
my lips are sealed
he said
nosing between her *******
muffled words
a rush of birds overhead
her hands on him
resting on his back
he tongued her
breathing her in
you're my first
she said
at doing this
say nothing lad
his inner voice
suggested
words wound
say nowt
he felt her hips
fingers running over
finger tips sensing
smoothness
moving lower
sensed thighs
she breathed harder
words gone
utterings wordless
she spread herself
like a butterfly in flight
he pinned her there
in the tall grass
as he'd seen
butterflies pinned
to a board
in the glass box
at school
he breathed in
she breathed out
he smelt apples of her
mixture of lavender
and apples
and that earthly scent
of bodies in motion
the tall grass
became an ocean
waves moved and sank
she sighed
he uttered wordless sounds
she kissed his shoulder
bit flesh
he kissed her neck
lip bit
****** skin
the summery sky
the birds silent
clouds drifted
she saw them
white over blue
over white
her palms on him
pressing
caressing
he journeying
to a heaven
birds gone
sky above him
unseen
just the ocean moving
a huge expanse
of green.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
It's getting to be posh
all these new folk
with their dosh.
buying up the property
leaving nowt
for you and me.
It's not the same
not as it was
because,
our street's got
a brand new name.
'Petunia close'
sounds like a dose of something bad,
awful sad,
that it's getting to be a bit posh round here,
next year,
I won't recognise
the pie and mash shop
the garage pit stop
it will all be gucci,reebok
smoochy bars,
fast and frantic tarty cars.
I'm moving out to Birmingham
at least up there they still
eat spam,
I may move further North to Carlisle
they'll not change
not for a long while.
Anyway
I made a fortune
holding on
not selling too soon.
(The problem is,
not the solution
or gentrifying
or more pollution
it's the weeding out
and in their place
making space for
evolution)
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
Humble
Snowflake
Lonely little
Snowflake
Melting in my hand
A moment
So sate
So sweet
You remember
Nowt
Of dying
To simply be
How I envy thee
Nov 8, 2019
Nov 8, 2019 at 4:23 AM UTC
Nothing for nothing unless you put something in and what you get out is nowt like what you put in.
Three blind mice
didn't get very far
the Farmers wife drove
a Mercedes Benz
had a 40 gauge with a
telescopic lens,
blind or not the trio
got shot,
three blind mice.
Not relevant?
but the elephant in the room needs
room to manoeuvre and
who's going to hoover up later?
Randomness, a pick of sorts all more some less or
like a drawn out game of chess,
the elephant still leaves a mess,
the castle takes the Queen.
A cat went carol singing on a cold December night
couldn't read the words to sing so
stood under the light,
three blind mice
see what you've become
the words in a song sung under a light on
a cold and dark December night
well
I never heard such a thing in my life,
three blind mice.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 7:53 AM UTC
A poem is grand
that's got summat to say.
But if it says nowt
it still passes
the time o' day.
Never disparage
another mans writing.
He may be twice your size
and good at fighting!!!!!
Apr 25, 2010
Apr 25, 2010 at 10:03 AM UTC
Dear reader know that when I sat to jot
A verse of that I knew not what.
I did not wish to write a rhyme
That possibly could waste your time.
So down I sat for half a year
and did not come so very near.
So spent a decade crossing out
Word after word which came to nowt.
The years went by and I grew old
And still the tale had not been told.
Now I feel there is no time
To sit around and write your rhyme.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
So tired and poemed out
got this one then got nowt
want to do more love and hope
so tired I'm feeling like a dope
words are crawling to the screen
tripping on the keyboard in between
hungry but tofar gone to eat
stuck in this familiar seat
got to drag myslf to bed
and get a pillow for my head
wistful here so all alone
not even my cat yet at my home
curl up like a tiny mouse
in his chilly winter house
those last two lines were quite prophetic
hang on, no, the word's pathetic
getting desperate for a rhyme
go now, quick it's past bed time!
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 2:52 PM UTC