"phut" poems - Hello Poetry

bubbles celebrate transience. phut! they vanish after a short life.

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Dec 13, 2011

Dec 13, 2011 at 9:04 PM UTC

k-balachandran

celebrating transience

bubbles celebrate transience. phut! they vanish after a short life.

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lucky ****** this day dreamer, when one story line goes phut, he could try another, all day long, and then comes the long day's night.

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Aug 22, 2012

Aug 22, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC

k-balachandran

Day dreamer

lucky ****** this day dreamer, when one story line goes phut, he could try another, all day long, and then comes the long day's night.

4

Are ye to batao tum chahte ** kya? Alag thalag bhi kar doge, jo pana chahte ** vo pa loge ham bhi bhul jaenge magar itihaas nahin bhulega. Dange bhi karaaoge, khedh bhi jataoge ek baat yaad rakhna tum bada pachtaoge. Namak wali rotiya khilaoge, pani wali chai banaoge Bin karan lathiya chalvaoge Aazad desh bolkar media ko zukaoge Dhayan bhatkakar chai va biskut bhi tum khaoge Per ek na ek din apne aap ko katghare may paoge. CAA ke naam par humay daraoge betu ke kazag makang kar bahar ka rasta dikhaoge kapdo ka rang dekh kar chronology tum samjhoge antinational bolkar har prashn ko tum dabaoge Jo aag tumnay lagai vo kesay bujaoge Aaesi hi lagaygi us maa ki k phut phut kar marjaoge. Bus mann ki baat tak simit rahakar kaam ki baat bhul jaoge. Ek press conference to hoti nahin tumse tum kya aatmnirbhar banaoge Saal dar saal shrif aarakshan ko hi tum badaoge, China ko jhutha bolkar, detention camp banvaoge. Marne ke bad shidha tum narak mein hi jaaoge. Ek baat yaad rakhna dost tum bada pachtaoge, TUM BADA PACHTAOGE.

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Oct 10, 2020

Oct 10, 2020 at 4:31 AM UTC

pranaynp

Tum Chahte ** Kya?

Are ye to batao tum chahte ** kya? Alag thalag bhi kar doge, jo pana chahte ** vo pa loge ham bhi bhul jaenge magar itihaas nahin bhulega. Dange bhi karaaoge, khedh bhi jataoge ek baat yaad rakhna tum bada pachtaoge. Namak wali rotiya khilaoge, pani wali chai banaoge Bin karan lathiya chalvaoge Aazad desh bolkar media ko zukaoge Dhayan bhatkakar chai va biskut bhi tum khaoge Per ek na ek din apne aap ko katghare may paoge. CAA ke naam par humay daraoge betu ke kazag makang kar bahar ka rasta dikhaoge kapdo ka rang dekh kar chronology tum samjhoge antinational bolkar har prashn ko tum dabaoge Jo aag tumnay lagai vo kesay bujaoge Aaesi hi lagaygi us maa ki k phut phut kar marjaoge. Bus mann ki baat tak simit rahakar kaam ki baat bhul jaoge. Ek press conference to hoti nahin tumse tum kya aatmnirbhar banaoge Saal dar saal shrif aarakshan ko hi tum badaoge, China ko jhutha bolkar, detention camp banvaoge. Marne ke bad shidha tum narak mein hi jaaoge. Ek baat yaad rakhna dost tum bada pachtaoge, TUM BADA PACHTAOGE.

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Fancy a Little French! Oops there goes another one. Hear the whoosh and phut. Hits the court. A silent crowd stop and watch Stilled by the sullen fall of the blade. The crowd of peasants roar. One more to go. Let's even the scare. Maybe the score. Today alone twenty or more. Let them feast. Worry the wealth of the rich. Watch power tumble. As it's neck doth crumble A revolutionary way to deal with affluent society. A rickety cart pulled by stallion fine. Arrogance led from said rickety cart. Still holding their masks to their eyes. Fine mask withheld by milady in waiting. Exchanged for a rag. To stick over the eyes of the affluent **** Before she meets her maker. Another gone. Nibbled the dust of a thousand saws. Crowd uproar. In a sea of cheers. A platform of fear. A scaffold without much mess. Another head tossed in the basket. Poulets dans le panier! By ladylivvi1 © 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

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Nov 24, 2013

Nov 24, 2013 at 5:05 AM UTC

olivia-kent

Fancy a Little French!

Fancy a Little French! Oops there goes another one. Hear the whoosh and phut. Hits the court. A silent crowd stop and watch Stilled by the sullen fall of the blade. The crowd of peasants roar. One more to go. Let's even the scare. Maybe the score. Today alone twenty or more. Let them feast. Worry the wealth of the rich. Watch power tumble. As it's neck doth crumble A revolutionary way to deal with affluent society. A rickety cart pulled by stallion fine. Arrogance led from said rickety cart. Still holding their masks to their eyes. Fine mask withheld by milady in waiting. Exchanged for a rag. To stick over the eyes of the affluent **** Before she meets her maker. Another gone. Nibbled the dust of a thousand saws. Crowd uproar. In a sea of cheers. A platform of fear. A scaffold without much mess. Another head tossed in the basket. Poulets dans le panier! By ladylivvi1 © 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

