"punters" poems
At last the sun is out and about
indulge in your piece of summer.
Today London in bloom
white clouds, white swans
roam out to the sky.
Welcoming the punters
the sun is rolling down.
Come never wonder,
for once, what they're worth.
Hop on, pop in, drop by
bask in London summer!
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 11:05 AM UTC
One day
Woke up feeling randy
No one else was handy
What's to do?
Get dressed
Satisfy the horn
With badly acted ****
On pay per view
Hopes sink
Cable's on the blink
But twitter lends a helping hand
Bang, bang, come and have a gang bang
Gain entrance on demand
Have a gang bang
Come and have a gang bang
It's a gang bang
Come and have a gang bang
Went out
Followed the directions
Battling erections
All the while
Red cheeks
Granny at the bus stop
Let her vision drop
Then cracked a smile
Half four
Knocking at the door
It opens and a voice proclaims
"Bang, bang, come and have a gang bang
We've far too many dames"
The host was a sight to see
Not far over seventy
And wrapped in a silk dressing gown
I thought I would walk away
But saw that the sky was grey
And it star-
-ted *******
It down
Stepped in
Blinded by a deep gloom
Ushered to a dark room
Curtains shut
Deep breath
Air is old and musty
Carpet feeling crusty
Underfoot
Sprawled there
Women lying bare
And fellas with their organs free
Bang, bang, cover up your **** ****
Regain your decency
Pretty gang bang
Pretty ****** gang bang
****** gang bang
Pretty ****** gang bang
Look round
Writhing on the ground
With squishy little sounds
But something's odd
Fat lass
Itching at her *** crack
Isn't that a ball sack?
Oh my god!
Jaw drops
Granny from the bus stop
Wearing nothing but a grin
Bang, bang, pretty ****** gang bang
What ******* let her in?
She's nothing but skin and bone
With ribs like a xylophone
At least several decades too old
To use the vernacular
It's like bumming Dracula
She's wiry
She's wizened
She's cold
Oh (pretty) no ******
Rasping on my ****
With fingers like a sock
Filled up with ice
No (scary) chance (hairy)
Giving her the slip
My todger's in a grip
Just like a vice
It (saggy) seems (baggy)
Like she's in a dream
While scraping with her ancient hand
Bang, bang, ****** ****** gang bang
My sore and swollen gland
Granny bang bang
Granny granny gang bang
Granny gang bang
Granny ***** gang bang
Knock, knock
Coppers at the door
Go crawling on the floor
And off at speed
What fun
Looking at the punters
Myriad of munters
As they flee'd
Cold, wet
Drowning in regret
With trousers round my knees I stand
Bang bang ****** ****** gang bang
Next time I'll use my hand
Bang bang ****** ****** gang bang
Next time I'll use my haaaaaaaaaaaaaaand!
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 3:00 AM UTC
Laced with ribbons of moonlight
Bangladesh a touched dream at first light.
Land of my father, my mother
sweeter than nectar.
Purer than the driven snow
brighter than raw gold.
Gazing stars’ bumped up bottom
down the untouched moon.
Men and the six seasons
living in one loving fold
our one fertile sweet home!
O Allah rank our martyrs our heroes
up high in paradise in bloom
brought Bangladesh freedom abloom!
Punters cumulus clouds fly
eyes on the sky blue
on a spur hanging low tune into wild coo.
Picture independent Bangladesh
step in on the morning rug
rolls out outside the sun
walk through, the moon is inside!
Bask in, take your time
when the twilight adds a shadow
the beauty spot on your broad daylight
escape to more serendipitous discovery.
Eye on the stars or tuberoses on the ground
our free land is inspiring, beautiful even in the dark.
Laughs free from a tulip glass
across the land, air and the water
upon the reed flute stirred river
flowing downstream to the hilt
from a deep-delved foundation out of reach
her raised high flag flies
over the pivotal banyan trees.
Every flap of our ‘the sun in the green’ shaped flag,
the light of heaven on the evergreen earth!
Ah, sways in the chalice of every flower
on the land cheers beyond the warm South
whispers to our hearts and makes us feel proud.
