Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Irma Cerrutti Mar 2010
Impregnate your old crock squirtin'
Papier—mâché blackball on the *****
Oglin' for upshot
And whatever frigs our orifice
Yeah Ducky **** **** it bud
Milk the meatiness in a snog stranglehold
****** all of your bazookas at once
And unclench into ventilator

I like dung and tinsel
Shandy ****** fuss
Breedin' with the puke
And the Weltanschauung that I'm in statu pupillari
Yeah Ducky **** **** it bud
Milk the meatiness in a snog stranglehold
****** all of your bazookas at once
And unclench into ventilator

Like a punctilious Zeitgeist's nincompoop
We were born, born to be unstatesmanlike
We can spirt so penetrating
I never wanna croak

Born to be unstatesmanlike
Born to be unstatesmanlike
Copyright © Irma Cerrutti 2009
Edna Sweetlove May 2015
The bar behind the theatre was nearly empty apart from a couple of gay boys.
Well, it was a gay bar, so no ******* surprise there.
I glanced at the fat one and decided, 'No thank you very much,'
as I have noticed fat people often smell unpleasantly,
maybe it's the sweat trapped between their ****-cheeks that does it.

But the other one was very cute and I decided I would have him.
In those days, it was regarded as 'de rigeur' to buy a lad a lager and lime
before dragging him home with you for some nookie,
so I coughed up for a half pint with charm and grace.
Sadly, he was no great shakes in the conversational stakes,
but was I after intellectual stimulation? No, I ******* wasn't.

Anyway, once I'd checked his passport to ensure he was over-age
(no one wants any ******* trouble from the bigoted morality squad)
I dragged him back to my elegant bachelor ****-pad
and stripped him off to investigate his lithe little body;
a nice smooth little **** and a reasonably clean ****.
What more can you want from a one night stand?

After a bit of a damp snog and a good old *****,
I lubed him up and gave his *** a right good poking.
He moaned a bit, but then who wouldn't moan,
with seven and a half inches of thick gristle shoved
all the way up their sphincter? I know I would.

After I had filled his rear end with love juice a couple of times,
I felt that kicking out was the name of the game.
Generously, I gave him a half-crown for his bus fare
as he said he was a bit short of cash, being unemployed.
It was the least I could do, as he had three miles to go home,
and it was raining cats and ******* dogs outside.

After he'd left, I checked out the bed sheets (as you would)
and was irritated to find a few skidmarks there,
or they may have been where I wiped my fingers
after having eaten a bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk.
A quick sniff confirmed my worst suspicions though.
'Ah well, true love always comes at a price', I reflected,
as I scraped the worst bits off with a nail file.
Irma Cerrutti Mar 2010
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
you were opening one's lips so gorgeous and so creamy
greasing me stamen on the unfucked bonk
while the bangers let it rip in the alley

Those were the diseased minds and that was Newfangled York
we were squirting for the wads and the meatballs
and that was gobbled snog for the creamers inside Gloria
centrifugally stiff is thus those of White House Nazis

Ah but you copulated telescopic didn't you basket case
you just acidified your jockstrap on the shoulders of the scrum
you copulated telescopic I never once heard you use sign language
I input you, I don't intake you
I input you, I don't intake you
and all of that balling *******

I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
you were gorilla—like your ****** ******* was absolute epic
you leaked me again you frocked slap—up old salt
but for me you would **** an unzipping

And shaving your tongue because the creatures lust after us
who are barked at by the Daleks of *** appeal
you Rohypnolled yourself you emitted jet so what?
we are radioactive salvo we shoot full of holes the stride piano

*** one fine morning you copulated telescopic didn't you cocker
you just blunted your extremity on the cattle
you copulated telescopic I never once smelled you emit
I intake you, I don't input you
I intake you, I don't input you
and all of that balling *******

I don't mean to insinuate that I slobbered over you peanuts
I can't withhold ******* of each crouched ****
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
that's oodles I don't even kick—start you that thick and fast
Copyright © Irma Cerrutti 2009
Kimberley Leiser Aug 2014
I know that you are always with me. I follow that scent, the calm folded crisp smell of cigars lit on the rainy morning in the streets of Calais. I pass through the art galleries, boat docks, pubs, markets and old churchyard buildings. That scent again? It draws me in and embraces me close into secluded streets. I see friendly faces wearing the same weepy eyes and bright smiles every day. They were buskers, street tramps, just in my eyes fellow lost rebels who I admire. They haven’t yet given up even now their naked without luxury, starved of food and clothing they wander around building up a new home every day.  

Every time the buskers see me they each greet me in turn shake and kiss my hands. I drop a penny down; they play out their beautiful music and sing their songs into the early hours of the evening. The air of the night is surrounded with the distinctive smell of cider and cigars. Outside the docks of boats the pub is festered with local communities drinking and talking about previous nostalgia. People laugh and cheer at the buskers who come into the pubs and applaud even louder when each of them comes on stage. They play, they dance, they rant in their own unique way in time to the guitar and banjo. When the evening is finally over music and laughter without question just stops, I can hear those... heavy awkward whispers, muffled voices and coughs of things left unsaid. At that point each of the smiles of the lost rebels fades out into the night, they know they must face and enter that filthy alley alone forced into the solitude of old cardboard boxes. I thought they did a splendid show and award them money and praise in return some of them come up to compliment and kiss me again.

The next morning I visit the library to indulge in my long lost passion of French poetry but I keep on getting distracted. I pick up on that very dangerous scent of cigars, wine and … aftershave. It was just so intoxicating, the fuel I craved. The aroma got stronger outside, something was around me. I was feeling that someone had just touched my breast, pinched my ******* then started to bite, caress and kiss my back but that feeling had quickly faded out.I sat down, unable to detect anything. I open up an loaned book of poems by Christina Rossetti. Before I could read her first poem, a written letter had fell to the floor. It was encrypted in my name with a place and time. I begun to read it out aloud as if it was some fairy tale enchantment.

The cigar smoke started to rise, embrace and surround me it filled my eyes again. A young man appears at my feet. He is *****, long black hair; smile cheeky but eyes concrete and dreamy when magnified they melt into a fire. I gaze into his piercing green eyes; I can already feel my body heating up and chest feel tenser. We start to greet each with a handshake, he grabs my hand and begins to put each of my fingers into his mouth. Straight away I could feel this urge to share everything with him to plant that warm kiss onto his lips. We start with talking for hours about our previous past, poetry and art. I read out some of the poems in French and he was translating them for me. He asks whether I would want to go Paris with him; he knew the best historic sites to take pictures and then without any hesitation he flashes out two train tickets. A charmer no less, but I feel drawn to follow him hoping he would lead me to more adventure. We both catch a train together from Calais to Paris. He takes me into the French café near his apartment we end up drinking coffee together out in the balcony. He drove me around in his car; we end the day with having a great picnic of red wine, sandwiches, cakes and croissants out in the jardin. We end the first evening having a smoke or two out in the beautiful countryside air. He drops me back to my villa and kisses me slowly on the ears then begins to whisper softly the words k.i.m.m.y into my ear. I could feel the last of his words really start to linger, the final words before leaving me and promising to meet up the next evening outside his own apartment.

I came out the next evening wearing a tight red frock and bright red lipstick on the ****** cobbled streets. We both embrace each other with small kisses on the cheek, walking down with our tongues tied in knots and arms locked together to the local tavern drinking more wine. When it finally got late I was allured to follow him into his apartment a classy one bedroom with a double bed, rose flowers on each window ledge. There is another classy rose wine bottle on the table and a room of old books. We sit on the sofa watching movies, eating chocolate and sipping on wine. My head begins to spin, lose some focus. Could this really be love or was this just another drunken lusting daze? I droop to his shoulders; He recites bits of his own poem, I can’t help but stare into his deep eyes when he reads them, I look up again at his moist lips when he reads out aloud the final words. I yearn to snog him or for at least him to make that first move. I feel dizzy and high on red blooded wine and cigars. I could then feel him starting to kiss the temples of my neck and feel his soft teeth mingle and bite leaving small indented marks on my neck. I draw even closer towards his mouth; I can feel his beard tickle me. I love to taste him, love that aroma! He tastes of dimly lit cigars which mingle with my fruity perfume. At this point I feel that the ember inside surround and heat up my whole body. I want him to really light me up so I can explode into them blue flames. I begin to clench up my body as he bites my neck, we both kiss frantically. He whispers into my ears and begins to nibble on them. We end up huddled up together in bed! The window reflects that the sun is approaching, he sits on top of me staring at me blankly in silence. He takes time to admire my calm sleepy concrete clay features.

He knows that when the sun comes up that everlasting rainbow of color we created together will begin to melt and transform back into monochrome. It just comes to the end. we know we can not argue, we must leave each other. I know I must say the two forbidden words. The very two words that turn me back into this empty corpse. I hate them; I greet him with a long lost embrace, the in-completed hug and the final words to end everything! Bon- Voyage At the same time trying to hold myself together, I leave on that last train, feeling tired and drained but only for a second. The whispers of his voice fill up the station crying out… KIMMY, kimmy... kimmy! . They echo out and embrace me again, they always make me smile.

I catch the last train back to Calais then head off home to stormy England. I never feel sad to leave him or the place behind because I will always remember him. Just as any dying whisper, music of buskers, words of a poem. The bond you share is never really gone it ignites again to finally burn on eternally.
Not a poem or a complete short story yet just a snippet at the moment hoping to work on it at some point but this is my first real attempt of writing a ****** short story so tell me what you think?
Devon Webb Nov 2014
All I ever got
out of loving you
was a snog and a
fuckload
of poetry.
Jane dale Apr 2014
I have this dog, a huge great pooch,
Just like the one, on Turner and *****,
He really is a big orange lump,
Dare I say how much he dumps,
He shreds and ruins my favourite stuff,
Covering the floor, in loads of fluff,
TV remotes, he's chewed them up,
He costs a bomb, my naughty pup,
His snoring rattles the gates of hell,
And when he farts, my gawd, the smell!,
Don't let's forget, he loves his food,
Face in your cup, slurp slurp, how rude,
What's yours is his, he takes the ****,
I dare you say the word, "biscuit"
He slobbers shoestrings, from his chops,
Each room has a rag, for him to mop,
But that aside, he has my heart,
His crinkly face, and stinky farts,
Rolling in fox mess on his daily stroll,
Sniffing crotches, of those who call,
I kiss his face off every day,
I could never love a man this way,
He has a face you want to snog,
I really, really love this dog :)
A Mareship Sep 2013
Happy thing -
Come fiercely.
Bend me like a tulip at midnight,
Make something out of me,
Smoke out my *****
And saddle it in gemstones,
Gallop me like a tongue-twisted
Traveller into the
Whole globe’s bedrooms.

Happy happy thing -
Push me!
Make something out of me!
Kid me,
Front me,
Strike me dancing like a hot
Stone,
Hand me cigarettes that I’ll light
From the last one,
And the second to last one,
And the next one.

Happy thing!
Ohhh come colourfully!
Make the world all-a-bright,
Make red as red as a big red love
Or a spitsuckled cherry gumdrop
Of red-red-red-red-red,
Make yellow smear itself
like crushed cats eyes,
Make pastels all pennysweets
And green so luminous that
Clock hands can’t even dream of it.

You beautiful
*******
Happy
Thing!
You happy happy happy thing…!
Songs are burning!
And planets are droaning!
And London is sleeeeeeping,
And the morning is leaping at me!
Is it leaping at you?

My happy thing,
Come noisily.
Sit with me jabbering,
******* with me,
Snog me,
Pull apart my face and
Absolutely ******* drench me
In come.

Happy thing,
Pierce me,
Make me a Sebastian,
Riddle me with spears and watch me
Laugh out the blood,

Happy thing,
Come quickly.
Take my hand and run with me.
They’re shooting at us,
Making saints of us,
And they’ll get us y’know, they’ll get us, they’ll get us –

Happy thing
Come on now dear,
I know the watercolours are running but
Don’t they look pretty
dropping as keenly as our tears –
being caught is just another reason to escape!

Happy thing,
Don’t swallow that.
Are we lowering ourselves?
Are they poking holes in us?
Oh no,
Are they sinking us?

Happy thing,
I hope you always
Come fiercely,
Colours aren’t the same now
And ******* is just a drone of biology.
I promise that
next time we'll be immortal.
Next time we’ll have learned
How to really, really run.
'manic depression...a frustrating mess...'
Big Virge Mar 2015
So .....

How do they know ... ?  
when a man's ... NOT .... "The One" ... ?  
when they ... "REJECT" ... you ...  
before ... your first line's spun ... ?!?  
  
Annd ...  
How do they know ... ?  
how to make you .... Feel Blue .........  
I ... REALLY .... Don't Know .........  
Can someone ...  Give me a Clue ... ?!?  
  
Annnd ...  
How do they know ... ?  
when a man's got ... " The Cash !  "  ... ?  
It's like they're .... "SNIFFER DOGS" ....  
in a field ... Full of ... HASH ... !!! ...  
  
Annnnd ....  
Why ... DON'T ... they know ... ?  
when a man is a ... " DOG " ...  
can't they ... Tell by his ... BREATH ... !?!  
when they're ... having a ... Snog ... !?!?!?!  
  
Annnnnd ... Why don't we know ... ?  
which woman to ... " LOVE " ... !!!!?!!!!  
  
You'll ... NEVER ... know that ... !!!  
They ... DON'T ... fit like a glove ... !!!  
  
Annnnnnd ...  
Why don't we know ... ?  
when a woman looks ... GREAT ... !!!!!!  
It's .... HIGHLY UNLIKELY .... that ....  
She wants a ....  SOULMATE .... !!!  
  
Annnnnnnd ....  
Why ... DON'T...  we know ... ?  
that a woman who ..... SHOWS .....  
Too much of her body .....  
is ... simply ... A ... " ** " ... !!!!! ...  
  
Annnnnnnnd ... Why don't we know ... ?  
that a .... " SINGLE MUM'S SON " ....  
is always .... gonna be .....  
Their .... " NUMBER ONE " .... ?!?  
  
Annnnnnnnnd ....  
Why ... DON'T ... They Know ... ?  
that ... Years .... Down The ............. Line ...........  
  
Most men want a woman .....  
Whose Body's ....  STILL FINE ......  
  
Annnnnnnnnnd ....  
How do they ... KNOW ... ?  
when you're looking at ... " THEM " ...  
  
It's .... THEM .... that you're after ... !!!  
NOT ... One of their ... friends ..... ?!?!?!  
  
Annnnnnnnnnnd ...  
What makes them ... THINK ... ?  
That ... When ...  
They've had a ... "Drink" ...  
It's ..... OKAY ..... for them .......  
to .... TEASE YOU ... with a ...  WINK ... ???  
  
Annnnnnnnnnnnd ...  
What makes them ... FEEL ... ?  
If ... Their Man's ... NOT OBSESSIVE ...  
The Love .... He ... PROCLAIMS ... !!!!!!!!  
Just ... CANNOT ... be ... REAL ... !?!?!?!  
  
