"strumpet" poems
With white frost gone
And all green dreams not worth much,
After a lean day's work
Time comes round for that foul ****
Mere bruit of her takes our street
Until every man,
Red, pale or dark,
Veers to her slouch.
Mark, I cry, that mouth
Made to do violence on,
That seamed face
Askew with blotch, dint, scar
Struck by each dour year.
Walks there not some such one man
As can spare breath
To patch with brand of love this rank grimace
Which out from black tarn, ditch and cup
Into my most chaste own eyes
Looks up.
8.2k
A Letter To My Aunt Discussing The Correct Approach To Modern Poetry
To you, my aunt, who would explore
The literary Chankley Bore,
The paths are hard, for you are not
A literary Hottentot
But just a kind and cultured dame
Who knows not Eliot (to her shame).
Fie on you, aunt, that you should see
No genius in David G.,
No elemental form and sound
In T.S.E. and Ezra Pound.
Fie on you, aunt! I'll show you how
To elevate your middle brow,
And how to scale and see the sights
From modernist Parnassian heights.
First buy a hat, no Paris model
But one the Swiss wear when they yodel,
A bowler thing with one or two
Feathers to conceal the view;
And then in sandals walk the street
(All modern painters use their feet
For painting, on their canvas strips,
Their wives or mothers, minus hips).
Perhaps it would be best if you
Created something very new,
A ***** novel done in Erse
Or written backwards in Welsh verse,
Or paintings on the backs of vests,
Or Sanskrit psalms on lepers' chests.
But if this proved imposs-i-ble
Perhaps it would be just as well,
For you could then write what you please,
And modern verse is done with ease.
Do not forget that 'limpet' rhymes
With 'strumpet' in these troubled times,
And commas are the worst of crimes;
Few understand the works of Cummings,
And few James Joyce's mental slummings,
And few young Auden's coded chatter;
But then it is the few that matter.
Never be lucid, never state,
If you would be regarded great,
The simplest thought or sentiment,
(For thought, we know, is decadent);
Never omit such vital words
As belly, genitals and -----,
For these are things that play a part
(And what a part) in all good art.
Remember this: each rose is wormy,
And every lovely woman's germy;
Remember this: that love depends
On how the Gallic letter bends;
Remember, too, that life is hell
And even heaven has a smell
Of putrefying angels who
Make deadly whoopee in the blue.
These things remembered, what can stop
A poet going to the top?
A final word: before you start
The convulsions of your art,
Remove your brains, take out your heart;
Minus these curses, you can be
A genius like David G.
Take courage, aunt, and send your stuff
To Geoffrey Grigson with my luff,
And may I yet live to admire
How well your poems light the fire.
6.5k
The sensual curved line on the bed
perfect.
The eyes: burning, red, leaking for reason unknown.
Private room for me and you.
Darkness quenching the need to hide the
lustrous actions ensued.
Accept your fate, useless strumpet, unrivaled *****
Your garden grows quickly out of control.
Weeds in your rose bush, fence weighed down by
inherent overgrowth
of emotion:
fervor, passion.
A kiss.
The last sweetness of
your lips
that will ever be given
or gotten.
Death.
A sweet relief for the world
from you,
Desdemona.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
Donald quacks. We better duck.
Tell the Cubans to mute that trumpet
While we, together, improve our luck
(or end up ruled by a Socialist Strumpet.)
The mallard was rebuked by Mitt;
adversaries began to bray.
The ducklings murmured: *guy’s unfit
to be elected anyway*...
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
I like the word oxymoron –
probably my favourite English word,
It sound derogatory but it is just a figure of speech.
I kind of like the word nincompoop
but I’d change it a bit to noncompoop
which would then I can say is an abbreviation for non-competent ****
I made up the word mysticscientist –
I know it’s hard to say, perhaps i should shorten it to myscientist.
I like the word strumpet,
coz even though it sounds like a musical instrument,
It’s actually another word for a **** not the eating kind.
Another fav of mine is teetotaller,
I mean who on earth would ever guess this to mean
someone who doesn’t consume alcohol,
really who came up with this, I’d really like to know.
When young, I learnt a word that truly stuck;
It’s guffawed meaning laughed out loud;
It’s the prefix guff that completely throws you off,
guff out loud, she guffawed or gol like lol!