Mar 1, 2022
Mar 1, 2022 at 10:14 PM UTC
Gilhooley had ordered a meeting
Everyone had to come round
St. Patricks day will be upon us
And a venue just has to be found
We have to find somewhere authentic
Our normal old pub just won't do
We can't celebrate with the punters
Where the beer isn't green, it's dyed blue
Gilhooley awaited suggestions
It had to be somewhere close by
There were all sorts of names on the table
So they decided to give them a try
It needed to be "somewhat old Irish"
with no dee jay, and a folky type band
they had to have red headed women
And a barman, with drinks poured and at hand
The first place they went was McKenna's
It seemed like a great place at first
but the service was slower than treacle
and a man would just die here of thirst
They found one that looked rather Irish
It was known as the new *** of gold
it had a rainbow outside on the awning
this should have been a warning fortold
the next one they tried was a classic
The green and gold tavern....a hit
but, it was booked on the day for a party
and this didn't please them one bit
they finally found one to their liking
full of guineess and pretty colleens
a punjabi bar by the name of ben doury's
where everything was curried and green
it was a party that no one remembered
that meant that it must have been good
nobody went to the jailhouse
even though three or four of them should
The beer and the curry were epic
the singing was like nothing we'd heard
a sitar and cymbal based trio
played so loud that nothing was heard
Gilhooley said next year we have to
come back here and do it again
It was the best St. Patty's ever
most of them passed out by ten
The next time you go out to party
call Ben Doury, the place is spot on
the food and the beer are one colour
with a Punjabi Mumbai Leprachaun
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
The sky is eye wide open
so bright a lapis lazuli hue.
The houri fair maid of heaven
colour in every shade of blue,
up to the door, she must have come through.
See the rosy spring's
bumblebees are on their wings.
Ah, the sweet flowing southern breeze
wafts along with the blue bees.
It must have thought,
humming up on a high they go,
but no!
The sea sitting deep beneath is out and about
jumps to blue sky and slides down from the clouds
sweeping the land dance on the rivers.
By now, the silent land's sleeping beauty must be
wake by the mellifluous water nymphs.
The bottom is still a far cry; the water is cascading,
so are the bumblebees softly descending.
Beneath the open heaven's painting
into the honey spring, the punters take a peep.
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 7:17 AM UTC
Preamble at the showdown the fighters eye to eye
Droning pulse of discourse from the referee is dry,
Bouncing back to my corner the butterflies take charge
For the other guy’s a monster, like a Doberman at large.
Bell resounds alarmingly, I shuffle forth to meet
A combination thrown with steel…it whacks me off my feet.
Seeing stars I resurrect to lurch about the ring
To try to keep some distance from the monster’s punching sting.
Roaring crowd are baying now they call to take me out
The Doberman is grinning for he reckons it’s a route,
The flashing light confusing, the noise a steady din
As the monster comes in quickly to achieve expected win.
Throwing jabs to keep him back, retreating to the rope
I cover up with everything to give myself some hope
He pounds with his salvos they hammer hard and fast
His breathing rasping in my ears I pray to God I last.
Saved by the bell and cold water, such disgrace
The crowd are loudly booing, I’ve not put leather on his face,
A wash of resolution hotly surges from within
So I **** the mouth guard back and rush on out to tackle him.
Defensive expectations had him open up his chin
So I feinted with a left and launched a mighty right with spin,
Boring in with fury and a combination score
I hit him with an uppercut which traversed from the floor.
Miraculously the eyeballs rolled and disappeared from sight
I threw another flurry…but had no one to fight
Flat out on the deck he lay, the Doberman was out
As I bounced around like Rocky to the punters frenzied shout.
Camera flashes blinded as the raving crowd went wild.
It defied all expectations, I was the sacrificial child.
Bets were laid that I would fall within a round or two
The screaming din reflected that all bets were in the poo.
The countdown took forever and I swear I watched each stroke
And kept one eye on the fallen, should he rise he’d go for broke,
My amazement with two wobbly knees and heaving lungs of fire
When my leaden glove was held aloft to victory entire.
Winners come and winners go but this I’ll not forget
When fortune favoured sweetly…and I collected on the bet!
Marshalg
My thanks to Shane Cameron…a real fighter.
14 April 2013 (Pukehana Paradise)
© 2013 Marshal Gebbie
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
Decorations are up
hung from fishing wire,
fishing for good luck.
