"slapper" poems
My sister boasted to me one night in a Liverpool pub
She had *** with a couple of coppers down the Mersey Tunnel.
'You're nothing bit a fat slapper' I scolded her,
As she examined the selfie I had taken
Just a few moments earlier of me
And her best friend up against the ladies' bog door.
"Good likeness, innit?" I commented and the
She farted stentoriously in surprise and,
The follow-through oozed down her dimpled thigh.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
Just turned sixteen
a rage of hormones
erogenous zones
no more sexting
or wet dreams
your sixteen
you have our permission
to give in to your impulses
full submission
your pulse races
no more wishing
release your inhibitions
but before you do hold up and listen.
You can't drink and drive
yet you can think of life
for now any thought you conceive
can legally achieve
a new life you can breed
Should anyone so young have this much power?
to class it as fun and be deflowered
just because you can attain an ********
stand to attention
gives you the right to create perfection?
- when love isn't even mentioned.
Should we raise the age limit?
Would teenage pregnancies plummet?
but you say
they will still do it anyway
regardless
they couldn't care less
do you blame parents?
- or carers?
Maybe we need
a better educational system
to teach them.
It’s the media that feeds
into the body image
a consistent mirage
a constant barrage
of so called celebrities
having *** on TV
With the skinny waist
fake *****
and high heels
what a waste,
you choose
how you feel.
Take time to pause
and hold onto what’s yours
for once lost
you will pay its cost
your virginity
is its own currency
people will value you more
or label you a *****
a **** a slapper
a used ****** wrapper
go ahead tap her
she doesn't care
what you wear
or if you marry
take her cherry.
Just because it has a secondary function
doesn't mean you have to use your junk son.
the next time you get an ********
steer your mind in another direction
or at least use protection
so you don't spread STD's by infection
having *** so young can be tragic
take the time to think
or you may later regret it.
Don't give into peer pressure
Don’t use others as your measure
have *** at your leisure
when its your pleasure
when you're ready
not just because you've been going steady
protect your innocence
remain a princess
pretty in pink
abhor red
so think first
before bed.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 9:40 PM UTC
Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my prick.
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!
We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.
We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.
The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 4:09 PM UTC
I want to be a tight man
a fight man
a get it when I can man
a hard man
a ladies man
a take when its there man
a bad man
a cad man
a wham bang and thank you ma'am.
I want to be a flirt man
a take a bit of skirt man
a **** man
a slapper man
a kiss em quick an part man.
I want to be a cheat man
a cheap man
a slip between the sheets man
a creep man
a street man
a leering ****** beer man.
I want to be a cold man
an ice man
but some say I'm too nice man?
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
The autumn winds ***** her mercilessly,
as idle hands lunge for delicate petticoats.
Their ugly, pockmarked howls pinch her deeply
with each new limb they expose,
until her tears drop like leaves, unheard
and become soiled.
By the winter, she’s left leaning awkwardly
like a slapper against a lamp post.
Her body but scattered, bent baguettes,
freeze-set with the frigid, nightly chills,
which preserve her stark immodesty
and her malign revenge.
Yet spring adorns her with tentative protruding buds,
glazed like freshly shellacked fingernails,
as her body itches with the swellings of youth
and foliage fastens frills around her chest,
summoning the dewy-peach lustre of virginity.
Now she basks in our wanton, forgiving glares.
As the summer teases, she writhes Lolita-like
in a raincoat that clings to her, just so.
Her barely concealed fruits spilling out,
as the sun caresses her skin hotly, until she ****
with that cacophony of lilac bells gawping, grape-like,
ringing out the sweet moans of her petite-mort.
Oct 7, 2020
Oct 7, 2020 at 10:53 AM UTC
they always seem to ascribe the stone age
with inventing the circle,
dinosaurs and the loathing of
x-ray via Archaeology -
ᛟ, or an ancient egyptian manuscript...
got the ******* wheelie on that ***** boo yah!
this is even weirder than Wittgenstein's observation
of late Copernicus... ᛟ-ray... huh?
you've been a peasant and you're still
curating a chance sharpening edit?
where's the ******* wheel with romans after
ancient egyptians and the babylonians
and for fuck's sake Hindustan!
