"splodge" poems
Splashed into boiling water
Swirled on a spoon
Milk makes clouds in brownness
A splodge makes a moon
The spoon stirring causes chaos
Man watches and waits
For the cooling and the stillness
Of this drink of the greats
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
This is one of Barry Hodges "Memories" poems.
**O how I recall with sadness in my poor forsaken heart
How I lost my fat-arsed sister (though she was a silly ****
We had just enjoyed a meal on the esplanade at Taormina
(soup, spaghetti alla vongole followed by some tasty semolina)
So we went for a digestive walk through the Sicilian hills
Not realising we were in for some awful shocks and spills.
There came a mighty roar and a dreadful smell of sulphur
(even worse than flatulence or a burp caused by little Maria's peptic ulcer)
Oh dear, oh dear, Mount Etna had just violently erupted
With lava bursting out, from the bowels of earth rudely eructed,
And with a sickening splodge a fiery lump landed on the hapless bird
Causing her to die forthwith, screaming louder than I'd ever heard.
God in his mysterious ways is supposed to show us his mighty wonders
But occasionally I do believe he quite clearly makes some ******* blunders;
And I really think it's quite unfair to cause a volcano to blow up
Especially since it looked a nice mountain for bold climbers to go up;
But it's an ill wind that blows no one any good has always been my motto
So I emptied Maria's scorched purse, went to a bar and got quite blotto.**
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
the water grips my reflection
all wobbly head
quavering legs
a swathe of hillside
like an avocado slice
trees squashed together
in a bristly embrace
gluey splodge of cloud
on a periwinkle sky
shimmer of sunlight
across the lake
illuminates your face
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC
The stench of death draws me close,
Overwhelming my senses,
Shrouding my eyes with a deep lust.
I pounce on the leftovers of discarded
By Death
And tear the bleak carcass
With my greedy claws.
A black splodge on the tapestry of nature,
A mirthless outlier, the king of dead.
A pillager, I reign the fallen towns,
I **** His Garden.
I liberate the frail from the shackles of life
And let harmony seep into his creations.
Without me his castle of cards
Will reduce to ash and dust
And scattered shards.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 4:35 AM UTC
The garden served little purpose
It sprawled across the bored ground, despondent beneath the yawning sun
My mother would wail her annual rage
At the snarling weeds that softly smothered the flowers
How I loved those flowers
Rejected footballs perplexed the lawn
Their obtuse hulks spoiling that ripple of green
I found a four leafed clover there once
He poked his obscure head above his brothers: a suicide mission to bring me luck
They are all dead now
I didn’t waste nearly enough time reclined on that jealous cushion
Watching the lethargic clouds wobble on
But most otiose of all in that seldom wandered paradise was the Wall
That Wall was never high enough
I see it from my back door
Squat, depressed, sighing, each dusty clot of red brick seems so lifeless
Doomed to live out the rest of its days as a failure
All flung ***** that compress their rubbery bodies against it will soon vault over
It crudely bookends the busily neat hedge
Simply because that is where the drunken soil runs out
It fails too at its chief instruction:
Be the purgatory bridge between Our heaven and Their hell
But the Wall was never high enough
I remember the other side of the Wall
How I crouched in filth
Needless to be afraid of a cut from a single blade of grass
Impoverished chickens clucked in the squalor
How they survived such malnourishment awed me
The friends I thought I had there cheated me
And I ran from that disastrous place
Where chaos twisted the agonised branches of the hedge we shared
But it followed me like an age old Gypsy curse
Even today, a writhing, mewing splodge of night will sit on the Wall
Looking too fat for its own fur coat
It will viciously attack the thin air for a while
Perhaps accept a stroke but, seeing no morsel, wander home
But I am not spared
For I can see its wasteland kingdom from my window
It is not an evil place
But the Wall was never high enough
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
The fonterrorists will go elsewhere
The big boy powers always find a small dot far away from their large splodge
To check and wreck havoc to
It’s got to be far far enough away that if you can smell the smoke,
It’s faint enough that you could mistake it for incense
Or your might twitch your nose
Turn your head and say
Is someone smoking?
It smells like someone is smoking?
When the water is more **** than water
When it is only dry, desitutte,
eroded wasted uselessness,
The fonterrorists will go elsewhere
Somewhere with more utility.
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 9:11 PM UTC
Tripped out on Californian sunshine,
In the fields a whole troop of us
Running giggling round the fishing lakes
Or sat under the deep dark trees
I once found a whole city with streets
In miniature on a path
Citizens of blue and green and red walked different paths
Sue, Foxy and the others shouting to come on
I said no I'll just stay here a while
At least I had a reason
Splodge spent the whole day walking round the same tree
Sid had to drag him off
Then we built massive fires in the barn with no roof
They thought we were satanists doing rituals
Pulled it down
Ghosts in my head, some are gone
It was stranger the day I watched the Sun melting
Dripping onto snow drops of gold
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
Probably lost all faith,
Unable to speak, share, splodge,
Nothing is there,
Wipe-out everything,
By the gush of water,
Waiting only for reappearance
from sunken mud !
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
There's a bit of Sun today but not a Sunday day at all, it's a splodge of Monday that fell out of Sunday half cut and dried,
look at me in the mirror?
I almost died,
had to laugh with the fright of it
sit down
have a write a bit and you thought I was
going to write something with ***** in it.
but that's about right
isn't it?
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 6:47 AM UTC
London grey.
leaden sky
molten river
foggy building
termite works
big city
lights dim in
neon struggle
from the moon
ink splodge
some nightmare
psyche gone awry
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 3:49 AM UTC
In the silent spaces
Of pre-dawn
Particles of dreams
Oscillate
And merge
Dewdrops sparkle
Catching rays of pure sun
As the wondrous
Unfettered
Glory of creativity
Awakens
Super-natural bodies dance
And smiles drift into sleeping faces
As delicately as the approach of spring
Songs are born
And writers take up pens
Artists splodge their brushes
Into thick globs of paint
Actors breathe deeply
Singers warm their voices
And poets notice
Each blade of grass
And bow in wonder
At each tiny miracle
This great world
Is the cradle
Of human endeavour
And true art
A supreme act of gratitude
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC