"skinful" poems
Father Time wanted the future.
Mother Earth begged him to stop.
Bleeding, hurting, dying inside,
And Father still turned the clock.
Mother Earth gave us compassion.
Father took it away.
He argued it was too old fashioned,
And that compassion was too mundane.
Father Time gave us sinful, skinful pleasure.
Mother Earth pleaded against so.
She knew it'd make her baby sick.
It'd make time fly out the window.
Mother gave us crystal waters.
Father dried all the lakes.
Father Time, some figure head father
We're to believe he doesn't make mistakes.
Father Time is our god.
So we should all believe in him.
Mother Earth will no longer nod.
She knows our god has sinned.
Mother Earth isn't stable.
Mother's choking last breaths,
Begging for another choice
Father knows she is unable,
He lets women have no voice.
Cutting her down
For the last
Heartmolding
Time,
That awful man
Cruelly ended
Something so divine,
Mother Earth was mine.
And now?
I cannot find her.
Father spun her purely out of existence.
Father of it all,
Cackling still,
This ************* persistence
Of death
I hear my earth wilt.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 2:14 AM UTC
tattooing,casting desires deeper than your itch
my ink spelling words every where you stink
you seem more responsive when they call you *****
I just want YOU to deliver after YOU think
we will cast lines into the now,living the new
angling or casting nets in different schools
you whistle one of my tunes,thoughts carry our points of view
with me battering your shields,you sharpening my tools
I'm casting lots,chancing,I swear you might call me sinful
knowing no boundaries,spanning bridges,jumping fences
your prize ***** is perfumed wine by the divine skinful
I do dare to share in your gifts of senses
I dare to cast an eye over your image within your frame
and hold them both when you are hot and cold
listening to your songs when you play your name
you will cause me to search for treasures of old
cast down your burdens speak to me in confidence free from fears
downcast looks have never been emblematic of your worth
I toil with dirt and sweat in exchange for your loving and tears
to buy tonight with you and tomorrow with the earth
broadcast the forecast sell me what you believe
tell me what you think let me feel what you throw
do you bleed from the heart tattooed on your sleeve
are you typecast do you ink what you think do you show what you know
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 10:36 PM UTC
We all piled out of the pub
****** as a load of newts;
'Where to now boys?'
Bellowed naughty Niall O 'Neill
(that's notorious nineteen pints a night Niall)
As he tottered over to his Pa's Rolls Royce.
*'Do ye think ye should be driving
With that record-breakin' skinful
I just seen you put away?'*
Enquired serious Sean slurringly
From his slightly inconvenient
Viewpoint in the beery gutter.
So we all clambered gaily into the car
And roared off into the enchanted night
And then this ****** stupid clodhopper
Who didn't even have his driving licence yet
Came round the next corner in his Ford
And got sent to Kingdom-sodding-Come.
*'Oh **** would ye just look at the mess
The oul' fella's made of me Daddy's car,
And it's his pride and joy so it is!'*
Cried Niall O'Neill in incandescent rage,
As he surveyed the largest insurance claim
In the County Wicklow for twenty years.
How fortunate Father Tucker and Garda Sergeant O'Toole
Could both testify from their vantage point
In the front seat of the devastated Roller,
The accident was not Niall's fault at all, at all,
As the other stupid sober ****** was on
The wrong side of the ****** street.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
Arm gooin' daàn me muvva's
An arm gonna goo by buz
Cos me feet am bloomin' urtin'
An I aint got me an oss
Then arm off to ave some bevvies
An arm gonna get kaylied
If yow'm in the Jolly Nailor
Then arl shaàt ya one inside
Doh goo bein' a soft apeth
Doh goo doin' owt thats daft
Cos when yow'v dun ad' a skinful
Then yow know yow just get saft
If ar doh see yow befow'r yow goo
Arl see yow on anon
Cos arm kippin' on the sofa
Raànd me mums aàs back up um
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 9:24 AM UTC
The castle was smaller than I’d thought
In the Scottish countryside,
It sat in a hollow called Claymore Court
Where all the defenders died,
The signs of cannon, pounding the towers
Were there in the crumbled walls,
And shrubs grew out of the rubbled bowers
While trees took root in the halls.
I sensed a touch of hostility
The moment I reached the gate,
For Angus’s friendability
Came on just a little late,
We’d both attended the Priory School
But that had been way back then,
And I, in parting, called him a fool,
He wouldn’t remember when.
But he did us proud with a suckling pig
And a quart of **** o’ the North’,
Marie, who knew him, was ever so big
And sat with me, holding forth.
I had no mind that he felt so strong,
I’d have left the woman at home,
He had this feeling I’d done him wrong
When I coaxed Marie to roam.
And there she sat with a month to go
Way out in front with our bairn,
I didn’t know it would crease him so
But there, you live and you learn.
He coaxed her drink, with a dreadful leer
Pressed on her **** o’ the North,
It wasn’t as if she was drinking beer
Or water, for all that it’s worth.
We went to bed in a tower room
When the moon rose over the glen,
It felt to me like a Highland tomb
As it was to my clan back then,
Marie began to moan in the night
That the bairn was coming forth,
It had a skinful, thanks to Marie
Of that liquor, **** o’ the North.
And Angus heard and he came to gloat
When he heard that she couldn’t hold,
I dropped him there, head first in the moat
To a grave both wet and cold.
Marie and I, we sit in the barn
And the blame swings back and forth,
What price my friend, and a helpless bairn
To a jar of **** o’ the North?
David Lewis Paget
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 12:14 AM UTC
In my mind, I'm chained to the bed.
The bed rests on the gallows pole.
The gallows pole adjacent to temples of merciful Gods. Gods nowhere to be seen, heard, or felt.
The senses numb and rust.
The rust dulls the chains, I break free.
I leap faithless off the gallows pole, uncertain of how high it sat on bigots' lap.
I pass by the temples as I dive, no mercy to be found. Idolised figures, sanctified mortals and no sacred Gods.
I'm descending aimlessly.. No ground to be found. Until I feel that skinful ground, until I see the two starry skies and until I hear the heartbeats of mercy, I'm unable to land.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
You give one man a home address and that my friend is not addressing homelessness but it's a beginning and we have to start there, don't we?
but this piece is about anxiety and the way it affects your chemistry,
suddenly you're shaking, feeling dreadful, scared of daylight and more so of nightfall
so
you sit and drink and have a skinful,
wishful thinking doesn't cure you,
and you still need to get through
the gnawing feeling that you're dealing
with the devil or his disciples,
the home you've got becomes a hell
and you, the prisoner sat inside a room
which to all intents and purposes is just
another prison cell
do not feel well
they'll tell you it will be alright
even as the day and night conspire
against you
and you're still wishful thinking
hoping that will cure you,
yeah
good luck with that.
Jun 7, 2022
Jun 7, 2022 at 11:41 AM UTC
I love your skin
The feel of it against mine.
Running my eager hands up and down your sides, it's just the right amount of roughness, masculine and sublime.
The color of your skin
The smell of it
The weight of it
Since last we met
I just can't get it out of my head.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 6:21 AM UTC
Red is the mist that too often descends,
Beige alas the colour of my teeth,
Tan, sadly I only ever burn,
Orange my fake perma-tan
Black my mood on a Monday morning,
White are the lies when I ring in sick!
Blue are the films I secretly watch,
Cerise, not a clue but sounds lovely!
Purple my boozers nose,
Scarlet somebody, from Gone with the Wind I think,
Violet missing an ‘n’,
Cream strictly rationed because of my diabetes!
Green my perpetual envy,
Tangerine, something else to hate at Christmas,
Burgundy, sorry ******* at geography,
Lilac, far too trendy for me!
Azure are the skies I miss from childhood,
Sapphire so very precious!
Cerulean, now I am being a ********
Yellow the starting gun for me to run away
Indigo, when my snooker potting is on fire!
Pink, the ball I always miss,
Navy, something the Swiss don’t have,
Chocolate, something the Swiss do have
Brown the awful jumpers Mum used to knit,
Russet, used to be a tiny English County?
Emerald, a lovely girl I once dated,
Aquamarine such a delicate sea-sick tint
Puce, or do I mean puke, something I do after a skinful
Maroon rhymes with macaroon!
Crimson, I guilty blush when I pass wind!
Grey (never gray!), my hated school uniform
Ruby, any glass of port in a storm!
Auburn, I really love her films!
Lime, lovely with gin & tonic, especially in Vienna Harry! ** **
Turquoise bruises, no stranger to these after a few too many
© Robert Porteus
Oct 4, 2020
Oct 4, 2020 at 10:14 AM UTC