O... where's O in Sanskrit? so who got the cartwheels?
the romans? huh?! a.d. b.c. buttered-up ****
if this makes sense... forget the universe,
alien civilisations... my own makes as much sense
as a gram of pepper and salt sneezed with.
hey flamingo! here's a signature in sepia!
banging on the bathroom floor - with Disney - passed
in those days: Lion Kong or King...
oompa loompa ooh ooh gorilla tyrant said so too.
they invented the wheel but forgot to phonetically
encode it with something similar...
runes, right, Scandinavian... ᛟ... i.e. O...
but i'd like to see ᛟ in a roller-coaster... just for gorging
on a regurgitation of jokes - and so i can
slang and slapper quick a blah in Jamaican slang
and say... yah mon' poo daddy do a diddy eff a flex
wit bling bling, cursor vector to noon
and da dwarfin of a shadow.
**** man, they invented the wheel but waited for the
romans to write the O... and it was music by then...
suddenly! huh?! the **** is this? whiskey straight up.
no wonder.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
bingle bangle trip top
flipper wing ****
fingling zinger bop bop
tribble slapper bang
herpe derper webble wob
frankish glub glub beetroot
shingle rampart flip rob
wipple fishnet bangtoot
markly haper mushmouth
yungdid crassly freeten
biddle froto down south
sharple rag tag neepin
oddler dang trumpet
***** gnomey smashhash
villet bridle crumpet
creamy lopless bashrash
oh, the wonderful sounds of letters
amazing in your diversity
always makes me feel a bit better
but not as far as perversity
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
You know as well as I do
that internet dating can have its ups
and downs
and thus, after so many futile meetings
and tragic misadventures
in a domestic UK situation,
I decided to spread my wings
and so I logged on to an Australian website
for lonely kangaroo lovers
yes it was www.blackstump-legover.com.au
where no holes were barred.
And I soon struck up a promising friendship
with someone who sounded like
a real goer, a total slapper,
with no morals whatsover
judging from the photo she posted
taken with a mobile phone
up her skirt
which showed her **muffin *****
as well as what she had eaten
for breakfast yesterday,
poking its head out.
We finally agreed to meet
behind the old dunny
in the park where the abos go
to exchange their social security vouchers
for crack *******
or a bottle of Castlemain XXXX
or a quick one up each others' bots
in spite of the pong
on a sunny arvo.
You can imagine how effing disappointed
I was when she arrived
on a trailer attached to her grandson's ute
strapped to a battered gurney
(and almost insensate)
but still ready for a bit of backdoor action
but not from me, no sirree,
thank you very much mate:
I might be desperate, but
I would have had to have
clipped my nose shut with a clothes peg
to get anywhere near her
and my gag reflex simply couldn't cope.
So I bravely dragged the gurney
over to the convenient gap
in the fence overlooking the mighty ravine
and with a gentle shove
I sent her to that sweet place
where peace can be found
and I can still hear her scream
as she bounced off the rocks
accusing me of being illegitimate
before silence reigned
and I smiled in joy.
It only goes to show, O my friends,
that there are female dogs
of the most hideous kind
on every sodding continent
on this dear planet of ours;
and I may as well stick to
a handful of Nivea cream
and a Kleenex, at least the odour
is wholesome.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
Whoa.
See that yin?
Jist sittin there?
Ye ken how she’s sittin like that, don’t ye?
Well, whit’s she sittin oan?
Aye, her erse.
She’s only sittin like that
So ye ken she’s got an erse.
Gaggin fir it.
An whoa, check that yin!
Wearin claes!
Filthy cow!
Whit dae ye mean, “Whit dae ah mean”?
Claes!
Ye canny wear claes
If ye huvny got a boady, can ye?
That’s right –
Just screamin it, so she is –
“Check oot ma boady!”
Aye, ah wull an aw!
Don’t mind if ah dae!
Aw, mate – that yin!
That yin ower there!
Bendin her airm!
See her?
Bendin her airm like a mucky ****
That’s so ye ken
She’s got elbows!
Phwoar, I ken your type hen –
you wi yir elbows an a’thin!
Desperate fur it, aren’t ye?
An man! This yin,
walkin towards us!
Breathin in an oot!
Whit a slapper!
Breathin in an oot!
Aye, ye need a pair o lungs tae dae that,
I bet, eh, hen?
A pair o fine, functioning lungs!
Aye, you use them, doll –
dinny you be shy!
Ah’m no!
Aw pal, haud me back!
This yin!
