Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Susan O'Reilly Apr 2013
Sausages and chips,

sauces and dips

thoughts of them

has me licking my lips

then I remember the hips

So I’m going to back away

as I remember what my granny used to say

makes me smile as I remember her sniggers

“little pickers,bigger knickers”
ditty, humourous
Donall Dempsey Jul 2018
CLOSE SHAVE

Always her fascination
with me

shaving.

This her early morning ritual
observing each action

as if it were
holy.

I hide my face
in foam.

“Santa Claus! Santa Claus! ”
she chants

winces with delight
as the razor

(she gulps)

goes over my bump
without slicing it off.

The shaving uncovers the me she knows.

“Soft…soft! ”

“Mr. Daddy Soft Soft! ”

she gurgles
in a lather of laughter.

“Me now…now me! ”
she pleads with me.

I take the brush
coat her reflection with foam.

I shave her
with the tip of my little finger.

Her reflection sniggers &
she sniggers too.

Later, in the early evening
she appears
bearded in fresh cream.

She shaves herself
with a lollipop stick.

“Me... Daddy now...see! ”

I cha cha cha her
on the tips of my toes

as she clings to my
fingertips

dancing around
the living room.

One delighted
half shaved little girl.

One delighted
soft soft Mr. Daddy.
Annie Brown Jun 2010
Its been one of those weeks
so I don't know what to write
but thankfully its **** day
the weekend is in sight

Monday was well just Monday
which by now I should expect
but I must admit I wasn't ready
for just what happened next

When I woke up Tuesday morning
I had overslept of course
and the milk was more like yoghurt
which just made a bad day worse

By the time I finally got to work
I'd a ladder in my hose
and allergies were in full swing
you'd swear I'd Rudolph's nose

Of course the coffee *** was empty
and the printer it had jammed
and by now it's almost lunchtime
so there's no one to lend a hand

So I worked through lunch to catch up
and somehow make amends
but then my PC up and died
which drives me round the bends

When everyone came back from lunch
I could hear all of their sniggers
Until someone finally told me
I'd my skirt tucked in my knickers
Valsa George Dec 2018
Applied rouge on the cheeks
Tied a glittering necklace round the neck
Putting heavy makeup,
Over the stubble on her shaven chin,
She looked into the mirror
Through its cracks, saw a million bits of her/him
Those images sneering at each other
She felt trapped in a wrong body,
With its contours n’ longings mismatched

“Where do I belong”?
“Where do I fit”?

These questions plague her incessant
A rough stone with sharp edges
Too hard to be chipped down
Cast aside by the mason
That can never go into the making of a Cathedral

She walks around in haze
Life seems a twisted maze
Each time she tries to claw her way
She sees only walls that hems her in
Before her lingers the stygian mist
Phantoms of darkness surround her

The winds of change swiftly blow
Seasons come and go

But she is tied down in her chains
An anomaly of creation
A curse and a taboo
Swallowing stigma and abuse
Each day waking up with a start
Knowing that she is neither a woman nor a man
But a non binary... an accursed TRANSGENDER
Inviting snide looks
And sniggers from onlookers

People call her a ******
One divided between the selves
A hapless denizen of an inhospitable world
Disowned even by parents

Though flawed and far from perfect
She is human, one of a kind
And needs to be seen through the eyes of God!
It is sad that transgenders are discriminated everywhere. They deserve to be treated as equals. However it is heartening to note the positive changes coming over in attitudes of the people and the authorities....!
Terry Collett May 2015
Ingrid sports a black eye;
she looks like a panda.

She said she walked
into a door;
she doesn't lie
convincingly.

I know her old man;
I passed him
on the stairs of the flats;
his beady eyes
drinking me in,
giving me the cold glare,
the cold shoulder.

We walk through the Square,
off to the shops.

What happened to your eye?
I ask again,
studying the black
and slightly green;
walking beside her,
passing the milkman
and his horse drawn cart,
the horse wearing
a nosebag of food,
ignoring us.

I walked into
the bedroom door,
she says,
knowing I don't
believe her,
looking sheepish,
knowing
I guess the truth.

What have you got
to get at the shops?
I ask.

She shows me a list
on a scrap of paper,
pencil scribbled,
in her small right hand
a handful of coins.

I passed your old man
on the stairs yesterday,
I tell her,
gave him my
Wyatt Earp stare,  
I say, he didn't care.

I note her hair
is unbrushed,
her green patterned dress
unwashed.

We cross Rockingham Street
into Harper Road.

I talked too much,
Dad said,
she confesses,
he said I yak and yak.

We pass the paper shop
and go on
to the grocer shop.