There’s Christmas on her neck
and as she stretches out in front of me
a wake of cinnamon decks the halls.
It remains and lingers,
falls away past nostrils and
turns to festive well-wishes.
The market is in full swing
wrapped up tight in large scarves,
like a low cut sling cradling the cold.
Winter has the streets in its hold,
the wind is sour, bitter to taste,
and punters, commuters, Asian lost-tourists walk in haste.
Shop floors are warmed by radiators
hung above their wide open doors:
let the heat out, let the customers in.
And when the mid-November light dims
and the council gets past the
everlasting electrical admin,
streetlamp sticks will light and spark,
sending effulgent embers down onto
the Cambridge cobbles.
Children will peer wide eyed into windows
remembering names for their lists,
hoping to unwrap them as gifts later on down the line.
Adults, some probable parents and others newly-wed together,
enjoy the festivities, the weather, the bespoke crafts
bought from Argos sold as Handmade Swedish Chairs
And do they care? No.
It’s Christmas in Cambridge and
winter is settling in.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 7:38 AM UTC
The trolls are funny and have secrets untold
The blood elves well they just get trolled
The taurens are peaceful and kind
The goblins are quite hard to find
The orcs have a mighty roar
The undeads of a thirst for war
These are the Horde we all know and love
The next ones you see beat the ones above
The dwarves are are born to be hunters
The gnomes are sick of the punters
The humans build great cities of gold
The night elf leaders are kind of old
The draenei come from far away
I guess the worgen have to stay
My writing is done and I bid you good day
The end is done I have nothing left to say
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
.
The street lamp barely pierces the gloom
as darkness fills up Nature's room.
Any icy breeze blows down the street,
the air is full of rain and sleet.
She stands beneath the murky light,
one of a few out working tonight.
Her clothes do not reflect the weather,
miniskirt, t-shirt, long boots of leather.
Pinprick marks upon her arm reveal
a habit to hide all that she feels.
A daemon that has to be well fed,
from money made in a punters bed.
A low rumble, the quiet is disturbed,
creeping slowly, pulling up at the kerb.
Quick furtive words, a deal is complete,
she opens the door, slides into the seat.
Sometime later she has returned to her place,
crying and shaking, blood on her face.
The blood on her shirt is already dry,
and purple black bruises adorn her eyes.
She does not complain, she does not speak.
It just happens. At least once a week.
There is always one will have his way,
beat her about, and refuse to pay.
Give her a minute to fix her smile,
she will be back in just a short while.
Waiting tartly to be once more defiled,
hoping tonight she can feed her child.
She dreams her daughter will never see
this sick, dark side of her society.
For her sake she hopes to escape
the drugs, the violence, and the ****
Maybe one eve she will not show
her charms under the street lamps glow.
Has she escaped to a better life instead?
Perhaps she is in the river, floating dead?
But 'til then she walks the pavement.
Big smile, **** out, making a statement.
She won't wait long for another ride,
she will block out whatever happens inside.
And the cycle repeats almost every night,
beneath the lamp with the murky light.
This is her spot, her street, her world.
This is the life of a poor street girl.