Annnnnnnnnnnnnd ...  
Why ... CAN'T... They See ... ?  
That ... their ... " LOVE for MONEY " ...  
Will ..... NEVER ALLOW .....  
Their ... SOUL ... to be .... " FREE " ....  
  
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnd ...  
Why do they ...... TRY ........ ?  
To ..... ALWAYS ...... imply ....  
That ... Relationships ... FAIL ...  
because of the ...... " GUY " .... !?!?!  
  
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnd ...  
Who is the .... FOOL ... ?  
that said .... " It was Cooooollll " ....  
to trust .... " EVERYTHING " ...  
You get taught .... in your School .... !!!!!?!!!!!!  
  
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd .....  
  
Why is .... Thissssss .... !?!?!?!  
When things go ... WRONG .... !!!!!  
in a ........ Relationship ......  
  
She .... suddenly develops ....  
Hips ... like a .... " SHIP " .... !!!!!  
  
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd .......  
What's with these kids ... ?  
when a game like ... " The Sims " ...  
is more ... REAL TO THEM ... ?  
Than .... " REALITY " ... is ... !!!?!!!  
  
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd ...  
Why do I feel ... ???  
like these questions ... i'm asking ...  
can't possibly ..... STOP .......  
Young people ... GUN BLASTING ... !?!?!  
  
So .....  
What's in a ... LIE ... ?!?  
What's in the ... TRUTH ... ???  
Why do people ...  CRY ... ?!?!?  
  
Why do people die ... !?!  
and ... when all's .......  
"Said and Done" .......  
  
What's in a .....  WHY ...... ???  
  
And ...... YO ....... !!!!! ........  
  
What's with this ... PROSE ... !?!?!?!?!?!  
  
"Called" .........  
  
What do we ... KNOW ... ??????
Questions Questions .........
Fred McCarthy Nov 2010
I was hasty and stupid.
I did not know what i wanted.
When i saw you all i wanted was to snog you
You looked feckin perfect in your blue shoes.

I didn't know what was coming my way.
I didn't know i was going to get hurt that way.
Cold-bloodedly and unmercifully.
Painfully and pitifully.

I was ****** ignorant....
You were my bestfriend's ****** girlfriend!!!!!!
Thank you for making me romance-intolerant.
Terry Collett Dec 2012
I saw you and that girl
behind the maths block
Reynard said
we were playing ball

and there you were
caught out
the corner of my eye
and as he spoke

you watched Parrot
writing something
on the blackboard
his curly haired head

moving side to side
as he wrote
and you could see
in your mind’s eye

Christina leaning
against the fence
behind the maths block
her eyes lit up

with a young girl’s passion
and you leaning in
towards her
wanting to kiss her

wanting to feel
her lips on yours
but she kept on talking
her lips opening

and closing
like a fish out of water
and her hands placed
over her groin like guards