This yin eatin a meat pie!
Shameless wee ****
Aw yeah, baby,
I ken whit that means!
Mean’s ye’ve got yirsel
a **** wee digestive tract in there, no?
Ye dinny hae tae spell it oot tae me, love!
Probably got a pair o kidneys
tucked away in there too,
ye ***** wee *****
Aw the same, ur they no?
Aw ae thum.
Gantin oan it.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 7:39 AM UTC
Scunthorpe is justly famous for its ugliness
And the rampant lasciviousness of its inhabitants;
With what horror I recall encountering a gent there,
A seriously senior slapper, widely acclaimed as
The least inhibited pensioner in northern Lincolnshire.
In my gilded youth I'd wandered into the bar
Of some grotty hostelry and got propositioned by this old ****
On the pretext of offering to gift me fifty quid
He dragged me upstairs and ravished me totally,
Showing his elderly anatomy 's most private parts
In prurient abandon. Afterwards, I wondered how long
Before the myriad love bites on my buttocks would fade?
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
Real Not Fiction
A hole is a hole said the Mule
As he stuck his stump up a slapper
This saying was mirrored by another
Who told a story of his friends
And what recently happened
One long term friend has a gal
They’d been together 7 years
And planned to get married
Spending a lifetime together
Already lovers and more
You know how it goes
So to be happy in bliss
But a big problem arose
Another old school pal
Caused a fuss with the gal
Who was a guy before!
So now you’re a gal not a guy
How did that come about?
A trip to Thailand and cash
Lots of cash from her rich family
The school pal seeing the gal
Wasn’t aware of any of this
Just that he was in love
Happy and going to be married
To a gal who was once a guy
He was oblivious to this
Unlike the other ex-pupil
They gave the gal guy it
A week to tell her fiancé
All of the truth of they’d do it
I told the pal who knew them all
Make sure the guy who
Knew them all
Never killed the gal
Who was once a guy
Like the American one
What will happen
Within this week
Happiness or war?
A hole is a hole
Even if no kids
Reality not fiction
The Mule was right
Aug 27, 2022
Aug 27, 2022 at 5:38 PM UTC
Nima splashed water from one
of the fountains in Trafalgar Square
over Baruch. Laughing she did
it again, but he side-stepped, like
one out of rain, hands wide as if
to bless. He'd met her a few moments
before; by Nelson's Column, she’d
written from her hospital bed, drug
taking recovering (so said), cold
turkey or whatever she'd scribed.
Finishing the ablutions, she walked
on, he followed, stepping beside
her, catching her in profile, taking
in her cropped hair, brown, washed
and washed. She talked of the nursing
staff, who talked of her behind her
back, some at least, she added, chat
of the *** cupboard we used, that
time you came, she said, laughing,
walking out of the Square, along by
the gallery, her voice too loud, he
thought, but sounded out by the
traffic passing. She was clothed in
a blue dress, too short, he thought,
seeing her thighs, sans stockings or
tights, sandaled feet. They went into
Leicester Square, she talking of one
of the quacks she'd seen, head case,
foreign, fancies himself, she added.
Baruch, spied the billboards, new
films, merchandise, drinks, cigarettes,
lowering his eyes, watching her sway
her hips and **** hands swinging,
gesturing. She stopped by a bench
and sat down, he did likewise, ears
catching her words, holding them in
his mind, something about them being
jealous of my sexuality she added,
giving Baruch the eye, maybe thinking
me a ***** a druggie slapper, she
said laughing, her hand rubbing against
the top of his, he sensing skin on skin,
remembering, the quickie in the side
room, cupboard size, just off the ward.
He talked of his boring job, the mind
numbing labours, the Coltrane jazz LP,
played on and on, he said, eyes closed.
She lay her head on his shoulder, he felt,
smelt the combination of expensive scent
and hospital smell (soaps or disinfectants),
felt her fingers rubbing his. She took out
a cigarette, offered him one, he took and
she lit up with red plastic lighter. Inhaled,
exhaled, inhaled, silence, her hand wrestled
with his, watching smoke rise, upwards,
twirling, in the hot summer spread skies.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
Hanging on my play rooms wall
many toys for us all
I have a feather slapper
black rose whip
and a pair of silk rope handcuffs
hundreds of toys
to enjoy my S&M; fun
you might be scared
but you'll be screaming for more when we're done
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 6:47 AM UTC
i know nothing of you
but that you are anthropological
when you are inside unexplored diversities
that are not plums or peaches,
that you are a white siren with red nails
and that you want my knickers
sent enveloped, and sealed with
plastic cobalt kisses.
i know nothing of you
but that when they say poets are not in season;
you pluck me out lime-coloured and prematured
and tell me to ripen beside your afternoon tea
because you demand embryonic words
and pretty phrases that will keep you
animated and high.
you make me know not-
ions are unmarried clouds pregnant with ink;
yours are metabolic and invisible,
injecting sugar into my fallopian tubes.
you press your mouth against my sternum
and interweave your tongue with my heart,
we mould into a double helix.
you make us into nothing
but a genetically mutated flower
with two vulvas, collapsed between two pages
of a book that a ***** slapper would read
in the rain at two ams in between
****** acts and neon sunsets.
Nov 15, 2010
Nov 15, 2010 at 5:00 AM UTC
call the cops.
they cooking rocks
in a shanty town compound
its just how they get down
most denounceable settlement
heroine needles nettle men
shredded by early elements
surely only pure irrelevents
no evidence of life
that reflected
anything intelligent
they were like
hell with it;
preferred not
to confer the
elephant in the parlor
though of pachyderm stature
he still delicate & he starvin.
attention ya'll.
there's histrionic
insect larva writhing
inside dying bodies
of constants.
wanting nothing but to be alive
to watch the sky ***** lights
contrite with wasting time & space
decided to face what made the comets
atum & adam & atoms.
dizzy sassed her,
kiss me ***
slapper
pass the days faster
calmly
this was a disaster
it sounds so wrong
but
how else
do you say it.
it seems
there is no
safe explaination
that demons &
godless heathens
still hold faith in unseen reason
aurical feelings
bottomless meanings &
improbable teachings
exploring the being
& being anything
more than whimsy
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC
Grampy
Needs stimulated,
Grammy is irritated.
The old slapper hand is the best tool for releasing
Down and ***** stress.
I think gram's is coming
Think I need best hide it.
Down boy, down!
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
jeg slapper af når du holder mig
jeg panikker når du ser mod mig
jeg græder når du sårer mig
jeg griner når du kilder mig
jeg fniser når du ler med mig
jeg væmmes når du går din vej
jeg skriger når du forlader mig
jeg sover når du elsker mig
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC
There was another brother whom history forgets
And though born a fisherman, he preferred other nets.
The coterie of rink rats who lived on the Left Coast
Thought he was sine qua non, and they would often boast
*He’s better than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.*
His slapper had heat to make a goalie wet himself;
His wrister was money either five-hole or top-shelf.
After the goaltender felt another puck **** by,
He’d curse and bang the crossbar as fans took up the cry
*He’s better than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.*
He dominated rinks out West like no other man
From Calgary to Saskatoon, Fresno to Spokane.
He’d hat tricks in Winnipeg, six-point games in Moose Jaw
Moving scribes to hackneyed verse written in fits of awe.
*He’s better than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.*
Though the man was a fine skater, strong, agile and fleet
The slightest flaw in the ice caused anguish to his feet
And he would scold arena crews—*What’d you call this mush?
‘Tis nothing but chips and ruts; I’d rather skate on slush!*
(More prickly than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gio.)
After one match in Oakland on ice unduly rough
He stormed into the locker room, shouting ‘Nuff’s enough!
He didn’t change his sweater as he stormed out the door,
Hopping on a trolley car, to be seen never more
(He’s a bit loony, don’t you know.
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.)
He was sighted in the Yukon, once or perhaps twice
Engaged in some mad mission to find the perfect ice.
Neither man nor beast can say what became of this fool,
Though bits of skate lace appear in petrified bear stool
(Tastes better than his brother Joe?
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.)
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 10:10 AM UTC
early morning at the
coffee house
toasted sesame bagel with jam and cream
cheese
coffee and cigarettes
crazy sparrows jumping in the hedges
of the patio
you and the old men
steaming cups, unraveled
weekend edition of the newspaper
on tabletops
you and the sweet, quiet old men
only they understand
going for a long walk
you hear two boys shuffling behind on their
way
to soccer practice
singing about the sunny side
of the street
your blood sings with them
blood is not of a violent
theme
not today
it's what keeps you alive
keeps you moving along
loving more
wild smile on your face as if you know
the damnest joke
a real good knee-slapper
a killer
of all solemn thoughts and
a promiser to
to be better, behavior and heart
a re-fertilized mind
from now on and ever
entering the city
the day smells of beach nights
lingering scent of sunscreen, sand, dark ***
vanilla cigarellos
the light turns green and you
step off the sidewalk
catching yourself in the
reflection of a skyscraper
emerging
from a busting, exploding crowd
looking like you always wished you would
a ballerina on-the- go
you are not a ballerina
but you whisper thanks and
keep the magic of today in your back pocket
like a paycheck
you've been owed
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
Becoming fiercly personal
with no physical contact,
the crescent moon
ultimately occults the Venus.
The grazer now turns into
fugitive. Was not the knower,
was not the known.
No past, no future, you
move with your eyes down
to deny the assault, the flirtation.
Your silence was
unthinkable. I will bring home
the dead. Light is gone. The
slapper sleeps.
In emotional agony I
start prowling for the body.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 12:13 AM UTC
magnets for misery melted into mouths,
molded lips made for malaise
the heavyhearted rock in between hips,
hot and hopeless
loneliness lives in lungs
the listless leaping of laborious breaths,
lugubrious lusting
souls ****** sadness,
**** songs of sorrow
somber little slapper
sleeps next to something sonorous,
slow sinking
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 3:38 AM UTC
We sit by the small pond
after school
Mother's still out shopping
Yehudit says
so we can sit
and talk awhile
the water's murky
no ducks or fish
in this small place
maybe tadpoles
or old boots
or ******* thrown in
trees surrounding
are still in leaf
no one must know
what we did
and where today
she says
I look at the tin can
lying on the side
of the muddy pond
as if I would
I say
if it got out
my mum'd **** me
she says
what about your dad?
I ask
he would **** me too
if Mum told him
he could
a blackbird settles
on a branch
on my left
black
yellow beak
noisy
but worse than that
what would the other girls say?
lucky you?
no they wouldn't
she says
they'd say what a slapper
what a ****
and there of all places
she's quiet
and stares at the pond
but you're not
we didn't plan it
I say
but we did it
and what if someone saw us
what if a teacher
or prefect came in the gym
lunchtime and saw us?
somewhere to our left
a dog barks
smell of the farm
just over a cow moos
no one did
I say
live what is
not what might have been
or may have happened
she sighs
and looks at me
with her blue eyes
guess so
she looks at the wrist watch
on my wrist
better go
Mum'll be back
on the next bus
she says
we get up
and brush ourselves down
and walk through the woods
it was good though
even if it was
an odd place
I say
odd being
the operative word
she smiles
the fear of someone
coming in
made it seem
more daring
I suggest
daring?
absolutely mad
she says
but yes
it was good
we came to the back
of the cottage
where I lived
shall I walk you home?
no best not
she says
Mum's not struck on you
thinks you might
get me into trouble
I frown
me?
but butter wouldn't melt
in my mouth
I say
she smiles and walks on
I THINK IT WOULD
she shouts back at me
and walks out of sight
I turn into the garden
and along the path
thinking to myself
she's right.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 2:41 AM UTC
Mary inhaled the cigarette
and watched as the boy
came over to her in the park
and said
where's your weird friend?
she exhaled smoke at him
weird friend?
she said
who's that?
that Magdalene girl
who thinks she's something
when she's just another girl
with two arms and legs
and an ****
he said
what do you want
with me?
she said
thought we'd go
to the picture house
and sit in the back row
and get down
to some kissing and such
putting a hand
on her hip
she inhaled
and looked at his hand
then at him
she exhaled smoke at him again
take your paw off of me
you Proddy prat
if my da saw you
touch me he'd
take your arm off
she said
didn't think you
were worried about
a boy's religion
he said
removing his hand
from her hip
I'm not but my da is
he has no love of Prods
she said
and my friend's
not weird she's classy
something you
wouldn't understand
he stood his ground
staring at her
got a mouth on you
haven't you?
he said
couldn't talk
otherwise could I
she said
he eyed her sternly
you ain't' much yourself
he said
just a schoolgirl slapper
she kneed him
and he doubled over
and fell sideways
down on the grass
I'm not a slapper
she said
I'm a knee-er
and she walked off
inhaling and exhaling
and giving
a quick cough.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC