"prats" poems
My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.
My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.
A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.
A devilish ********** of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.
Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.
A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.
Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.
Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.
Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.
A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.
A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)
A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.
A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.
A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.
An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.
A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.
A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.
Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.
A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.
Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
Some people might not accept it
But don't you accept that
Any homophobes are just brainless prats
It's not our fault we are different
And define different anyway
Because it really doesn't matter if your lesbian or gay
Ignore any insults that come your way
Because the hate is a plate and the person is a tray
So knock that tray over and let them clean up the mess
And remember just because you love more doesn't make you any less
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
“Dear Lab,” started the angrily worded poem,
“We’ve put up with shenanigans and outrage and prats
And unfair bannings from you little rats.
We put up with no codes (quote) for our protection
And through it all you maintained our affection.
Now along you slither with your fancy new forum
And ask our opinion - just to maintain decorum -
but of our gentle requests: you deplore ‘em
Then leave all the mess to the red coated quorum.
pfft - Lab notified."
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 2:48 PM UTC
She knows that's it.
All done and dusted.
Her father used to say
that: done and dusted,
usually when he done
someone and dusted
off his fists. Dead now;
done and dusted himself.
But Claude, yes, that's
done now. He won't
want her back now he
knows. It was a bit risky
having that young guy
in my bed, but I was
feeling low, and he seemed
a good idea at the time.
Ideas do seem good at
the time. Time has a way
of paying back ill done deeds,
she muses. He hasn't rung.
Hasn't said a thing. His way
of cutting her out, and leaving
her out in the cold. He made
love his goal, well at least
the bedding kind. Had to be
the best bed, the best sheets,
silky and smooth. That time
in the posh place in that big
four poster, and she and him
giving it some, and there was
a knock at the door, and he
bellowed out obscenities, and
the knocking stopped, it
was silent like just before a
bomb is dropped. That's it
now, she muses, no more
Claude, no more bedding in
posh places, no seeing posh
prats or their wives and their
over done and dusted up faces.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 3:25 AM UTC
*I am wine in a jack-in-a-box cellar
Wonderlands, neverlands propelling in a boomerang war
Exalting stubborn as weeds in the gardens of well-tended graves
As far off as the most withered waves*
**I'll drop my roses of singularity
And let the world leap topsy turvy**
*Eyes turned upside down like folded floral peels before a fallen angel
Rubbing errant pointed brushes against an airy easel
The teapots are now dancing round rainbow tornadoes
Clocks reverse themselves in a scourge of a prose*
**I'll drop my roses of singularity
And let the world leap topsy turvy**
*Singing horses dallying kings and queens with whips of cod
Skinny, scorned nutcrackers lolly gagging for a later maraud
Spoons racing Jack and Jill down a spiny valley of prats
I'd shut them off, they come alive with vicious spats*
**I'll drop my roses of singularity
And let the world leap topsy turvy**
*My trappings with all things mad
Wafted me ajar a silvery smoke of sad
I breathe the clouds of my helter skelter
As if in every catatonic whir it flutters rises an answer*
**I'll drop my roses of singularity
And let the world leap topsy turvy**
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
I was writing all down what was written before,
Writing down prats,
Writing down ******
When I stumbled upon an array of deceit,
It was a trap,
They took my journal from me.
I smiled.
No one will ever find their bodies.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC
Posh shows her baby to the **** press
Gaga gets out her milky white *******
and all I think is of the new world
we are so ****** *******
As time resist saying no no
we push it aside for here we go
they pay more for a football player
then charities seeking world peace
This is the justice of the modern age
maybe I will be the same, be a total Runt
pray to God saying none should survive
all on this backward world should die
This world is full of *** holes and prats
it's November but the turkey is getting fat
yet children in 3rd world sh*t holes
will just be starving with no Christmas cheer
The puritanical plastic smiles on news updates
they will say with the Devil in their eyes
happy Christmas you mug proletarians
as they look at a black lens, thinking it your face
One by one my kind will wake you
look deep into your eyes to see if you care
but I know what will come of it
there will be death everywhere
Shove the whole lot on a big red bus
the biggest bus in the world
and burn it, burn it out
till all the cankerous sores have been rid of
Christmas is coming
the goose is a *****
and the angels of death
will be knocking at your door
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2011 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 5:54 AM UTC
The cold is razor sharp, but my knife cuts deeper still.
As sinews rip apart, my future bends anew.
They may call it crime, but who are they to judge?
It’s a fight to stay alive, and it’s worth a sacrifice.
As every light goes out, I whistle my way home
My spirit is resolved. This tragedy none will solve.
The next day in my flat, as I count my newfound wealth,
I laugh at all the prats dressed head to toe in black.
It fills my heart with glee when a summons finds my door
The court must find guilt of one oddly resembling me.
Those fools with the wigs run their mouths for days and nights,
Presenting “facts” and defendant's “rights” while common sense they lack.
For quite some time I sit content while no one dares suspect.
But mad disease starts to infect when I see how that poor man still pleads...
As trials drone on for weeks lacking release,
I feel myself slip into something like grief-
I’m weak at the seams whenever I sleep,
the ghosts of my victims haunt every dream.
When judgment is cast, I don’t make a sound,
all is rustling of paper and staring at ground.
“Confess,” breathes a demon, my soul harrows in fear.
But frozen I’m found
As the gavel
Comes
Down.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC
Anne stuck her tongue out at
the back of the departing nun.
A third degree on her bad behaviour
with the other kids at the nursing
home and her attitude with other
nuns had been noted. The stump
of her amputated leg throbbed;
her absent toes itched. The nun
crossed the lawn and disappeared
into the home. The Kid walked over
to where she sat in her wheelchair
and sat beside her. What did the
penguin want? He said. She's had
complaints about me, Anne replied,
the sick prats have grassed. He gazed
at the leg stump where she'd pulled
up her red skirt. Looks redder than
usual, he said. Have your eyeful, Kid,
she said moaningly. Have you showed
Sister Paul? He said. I wouldn't show her
my backside if it was on fire, she replied,
pulling down her skirt. Push me out
to the beach, Kid, I need sea air, she said.
O.k., he said, and pushed her wheelchair
along the avenue of trees to the back
gate and out by beach and sea. Breath
in the air, Kid; this is it; the wildness of
the sea and the wind blowing free.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 12:50 PM UTC