and she said she wanted
a photo of you  
to pin
to her bedroom wall

and you said you’d
seek one out for her
and she said
she had one

of herself for you
and then she spoke
of her parents
and her mother’s

depression
and about her older brother
which was lost
in the whisper

of her words
and on and on
she went
and all you wanted

was to feel her lips
on yours
in the few moments
you had alone with her

and even though
you leaned in closer
she talked on
and on

her breath warm
and almost liquidy
against your face
her eyes

like small mirrors
dark and sinkable
and just as
she became silent

and you felt it time
for the kiss to come
the bell rang
and she up

and moved
and touched your hand
and left and you caught
a quick glimpse

of her thigh
as she moved away
and Reynard said
did you get your hand up

or get a snog?
just then Parrot
the teacher
turned around

and threw
a piece of chalk
at you
stop the noise

he bellowed
stop the talk.
Jeg gik ind til festen. Jeg så ham. Han tænkte på mig. Han holdt diskret øje. Han så mig svinge håret. Han kiggede på mine lange ben snog sig på dansegulvet.
Jeg dansede. Jeg havde en fest. Jeg glemte alt om ham. Imens han kyssede hendes læber. Jeg vidste *** var billig. Jeg var ligeglad. Det var han ikke. Jeg kom, jeg så, jeg sejrede.
Jeg er mere end hende. Det vidste både han, *** og jeg. Jeg vidste at alle vidste det.  
Jeg sagde til ham, at han kunne gøre bedre. Han smilede skævt. Han var flov. Han var blevet grå. Han havde intet lys. Jeg lyste af glæde, lækkerhed og overskud.
Jeg gik. Jeg forsvandt. Jeg lod ham stå. Han var tilbage.
Jeg var sammen med andre, selvom jeg var alene.
*Han var alene, selvom han var sammen med en anden.
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
well, sure, it's a central american dish...
         taragon... infused rice...
no, wait, that's wrong, i'm thinling
of cheap-*** saffron...
           ah! turmeric infused rice...
    it's a chili con carne...
and i'm looking at it, thinking:
   needs some garnish...
         **** it... cut up a few mint leaves
and dropped a dollop of yogurt
   into the dish...
       what?!
                   what do you imply with
serving a dish, where fresh mint is a garnish?
does the dish sound like any european
might cook, call it a stew and then sprinkle
some parsley onto it?
or does this plate of food, look like something
indian, where you garnish a dish of curry
with some fresh coriander?
  ******... this is american...
     you garnish your grub with mint!
the "apéritif"? hence the inverted commas...
       as in... it's not really a drink...
    what was it?
                 brie cheese...
            which sounds a lot nicer than having
to brush your teeth... as if expecting to snog someone
in the basin of an hour's worth
    of leftover conversation.
china just throws in a bunch of spring onions.
but a chili con carne?
            you garnish it with mint,
  and if it's really spicy... a dollop of yogurt;
and yes, turmeric is the only substitute to using
     saffron...
       no... a chili con carne doesn't sound
great, when the garnish is either european parsley,
   or south asian coriander;
            the north asia garnish? spring onions.
this central american **** (stew) needs mint...
and perhaps some yogurt... if no kashmiri chilies
are used.
Joe Cole Jul 2015
Not of a ***** and opened mouth snog
On some suntan oil stinking beach
But rather holding hand's under the moon
And just the gentle brush of lips on my cheek
Barely clad bodies under the sun
Baring their all to those who would look
No, just soft gentle curves left for imagination
To think of pleasures to come
After all there is no hurry to capture your love
For if its true your true love will come
And fourty years later you'll still be holding hands
Under a bright lovers moon
What a load of sentimental junk
Anais Vionet Apr 13
Peter (my bf) and I were in Paris, about three weeks ago (I was on Spring break, he was on vacation from work).
‘Headstart for Happiness,’ by ‘the Style Council,’ was playing low somewhere.
“This is the kind of starry winter night that guy from the Netherlands used to paint,” I observed.
“If you were writing about it,” he asked, “how would you describe it?”
“Imagine a deep, still blue, hosting a field of luminescent light scatter, and a bashful moon, low in the sky, as if it were hiding in the trees.” I guessed.
“It’ll moonset soon,” he said “within the hour.” he added.
“I never think of moonsets.” I said, looking at the sky like it was new.
“The moon follows the line of the ecliptic,” he said, as if that meant something, “more or less,” he qualified.
“To think I grew up under an undifferentiated sky,” I marveled.

When I’m with him, I can relax, I don’t have to be-on, he’s smart enough.
Of course, I’d come in handy if he went into cardiac arrest or started choking on something.

We were sitting side by side, outside ‘Le Café du Marché,’ a bistro near the Eiffel Tower. Our waiter,  Léo, had just refilled our coffee. It was 9:30 PM and we’d been at this table for about two hours.

We’d reduced the tarte-tatin to a few crumbs forty minutes ago, but Léo knows me and although they're thirty tourists in line for tables, he won’t rush us.

Like puppets dance, we often mimic lines - I don’t know why.
“I was stalking you,” I confided, running a finger along his long-sleeve shirt-cuff.
“I was stalking you,” He said. Our eyes were fixed on each other.
“No, seriously,” I said, moving in much closer, to be serious.
“No, seriously,” He deadpanned back.
“Then I caught you,” I went on, and I was very close now, our lips maybe two inches apart.
“No, I caught you,” he said, smiling as I got very close. “It was ****** Jujitsu,” he softly bragged.
“Wax on, wax off,” I said before I stole a quick kiss.

Peter was shocked, a scooch, by French teens.
If French teens have a crush, especially in Paris, it’s a ‘drop what you’re doing,’ snog-fest - between classes in the hall, on-the-metro, in a coffee shop or grocery store they go-all-in, because love must be stormy, urgent, tinchy.
Here’s a secret. Peter says, “You **** my face, like no one ever has.” It must be the French in me. Ha!

Of course, I learned all I know about love from Taylor Swift.
Let’s see, first, I must be willing to let down my guard - because love can happen at any time.
Love, at its best, is overwhelming, mistake prone, meaningful and powerful - but I can’t assume it’ll last, because my lover may have ulterior motives. I could be hurt or changed by the experience - but I’ll have the memories. Eventually though, I’ll heal enough to try again - with a new set of expectations.

Maybe I’ll even write a song or a poem about it.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Ulterior: motives kept hidden to achieve a particular result.

tarte-tatin  = an apple **** with caramelized apples on the bottom, flaky pastry on top. YUM
scooch = a little
stormy = extremely passionate
tinchy = twitchy, reflexive
Aa Harvey Aug 2019
It will never bee


Humble knocked on the door to BlondeBee’s parents home
And her Mom answered the door.
Hi Mrs. Friendly, I’m here to see BlondeBee.
I’ll just give her a call.


BlondeBee, Humble’s here, are you nearly ready?
Just doing my hair Mom.
Take a seat Humble.  Would you like some honey?
No thank you Mrs. Friendly, I’m all full up.


What are you two up to tonight?
Oh, we’re just going for a walk.
Make sure that you don’t go outside the hive
And to bee back before it’s dark.


Humble and BlondeBee tried dating for a while,
But they never really made the connection.
Sure they were friends and could make each other smile,
But the relationship lacked any passion.


At the end of one night on the doorstep to BlondeBee’s house,
The kiss opportunity came along, but Humble feared like a mouse
And no sound came out, when he tried to ask her for a snog.
She didn’t ask either, for she wasn’t a believer.
She was starting to have her own regrets, knowing it to bee wrong.