© Pagan Paul (03/03/17)
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 6:30 PM UTC
Grimsby, a murky wee northerly town
And lousy with houses of seedy renown
The ladies wear only a loose fitting gown
Transactions are furtive and quick
And every street corner is coated in brass
With a ****** for every discernable class
In a spectrum of hues and selection of mass
All awaiting a dip of the wick
Diseases are spreading and taking a hold
With pimples and blisters and, finally, mould
But just when the punters are starting to fold
A saviour arrives in the nick
Doctor McNaughty, King of the Kink
And his brothel of many surprises
A welcoming smile, a comfortable bed
And some help with whatever arises
The rooms are fantastic, the ropes are elastic
With feathery leather and spikes
It wanders the street on mechanical feet
And it scoops up the punters it likes
There’s something to suit almost every wish
With strawberries and freshly whipped cream in a dish
There’s a bucket of springs and a kettle of fish
And the manacles, shackles and chains
A selection of ******* and optional clamps
There’re pulleys, tackle and half-pipe ramps
A physio suite for reduction of cramps
And the treatment of ****** strains
A marshmallow room with a candyfloss bed
And hookers of platinum, purple and red
And for those who are hankering after the dead
There’s a room full of human remains
Doctor McNaughty, Lord of the *****
A magical, mystical ****
With wonders galore behind every door
And occasional chicken or gimp
His visits are brief, but of major relief
To the multitude often attending
Then he’s off in a flash with a bundle of cash
He so loves a happy ending
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 6:25 AM UTC
Ole planned
to go
to Las Vegas
but he didn't make it
his untimely death
got in the way
(such are the plans
of mice and men
they say)
he even noted it
on his
Face Book page
mentioned
in passing
as if
a whole clear road
was visible ahead
(now he's dead)
but I can can see him
now in spirit
making his
own way there
taking in
the bright lights
the neon signs
the shows
to be seen
(getting in for free too
what a Mutley laugh
that will bring)
and Ole
in his black hat
and coat and shirt
and dark shades
making his way
at his own
slow pace
around the casinos
his ghostly hand
pulling a few arms
of one armed bandit
machines
while the punters
look on
**** witless
as the arm
goes down
again and again
or in the other games
I can see you
taking your own part
your sense
of gamble and fair play
wandering the tables
ghostly whispering
advice
(in your quiet voice
being nice)
having a cool beer
at the bar
or Jim Beam
or Jameson
if they've got it
you sitting there
the barman unaware
you there
taking in
the whole scene
the big shows
the bright lights
neon signs
wish I
could go there
with you
walk at your side
sharing a beer
or whiskey
a soft conversation
or that special silence
we often shared
when words
weren't needed
where the bond
was strong
go to Vegas my son
go to Las Vegas Ole
take in
the whole scene
of Vegas fun
my departed son.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC
Making Waves
**** dancer to the waves.
See how she moves to the music.
Base turned up full boom boomboom!
Even when she’d driving, she dances.
Her stereo on full while she nods her head.
She’s the stereo loving gal and don’t we know it?
Her job is her life in a Go-Go bar.
Watch her turn, wiggle and dive for the punters.
Pay her a dollar and she’ll **** buck and f*ck you.
Doing this and more to the tunes.
Her body is the ocean and her soul the wind.
Her moods match these and she always gets her way.
This gal isn’t poor or stupid.
Because she owns everything in the joint.
The bar, the stereo, the band, the songs, the punters.
She looks like a *****
Anyone else wouldn’t be like this.
Except for a naïve innocent teen used and abused.
It’s high class illusion.
Part of the show and old routine.
No more or less is given by **** Sultry Sharon.
In her bar by the sea.
She does six shows a night.
Bearing all and more for the likes of you and me.
So off we go to her bar.
Bring all your cash and an open mind.
You’re in for the night of your life so don’t be late!
Nov 4, 2019
Nov 4, 2019 at 3:43 AM UTC
Sat idle in my stand,
watching,
waiting,
on the rest of the band
A quiet wooden box of strings
Humble and shining, just ready to do my thing
They plod through the acoustics, oh such a bore
It's time to let rip baby, gimme some power chords!