I say,
if I had your old man
in the sights
of my six-shooter gun
I'd fire a cap
up his ***;
she sniggers;
people stare at us
as we pass.
A BOY AND GIRL IN LONDON IN 1958.
Aria of Midnight Nov 2014
Better than you;
always considered myself superior
--a delusion I nurtured
with vicious remarks
and cold sniggers;
within the remotest of land,
full of dust,
you learned to bloom
with your youthful flowers
growing larger
than me
and yourself.
Lindsey Miller Jun 2012
i am being aimlessly guided by a decrepit side street.
the smell of who-knows-what hangs in the still like an occupied noose
as i strain to ignore the unpleasant moisture on my brow,
the imperceptible perspiration of emotional exertion.

my heels can decipher the coded cracks in the concrete
and converse with muffled clackings that echo from alleyway walls.
they say, "our coordinates are flawless; this is the path to freedom."
i think, to reach it alone would be more bitter than any confinement.

‘cause i left some love in an empty room miles from here—
it’s collecting cobwebs instead of affections
while the idol of unrequited passion burns
and its ashes are faxed to four far corners of a hardhearted world.

i reach a dead end and feel the breath catch in my throat.
there is nothing here but the empty cocoons of the homeless
who have hopefully lifted themselves on dusty wings to a better place
leaving me searching for signs of life in the litter they've left behind.

there is a poster haphazardly taped to the bricks;
no lettering, no information, just the face of a man.
he stares blankly at me from his paper veranda
as if i were a television set, some mundane form of entertainment.

then, unexpectedly, a hole rips through the flyer
to compensate for the boot-clad leg freeing itself from dried pulp
and stepping heavily onto the pavement below.
i stumble back in mixed horror and disbelief as appendages creep lividly from the wall

until the man with the advertised face stands before me.
he pulls a pack of parliaments from his trenchcoat pocket
and wordlessly offers me one as his lighter births infant flame.
soon, the nicotine fog hangs like an opaque grey curtain between us.

then the silence is shattered, with shards of stillness breaking against the asphalt.
"i hope you weren't attempting to be stealthy. i could hear you for miles."
the voice emitted is raspy, the sound of a dull razorblade on the neck of a convict.
i shiver fiercely in response with a zero-kelvin cold.

a frankenstein hand fights through the smoke to grasp my ashen face.
his finger to my lips is a canker sore forming.
"a pretty lil' thing like you shouldn't be caught dead in this mess."
his forked tongue forms the words of nothing i don't already know.

i push him away. "just cut to the chase. we don't need to drag this out.
you know what i came here for, so let's get it over with."
my heart spasms in protest, but i suppress it with clenched fists.
as it dejectedly thuds in my chest, i can taste the bile rising in my throat.

he raises an eyebrow, then sniggers, showing off a yellow shark-toothed grin.
"the princess has a temper! well, you've come a long way for this, sweet cheeks."
he reaches into his coat, pulls out his leather gauntlets blackened with singe.
"say exactly what you need, doll, and your old pal lucifer will handle the rest."

my lungs deflate, punctured by pins and needles of stale air
and the blood dries in my veins like cruel sun blistering the desert.
half of me begs for lockjaw. the other half manipulates the corners of my mouth.
"erase him from my mind. i can't spend my life obsessing."

a glint of guilty pleasure in the devil's red eye seals the deal.
soul extraction's just like getting a tooth pulled, i tell myself regretfully.
it's just another part you don't need, a bland and disposable item.
but it doesn't quell the fear; i'm shaking hard enough to register on a richter scale.

the man in black embraces me, grasping my ribcage in his massive gloved hands.
a flash of doubt sears through me, yet i stand frozen, crucified.
i feel satan's minions pulling at memories like loose strings
and there is chanting in my ears; evolnilr igafognir effuseht eta ivellai sihth tiw.



i come to with dry heaves and a migraine sent from hell itself
to find that i am home in bed with the sheets around my ankles.
i rise and move to the mirror, see the dark circles traced around my eyes,
and dissolve into sobs without knowing why.
CM Rice Dec 2013
“See herself..?”
‘Who..?’
“Herself.. there”
‘An’ about her?’
“..Cheating on himself..”
‘Sure she.. that one..’
“Fur coat.. no knickers..”

They scuttle out daily wagging their vicious tales,
Through dullness that dampens their every afternoon,
Ignored by their own; an’ threadbare reflection,
******* each spun yarn an’ sheet out to dry,

Stained with every listless memory an’ lonely evening,
Gossip-hungry, they covet the community swill,
Chomping through the random, unopposed untruths,
‘..husband slayer, heartless siren.. tis’ a mortal sin..’

They make no bones of any acquaintance of herself,
With monstrous-eyed chronicles of salacious green,  
Such falsehood is kind to the envious an’ bias ears,
Which tolerate any brazen line to a choir of lewd hymns,

They harmonise each lustful lie; the prime accuser,
Conducts a murky symphony of ***** laundry aired live,
The jury silent, mocking whispered an’ ears into the wind,
As the accused sullen-faced an’ solitary suddenly appears.