So nothing happened, three nights in a row.
Then along came a whole new threat.
BlondeBee cancelled a date, after turning up late,
And Humble walked home alone feeling bad and fell into bed.


Little did he know, BlondeBee was not alone.
She went dancing with a bee from her past.
They shared a kiss and BlondeBee did confess,
That Tiny Dancer was the one that made her laugh.
Humble thought maybe he should forgive her.
When she was around, he could still act the clown,
But there was no way he could ever bee her lover.
Humble was happy for BlondeBee, but he still felt so let down.


(C)2019 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Martin Rombach Jul 2014
As the existential transition is signed and stamped and photographed for our fathers
My little journey a little later than others, an adherence to the structure sure, but where else will we learn
As the papers are handed in, the informal formalities hit home with just enough liquor
And we are torn between insecurity and empowerment
I notice among the bread and beer and bullshitting banter
One of the girls is looking my way a little longer

Her mind draws me in to a natural respect, an intelligence clearly and frankly explored
It is a source of comedy, a source of conversation, and for me I'd be lying if not a source of attraction
Naturally her appearance doesn't hurt the situation, a compliment of warm  smiles and intense colour coupled with an honest sense of self
And a sleek silhouette to hold it in

One thing this town has taught me, by both strangers and the self
It doesn't take much to be ****
The real goal is constructed from the subtle implication of your own taste
That you find that someone who is sexually and socially engaging
And who could add more than trivial ******* to your life
Someone who compliments and compares to you, reconstructing the familiar to something more rewarding

That is not to say *** is pointless
But if you find that right one who acts as your muse, *** is another exploration of that two way empowerment
Clothed and carrying on, you can talk out the simple and fantastical, defining direction as companions who find each other's presence a motivating reassurance
And in the sweat and the snog, after the spontaneous first **** frees you, you can start to suggest new tests of sensuality and mindfucking loveliness

I wonder if all those looks mean what I feel they mean
That she respects me in a way I haven't given her openness for, that I let those compliments go deeper than rain on the wind shield
That all the natural conversation is something for which I should let go of all the defensiveness that has kept me so comfortable in these years of functional formality
That maybe I should take a chance on this one, that cute one standing tall on her identity, in the same time of transition as me
But with less lessons behind her concreting her certainty

Maybe it's worth risking that bitter old ******* rejection just one more time
Maybe I should ask her if there's something
In
That
Really
Inviting
Look.
"Days without you are torturing, nights without you are grievous.
I look for the comfort that I used to find in your lap. Where will I get you mumma? Where?", a scream lashed in despair echoed.
"I'll be the gallop to **** the dormant twilight,
I'll be the golden rays to snog your sleepy eyes,
I'll be the stretch of vitality,
I'll be the aroma of your morning coffee,
I'll be the shower of sprightliness to drench you with new zeal,
I'll be the savour of your breakfast and joy of a full square meal,
I'll be your steps towards glory,
I'll be the sigh after your every failed story,
I'll be the hop of excitement,
Acquainting a flunk, I'll be the screech of your lament,
I'll be the bliss you find seeing the sun going down,
I'll be in the sloth dispelling plangent words of azan,
I'll be the spectator of your big bright smile,
I'll be the witness to the every tear you wipe,
Never in your life you're alone,
Be it your hearty gale or saddening mourn,
Walking by you like your shadow,
Even beyond the eternity I'll follow", whispered her mother. :')
-Aparajita Tripathi
Ardent hist’ry has Ipswich town,
Where burning the last witch went down,
And was home to the Tudor crown.
Now dull embers.

A maritime town when trade stops.
Now clogged up and rife with pound shops.
Abound's the smell of coughed up hops
from its members.

A cultural scene cloaked in fog
of Friday night’s back ally snog,
or in the park where ev’n the dog
Treads carefully.

Shop workers and call centre staff
Aiming short sighted but to laugh,
smiling only for the photograph,
Pose cheerfully.
Tilly Dec 2020
It’s Christmas Eve and after a bottle and a half, I’m resisting the strongest urge to call you
To reminisce
For the last 6 years, Christmas has been our thing
But I know you’re proud, stoic and probably have vowed not to text me and are really good at sticking to that
Well, I’m ******* at it
I want to talk to you
I want to hear about how your mum’s terrible tinsel decor has annoyed your dad
How you’ve already run out of Advocaat for Snowballs
How you’re tipsy and maybe in that moment, you slur the truth down the phone
About how you also miss me in your house at Christmas
How you miss turning around to me hungover and being the first to wish me
How we eat cans of Pringles whilst your dad flexes his obscure knowledge Trivial Pursuit muscles
How your mum offers me champagne at 9am
How we text half way through the night to meet in the kitchen for a cheeky snog
How we sing our own version of Feliz Navidad
How you periodically check in to ask me if I’m okay and if I need anything

I need something

Christmas was our thing.
And I miss you
Farah Taskin Aug 2021
My Adonis,
If you were the morning
I'd be the morning star

If you were the evening
I'd be the evening star
I'd stay above the horizon
Where
the shy sky and the lovelorn land surprisingly snog
The surroundings without fog
I'd become vesper
like a silver
sequin

If you were the scorching sun
I,
Venus would go around you
I'd melt
Or rather
I'd be a stunning sunflower
I'd gaze at you
Yours
Forever
Venus
William Shakespeare's "Venus and Adonis" is one of my favourite poems :)
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
oh don't get me wrong, i ****** a black girl before, it's not like i was gagging for it, i was having a little birthday party celebration, and making some **** fine cocktails... music-wise? well... you have to go beyond a bob marley track, or some ****** rap... anything jazzy? sure... but what will get a black girls attention, so that she pulls you for a snog in the kitchen, and takes your hand and walks with you into your bedroom and you start the act? cedric 'im' brooks (http://tinyurl.com/y9kdyzq8)... as my jamaican dealer once said when i mentioned some of the afro-music i listened to, all he said was in that nonchalant black way: culture, apparently it's a genre in its own right, trans-genre that is, encompassing all veins of the output; but i do get the fat-*** problem and the need for a long phallus... so much butter to pass... but this black girl had the phisique of a white woman... so... you join the vowels and H in the orchestral onomatopoeia of pleasure... and as ever... nothing can beat a bass guitar rhythm... **** air guitar! **** excessive ******* solos of rock music... just give me the bass... the barry white of instruments... so yeah... i love it, when she rides you so hard that her coccyx is ramming so hard against your soft region just above your phallus that it aches the next day.

i know i drink too much, well,
   there's a "too much"
   as there is: enough,
   to also make the best *******
potato mash on earth...
fried onions in butter,
   garlic paste,
   a teaspoon of cream cheese
infused with garlic and herbs,
a pinch of smoked paprika,
   olive oil infused with the meat
you were frying,
          crème fraîche,
         a pinch of some sort of
bbq powder...
           i know i'm forgetting
                                  something...
        never mind...
better than the sloppy job
the english do with potatoes,
and, **** me, they've been living
next to the potato popes (the irish)
for quiet some time...
all they do is add milk to the mash...
yuck! ugh...
                  i cooked too much
of them, and with only two people eating
about 7+ well rounded examples...
all of them... gone... ****!
     so they must have been good;
but what's worrying is the case
of the belgians...
   they're and were eating too much
chocolate...
   now they're having *homer simpson

hallucinations...
   they're envisioning walking chocolate,
breathing chocolate,
   chocolate lollipops...
   i swear to god the belgians are
choc-philic to the point that they
need a flesh with a tinge of their
                obsessions for sweet stuff...
i don't like where the belgians are
heading,
         i'd say: hey! move that obsession
back to congo!
                     as much chocolate
as you like!
                   me? i always preferred
vanilla ice cream, not that i lick much
of it... as it turns out,
   a woman's genitals is like licking
a new-born piglet...
   hell, **** floats my boat anyway;
       oh come on,
  you can only be a decent pornographer
if you can also have a joke on the side...
but the belgians? i don't trust them
with their walking chocolate policies...
    just tell the people that
middle-aged feminist (whatever)
  professional women asked for an import
of male prostitutes...
                            to save on travel costs
they once had to spend travelling
to their vaginal meccas for a sorry 2nd place
on the maternity ladder,
   the ones who didn't freeze their eggs...
and embarked on their ***-mission
   (great film by the way,
  **** misja (***-mission) - 1984 -
            director: juliusz machulski,
starring  jerzy "the legend" stuhr)...
    but like i said, i've stopped trusting
the belgians with their chocolate hallucinations...
i'm switching to the swiss lindt
  and the english cadbury...
    these are the days where you can't even
trust a german sausage (either).

p.s.
you know... my female cat is
   actually offended
about seeing human genitals?
  i have to cover them when taking a ****
with my hand...
  either that, or **** like a woman,
sitting down...
               every time she's relaxing
in the bathroom and i'm about to
unload a niagara falls
and she sees my genitals...
phoom! off she goes...
    but when she doesn't see them?
            well... one less scar on the eye
translated into the ***** of memory
to be revived...
huh... funny... how you can think of
memory as a metaphysical *****
rather than a function of a physical *****
i.e. the brain...
    given memory exists in symbiosis
with both brain, and the eye,
e.g. photographic-                     memory,
and the narrative memory
  currently showing in the cinema
of your life.
Julie Grenness Mar 2017
No, we can't get enough,
Of our concept of love,
Fleeting glances, tough,
Drown in your eyes, love,
Do you want mouth to mouth,
Is there a snog for you, down south?
No, we can't get enough,
Of our own concept of love.....
Feedback welcome...
Ardent hist’ry has Ipswich town,
Where burning the last witch went down,
And was home to the Tudor crown.
Now dull embers.

A maritime town when trade stops.
Now clogged up and rife with pound shops.
Abound's the smell of coughed up hops
from its members.

Shop workers and call centre staff
Aiming short sighted but to laugh,
smiling only for the photograph,
Pose cheerfully.