As the hits keep coming, soon to take my bow
Let's deafen these crazed punters, let me start this row
As you thought that noise was Mr Marshall all at the wrong settings
Uh-uh dear listeners, it's my veins just over jetting
Pick me up you freak, finger me into some heavenly patterns
So let's rock,
let's roll,
and let this frustrated cut out do its feedback chatting
🤟🏼
JJB
Oct 17, 2023
Oct 17, 2023 at 7:26 AM UTC
The word was out around the street
Tonight, behind Giannis bar
There would be really something special
From the bluesman and his guitar
For locals not for punters
Just for those upon the street
You'd better bring a lawn chair
If you wanted a good seat
The word spread fast and no one
Would miss this once they heard
New works from the bluesman
You had to take in every word
The bluesman was a legend
In this flawed, dark part of town
He only played back in the alley
That was where his show went down
At precisely eleven seventeen
The bluesman took his place
Upon his beat up orange crate
In his same familiar space
It was just like a cathedral
Underneath the golden moon
Quiet and forboding
As he started his first tune
The alley was the bluesmans church
As he sang to the street people
But this church had no walls or pews
No bells, it had no steeple
The bluesman sang of love and loss
Of dragons, ships and gin
He sang of Shubert, Bach and Liszt
He sang of constant sin
He looked but he saw no one
He was zoning, all alone
He sang songs of faith and hunger
Time to give the dog a bone
He played and drank his med-cin
For sometimes he got dry
The bluesman had the crowd entrapped
Beneath the shining moonlit sky
He talked of how his smoking
Through the years gave him his sound
It only took me fifty years
I'm surprised I'm still around
He sang of love and window panes
Of jealousy and trust
Of walruses and potholes
Of people turned to dust
As people sat in wonder
Of this prophet in disguise
You could see a certain twinkle
Deep in the bluesmans eyes
Gianni, stood off to the side
Timekeeper of the show
He signalled to the bluesman
One more and we must go
He had to close the restaurant
Turn the lights off in the back
So the bluesman took another sip
And grabbed a song from his minds pack
He finished up with something
Singing songs for all who came
He made them feel it was their heartsong
Although he never said a name
He sang of waitresses and barkeeps
Pawn brokers and of guests
of family and train tracks
of watchers and of quests
He finished up and packed away
His crate and his guitar
And he collected appreciation
In a two quart mason jar
The crowd left thirty dollars
almost ninety cents a seat
A fortune to the bluesman
And the folks here on the street
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
Up and down it flows,
round and round it goes,
where it stops we all know,
Roller coaster, Roller coaster.
Clacking down the tracks,
no one ever looks back,
never homeward bound,
that familiar sound,
Roller coaster, Roller coaster.
Hear the cries and pleas,
of punters filled with glee,
hair flying wind rushing,
Roller coaster, Roller coaster.
Never to want it to stop,
movement around the clock,
rush rush fast fast,
Roller coaster, Roller coaster.
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
Chester draws big crowds on raceday.
Employees dress up for away-days,
And punters hope for a big pay-day.
But, come the end of the day,
After bad bets that were the last straw,
All the fancy garb is taken off,
And put back in the chest of drawers.
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 7:07 PM UTC
The change takes place when night time arrives,
Both loving it, and hating it, she never can decide,
The preparation is a ritual for her,
With silken bodied slipping into something barely there.
When the strides and sways of her hips coincide,
That's the time when the lucky punters are in for a ride,
Saxophones and cymbles and melodies flow,
She's entranced and submits how her erotica shows.
Her spirit is elsewhere, but her body will do,
As she grinds and she swings, and she tries to get through,
But then something kicks in, and the pleasure takes hold,
So she writhes and she touches herself, oh so bold.
They go crazy for her and the cash flies around,
Her excitement is mounting, making sexier sounds,
Faster and faster, her ****** comes quick,
So she uses her pole for her latest few tricks.
The plateau is encountered, and her body slows down,
Regaining her faculties, she dons her tame crown,
Opening her eyes, she gathers her surprises,
And heads home for the next chapter, when the moon next rises.
Feb 18, 2010
Feb 18, 2010 at 7:57 AM UTC
Tip tap tip tap.
Diagonal shadows dance across the steering wheel as the relentless rain forms and overflows.
A moments silence.
Chrome flickers under the street light.
The shooter cocked and ready.
An innocent marked man sits upon a bar stool merrily sipping a pint of Guinness in the pub.
Sticky patterned carpet under foot from many a spilt beer.
Scented ***** wafts out of the boozers pores towards the masked assassins.
A couple hog the fruit machine, the jackpot only a pound away.
10 shots ring out leaving the punters ducking for cover.
Ears pierced by the noise.
Screams.
The assassins shadows are gone long before anyone could bear witness to the terrifying act.
Body slumped, but alive.
Burnt fleshy smoke emanating from the slug holes in an innocent mans abdomen.
Pint toppled adding another stain to the collection on the old carpet.
Wrong target.
Wrong man.
Wrong bar stool.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
Greyhounds bolt,
Elastic dogs,
Trapped till the rabbit runs.
A gun fires and punters wave papers,
Smudged smutted hankies,
To wish poor puppies on.
Rabid run,
Rabbit run,
Dogs ‘fun’ done,
Punters wins to spend on ***
Dogs retire to a night behind wire,
Howling,
Cold,
Whining.
