"streaky" poems
Sisterhood is not that fancy
There may be way
Each of your toes curl when you eat a good meal
How significantly brown your eyes are
Those long intricate conversations
How long and streaky the hairs on your head are
How you put your leg in front of the other impatiently
The way you hold each others hand when crossing the street
How many scoops you each like and the colour of your ice-cream cone
How you try to divide anything and everything
Or how you long for your sister when she is not there
But sisterhood is not that fancy
It's the inability to get your voice heard
The many tears
How less of your opinion counts
The silent whispered conversations when everyone thinks you are sleeping
How some mistakes are more permanent than others
Sisters by chance ,friends by choice
Dec 17, 2019
Dec 17, 2019 at 5:47 PM UTC
“- Bacon sammich -”
Ahhh, liddle green apple 'pon my plate,
**** you ain't ever gonna satiate
my hunger, lust, for something more,
bacon sammich,,you know the score,
Home made bread, cut nice n thick,
full fat butter, ooh yea, that's the trick !
streaky bacon, with chewy rind
just cut off, from a pig's behind,
Fry it up, with a liddle oil
but steady now, or it'll spoil,
not too crisp, n not too brown
coz it's a little rough, when going down,
n to top it off, it's best of course
to maybe add, a splash 'o sauce,
So alas liddle apple, 'pon my plate
I'm afraid for you, the bins your fate,
at the risk of a liddle wife's disquiet
it's a bacon sammich,,,,,fuck the diet.
Alan nettleton.
May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010 at 8:22 AM UTC
i was'nt very clever
at maths at park st school
thick as **** when adding up
a mathematics mule
but i was quite good looking
girls where always there
counting not a problem
with gelled black streaky hair
puberty and progress
next stage after kissing
discovered that my *****
was'nt just for *******
then came my dilemma
a valley ****** vexed
blod the bike from blaina
begging to be sexed
how'd you want it bloddwyn?
oooh!....ten inches would be nice
i counted for a minute....
then i shagged her twice
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 11:39 AM UTC
Shoppin wiv Albert.
I met my uncle Albert,
down at Asda, in aisle three;
he got there in a Mazda,
jus' a smidgen after me,
said he'd traversed Sainsburys,
Tesco Liddle n the Spar,
but not one o' them flogged Caviar
Truffles or Foie gras.
He sidled past the pork pies
streaky bacon turkey thighs
a headin for the french fries
n forsaken knock down buys,
shimmied 'round the ankle biters;
expectant mums to be,
popin pills for bloated ills
in the haberdashery.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
What is it with society
it can't leave girls alone
to be the way they want to be
they have to **** and moan...
"Now this one she's too skinny
with a blatant lack of ***
legs stolen from flamingos
and arms like two matchsticks.."
"Now this one's far too chubby
observe her thunder thighs
see her wobble as she's walking
it's clear who ate all the pies.."
"Now see the tattooed freakshow
flesh tunnels, garb of black
in burly boots and trenchcoat
she must be taking crack.."
"and what of lil Miss sunkissed
with her streaky perma-tan
who dresses like a two bit *****
but never keeps her man.."
A war on flaws is raging
as media fuels the flame
mixed with the tongues of gossips
it gets stronger everyday
we're taught to judge a person
by looks and shape alone
regardless of their inner selves
their talents, dreams and goals
It really is a worry,
to watch our young girls grow
bowed under weight and pressure
with self esteem so low.
So tell them that they're beautiful
it's not too much to ask
and please be sure to tell them
that the media's an ***
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
Jane and I walked the Downs
the weather was warm
the sky clear
the Sun was above
Jane pointed upwards
that's a Skylark
she said
I looked to where
she pointed and saw
a bird swaying above us
then it moved across
the sky and away
it looks like a Sparrow
I said
it has different plumage
she said
taking hold of my hand
and squeezing it gently
it's streaky brown
with a small crest
and white sided tail
she added
as we looked around
you have good eyesight
I said
o I’ve seen them
close up and have
studied them for ages
she said
her hand was warm in mine
I rubbed my thumb
against her skin
I’ll look it up
in my book of birds
I said
Aluda arvenis
is its Latin name
she said
we paused by a tree
and looked at each other
there was the sound
of a tractor humming
across some nearby field
cows mooed
over a hedge
she drew me closer
and kissed me
lips to lips
my heart pounded within
we drew apart
holding hands still
my parents trust us
she said softly
I don't want
to betray that trust
she added
I don't expect you to
I said
unsure what she meant
then guessing about
the Lizbeth girl
who had tried
to get me do things
which I hadn't
we walked on
and up the Downs
hands still holding
how many birds
do you know?