33

They wear their bodies inside-out, some are ashes but few are dust. Vacant orbits, oblivious to the incoming tide and the percussive artillery from the heavily fortified positions on Rue de la Mort, view the world with equanimity. Their bloodied stillness at odds with the surrounding tumult. It’s at times like these - pinned down behind a burnt-out vehicle, the sand skipping around me with the phut-phut-phut of spent rounds - that I envy them their final freedom. Not that all deaths are as elegant and instantaneous as a well aimed bullet to the head. It is a fleeting thought, hardly even that, a whispering somewhere in the background of my consciousness, like listening to a low-tuned wireless. And with victory as with defeat - with the ear-ringing silence - the whisperings become louder and more persistent. Right, left; up, down; stop, wait; walk, run; sink, swim; live, die. Some pray to survive, other’s yearn for the sweetspot, the one shot **** Regardless, there is no doubt that we who remain will fight on for weeks, for years, for decades and continue to live the uncertainty of the living - sweating bullets until kingdom ****** come.

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Jun 9, 2019

Jun 9, 2019 at 9:57 PM UTC

annh

Rue de la Mort

They wear their bodies inside-out, some are ashes but few are dust. Vacant orbits, oblivious to the incoming tide and the percussive artillery from the heavily fortified positions on Rue de la Mort, view the world with equanimity. Their bloodied stillness at odds with the surrounding tumult. It’s at times like these - pinned down behind a burnt-out vehicle, the sand skipping around me with the phut-phut-phut of spent rounds - that I envy them their final freedom. Not that all deaths are as elegant and instantaneous as a well aimed bullet to the head. It is a fleeting thought, hardly even that, a whispering somewhere in the background of my consciousness, like listening to a low-tuned wireless. And with victory as with defeat - with the ear-ringing silence - the whisperings become louder and more persistent. Right, left; up, down; stop, wait; walk, run; sink, swim; live, die. Some pray to survive, other’s yearn for the sweetspot, the one shot **** Regardless, there is no doubt that we who remain will fight on for weeks, for years, for decades and continue to live the uncertainty of the living - sweating bullets until kingdom ****** come.

4

I read words, speed through them cutting sentences, gutting books like fish. On the odd and why not occasion I wish I was as slow as old Joe who used to bring the vegetables in a van on Saturdays back in the day when the town was so far away, he took forever it seemed to me as he phut putt phutted and waved quite merrily from his younger looking though still ancient Model T ... which wasn't made in Formosa by the way although just about everything else was back in the day. Back to reading, a bit like being sliced open on a table and bleeding pictures from my head and you know the book's been good when you wake up living and think you've been dead (excited) delighted as I am I still speed, can't help it, need to slow a bit, be like old Joe a bit. I suppose when I age a bit and the sight starts to dim a bit and at the same time I need to trim a bit of fat from my waist I might get the taste of it, I mean being slow a bit but I'm open to offers.

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Jun 23, 2015

Jun 23, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

A Sundial for Soloman.

I read words, speed through them cutting sentences, gutting books like fish. On the odd and why not occasion I wish I was as slow as old Joe who used to bring the vegetables in a van on Saturdays back in the day when the town was so far away, he took forever it seemed to me as he phut putt phutted and waved quite merrily from his younger looking though still ancient Model T ... which wasn't made in Formosa by the way although just about everything else was back in the day. Back to reading, a bit like being sliced open on a table and bleeding pictures from my head and you know the book's been good when you wake up living and think you've been dead (excited) delighted as I am I still speed, can't help it, need to slow a bit, be like old Joe a bit. I suppose when I age a bit and the sight starts to dim a bit and at the same time I need to trim a bit of fat from my waist I might get the taste of it, I mean being slow a bit but I'm open to offers.

14

Underhill sitting at the front of the class with two of his cronies said, Hey Coles, I could beat you in a fight, couldn't I? Not wishing to disappoint him with a negative reply, I affirmed his illusion. He asked other kids, and none denied his assertion. He turned around like a mafia boss to whisper with the cronies, before the teacher returned. I wished I had my spud gun and an old spud as ammunition. I could have flicked Underhill's ears with careful aim. Or my pea-shooter flip-flip against his neck. Condor, the English teacher entered the room. A silence descended on the boys, and pens and books prepared. Underhill saw himself as an Al Capone of 1B, sans scars, sans cigar, sans big gut, just the illusion inside his head, and my spud gun going phut-phut, you're pretend dead.

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Jun 28, 2019

Jun 28, 2019 at 2:16 PM UTC

TerryCollett

Underhill's Illusion 1959.

Underhill sitting at the front of the class with two of his cronies said, Hey Coles, I could beat you in a fight, couldn't I? Not wishing to disappoint him with a negative reply, I affirmed his illusion. He asked other kids, and none denied his assertion. He turned around like a mafia boss to whisper with the cronies, before the teacher returned. I wished I had my spud gun and an old spud as ammunition. I could have flicked Underhill's ears with careful aim. Or my pea-shooter flip-flip against his neck. Condor, the English teacher entered the room. A silence descended on the boys, and pens and books prepared. Underhill saw himself as an Al Capone of 1B, sans scars, sans cigar, sans big gut, just the illusion inside his head, and my spud gun going phut-phut, you're pretend dead.

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