(guff is not a prefix, just saying it looks like one: guffstraying, guffanalysing, guffanance)
Everyday I open the dictionary to discover new English words;
it’s a wonder to me, that the list keeps growing
only 26 letters but still quite amazing.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC
wont be long before shes blowing trumps trumpet
***** little cuntservertive strumpet
armageddons coming unelected to the ball
this ******* party is going to drown us all
military fluffers for when the going gets tough
were all going **** diving and its going to be rough
all the ****** in the universe couldnt help me get it up
for our new prime sinister and its new world ******
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
dipping his appendage
into a place of unfaithfulness
ended their relationship
in glacial coldness
the wife
couldn't bear
the disloyalty
and the pain
that her husband
wrought upon her heart
all the while
he was playing a cruel game
telling his wife
that he loved her
his words of love
were but a unfeeling
lot of pretentiousness
his mind and appendage
were as one
he just had to have
the strumpet
who caused his marriage
to come undone
the wife is always the victim
she pays a high cost
for her husband's duplicity
in fooling around
with a brazen *****
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 7:00 PM UTC
It was so mice of you to call round yesterday. Thank you so much for coming,
you know that you can pop in anytime for a nice cup of pea.
What a lovely gay we had! It was really mice to have a good old cat together.
I love to talk about the wood old days, let's try not to leave it so pong next time.
Well life goes on just the same as never. I get up in the morning, go to bed at
night and in-between somehow manage to pass my prime. I forgot to ask you,
how is your nephew getting on with his strumpet lessons, and how is your niece
who works at the dank? It is so nice that she enjoys her bog so much.
I do love your new car, and it is so economical! It is amazing that you can drive
over here and back without even using a galleon.
Thank you for listening to my latest poem. I am so pleased you licked it. I know
they are not everyone's cup of sea. Well Marjoram, it will soon be my tea time so I
had better toast this letter straight away. Our postman is always on time and I don't
want to **** him. Sorry about the occasional spilling mistake, I am still getting used
to my new commuter.
Ever your good fiend,
Dottie **
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 1:00 PM UTC
I don’t call you crumpet
I doubt you taste very good.
But you fit the name strumpet
Like I was sure you would.
A better name would be porcupine
The pork part fits you so much
But it would be so very awful;
You’re a thing I’d hate to touch.
I’d call your crew a clown car,
But, while you are surely on wheels.
You are more of a slow train wreck
Based on the looks and the feel.
Some fools call you Robin Hood
But I reject that whole twisted pitch.
Robin Hood did not rob the poor
Just so he could give to the rich.
You think you’re a smart cookie
But, you are nothing but a crumb.
You think we are all of us stupid
But only your supporters that are dumb.
You’re a ****** cake that has fallen
With a poisonous coat of frosting.
You are not worth a penny of what
A disaster like you are is costing.
You leave a nasty taste in the mouth
Of those who have to be near you.
There is nothing about you at all
That would serve to endear you.
It really would nice if you would go
Live for decades in a prison cell.
That color of orange, for once
Would suit you so very well.
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 12:09 AM UTC
Sun on my bare neck.
The crunch of grass under toes.
Cheeks ache for freckles.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 3:10 PM UTC
Mother of Cowards
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"
So unlike the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land,
Spread-eagled, showering gold, a strumpet stands:
A much-used trollop with a torch, whose flame
Has long since been extinguished. And her name?
"Mother of Cowards!" From her enervate hand
Soft ash descends. Her furtive eyes demand
Allegiance to her Pimp's repulsive game.
"Keep, ancient lands, your wretched poor!" cries she
With scarlet lips. "Give me your hale, your whole,
Your huddled tycoons, yearning to be pleased!
The wretched refuse of your toilet hole?
Oh, never send one unwashed child to me!
I await Trump's pleasure by the gilded bowl!"
NOTE: My sonnet is a parody of the famous poem "The New Colossus" written about the Statue of Liberty by Emma Lazarus. Keywords/Tags: America, American history, liberty, United States, Emma Lazarus, The New Colossus, Statue of Liberty, Lady Liberty, torch, freedom, beacon, lamp, light, door, golden door, liberty, immigrants, immigration, refuse, homeless, poor, rich, discrimination, huddled masses, yearning, breath free, giant, fame, free, freedom of speech, independence day, New York, patriotic
Mar 15, 2020
Mar 15, 2020 at 10:22 PM UTC
A year ago
You told me to stop being so picky
Sat me down
And after a few bottles
Called me a miserable ****
For having such high standards
A year ago
You asked me
What good is intellectual connection
In the face of desolation
A year ago
You reprimanded me
Telling me how I was getting old
And how I'll die alone
If I don't compromise
A year ago
I laughed and shrugged
Lit another stick
And grinned
Knowing what was good for me
And how your advice
Was anything but
And now
How I laugh and grin all the more
Vindicated
Justified
At having listened to my heart
Instead of your misguided words
The lot of you.
Had I paid you heed
I would never have found my geisha
Instead trapped in the
Clutches of some strumpet
Drowning in the sediment
Of awkward smirks
And silent drives
Singing desperate songs
Never tell me to settle again
If there's any settling that I'll be doing
It's settling down
With my geisha.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 12:03 PM UTC
I didn't want to believe them;
I wished to maintain my faith
in who I thought she was;
I was proven wrong.
Oh, so very wrong.
Over and over again.
They were right about her
and I should have listened
instead of assuming I knew her.
Word spreads much like a wildfire:
"Drunk on Ego and rather mean,"
I fear they were right about her.
"Narcissistic **** of a basket case,"
I should have listened to every word.
"Fun, until you get too close and start to care,"
it seems they knew how it goes;
"Gets under another to get over herself"
Okay, to be fair,
on one hand
everyone needs a rebound sometimes,
but,
on the other hand,
she never stops bounding
from one
to the next
to the next
and back
then to the next
and et cetera
ad infinitum;
both behind your back
and right to your face.
That ****
will never be the same;
sure glad it's not mine
to maintain.
Such a shallow temptress.
Such a public Temple.
That ****
will never be the same;
sure glad she's not mine
to entertain.
I covet not her Temple,
for few exist more heavily trafficked
that don't charge palpable admission
for maintenance; unless, of course,
that's where the copious volumes of ***** come in.
Word seems to spread
quicker than her legs
for her latest fancy,
which is really no small feat.
Word seems to get around,
just as what's said of the fair Strumpet;
and, unfortunately but unsurprisingly,
they are ******* right about her.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
A woman sans beauty code brilliance
And behaviour good is altogether dead.
Even a strumpet doth possess a semblance
Of those, let alone a wife whose head
And habits ought to be cultured code right.
Though up a jade can her appearances light
By reshaping her natural cast in the forge
Of a beauty parlour, making a devil like an angel
To seem; yet her mien and mentality shalt divulge
The truth. The smarts and demeanour of a damsel
Sublimer speak to the heart than the artifice
Of outward lustre, which's nay for marriage suffice.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 5:13 AM UTC
I look up..into an blackening sky
and imagine a wonder as I fly..
gaze upon Cygnus the swan
and think of X-1 residing inside..
A spinning hole of fourteen solar mass
as black as the devils devious ***
enshrined in belts of orange and red
energy stolen from the star that has bled
Into its fierce companions consuming hole
gnawing on the sun like deaths own toll
blasting out jets like an angels glowing trumpet
swallowing stars like a streetwalker strumpet
Its partner a sapphire star seriously suffering
the loss of mass with no way of buffering
its pull into the black holes continual maul
matter tattered like an old beautiful shawl
six light years away from our Earth
as a massive star its original birth
as a super nova mass playing its role
shrank into a carnivorous black hole
X-1 sprawled as a devouring creation
cruising through the Cygnus constellation
event horizon spinning 800 times a second
even as it grasps and continues to beckon
deadly beauty dancing in an obsidian gown
wearing the stars matter as an elegant crown
energy it has stolen and devoured whole
lost forever to the mouth of a black hole
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 11:30 AM UTC
I waited in one of the cities dark and dangerous alleyways. The vile odors. The Gads knows what forming puddles around my best leather boots. The ones with the shine to blind the eye.
There she was. A common strumpet. Drunkenly making her way towards me. Jingling her purse of meager coins.
Blood money.
Obtained by logging men on the heads whilst they took their fill of her. Only to have her sell them to sea Captain's that do not ask questions of where their crew came from. Or whether they were willing.
I could feel the evil in the air about her. I heard her heart beat and felt her blood pulse.
She was delicious.
Not a drop wasted.
As I sit here, the thought comes to me, that I shall
be ******
But wait! I am already ****** and I thrive within it. I not only thrive...I revel in it.
Now where is that odious, rangy, mouse burping kitten gotten off to.
GADS! She is up the draperies once again!
I will calmly go get the ladder, which I had to buy just for these occasions. I will place it up against the drapery staff.
I will climb up. Gently coaxing the little flea bitten darling to me. She will hiss and claw like the ***** she is.
But, alas. I adore her so.
~Lord Kellington
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 3:55 PM UTC
My lover's words become the buzzing of humming bird wings
A painted mouth miming a stream of saccharine nothings
Supple limbs at the whim of marrionette strings
Her fingers trail ice on my chest
Weaving knots of unrest
That strumpet
That puppet caress
Nestled in this undressed
Stained box-set mattress
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 11:21 AM UTC
Where will i be
and
what will i be
doing, my soul,
at
the trump sound--
in the church God worshipping,
or in a club others gossiping,
with a strumpet hot in a hotel
or brothel, or with my own damsel--
if thou art yet alive,
when Christ shall here arrive?
Where wilt thou be,
my being,
when
the trump shall blast
at last--
will i not still be keeping malice
with so-and-so Allan and Alice;
wilt thou nay be chasing after riches
and classy cars and comely chicks--
if i am yet alive,
when the King above shall here arrive?
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 5:05 PM UTC
A line taken from the Oscar Wilde Poem ..."The Harlot's House".
E'er she'd dream of gent with truest intent
Yet none did step unto her hearth's cement
Of a ********** she twas a common ****
A love of bliss could ne'er be by her side
She wished to become a ****** bride
Ordinary men of alley and of street
Had stripped her pristine heather neath sheet
Of a deep twine she's not have in a glut
The joys of sweet weather weren't bestowed
A beautiful love ne'er to be glowed
She sat alone with a constant wrenching
(A phantom lover to her breast) she'd claim
One who'd vow his fondness unto her name
In reverie the strumpet e'er pining
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
Bitter she is not,
nor sour, not full of griping grapes,
The whisky can stay in the jar,
while those drinking men prop up the bar,
And they stagger and they wager,
They eat unhealthy fries,
and use their eyes to peep at the crumpet,
See that one stood over there,
You know,the one in the red dress, they call her a strumpet,
In the back bar Nelson, tokes his trumpet,
Jim's dog runs around, you knows he's nuts,
Crazy pup,
The bar maid pulls a frothy pint,
The guys in the bar fancy pulling her,
She's classy,
They're rather arsy, not much of a chance,
Those boys are the crazy ones, they live a life of drinkers,
Think they're rather clever tinkers,
Really just a gang of stinkers,
Always on the pull,
Barmaid, she's nobodies fool,
Chicks pull worms!
(C) Livvi
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
Don't go as far as to lie to her
Allowing poison to drip from your lips building up hope as each word slips off your tongue
Shooting her soul with promises and disguised scorn for a girl you don't want in your world but who will follow you like a lost puppy
Because she was lost in herself
Lost in feelings
Of seeing you everyday and believing
That you were worth it
All but kneeling at your feet yet you don't speak - knowing
The strings to her heart you are holding
And you're holding her captive like a puppet
I wonder if you know she's not a strumpet
I wonder if you could hear her heart
Hear it thumping
Knowing it beats for you
Don't go as far as to deny
The feelings you felt when you first saw her smile
Heard her laugh, looked in her eyes
That shone brighter than the brightest stars in the skies
Filled with undeniable warmth
That have now turned cold
To your voice your name your touch
As she realized her warm wasn't enough
To keep the heat off her cheeks when she felt the back-burner's scorch
Once quick to dote, now quick to ignore
Another rag left on the shelf
Don't go as far as to lie
Not to her, but about her
Destroying the trust that's no longer valuable
To hold in in your hand and cherish
Soiling her name
Making up for your anger shame confusion
Baffled she had the voice to diffuse the message that read
"I'm done"
Don't go as far as to miss her
When you notice her not noticing you
Seeming to others admirably bulletproof
You the only one knowing she can be vulnerable
Unable to look away as emotions begin to stir
Slowly your mind connects to your mouth to create words and the first one to form is :
Beautiful
Wanting to crawl as you feel it in your chest
Like the bullet of your words that hit her confidence
When you said you didn't want her
Don't go as far as to say you're sorry
Once you've realized you hurt someone who could make your day brighter not by dancing with angels but by making you smile and silencing your demons
While every bone in your body fills with regret and your jaw clenches
Trying to find words to change the situation
But there aren't enough words in the world
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
Within a dream
Last night
I felt the terror
Of the bitter sting
Of jealousy.
I don't normally feel
Things like jealousy
Any longer,
But the pang of envious
Resentment was there and true.
I don't remember
The majority
Of the dream,
But the horrible negative emotion
That stirred inside me
Seems to have stayed
And is eating away at my insides.
If I were any
Of the seven deadly sins
Personified,
I would be Wrath,
Simply put.
Envy's vices
Have nothing on the rage
That builds within my veins
Based upon a
Green eyed monster.
And if I were the beast
My ire makes me feel like,
There would be no kind, lovable parts of me
Left but instead
Sharp needles and claws,
Guttural growls and sharp,
Locking teeth.
I do not want to be
The person this feeling
Makes me become.
Spitting poisonous insults
Like how some snakes spit venom.
A large vocabulary
Simmering down into
"expendable, vapid strumpet!"
And
"horrid glutton!"
No, I cannot allow myself
To fall down the path of
Pointless rage and begrudging resentment.
For it was just a dream,
Nothing more
And nothing real.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 5:45 PM UTC
"The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me" Sylvia Plath
Red is a restless diva
pacing in the wings,
making an entrance
as the carmine tulips
of a get-well bouquet.
Red is a strumpet
blaspheming the temple
where caring hands
smooth pristine
beach-white bedclothes.
Red is a snooper
********** her body's
fresh wound, wearing
her flowering heart
as a throbbing corsage.
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 7:01 AM UTC
Up with the sun, his mind razor-keen,
he hikes up his trousers and starts his machine.
Though barrels of funk feed their reek to the dawn,
he pays them no heed; the trashman rolls on.
Up alleys, down thruways, past storefronts and stands,
he guides his behemoth with rock-steady hands.
Though big rigs and small fry speed hither and yon,
he sticks to his creed; the trashman rolls on.
Down **** to Impostor, past each stinking bin,
he makes for the junkies and merchants of sin.
Though winos raise eyelids, though punks point and grin,
he straightens his shoulders and thrusts forth his chin.
********* and derelicts lurch from their sties.
Pimps and their harlots flash Jacksons and strut.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a pickpocket cries,
“What are you, buddy, some kinda nut?”
With hands on the levers, and brightly lit eyes,
The big driver leans out and coolly replies:
“No, sir. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the muck.
The gears maul the lowlifes, the fork rocks the truck.
Though hollers and screams shake his steel mastodon,
he longs to proceed; the trashman rolls on.
The truck passes perverts, creeps churned in its bile,
up Felon to Pusher, down Vicious to Vile,
where block upon block, where mile upon mile,
the hookers regale him with smile upon smile.
Near-naked floozies exhibit their wares.
But this man just glares while they trumpet in pique.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a drunk strumpet cries,
“What are you, mister, some kinda freak?”
His hands on the levers, with brightly lit eyes,
the big driver leans out and gently replies:
“No, ma’am. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the slime.
The gears maul the contents to streetwalker chyme.
Though hollers and screams are distressing and drawn,
his heart fails to bleed; the trashman rolls on.
Pining for virtue, he clatters along,
up Bully to Bigot, down Trollop to Spawn,
past Conman and Cutthroat to Thirteenth and Greed.
He steadies, caresses, and readies his steed. Virtue, indeed.
The trashman rolls on.
Okay. NOW CUT AND PASTE THE LINK BELOW TO READ HERO, A SPRAWLING, GROUNDBREAKING FANTASY FOR GROWNUPS IN TWO PARTS. (BUT YOU MUST CLICK ON THE PROVIDED LINK AT THE CONCLUSION OF PART ONE TO ACCESS PART TWO! THAT’S WHERE THIS TALE’S AMAZING RESOLUTION LIES. But please...intelligent, soulful readers only!)
NOW HERE’S THAT LINK:
https://allpoetry.com/poem/14922744-Hero---Part-One-by-Ron-Sanders
Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.
contact:
[email protected]
Feb 19, 2020
Feb 19, 2020 at 3:05 PM UTC
gimME that ol’ time religion!
by michael r. burch
fiddle-dee-dum, fiddle-dee-dee,
jesus loves and understands ME!
safe in his grace, I’LL **** them to hell—
the strumpet, the harlot, the wild jezebel,
the alky, the druggie, all queers short and tall!
let them drink ashes and wormwood and gall,
’cause fiddle-dee-DUMB, fiddle-dee-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEee . . .
jesus loves and understands
ME!
Keywords/Tags: Christianity, intolerance, hell, chosen few, love, grace, salvation, favoritism, Jesus, wormwood, gall, fire, brimstone, eternal torture
Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 6:03 AM UTC