"prost" poems
Got that feeling in the gut?
Tummy stuck deep in a rut,
try and think of other things,
not of spewing up my ring.
Bleugh!
Give up almost right away,
cannot fight or hide today,
belly brewing like a storm.
Here it is, thick and warm.
gruggle (sound effects)
Tastes real bad up the wrong end,
whizzes round the toilet bend.
Like Senna and that Alain Prost,
my tummy has the last riposte.
Wuk, wuk, wurg.(I am NOT anorexic)
Shall I try a biccie now,
maybe milk out of a cow,
perhaps a swig of orange juice?
Whats the point, it's no use.
There's a demon in my guts,
giving duodenal butts,
feel it having so much fun,
did it get in through my ***
Have to get the pills in soon,
hope that I can keep them down,
sat here shaking like a jelly,
heres some more, wow that was smelly!
Since I came here past the border,
exported with my gut disorder.
Need a rapid puke solution,
to end my Solway Firth pollution!
Dec 13, 2010
Dec 13, 2010 at 10:13 AM UTC
I remember in the days when I wore overalls
And had pajamas with dinosaurs on them.
When a pinky promise was unbreakable,
And whoever could run the fastest was king.
The world was huge.
A trip to the grocery store was a great journey.
A small boat ride was a quest for the Golden Fleece.
Flying on an airplane was like going to another planet.
Then I became a teenager.
The world was smaller.
The internet had compacted it.
The media shaped it.
The elders squandered it.
And I believed them.
I saw pictures.
I saw people write about their exotic trips.
How they found the culture in India to be quite lovely,
But the temperature was over-bearing.
How they found that everyone loves their beer in Ireland,
But the greater beauty was in the landscapes.
Now I am older... ish.
But I see more truth than ever before.
They found.
They thought.
But what do I think?
What do I think of these places that I have never gone to?
To tell you the truth,
I don't know.
But that world that was once small.
That world that was so infinitesimally microscopic.
Suddenly came roaring into my head.
Venice was waiting for me to visit it!
To sail on a gondola with a beautiful Italian girl.
Paris awaited me!
To indulge in delicious cuisine!
Germany had its arms wide open!
They think they can drink?
I say, "Prost!"
The world is open and ready for adventure, my friends!
So, who's coming with me?
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 3:00 AM UTC
we kiss like a swordfight,
sandpaper to silk.
tick
tock
tick
t-
the driver's side door always closes a
split second before the passenger's.
cut to the bar: enveloped in smoke and your arms,
the quiet hum of your shirt against my cheek
close my eyes and the pool table turns to noise-
the red lights become laughter, and i smile.
my back's against invisible glass,
eyes still shut, i feel your voice
sound out above my head
as i stay, tucked under
your chin and
stolen.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 10:18 PM UTC
To be in McLaren MTC,
That really would be cool,
I hope this competition's real,
Not an early April fool.
A dedicated petrol head,
Who's driven an F1 car,
A Benetton in Spain last year,
Not a Prost, or Jaguar,
Would love to see the inside track,
See inside a first class team,
To sit and sip the atmosphere,
Would fulfil a long held dream
To be sat there in race control,
Just as the race is run,
Aside from being a privilege,
Would really be such fun.
So in picking out a winner,
It's very clear to see,
You need to look no further,
The one to pick is me !
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 1:48 PM UTC
If I turn around I can see the sun,
the moon,
the stars.
I can't imagine a dream,
more conclusive in its ending.
They all fall.
I cannot find a solution.
I cannot find an answer to this never ending thought.
I tried today to find a light,
to light this cave I've descended into.
Instead I found more darkness, just.
It shone, as light would,
but reflected nothing.
But this darkness does not intimidate me.
I do not fear it.
I just do not understand it.
When you smile, I find it
to be absolutely fascinating.
but I do not know how to respond.
It does not provoke my own face to mimic your emotion.
So i look on in the darkness for an emotion
I can fathom to explain. To repeat.
I fail.
I find joy, but it is not the joy you feel.
Mine is not a feeling. not an emotion.
it is an idea, a lucid dream.
my imagination, telling me the difference
between my smile and yours.
I know you.
I wish I knew you better.
I want to watch you, like I used to.
Like I used to so enjoy to do.
But life has taken us separate directions.
No.
Truth, I miss you.
Prost.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
A fost *** a fost si n-a mai fost niciodată,
Un mare prost și ea o mare proastă.
Un tâmpit grozav și ea puțin tâmpită,
A fost de la început încrezător și ea nedumerită.
1-2-3-6 plozi,
Fiecare dintre ei puțin mai debili,
Când a murit el, a ieșit al 8-lea și ea a surâs,
La cât de prost era nu și-a dat seama,
Că el trăgea cu gloanțe oarbe, iar poștașul cu ghiuleaua.
Dar scrisorile au devenit emailuri, că era și vremea,
Alocația a crescut la fel ca și inflația,
Din 1-2-3-6-8 plozi,
Doi sunt antreprenori și doi sunt scriitori,
Doi sunt virgini,
Iar restul, muncitori pe șantier,
Îi întrețin.
Apr 21, 2022
Apr 21, 2022 at 4:46 PM UTC
gdzie wasze serca? na hawaiiach?
co, kurwa, serdeczne mi:
szkoda że cie tu nie
było na pocztuwce? o kurwa... hlups!
a gdzie wasze oczy?
kurwa mać,
na antarktydzie?
ty na wize-wize w głąb
kapusty, czy w prost:
na czele marszem
w krąg znawy:
cebula, na setki pokrojona,
a potem w otchłan
tluszczu... smażona...
taka to jebana krewetka;
you have to the count of three
to create the missing graphemes
that already exist in
your tongue: cz, sz, rz...
diacritical marks will not save
cz (č), or sz with (š),
you already know the latter rz (ż)...
for fuck's sake...
craft some decent graphemes
for "twin"-consonants.
*w portki rżnąć... ******** their pants.*
come on! create at least one
original grapheme,
akin to what the germans did with eszett...
ß
æ œ
? let's have a mummy!
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 7:47 PM UTC