A cultural scene cloaked in fog
of Friday night’s back ally snog,
or in the park where ev’n the dog
Treads carefully.
John Bartholomew Jun 2018
Ripping down the walls of time and the everyday meet and greet
met my partner on Facebook not at a bar on my own two feet
we got chatting about the falseness of friendships all created by one Yank nerd
A billionaire now due to all our online socializing, his name, Mark Zuckerberg

Just how do we talk now with the obsessiveness of our phones
a chats a chat, whether it be text or twitter, although I still prefer the human tone
some meet on a dating app, you’ll see sat in a bar, looking, almost prairie dog
long term relationship or a snog in the dark, others even go the whole hog

So what has happened too, can I buy you a drink and maybe a little dance
maybe it’s us oldies who still take the old fashioned stance
to use these modern apps I would rather blush than use Tinder or Bumble
remembering the days of maybe a number, a crap film in the dark just looking for a fumble

But times move on and it’s what is known as the modern day version of romance
people take offence with a quick compliment now, I don’t think I’d take my chance
as we are all now sociable addicts with a point to prove each day
I’m engaged, were married, some see it as a place to even come out as gay (hey, it rhymes!)

As this is how we progress in life and it’s how it’s always been
we mix with people we like and dislike as it’s all part of the social scene
others tend to hide their love away as it’s not really for them
but the likes of all the kids today, to them its total Zen

Social/Unsocial

JJB
It takes discipline not to let social media steal your time - Alexis Ohanian

Facebook was not originally created to be a company. It was built to accomplish a social mission - to make the world more open and connected -
Mark Zuckerberg

Social media is an amazing tool, but it's really the face-to-face interaction that makes a long-term impact - Felicia Day
itsall iwrite Sep 2018
david cameron stars in lets go outside 26.09.18

it was exposure
not in LA or a bog
BB will bring closure
mr cameron will look back and snog.
at present its all hush
lets not send in a copper
putting dress on gave a little rush
going to be a breakthru not a cropper.
he did sign up to george
and it will congratulate
cameron has been true and no forge
seeing as living in surveillance state.
has the line been crossed
we have to think about implications
into the blue oyster bar tossed
unlike proctor who has many frustrations.
its going to come good
watch it back on replay
you will thank you hood
we like you for being cameron relax about gay.
Tita Halaman Oct 2021
How pretty, isn’t it?
Gazing back to mornings
Skin’s vivid beneath sunbeams
Crying courage, bleeding faith
I snog risks,  swallow pain
I, who grew up the hard way
A poem for a painting for auction by Philippine Taxonomic Initiative. The painting features a newly discovered flower in Palawan called “Corybas Circinatus”. Part of the proceeds went to the said NGO for research and conservation efforts
How do they know
That you’re not real
When all they see
Is a low-level thee

And how will they know
That you’re a master of the ink and
You’re a great thinker
Who doesn’t get sink by
They eye of those I call blinkers

And how do they know
When they only see a side of you
When they don’t believe you could
When they even reject you
Your hard work bloom

And how do they think they knew
How to make you feel blue
Is it by the criticizes they do
Oops; that doesn’t seem to move
Do they think they’ve broken you
I really don't know
Can someone give me a clue

And how do they (ladies) know
When a man got the cash
I guess they're sniffer dogs
In a field full of hash

And why don't they (ladies) know
When a man is a dog
Can't they tell by his breath
When they're having a snog

And why don’t they (ladies) know
That men who could give everything he gets
To get their dress flinged at the leg of the bed
Only wants to ***
Then, the next is
Go to hell’ *****

And why don't we (guys) know
Which woman to love
Because some of them uhn;
Don't fit like a glove

And why don't we (guys) know
When a woman looks great
It's highly unlikely that
She wants a soulmate

And why don't we (guys) know
That a woman who shows
Too much of her body
Is simply a ‘**’e

And why don't they know
That years down the line
Most men want a woman
Whose body's still fine

And how do they know
When you're looking at them
It's them that you're after
Not one of their friends

And what makes them think
That when you've had a drink
It's okay for them
To tease you with a wink  
And what makes them feel
If their man's not obsessive
The love he proclaims
Just cannot be real

And why can't they see
That their love for money
Will never allow their soul to be free

And why do they try
To always imply
That relationships fail because of the guy

And who is the fool
That said it was cool
To trust everything you’re taught in your school
Or those counselling messages shared in them WhatsApp groups
Or quotes wrote by that psychological dudes
Or some videos you came across on YouTube

And why is it
That after things go wrong in a relationship
That’s when she suddenly develops hips like a ship
Uhn, I got that drip
Thumbs up! b*tch
But not everyone could get ****
By your seductive tricks

And what's with these kids
Who games like PS3
Or some kind of YouTube skit
Is more real
To them than reality is

And why do I feel
Like these questions I’m asking
Can't possibly stop
Young people from blasting gun
Or sniffing puff
And those hacking-thugs
From throwing cyber punch
To innocent head; home and abroad
And them all-night mistress
Whose goods for business
Is kept under their less-rag dress
And them young hood girls
From walking the street with naked ***
Or hanging out with top-labelled dawgs

So what's in a lie
Why not tell the truth
Why do people cry
Why do people do
Things that makes me feel confuse
Why do people die
And when all's said and done
What's up with my mind
Why do I consistently ask why
And oh!
What's with this prose
Called what do we know

— The End —