I asked her
I learn each day
a new one
she said
I borrow Dad's big book
of birds and study it
I couldn't imagine Lizbeth
bothering to study anything
unless it had
to do with *** couldn't
imagine her worried
about her parents' trust
(if they had any in her)
we passed the big hollow tree
on our left
but didn't stop
we walked past
the spot where
we usually stopped
then up to the Downs
out of the trees
and along the top
where sheep wool
was caught on
the barbed wire fences
we stared out
over the countryside
below us
and saw the farms
and fields
and trees
and the tractor
in a field
and cows
and sheep
she turned
and kissed me
and I felt a glimpse of Heaven
inside me
swelling like a warm
deep sea.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
rest easy, sauntering children that inhabit these streets, marching endlessly with youthful rouge upon your cheeks. the ambient orange glow encapsulates your city's sky, enrapturing your scattered minds each night.
you search with strained and bloodshot eyes for the silver lined heavens
that hibernate behind blankets piled high and heavy with pollution.
you stalk these streaky sidewalks,
hands in your pockets, cigarettes dangling between crooked teeth,
billowing from your gaping mouths,
forever treading onward, gazing upward
at the luminous orb who emerges each evening,
floating thoughtlessly in its spiraling yellow haze,
glancing down with an occasional giggle at your mindless meanderings.
you venture through man-made parks, but make not a single mark of any personalized passing.
invisible, soundless.
walking not in the sand or the honest salt of the earth,
but on glittering concrete,
disregarding your worth.
you wandering specters, dragging your aching cancer ridden bodies through tireless voids,
fending off your tattered emotions that clasp their bony hands around your fleeting ankles,
begging you to stop, to engage. your shoes remain bare and battered,
lacking more and more sympathy for your simplified selves with each step.
you push onward, noiselessly.
your brittle fingers wrap themselves
around the spines of wine glasses-
clinking, clashing.
you smile and kiss surrounding strangers,
your loneliness ever consuming those enlightened, empty minds.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 10:14 AM UTC
They fall upon us over the spillways of time,
Burbling at us through some Radio Free Nostalgia
Courtesy of some college station sitting at the far left of the dial
Or streaky CDs at the rear of some forlorn shelf,
And we know them to be to be, if not outright falsehoods,
Among the more variable of truths
(As all truths are, if we’re being honest about the matter)
For when someone sets out to create the Great American Whatever,
It becomes quickly apparent that such paths
Are not straight and clear, but wind and double back upon themselves,
Replete with thorns and weeds with bladed edges;
Egos must be stroked, revenue streams and margins considered,
Leaving one’s primary legacy as a testament to compromise.
But to be a casualty is not necessarily to be a fatality,
And through the narrowness of a three-minute window,
Purveyed to us by quartets of chanteuses
Who were no strangers to compromise their ownselves
(So many staged photo shoots,
So many hokey Christmas songs and cosmetic-sale jingles)
We can glimpse momentary epiphanies,
Crescent-moon slices of the verities,
Which, if not the whole truth and nothing but,
Provide us with something to hold, something to hum
As we go about the tortuous business
Of making some sense of the whole **** thing.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 9:41 AM UTC
I met my uncle Albert
down at asda, in aisle three;
he got there in his mazda,
jus' a smidgen after me,
said he'd traversed sainsburys,
tesco liddle n the spar,
but not one o' them flogged caviar
truffles or foie Gras.
He sidled past the pork pies
streaky bacon turkey thighs
a headin for the french fries
n forsaken knock down buys,
He shimmied 'round the ankle biters;
expectant mums to be,
popin pills for bloated ills
in the haberdashery.
Apr 20, 2021
Apr 20, 2021 at 12:04 PM UTC
Hoarse words with their form.
Callous spirit in his drawn.
Macabre dreams are in seeming.
Flowers when I am a dreaming.
Love for the sweet and true.
Scintillating morning dew.
Bring his heart back unto me.
Candid with our misery.
A well spoken boy, but true enough.
Not without the ruff and tough.
Manic trees kiss the breeze.
Love infects these stupid trees.
Oh, but am I kidding?
Well that you'll never know.
That boy with his streaky hair.
And eyes a flaming glow.
Beautiful and sublime.
Miserably frozen.
Hoping without deserving hope.
To be the one he's chosen.
Oh, but I wouldn't beg on that.
No, not without a written contract.
To say unto us forever more.
That he would never walk out that door.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 2:19 AM UTC
Come and go
Seasons barely touching as autumn transitions to winter
The passers by see devastation unbeknown to theirselves
A storm of leaves in auburn hues constantly plummeting towards the ground in every which way possible
All a gorgeous streaky blur as they advance through the graveyard of the world
Leaving every grave untouched as they float past
It's all noticed by the passerby
Perceived through crystal clear glass
Every single stark detail untouched and untampered
Seen as it is
On they watch
They won't admit but relief, gratefulness flood their beings
As they glide by
Feet above the marshy ground, soggy and trodden
They are not yet ravaged by life's cruel twists
Free from the plooms of smoke and swirls of mist
Judgment unclouded by the murky emotions of the graveyard
On and on they advance
Torturous sights behold their eyes
Past souls tormented by the weight of fate
Lives consumed by its deviating path
A gloomy and crooked path indeed
For the passerby: some knowledge
Make the most of your lucid journey
And when it shall end do not lose yourself among graves
For those tortured souls: continue as passers by
Do not bury yourself with your grief for it shall drag you to the depths
And it does not let go
Such is the fate of this life
But ultimately it falls upon you
KG
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 2:05 PM UTC
Duck/Rabbit
BY CHANA BLOCH
What do you remember? When I looked at
his streaky glasses, I wanted
to leave him. And before that? He stole those . . .
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 8:49 PM UTC
things continue to break within me.
the weight of this slowly snaps the supporting structures of my body.
---
a creak
and a small quantity of burning liquid
sloshes over the edge of its fleshy chamber
dripping down the sides of my lungs,
my heart,
leaving streaky yellow marks down the insides of my ribcage.
a crack
and i freeze
suddenly scared to move lest my now unstable stomach container should fall
and my guts topple over themselves
landing spaghetti-like
draped over my womb.
a dull snap - muscles in my face break like aged elastics
they do not spring back quickly
but creep and crinkle slowly away
leaving my lips trembling to support themselves and leaching with them the red from my cheeks.
a slight ******* sound as my retinas detach
but only momentarily: i fling my eyes open in shock and alarm
knocking them back into place.
this sudden movement
however
stretches out my eyelids
and leaves them slack and sluggish.
i am so tired of this constant pressure slowly condemning my body
and now it shows in my eyes.
----
a desperately bound memory of
- greasy hair and welling eyes -
breaks free of its haphazard moorings and wreaks havoc throughout:
falling first past my face
spilling all holds of liquid there
which pour out of my body
gushing free
dripping and messy
it sticks next in my lungs
blocking my sighs
it bounces upon my diaphragm
gaping gasping for air
that i cannot use
it congeals in my bowels
sticking them in their place
preventing their minute movements
those tiny undulations that are the visceral workings
it finally crumbles and filters through my bones and blood
this fine memory powder filling my feet and calves.
it is heavy and densely packed
and i must move ploddingly now.
though dry and breathing and vibrating again
the memory’s toll is seen and heard and felt on my
salty cheeks
wheezing throat
tense body
and slow pace.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 1:07 PM UTC
Today,
True beauty was shown to me.
I prayed for it to be,
And now all I've seen,
Is beautiful.
The light streaky clouds,
So indescribably miraculous.
Impossibilities floating in the sky.
A smile of a child,
The laugh of a baby.
So happy to see,
But one person...
Me.
Feeling so important.
Feeling it's right.
Lucky, for I see
That today God showed to me,
But some, of life's true beauty.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
I will be a bundle of nerves
A ****** mess on the floor
Consumed by anxiety
Streaky, matted hair in a disarray
And a little death around my eyes
The sound of your voice
The imaginary touch of your hand
Pulling me through
Holding me tight all through the lonesome night
Touching my soul
Keeping me warm
I'll carve and cut and sever (my ties)
Blood spilling out of me, clotting in my black carpet
I'll hurt myself, just like you
To **** the pain, I will maim
To **** my disdain and for ever
Remember your name
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 9:07 PM UTC
Boys are like tissues. -unnamed Twitter follower
If they're soft, they usually have two sides.
Both sides, so smooth and delicate, easy
To rip apart and expose the inner roughness.
It's fun to tilt her head back and gently lay
One of the halves on her lips and blow
Firm enough to get them soaring
High on endorphins and ******
Them out of the air, crumple,
And toss into the trash with the rest.
If they're rough, they're good
For one use only. They may be irritating,
But they get the job done. It's cheap,
They come in bulk, and always
Fail to clean up the streaky mess
Left behind for her hand
To finish.
If she's lucky, they'll have aloe
And lotion and designer brands
Made for those who are hard
To please. She'll be spoiled
By the silky smooth shine
On her face, but not one
Can keep up with the wear
And tear of being used
Over and over and over.
Once they're damaged, they're done.
She can't use them anymore. They know
The tricks. They know how they've been torn
Apart and crumpled and disposed without thought.
The smaller the pieces, the harder they are to manipulate
And bend to her every will. With one gone, what does it matter?
There's still the rest of the box, or the pack, or the cylinder.
Fifty. Maybe a hundred. All the more to her disposal.
Yes, yes. She knows what they think of her.
They all throw and shout and spit
Those filthy labels at her face.
But it's just another
Tissue used.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 10:33 PM UTC
who was i
to you
?
on that blown up
leather couch
and streaky,
sheet-less
bed,
who was i
if not the person
i explained
and who were you
to
imagine me on
my knees
?
don't forget -
youll love me forever
,
that pretty girl
in gray and
blue
who couldve loved you
back :
and
don't forget -
you killed her.
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 1:22 AM UTC
for
*she, an unending gift of inspiration,
a thank you for learning me a new word
Hungry for the sharing*
<>
Cloud-busting: Mare's tails -
"Horse tail clouds," also known as "mare's tails," are a type of cirrus cloud characterized by their thin, wispy, and streaky appearance, resembling the tail of a horse. These clouds are composed of ice crystals and form at high altitudes, typically between 5 and 10 miles above the ground. They are often associated with approaching weather changes,
particularly warm fronts, and may signal
the possibility of rain or increased winds."
<>
With newly acquired knowledge,
Comes new responsibilities
No longer is a fleece flecked blue aureola sky
Just a harbinger of good tidings,
Its inner working require further investigation,
And a new concern must now, by instigation
to be attended, by instantation
So it is.
With every column, differing opinion, advice, new knowing,
comes
Those **** burrs, that irritate but don't break the skin,
Concerning, demanding discerning, and unthinkable.
Now
Attention must be paid.
Ah,
Paid.
Perhaps trivial, perhaps not, but
The less the ignorance, the more the bliss?
We turn to each other,
And only to each other,
Whisper great fears of what yet to be,
Things so commonplace now,
As to be unthinkable!
Will our descendants ever know
A dry faucet?
Days when electricity is only available but for a few hours,
Toilets that are illegal to flush?
When when,
those
systems that with witch we pay so little heed,
we do not concern us now,
Routine, unseen, and someone else's responsibility,
Be luxuries in the future?
Can I with conscience clear see a most excellent daylight,
And not seek out, worry about, the wispy warnings of
Horse tail clouds?
Jul 21, 2025
Jul 21, 2025 at 8:40 AM UTC
Something is bitter sweet
That you will never read
What I write
Words that explore
Inside your eyes
Between the lines
What surface hides
How sweet you are
Tender, kind
Awaiting the moment
To see something
Less… but all I find is honest
Is more, is blessed
The only flaw I see
Is how clear I can be
Because you see right through me
But you didn’t
So even that
Has fell flat
Brighter and burning through
I just wish to touch you
But my dreams are calling me
And you have no desire for me
So tell tomorrow tell you call on me
Either way, tomorrows brave
Tomorrows bright
Tip toe reaching for the sky
Tell I take flight
wave and smile
say goodbye
tear fogged vision
streaky cheeks
sun light mission
passion peeks
new journey to wherever it leads
heart will stay heavy
until i hear you speak
silence is the only grey
In my rainbow life I chase today.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
walk with my head low
black pavement on bright streets
a streaky city sky
musical notes from an alley
buzz of mechanical wings
today i walk alone
the night bleeding into my skin
i really am walking alone
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 11:12 PM UTC
Granite tiled floor,
more interesting than Internet,
jagged streaky veins,
dense masculine stones,
polished gunmetal bloom.
Trying to establish patterns, symmetries.
Should I miss my appointment?
There's never time to persist.
Temptatioin of a timeless world.
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC
In the chair.
That’s where he was,
an unpleasant present.
Eyes shut,
feet up,
miniscule pills scattershot
on the plastic tray
to his right.
Could’ve been dreaming
except not this time.
We were entering a room
pregnant with death,
the newspaper
splattered with miserable headlines
unread and uncrinkled,
a streaky fingerprint
on a glass
left after his last mouthful.
I half expected his head
to loll forwards,
his face to **** awake
and say he simply nodded off.
I turned to her and said
I didn’t want to touch a thing.
This is how it is now,
an unremarkable date
stamped into our histories,
a silence only known
in the presence of a body
expunged of life,
of a pocket of breath.
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 5:12 PM UTC
We are all used books-
A little warn- our pages
Sometimes torn, or frayed
Around the edges. Coffee stains,
Lipstick stains, and other various
markings covering words the new
Keepers of these books will never
Get to read. Annotations fill the sides,
Streaky highlighter runs over
Quotes that resonated with the reader
Who came before the last. Tabs and
Folded corners call attention to
Metaphors, riddles- everything
That needs analyzation and
Clarification.
We are passed down and handed out
Until we find a home at last- Someone who
still wants to read, what has
Already been read, many times before.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 4:50 PM UTC