Herself stands idly ignorant to the satirical sniggers,  
The trial by jealously ends, they turn two faces an’ leave,
No fur, no knickers, no time to wish away the pain,
Curtains drawn, truth quartered - the washing hung
A regular occurrence when growing up once listening to women rip apart other women as they hung out their washing.
Aaron Wallis Sep 2014
Burly bleak plumes roll out aloft corn
Where the dragon fell post spin and ditch
A wretched hulk of ruin splintered and worn
Amongst endless blanch green fields which

Arc with a gust and apart where he treads,
Dragging his silk cape afar from flame
Clueless and concussed to a near house he heads
With a tattered scarf that constricts yet ***** about his mane

Black fists of cloud had boomed around him as they soared
His beast spat metal fire whilst the pale sky turned dull
The zipping ballet of warfare smiled throughout as motors roared
Gnashing its teeth and making forgotten martyrs of them all

Shuddering not from demise rather conflict as a whole
He is as content with death as he is to survive
Just not burn the world and condemn his soul
A horror; men of rule seem keen to keep alive

An agrarian self-dines rancorous and crocked
Half sat, improperly perched from where he was shot
Monsters had come for him once before this day
They took his spouse and his daughter and then took them away

He can hear but does not hark to the battle aloft
It is now like the rain and the trees in a gust
But to the boom and the shake he stands with a cough
And as he cites the invader he sees he must do what he must

The grower limps out with a Chassepot in his arms
As the airman’s hands reach up and he falls to his knees
With beads on his brow the man pleads with met palms
The crofter sees naught but a Prussian blue monster disease

The pilot knows his death, ‘Ich bin nicht sicher, wo ich will gehen?”
The old Frenchman just sniggers as he thinks never again
With the rifle’s slug now spent and the horror sent back to his hell
The farmer mumbles to himself, ‘je dois me chercher une pelle,”
Wars happen. It is *******
B Woods Dec 2009
A pack of hyenas, we howl in a frenzy.
Set off by naught,
A twitter or flick and all is lost
To laughter in the night,
Engulfing us all.
Sides aching, my body keeps quaking
Free as a warbler, Screeching and Heaving
As the fire dies, I open my eyes
In a tent, we lay sprawled
Worship almighty Party Mix
Now ravenous lions, or kindergarten children
We claw and shove and dig into the loot
Faces full, stomachs pounding, eyes heavy,
Fingers sticky with snacky crumbs,
A sugary tantalizing coating.
Hounds we are, gluttonous fiends
Living for twenty dollars of sweetly goods
Bought from an otter.
All is forgotten as we sit down to feast
"Spare the jerky, we'll need it later!"
"You devil, its all gone!"
Oh well, no worries of food now
Sufficiently satiated we snuggle into sleeping sacks
Shadows play on the walls
Dancing as jubilantly as shadows may to the music we play
****** stories, crude jokes now met with sheepish sniggers
A fifth giggle is heard from our party of four
Unseen, yet someone is there
A screaming spirit, a lost loner,
A wily wizard, a carnivorous ******,
A balefully babbling banshee,
A sambaing Spanish sandman,
A dopaminergic, diamond-eyed dragon?!
Dare we ask what he be
As his wisdom calmed our carousing
We journeyed through eternity
Visions of it all so overwhelming
Our minds explode
Great kaleidoscopal mortars on a warm eve in july
Visions of dank alleyways, bums and drums
Pastoral sights with floral delights
Emaciated emigrants, there faces so slum
Whimsical unicorns cavort through clouds
Young boys in green turned pincushions by hot flashing iron
Jovial faces devour whole hams by candlelight
Hopeless faces cry and starve by moonlight
Weary we are as the rooster caw-caws for dawn
Wet with dew and naked we slip out
Crazed and dazed we walk in a haze
To witness diurnal beginnings
Pink tinges and orange singes
Streaming above the horize
Time now to sleep
In the crystalline shimmering meadow
Short morning naps
To ease madness since midnight
Dreams foggily drift in and out
Sun's rays fry the flesh
As we awaken to sickening reality
Had it all been psychedlic delusions
Surely it'd just been us four
Donall Dempsey Jul 2019
MR. DADDY SOFT-SOFT

Always her fascination
with me

shaving.

This her early morning ritual
observing each action

as if it were
holy.

I hide my face
in foam.

“Santa Claus! Santa Claus! ”
she chants

winces with delight
as the razor

(she gulps)

goes over my bump
without slicing it off.

The shaving uncovers the me she knows.

“Soft…soft! ”

“Mr. Daddy Soft Soft! ”

she gurgles
in a lather of laughter.

“Me now…now me! ”
she pleads with me.

I take the brush
coat her reflection with foam.

I shave her
with the tip of my little finger.

Her reflection sniggers &
she sniggers too.

Later, in the early evening
she appears
bearded in fresh cream.

She shaves herself
with a lollipop stick.

“Me... Daddy now...see! ”

I cha cha cha her
on the tips of my toes

as she clings to my
fingertips

dancing around
the living room.

One delighted
half shaved little girl.

One delighted
soft soft Mr. Daddy.
Robert N Varty Nov 2011
Completion of the trial marks the end,
for better? For worse?

An onslaught of a pleasurable suffering begins -
An all-consuming disease which attacks the body
and festers and manifests within the very soul like the Plague,
tearing it apart, piece by piece, mercilessy, and willingly so.

There is none worse an ailment or life-crippling disease
that has so thrived off the human heart.
Its only enemy is Time, which, itself,
an ally of the soul, mind and state of being is not.

Tribulation after tribulation is hurled against the soul,
Destroying the walls of defence before they are even constructed
while Life sniggers mockingly,
preparing for the next blow,
enjoying its cruel, torturous game.

Flickers of hope are ignited only to be smothered
and suffocated by giant waves of abusive torment,
and Fate, the Natural Terrorist,

simply smiles
and it all begins
again.
Anonymous Feb 2013
you spoke in mocking whispers laughed in taunting sniggers
you thought i never heard your snide remarks i heard them i
heard them all and i realised with thrills of horror that i who
relentlessly strived to go unnoticed was the hottest topic of
gossip you scrutinised me and every ****** action of mine
you broke me down
and crushed my spirit and trampled all over it and when you
were bored my pain became your amusement
you took my silence to be a mysterious ailment you made
assumptions you drew conclusions based on rumours you thought
you knew all about me you don't know anything about me don't
you dare assume you know me or what goes on within me or why
i am the way that i am.
The format was inspired by that of 'A breathless counsel' by Meena Kandasamy - http://meenakandasamy.wordpress.com/2008/06/01/a-breathless-counsel/

As two horrible years come to an end, it's time for catharsis, so here's me 'throwing up'.
Luca Jan 2011
I'm lazy
I'm tired
Bed is here
Bed is good
Invites me in,
Thank you bed,
Lets me stay,
Thank you bed.
Drunken Duvet
Locks me in,
Poetic Pillow
Shuts my eyes,
Memory Mattress
Holds me still,
Makes me sleep.
Morning's come,
Alarms frustrated
Disrupts the peace
Bed's not fazed.
Pillow whispers;
Turn it off
Five more minutes
Duvet Calls
I oblige.
Bed's so kind.
Mattress shakes
I'm awake
God look
The time!
Duvet laughs
Pillow sniggers
******* bed
You made me late
Donall Dempsey Mar 2016
MR. DADDY SOFT SOFT

Always her fascination with me
shaving.

This her early morning ritual
observing each action

as if it were holy.

I hide my face in foam.

“Santa Claus! Santa Claus!”
she chants

winces with delight as the razor
(she gulps)          

goes over my bump without
(gasp)slicing it off.

The shaving uncovers the me she knows.

“Soft…soft. . .Mr. Daddy Soft Soft!”
she gurgles in a lather of laughter.

“Me now…now me!” she pleads with me.


I take the brush…coat her reflection with foam.
I shave her…with the tip of my little finger.

Her reflection sniggers & she sniggers too.

Later, in the early evening
she appears  

bearded in fresh  cream.

She shaves herself with a lollipop stick.
“Me... Daddy now...see!”

I cha cha cha her on the tips of my toes
as she clings to my fingertips

the living room dances around us

One delighted half shaved little girl.

One delighted soft soft Mr. Daddy.
Poetic T Sep 2016
It was the eve of my birth and within that
moment of creation I was a fallen as the echo
of my cries were thrown into the industrial
******* bin behind the old take-away.

My teen years were so lewd and contrived,
I thought I had friends, but I was like the
******* I was at birth they used me a threw
me away and again I was alone.

It was upon my tenth birthday that I had
lingered in this abyss long enough, I decided
on that day that I would greet those as I was
greeted to return those favours ten fold ,

My step-dad he was my first gift to my suffering
I introduced him to that pain as I quenched his
sight or lack of with a scuffed spoon rims shaper
than a blade I said words as he screamed.

"I  will scoop singular or two, depends on your taste,

Son, please listen to me, he spoke in quivering stuttered
vocals. But I thought it delightful in laughable sniggers.
See how I saw the world, feel the occasions that converted
my emotions to what I'm debilitated to this moment now.

I scooped them out like a ice cream, I thought in this
moment of Mint choc chip, and pineapple sorbet.
Mmm the taste that was seeping from lips. But that
was the blood validating itself on my skin.

All I heard was his voice crying and it made me
regurgitate what I had consumed. It was on the
floor not tasting as it went down like victory.
I just plunged the spoon into his throat...

I didn't want to taste his life, I just wanted to
watch it seep on his white chocolate shirt. It was
like strawberry sorbet with a bitter taste as I licked
a echo of it of my hand "why did I tast it at all??

I had ended so many stains on my life, took their
eyes to show them how I felt. If I had kept them
looking like pickled eggs in a jar. Thinking if they
could still see each others moments in each others sight.

I took their eyes, so each could see how it felt for what
they put me through. I had no guilt, I just consumed
everything they saw and laid it to rest. I wasn't killing
I was just releasing their  guilt and consuming it all.
My name is Caspar Benson. I live in London, England and I have just turned fifteen. I am not here to relieve myself to you as one would a biography, I only invest a small portion of myself and the reason is so that I may get an answer to my own most unorthodox problems.

I am possessed with the uncanny tenure of seeing dead people. Even in the most tranquil of surroundings it seems that I play host to a whole plethora of ghostly incantation. They frequent my company at the most in-opurtune moments and can be overbearing and troublesome to say the least. I wonder if you might think of this as a gift from God? Could it be a holy career prospect, am I the gate keeper for representing those whom have passed a voice in the real world? Well, I hope not.

Is it by coincidence that I am named Caspar? Did my parents know something that I didn't or can I place the choice of this moniker down to simply bad taste. Caspar. That friendly ball of cotton wool that floats before unreal characters, the laughable entity that is the comical outlook of death.

Do you see a representation of a ghost as perhaps “Spielberg” might?

I see a very different picture. Not the allure of my friendly name-sake but a portrait of death in a more repugnant tone: Ghoulish, abhorrent and uncensored. They sport no cosmetic improvement or Hollywood make-up artist to embellish their looks. As they died, they stand before me.

I often heard voices and have learnt well not to mention these facts for fear of being presented (at regular intervals) to the psychiatrists office. Indeed this was more than enough to secure my silence.

Can you imagine, the small frightened child lying in bed at night listening to footsteps crossing my bedroom floor, uninvited whispers in the darkness or maybe just the shock of objects levitating around my room? It is perhaps more surprising that I am not shackled in a straight jacket or left to bound around a padded cell. The torture of having to bare this without being able to confide it for want of being treated like a nut case is far from God given.

My first actual glimpse of these ethereal beings came on my tenth birthday. I was rather enjoying my party and as I was obliged to blow out the ten candles that adorned the top of my cake. This was witnessed by my parents, a few school friends and a whole host of paranormal gate-crashers. I also had the company of a rather newly departed couple who had apparently ended their days under the wheels of a drunk drivers vehicle. All in all though I think that I handled the task quite well considering. It wasn't actually a blowing out of the flames on the candles, it was more like a tsunami of ***** that extinguished them. This didn't go down very well with my parents or school chums, although I do believe their were a few spiritual sniggers in the background.

I have since learned to curb my initial reactions to these visitations to a more admirable and controlled response. Let us just say that the day was a problematic one and leave it at that. Although I did get to have a lovely chat with the impending nut doctor but thought better than to tell her the real story.

I have heard the most unusual and explicit conversations, stuff that would excite any budding writer of horror and gore but I had never actually conversed with any of my unearthly visitors. In the early days I was only privy to hearing them and I believe that I have felt them as they have careered past me and on many occasion through me but I have not had a proper dialogue. That is until now.

I had never heard of the term “Spirit Guide” until recently, I didn't actually know what one was but I do now. I have read (mainly from Google) about them and everyone one on the planet seems to be an expert except me, although now I know that they mostly all spinning a yarn for gullible persons to believe. I was never overwhelmed by a Navajo Indian nor a Swashbuckling Pirate guide and I definitely never swooned around in a spiralling stupor.

No! She just casually approached me and said hello. It took me some time to actually realise that she was dead and something I found very hard to digest. However this actuality was helped along enormously, when just to prove a point she disappeared in front of me and materialised instantly behind me. Without a doubt the most surreal confab I have ever experienced.

Her name is Gloria, she is seventeen, or perhaps I should say she was seventeen at the time of her death but apart from the fact that she is deceased, she is the most stunning girl I have ever met. No greyish ghostly apparition, just a fun and loving corpse to be around.

Over the past few months we have become very close in fact I would use the words love as a most positive account of the feelings we have for each other. When we touch, yes we can touch and we have on very consistent occasions. Our relationship has at time been one of an intimate nature. I am not afraid to say that I love a ***** and she is without a doubt my special spectre. The fact that no-one else can see her is a nothing to me but I have had to refrain from holding her hand or cuddling her in company. I do get some of the strangest looks from people, I suppose one can understand this. We have discussed this and at time it makes sense that I should pretend that she isn't there but it kills me to have to ignore her. It doesn't do to talk to an invisible being with your parents or friends present believe me.

The dilemma we had was where do we go from here? It isn't something one can really ask about is it? I do not know about any Agony Aunt column that would really be applicable in this instance. I wonder what the reply would be if I did confide in my mother or father. I do believe it would be an Institution for me and perhaps a Exorcist for her. Many young couples can have many troubles with loving someone within the wrong ethnicity or religious persuasion although I have never heard say of any difficulty that portrays the one we are suffering from.

The only option I have it seems for a happy life with my beloved is death, not a nasty death though I want to be in the same physical shape as I was when I lived. Blades leave scars so poison was the way to go. As my life ebbs away I know my folks will think that I died alone but my Gloria is with me every step of the way and it is in her arms that I lay, dead to the world but more alive in my demise than I ever was in my short lifetime.

While others get old and infirm and eventually laid to rest, we will still be young and in love.
July 2014
She walks down the corridor
back straight, immaculate.
Heels tapping a regular rhythm
heart beating a tattoo of nerves.

nerves

She can hear the wishers of spite
whispering, sneering, delivering splinters
of withering, scathing remarks at her back
behind masks of smiles and false friendship.

friendship

She hasn't been aboard a ship of friends
in quite a while.
Transistors in her head have picked up the
whispers, the predictors have spoken.

spoken

"She only got the promotion on her back"
"Like she has the qualities for the role"
"Well she does have qualities for a roll!"
"She does like rolling on her back!"

back

Back home, she sits at the mirror in her room
shivers whilst remembering the sniggers and
whispers. The slingers of whispers and dirt
have hurt too deep this time.

time

Time has passed, and the only dirt thrown
Is the handful by her sister, on top of the box
her sibling lies in, lies in because of lies.
She espies the work colleagues, watching and grins.

grins

Grins because it's not often you see the twin
of a suicide victim.
The victim of evil whispers, furthermore
she starts work in a week, with these weak whisperers.

**Killers
© JLB
Ramonez Ramirez Mar 2011
Semisynthetic illumination faded over the land.
The dunes sighed;
women and children (wide-eyed)
emerged from humble homes,
hands in the air, guns in their backs.

Still on hands and knees, as if in prayer,
Ahmed’s body slumped forward,
his beard and robes leaving tracks in the sand.

Hand-rolled cigarettes glowed over Mona Lisa soldier-sniggers;
village men,
lined up like sheep near the fence
were being stripped of their clothes—
they shivered in the face of death.

Fadwa’s back door creaked open;
two soldiers, high on poppies’ finest,
tiptoed through desert darkness, fingers on triggers.

Billy the Kid wasn’t named ‘Billy the Kid’ for no reason,
“kicks like a mule”,
so Uncle Mohammad had said;

The first soldier was winded,
the second not quite so lucky.

Fadwa picked up the man’s rifle,
popped the winded soldier in the face.

Billy and Fadwa took the brunt of the bullets; the rest fled.
Terry Collett May 2013
Father knew **** about Vietnam,
Says Bill, other than what he heard

On the radio or the newspapers or
All that other spiel from red necks

Or dumb heads, he knew nothing
About the real war or the reasons

Behind the death fields. Bill inhales
On his cigarette and takes in the

Young feller undressed and laid
Out on the bed with his thin arms

Behind his head, his ***** hanging
Limp like something dead. He watches

As the youngster looks up at the ceiling,
A cigarette held between red lips, his

Pale blue eyes like ponds of shallow
Water. We pulled out of Vietnam quicker

Than a ***** drops her draws in the end,
Although we in the know knew it’d come

To that even before the politician could
Pull up their pants and put on the public

Faces. The youngster sniggers, pulls on
His smoke, some private joke, Bill considers,

The shallowness of youth, remembering
Young soldiers in Vietnam and elsewhere

In later years blown up or out or dead or
****** in the head. The youngster gazes

At Bill wondering if this guy was some secret
Government agent who could **** as good

As he could ****, whether it was all just talk
Or whether the guy could walk the deadly

Walk. Bill smiles, the innocence of youth,
He muses, stubbing his cigarette **** into

An ashtray, remembering the young kid
Whose throat he slit in Mexico some years

Back as he sat and ****, some double cross,
Some dark deceit, Agency orders, job done,

Neat and clean, unknown, unloved, unseen.
POEM COMPOSED IN 2011
Ghazal Jul 2015
The trick is to deeply inhale,
Loosen your inhibitions and let go,
You don't know if you'll be saved
Or you'll fall, still-
Let go,
What's the point of everything, really?
Of polite smiles and sniggers behind backs-
Of storms within and silent exteriors-
Of days of drudgery and painful nights-
Of worldly desires that forever grow in height?
The only sensible thing in the world
Is the nonsensical, the vague, the free state of
Nothingness
That you were born in, you don't remember but
That was the most serene, most quiet,
Most happy you ever were,
Retreat to that innocence, what stops you?
Goals? There's no end to them anyway.
People? They'll walk out anyway.
Comfort? It won't last anyway.
Leave it all before it leaves you,
Surrender yourself into
The all-enveloping arms
Of the endless blue skies,
Breathe in freedom and jump
Even though you don't have wings,
Even though gravity appears menacing,
And even though no one taught you how to-
The moment you'll let go,
Life will catch you,
Embrace you, cradle you, lift you high-
And trust me, dear reader,
Then you'll fly,
Even though no one taught you how to,
You'll fly...
Steve Page Sep 2016
I'll tell something about Joe
There's one thing he'll never outgrow
Entertaining his mates
With tales of new scrapes
He'll always put on a great show.

I have a great mate called Simon
Who refuses to put more weight on
He'll watch what he eats
Week after week
And soon he will look like Mike Tyson

I know a poet name Chris
Who will tend to think it remiss
If he can't get together
Some poetry matter
I guess it's one of his gfts

There is a young woman named Jenny
Whose skills and abilities are many.
She steps in when she's needed,
Expectations exceeded.
She's nothing short of uncanny.

There is a young man named Josh
Who's decided to make a big splosh.
Don't be facetious,
He's a follower of Jesus
And due for a thorough good wash.

There is a young lady named Kay
Who loved to go shopping all day
She'd keep looking around
Until a bargain she found
And no one dared get in her way.

There is a young lady named Anna
Who just can't stop smiling no matter.
She laughs everyday
With no sign of dismay
As her boys simply love her and hug her.

There was a young couple in Hanwell,
Whose love just couldn't be hid well.
They opened their home,
With never a moan
And ensured their friends were fed well.

There is a young man named Billy
Who can't help but laugh himself silly.
He sniggers and snorts
Gaffaws and contorts
Enough to make him feel dizzy.

There once was a magpie named Abi
Her friends would make her so happy
By leaving around
Shiny things to be found
Whether useful or a tiny bit tacky.

There is a dear lady named Betty
Who is always willing and ready
To sing and to dance
When she's given the chance
And never seems to get sweaty.

There is a young lady called Marsha
Who's German, so whenever you ask her
What type of food
Goes with all kinds of moods
She'll tell you it's a frankfurter.

There is a young pastor named Jason
When he studies his bible he's brazon
He praises and prays
By night and by day
His knees have serious abrasions.

There is a young woman named Amy
Who is more than a little bit brainy
She studies real hard
At home and abroad
But is also a little bit zany.

There is young lady named Tessa
Who loves a good meal and a blether
She studies God's word
Although she prefers
To do so with friends altogether.

I know a pastor named Pete
Whose day is never complete
Until he's concluded
Which quote to include in
His sermon due later that week.

I have a sister named Janet
Who has a wonderful habit
When you need a friend
You can be sure to depend
That she won't get into a panic.

I have a sister named Jenny
Who is always willing and ready
To offer a smile
While cooking with style
I can smell the results already.

I have a sister named Sally
It's hard to keep a clear tally
Of the number of times
She's cheerful and kind
It really makes you feel happy.
You can't beat a limerick to celebrate your friends and family.
Charlie Dragon May 2017
She is a cup of coffee
The way she glides across the classroom to her seat
The way her hair bounces like the foam on top
She is smooth and beautiful
I love the idea of her and her smell
And her rich completion
The way her dark skin feels and the way she talks

She is a cup of coffee
She seems nice on the outside
But after one task
She is bitter, and gives you a good kick
She talks behind their backs and sniggers
She cackles an evil laugh

But in the end
She is the cup of coffee I will never have
The cup of coffee I regret not having
This is about a girl I had a crush on
Misfit
The four of them wore business mine from a second-hand shop
                                                                I joined them,
we went to a high-class restaurant, it was full, but there were side rooms
                                                                 I lost my friends
ended up sitting by a table amongst people who thought I was a waiter.
                                                               I dressed for tennis the wrong time out of place,
quickly left followed to exit by derisive sniggers  
                                                              Outside I changed into jeans and blue shirt just like
Seafarers on a movie does and could, from the top of the hill,
saw my ship leaving the pier; ran down till I tasted blood, too late,
                                                              she was gone forever
Because my nerdy needs to be accepted
Bought a suit walked back up to the restaurant, the guests were outside
                                                              playing tennis, some swam in the pool,
they still thought I was the waiter and ordered drinks.
Ali Mayo Aug 2014
Oh I wish I could win the Lottery
And own a home of my own
Where I no longer need Social Security
Or feel always in need of a loan.

Oh I wish I'd no need to count pennies
And that Christmas came every day
That 'Housing Benefit' were ***** words
And bills  - a delight to pay!

Yet I may not have two brass farthings
My bank account won't reach double figures
At least I walk around with a smile
My personal wealth brings on the sniggers.

Oh I might never be Rockerfeller
As my bank account continually drains
There's rarely a glimmer of sunshine
It never pours, but constantly rains.

I can't confess to NOT being happy
And I'm wealthier than I appear
I've still got all my marbles,
Fish and chips, telly and beer!

So I'll continue to draw Social Security
Until the right position can be found
But I won't ditch my dreams or my wishes
So each week, I'll still pay my pound!!!
Donall Dempsey Oct 2017
MR. DADDY SOFT SOFT

Always her fascination with me
shaving.

This her early morning ritual
observing each action

as if it were holy.

I hide my face in foam.

“Santa Claus! Santa Claus!”
she chants

winces with delight as the razor
(she gulps)          

goes over my bump without
(gasp)slicing it off.

The shaving uncovers the me she knows.

“Soft…soft. . .Mr. Daddy Soft Soft!”
she gurgles in a lather of laughter.

“Me now…now me!” she pleads with me.


I take the brush…coat her reflection with foam.
I shave her…with the tip of my little finger.

Her reflection sniggers & she sniggers too.

Later, in the early evening
she appears  

bearded in fresh  cream.

She shaves herself with a lollipop stick.
“Me... Daddy now...see!”

I cha cha cha her on the tips of my toes
as she clings to my fingertips

the living room dances around us

One delighted half shaved little girl.

One delighted soft soft Mr. Daddy.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.sometimes you... just have to listen certain songs, for the giggles, and the Mutley sniggers to boot; you just have to; there are all kinds outlet down all kinds of avenues; life, has to, look, this, way; me expressing the following: a large number of people do know how to drive a car, but have no idea how to ride a horse... watch them... they'll be a-trying to confuse riding a great Dane... or an Irish wolfhound... did you know, that... wolves have no knowledge of barking? they howl, they growl, they snarl... but wolves do not bark! yappy-yappy... little domesticated dogs bark... but what do large domesticated canines do? bite.

well...
i don't have a driving
license for a car...
but i know how
to ride a horse...
ensuring i know
how to make
a horse turn left,
or turn right,
or gallop...
   how's that?
**** the driving license...
i can, ride, a...
horse!
       boom... erotica
shaggy: mr. ****-tastic!
****...
this self-deprecating
humor is hitting
the zenith point...
while the English-speaking
crowd are hitting
the: ridiculing the other
nadir.
The cold clammy fingers of night
creak slowly across the floorboards
as I stare at the flickering fireplace
my heart begins to up pace to race

The flooding feelings that all is not safe
brings panic to my terrorised mind in haste
I feel hands on my shoulders
yet I cannot look around
for I am frozen in fear
as I know death is here

He plays with my hair
twilling it round his bony fingers
then leans down to whisper in icy breath
did you really think you could escape me
did you really, he sniggers
say goodbye to the light

Say hello to forever night

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Olivia Kent Mar 2015
Of talking heads and wild nights.
Smiling faces.
Love delights.
Frightful wrecks of yesterday's tears.
Fireworks of lonesome years.
Barren in stupidity.
Indignity of trusted lies.
Let teardrops and love bites be seen.
Let the truth decide.
Printed truths in magazine.
Bathing in hazes.
Of multiple stripes.
Choices and voices,
Back bar room brawls.
Cat calls and sniggers.
Sleeping big wiggers.
Sweet lady giggles.
Daring to dream.
Dreaming to scheme.
Everything ain't as it seems .
So baby we sigh and we die as we cry, loves unstable
Fruitless discussions of nothing in particular.
Chucked around the kitchen table.
Sat on his bed, her head's adjusted Saturday's tear ridden puddle.
(c) Livvi
Marshal Gebbie May 2017
Potentates and Princes pawn their pricelessness for fame whilst those who wield true power play for keeps,
Others, in their ignorance, career through constant turmoil, spreading mayhem as the trusting public sleeps.
Such is the pattern of your present brash incumbent, such is the horror of the lucid standing by
With realisation dawning that the game has fast unravelled and blanket supposition that impeachment may apply.
For lies and deception fade to paleness in duplicity of the treachery in dealing with the enemy of old,
And as confidence collapses right across the realm of politics, embarrassment suggests that hard action must unfold.
Sniggers in the Kremlin are a bitter pill to stomach with them laughing up their sleeves at the chaos in this land,
Better that you bite the bit and remedy this problem, remove the fool from office and let Pence now show his hand.

M.
New Zealand
18 May 2017
Olivia Kent Oct 2014
A lived in land.
Where things are changed and rearranged.
Where the papers portents for tomorrows news.
In account of them,the magnificent commoners and all that they choose.

This lived in land.
An experience of worlds and making merriment
Full of memory triggers, where everyone sniggers,
discussing the times that are gone.

Existed in the land of experience a mirror.
It's broken now.
A million broken shards of heart.
They're shattered all around the flowers.

So how does your garden grow?
Perfection?
Not mine.
A recollection of flowers.
Battling springtime showers.
You hope they won't be washed away.
The memories,
The transgressions,
The diversionary tactics, from the path you once trod.
The one from which you stumbled blinded.
You stupid sod.
Piles of sods as the mound grew.
Blinded by the hair in your eye.
The winds somehow chewing your cheeks.
The self you acquired, caught hold of today.
(C) Livvi

— The End —