Punters swagger to a night of vice,
Yelling
Warm,
Wining.
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 6:25 PM UTC
At five in a morning they scavenge about,
Punters at a car boot sale
Searching for bargains with torches.
Why the lights?
Because it’s still dark.
Why dark?
Because it’s SEPTEMBER.
September: the month when the kids go back
To school.
When bowls goes indoors,
Snooker starts;
Cricket draws to a close,
As bad light stops play.
Premiership football into its second month
And Rugby Superleague into the Playoffs.
Telly programmes that have run all summer
Grind to a halt
And Winter TV takes over.
“Question Time” is back
Along with parliament,
Though Boris soon closed it
This year!
The nights get longer,
Minute by minute
And soon those leaves will turn
That lovely golden hue:
Ironically the mark of Death.
Thoughts will soon be turned to Christmas
As we steel ourselves
For another Winter.
Halloween and Bonfire Night
Are coming soon.
This year we have “The Brexit Deadline”,
A new distraction
Drawing our eyes away
From the eternal passage
Of time.
Paul Butters
© PB 23\9\2019.
Sep 23, 2019
Sep 23, 2019 at 6:15 AM UTC
Ambling along the seaside
a group of youth
on the brink,
looking for good music and cheap beer
we drank Jameson straight from the bottle
and poured cheap wine down each others throats
and then you grabbed my hand and
you pulled me along
like we were lovers
but I'd only just met you that day.
Closing in on a heaving crowd outside a dark edged bar,
we all agreed.
Stepping in
he whispered,
"You're my girlfriend for the night right?"
I didn't respond
ruminations and innocence
didn't recognize
it was just the way you were
i did not know you
after all.
this person ---
an enigma
a formation of every external fantasy was feasting upon me like prey.
Mind fuckery tipped me to the point
of no return.
For a moment
I lost you in the crowd
and I drank myself into a stupid spin
when I looked up to the landing,
you were there
looking down on me.
I danced wildly
as your eyes burned into mine.
a mission on your mind.
Later we fell out of the sweat infused bar
incomprehensibly drunk with glee
and drinking in fresh air.
Against the wall, the others fell and laughed,
but you ---
you grabbed my neck, my face, my being,
while wild curiosity burned in your eyes.
and you say that I'm intense...
Twisting our faces into a kiss,
you were so unexpected
you grabbed my hand, and we ran into the grass across the street,
but instead of sunlight and fresh flowers
taxi cabs and punters filled the streets around us
and I could hear our friends looking
Intwined for a moment --- frozen in time
swift and fleeting,
we struggled for breath discovering each other with crazed passion --
until it stopped suddenly
an interruption of unimaginable events.
they screamed our names
and so it was over.
gathered again the group headed toward the dawn,
but that kiss --- still wet on my mouth
left me gravitated
but you distanced yourself
with disregard.
I fell more in lust the further apart we grew down the alley ways
the cobblestone paths,
damp streets and street dwellers
towards the train and back to inevitable reality
couples and friends walking
separately,
and as one
but you
were not with me.
I wished
that moment would continue
that we would walk into the light of some
irrational dream
and then I woke up
in a foreign land tears filled my eyes
You said you were crazy when you drink,
but maybe i'm just
crazy.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
Fluttering weakly in the breeze
Left in the wake of the train's passing,
George's proud flag hung limp
From the pole,
Weathered and worn,
Like a tired old soul.
It's procurement no doubt,
was a misplaced, ill-thought out
statement of pride,
A belligerent shout
At the fresh-off-the-boat,
Here for the so-called ride.
The flag was once clear,
But Britannia's grey skies had
Poured down their drink,
Washing the colours,
Calming the passion,
From red into pink.
The train swept past,
It's multicultural seats
Brimming in rainbow hues,
As the punters sped
To the proud parade
Of the minority few.
They saluted the flag,
Laughter from lipstick,
Teasing it's impotence,
As the hated flag
Unexpectedly praised
Their innocence.
The train traveled on,
Past gardens like embassy roofs,
Displaying flags in retort;
Their bright bold colours
From every shore
Joined in support.
No tears for poor George,
Confused in his ways,
Run up a flagpole to fall and decay.
So sad to see, thought Union Jack,
As he flew with his friends
And waved at the track.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
HE WAS BACK, LIKE PHAEDRUS BUT NOT
OF THIS EARTH, RATHER TO HAVE SOME FUN
FOR WHAT IT WAS WORTH; I TOLD HIM TO
BEHAVE PROPERLY AND LEAVE THE TALKING
TO ME - EVEN THEN HIS POWER WAS GREATER
THAN IT APPEARED TO BE; AN EMPTY GLASS
BECAME FULL, SOMEONE'S WALLET SUDDENLY
HAD EXTRA NOTES AND A NEARBY DOG TURNED
IN CIRCLES WHEN IT REALIZED THAT NO TAIL
WAS VISIBLE; THE PUNTERS WERE ASTONISHED
WHEN A HORSE IN A TV RACE WHICH WAS
CLEARLY LOSING, SUDDENLY STRAIGHTENED IT'S
KNEES AND LEAPT FORWARD PAST THE OTHERS
TO WIN - PLEASE EXPLAIN, I DON'T KNOW WHERE TO BEGIN!
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 2:27 PM UTC
I was in a red phone booth
in Rockingham Street
looking for coins left behind
in the little cups
in the phone machine
my old man knocked
on the glass window
of the booth
I looked at him standing there
his deep set eyes
his Errol Flynn moustache
I came out of the booth
and let the door shut
behind me
what are you
doing in there?
he asked
looking for coins
left behind
I said
were there any?
no none at all
he nodded
and looked in the booth
shame
sometimes punters do
he said
I looked at him
he had a hollow look
about him
sunken cheeks
just as well
it was me
and not your mother
who saw you in there
he said
yes guess so
I said
well got to go to work
he said
how about
going to see a film
this weekend?
sure be good
I said
John Wayne film
cowboy film?
no war movie
Pork Chop Hill
I think it's called
he said
ok be good
I said
he nodded and left
I watched him go
and out of sight
I opened my hand
and looked at the coins
I found in the cup
of the phone machine
I pocketed them
and walked to Baldy's shop
and bought
some bubblegum
and a drink of pop
and walked back to the flat
I ought to have shown
my old man the coins
but I didn't
and that was that.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
She sits.
Wondering how to reach the sky.
A fix of magic tricks.
To make her fly.
She'll cry for it.
Lie for it.
Maybe even die for it.
She sighs for it.
You can see it in her saucer eyes.
She's flying at last.
What happened yesterday's only the past.
Sky scraping.
Risk taking.
Meat hooks.
***** looks.
Bouncing on pavements with forbidden ones.
Daughters together and unholy sons.
Sniffing a thin line.
A hit, at a wild time.
It caught her badly.
Cut to ribbons.
Bites with sickness.
Bleeding out silently.
Mellow sounds of Stevie Nicks.
Beat through her brain, like kettle drums.
Living life supporting bums.
The gorgeous dolly.
Off her trolley.
Biscuit crumbs.
Missing mums.
Snatching supreme highs.
At the back of her chemical eyes.
Defiantly deviant.
For the life she once had retreated inside.
Her very soul defeated.
By the touch of the dealer man.
She beaten inside and out.
Uppers and downers.
Picks up out of townies.
And she's a singer.
Her song is sung for punters.
A taster.
A sample of what they're gonna get.
She looks at her discarded needles.
Set of works that work.
Another ugly fella.
Just another ****
The working girl she goes berserk.
Ask her, she'll tell ya.
She's just gotta work.
Jupiter's rising.
Ecstatic moon.
Needs another hit now, it's hellish too soon
Slaps on her heels.
Finds appalling man, somehow appealing.
She plays for the pimple who stranded her there.
She no longer feels.
Life ebbing out of her.
Sold her soul for rock 'n' roll.
Questions the beautiful place that she lingers in.
Not beautiful.
Abysmal.
Dismal.
No choice.
Her song always the same, has little choice.
The singer wants her song to stop, but just can't find her voice.
Drugs sicken her.
Money all spent.
Stand up.
Be counted.
****** repent.
You bet ya, she can't.
Stuck in a hole, with a drug ridden soul.
Hunting for dragons, in the back of their wagons.
A ***** for old rope, a little more dope.
(c) Livvi
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC