"sunstroke" poems
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Bumming your fat knobs and insert your helmet naked and unashamed
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Kicking off kick-off, cyborgs brought face to face
Tartan sunstroke and may Mumbo Jumbo's **** all lie among you
Nine, eleven, seven, thirteen, six, quinquereme, ******** ********* Tweedledum and Tweedledee, unsocial person, erectoffensive!
This is Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
You've really ****** the naval officer
And the hatchet faces want to know whose blouses you abuse
Now it's time to evacuate the ******* if you have a free hand
This is Lance Corporal Tom to Masticated Ectoplasm
I'm fancy dress dancing through the cat—flap
And I'm groping inside a swollen grotesque sailor
And the plums look gigantically unusual nowadays
Ergo from Land's End to John o' Groats am I piddling in a crumpet slammer
Telescopic hindward the lump
Uranus Arsenic is scatological
And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** *********** with
With the proviso that I'm Ichabod celibate centipede sextillion heads
I'm fondling vigorously paparazzo
And I think my sputnik knows which direction to ****
Tell my ballbreaker I ****** her vigorously for England, she bonks
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Your menstrual cycle's kaput, there's oojakapivvygizmo spleen
Can you smell me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you get to the bottom of me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you delve into me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you...
From Land's End to John o' Groats am I vibrating ring my crumpet criminal lunatic asylum
Telescopic hindward the groupie
Uranus Arsenic is scatological
And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** *********** with
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 4:22 PM UTC
Blister packs and Auld Lang Syne,
the rain-dance in the rain-forests
where no one keeps time;
the maypole, the bar stool,
the sunstroke pilgrimage;
the Superbowl commercial,
the secret raiding of the fridge-
all conforming to some routine
of half-comfortable bliss;
we stumble blindly through
our blueprint futures-
we borrow our happiness.
The truth is out there
if you look within:
the circadian rhythm,
the central nervous system;
the clamour of your mind
in the face of chronic stress.
The Lenders are out
in the crowds now,
with their placards of high-interest
amongst the indifference
of the street-meat vendors,
the numbered tables at the bar;
we spoil ourselves in the reach
of the so near's;
that we forsake all of the so far's.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
we stroll the orchard
where grapes prune
and apples dutch
the burgeoning ****
of our memories...
we remain shimmering in true dusk. there
on the cusp of inscrutable lust and the chaste rabies
of a sliver of first bone
with tornado lips
and cotton
random.
we cajole our misfortune,
and rise at noon; without laughing -
we ****** our hags from the raven
that feathered our cap.
we elapse with the dead
in the basement of our rendering.
a little ahead of ourselves
or dead, no matter what.
the orchard glooms a demise
in the calm tourettes
of our syndrome...
both alone in the teeming all-spark
of our glorious sundering...
our Mondays say less than
our Present Day -
and a yarn of plight and sunstroke
gropes at the barb
of our bee stung
innocence
we chide the withering
for all the Withering -
and all the good
it does....
besides.
we wrath glide the plum
then have at Life.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 11:28 AM UTC
VI
We lack, yet cannot fix upon the lack:
Not this, nor that; yet somewhat, certainly.
We see the things we do not yearn to see
Around us: and what see we glancing back?
Lost hopes that leave our hearts upon the rack,
Hopes that were never ours yet seem'd to be,
For which we steer'd on life's salt stormy sea
Braving the sunstroke and the frozen pack.
If thus to look behind is all in vain,
And all in vain to look to left or right,
Why face we not our future once again,
Launching with hardier hearts across the main,
Straining dim eyes to catch the invisible sight,
And strong to bear ourselves in patient pain?
IX
Star Sirius and the Pole Star dwell afar
Beyond the drawings each of other's strength:
One blazes through the brief bright summer's length
Lavishing life-heat from a flaming car;
While one unchangeable upon a throne
Broods o'er the frozen heart of earth alone,
Content to reign the bright particular star
Of some who wander or of some who groan.
They own no drawings each of other's strength,
Nor vibrate in a visible sympathy,
Nor veer along their courses each toward
Yet are their orbits pitch'd in harmony
Of one dear heaven, across whose depth and length
Mayhap they talk together without speech.
1.6k
He always showers right
Before bed -
His version of a milky drink,
Taking advantage of my
Chamomile shower gel.
(Girly? Yes,
But undeniably relaxing.)
Sometimes I join him,
Knees pushing into the
Bottom of the bath,
Boiling hot water
Hitting me directly
In the back of the head,
Giving me sunstroke.
Not tonight though.
Tonight, just sit,
Wait for the door to open,
And watch the steam
Slowly greet
My mirrors.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
Sunstroke.
There is nothing in the way she looks at me
that would lead me to believe
she'd ever read a book with me
or take tea out on the verandah.
Miranda
Miranda
I dream of Miranda out on the verandah with me
wish she could see what I feel
Wish I could steal her away for a day
wish she would say
'hey
how are you doing
I've got the tea brewing
come out to the verandah'
Oh Miranda
you make my heart ache
wish I could take you and make you believe
put my heart on your sleeve
put my lips against yours.
I woke up out of doors
I'd fallen asleep in the sun
waiting just waiting for Miranda to come.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 2:12 PM UTC
you know, they say, prior to urbanisation, during the winter, people turned into rabbits because it was so bleak... but now winter in an urbanised system seems rather like a stare into a cold nearing ultra-violet light of the neon of adverts at piccadilly circus.
spring came yesterday, long awaited i guess,
head up my *** sort of speak,
warm rain, not icy in venture of sleet,
warm, while today a day of warm contentment,
an hour spent on a bench imagining how
it would be in Disneyland,
two squirrels in a chase, woodland pigeons
making ends meet, a menacing crow
flying by with his hidden harem
(i said it once, you never see crows
do the pigeon thing of eager mating in
front of you, i guess they do it in the dark),
a robin with its crucified heart of the orange-red
chest pout exploding,
a blackbird rustling in shuffles;
two beers in and i notice the disharmony of this spring
compared with previous springs - the magnolias haven't
really bloomed, the daffodils were already
here in november, and the pink and white spring
blossoms seem anorexic and dried out in terms of volume,
they're scarcely colouring the backdrop of
the uneventful blue of sky and green of the hills;
summer is oh so monochromatic,
the season that debases me into a laziness,
a woman's sunglasses and a hood to protect
me from sunstroke, just lazying on a bench
thinking of a place in the archive of humanity,
next to the anchovies, i hope... the weeping willow
with its furry caterpillar sprouts;
it's all there, if you're lazy enough to peer at it.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 8:27 AM UTC
He was Autumn without chill
falling secrets, forming piles
of unearthed mystery, unknowing
how deep his soul was
He was Winter when he came
cold and distant, and lonely
needing layers to protect himself
from anything that might change
or truly discover him
He was Spring when he left
Happiness blooming through him
an aura radiating complete
and total trust
He was Summer when we finished
Overheated and over suffering from sunstroke
He'd been playing in the sun for too long
and now he was burnt, and tired.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 12:58 PM UTC
Wonder what he'll say when he sees this finally?
(sonnet #MMMXC)
December's undue warmth gone with the pale
Light's tender glow, what chill assaults! Each sigh
Which gaily teased, a frigid breath ne'er shy,
Yet gloaming is too pretty in its frail
Stealth waning while I fold the minor tale
Of items earlier pegged where morning'd buy
Fair hopes the laundry might well even dry
If it'd not rain. Winds soft then are more hale.
But I am smiling like a fool sans sense
And giggling cuz of you. How when I knew
You'd penned a most exquisite tribute dense
With what I meant, you swore that sunstroke threw
Its blind across, and not love's influence,
Nor me. Haha. I know. And love you too.
02Dec13a
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
Aye that's what I'd say
eclipses are good for sunstroke
"Do you write left aligned?"
Me........ A **** socialist?
And here I am again
Crawling back to my poetry
Like a dog crawls back to lick it's own *****
That was written 1400 years ago
Thanks Gregory
If You Don't Know me By Now
Banging out from my hi-fi
while she quietly snores
And dribbles on my shoulder
If I shut my eyes
there is still a white square
No matter how hard I try
There will always be
One more white square
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC
one
breathe
you may not realise it
but you’ve stepped into new lands
and life is different here
you are different here
you’d thought the sun
had kissed you before
but it did not love you
like it did this place
the people here had
felt its arms wrapped
around their bodies
for generations,
its light imprinted in
their skin like melanin,
the same light
you’d seen shine
from your mother’s hands
you’d thought the sun
had kissed you once before
but you were different,
your light was dimmer,
harder to recognise
and even the sun wasn’t
sure you were its kin,
had to look twice
before it realised
your blood but you
remained a stranger
all the same
two
the way you talk is wrong
your words too delicate
your voice too soft
your speech without music
you’d thought your tongue
was universal, had been
both understood and mis before,
but you were the cub of a lioness
and didn’t know how to roar,
no pride would take
you in when you
mewled like a kitten
and no sunlight shone
from your skin
you’d thought your tongue
was no different to
your mother’s, but hers
never worked the same
when you spoke it,
never quite connected
to its audience, so
you stopped trying,
turned to the moon instead
and gave it your confession
the only way you knew how,
it told you you spoke just fine
three
you think somewhere else
things will be different
you don’t remember
it has always been this way
your family never once
pointed out the intricacies
of your branches to you,
why you matched neither
your father’s roots nor your
mother’s veins, but had blossomed
something different, something new,
and why that would ever matter,
your family never thought
about these things, never
talked about such things,
they just wanted you
to speak plain
your family never once
explained how home would
be new to you, how home
wouldn’t really be like home
after all, because home didn’t
welcome you like it should have,
didn’t greet you right, hold you
tight in its arms and make you feel
like you belonged, because you
were different, and it didn’t
recognise you for a moment
or two
one
breathe
you may not realise it
but you’ve stepped into new lands
and life is different here
and you are different here
Jun 26, 2019
Jun 26, 2019 at 3:11 PM UTC
*Justin Bieber's Dreadlocks Show
How White People (Still) Steal Everything
(vice news)...*
yep, and Beyoncé isn't... because it's natural
for hair in a sub-saharan environment
to be without afro curls... smooth and slick...
and partially blonde... ain't it *****
yep... tell 'em how it is! women out-cold
in cold sweats due to sunstroke should they
have demanded hair fitted for a near Arctic
environment of near perpetual darkness
among gingers in scotland.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
Out on a liferaft looking for low flying aircraft and the
sea shells that sound like the sea.
I see nothing but water and sailors that caught a rough wave
and paving the way for a saviour to appear is the
rear admiral asleep and the course that we keep is
quite random it seems, gleaned from the stars and
the dockside bars, distilled by the gums that supped many a *** and
smoked a canteen of navy cut cigarettes, where will it end?
The admiral wakes, takes a reading, 'land sakes', from the parrot that sits by his side and we glide on through the sea, what will be, what will be
but what is
is what worries me.
On the cockleshell shore where we floundered and wore out the heels of our boots, we set down some roots built huts from bamboo to save us from sunstroke and the Lloyds bell was rung for lost sailors and *** and the admiral asleep in the rear.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 5:55 PM UTC
“He is a dreamer; let us leave him – pass.” Julius Caesar I.ii.24
Strident philosophers at Hyde Park Corner
Poor buskers at Queen Victoria’s feet
Chalk artists remaking the pavement as Rome
A Seventh Sister with her folk guitar
These are not dreamers passive in their beds
Or supplicants awaiting permission:
They are the worker bees; they know of pain
And sweat, and sunstroke in the fields - and truth
When a sidewalk artist notes that the Ides
Have come, Caesar indeed should turn to hear
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 10:50 AM UTC
i can't sleep on nights when
the temperatures are too high.
charles's law was not wrong
when it said that gases expand
when they're heated.
it turns out that words do too.
or maybe it's not the words
that are gaseous, bursting
through my subconscious
like fireworks on fourths
you wish you'd missed.
the thoughts behind the words,
they're what i cannot escape.
the dimension beneath expression
and release, the tides that begin
near my heart but never quite
reach a shoreline to crash on.
i've heard that heat waves
**** more people than any
other natural disaster, yet
they trace my skin at night
and i swear, i've never felt
more awake.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 4:07 AM UTC
I've tailored so many suits,
Switching out mismatched buttons for shining brass,
And restoring fabric worn thin over years of well-loved use.
But I cannot tailor this traitorous skin to fit me right.
In some placed it's too lose,
In others too tight…
I cannot switch out the pieces of me I'd rather live without
For new pieces shining with pride.
There is no way to restore a body to what it should have been,
Or even to the simple majesty of what it once was.
Young and ignorant of its uneven seams.
I've hemmed ladies' skirts to the perfect lengths
So they no longer need to worry about tripping over the excess.
Hemmed them to show just the right amount of ankle
Or perhaps none at all..
But I cannot hem myself..
This excess emotion staining my voice denoted me as "she."
And I trip over my own voice that no longer fits in my mouth..
While gorgeous girls in gowns show off thin strips of themselves,
I am left trying to hide every piece of my skin.
This is why I have risked sunstroke in the dead of summer
Wearing a hoodie and jeans to keep me safe.
This is why swimming pools are often synonymous with nightmare.
I no longer know how to wear this body with pride.
So when they ask me when I knew I wasn't a girl…
I have to restrain my urge to laugh and cry all at once.
Because when do we know that something is not as perfect as we once thought..
Only once it has been shown to us and we've been told to fix it.
I wish I could go back to being ignorant of my uneven seams.
These uneven seams that I cannot rip out unless I want to bleed out.
These uneven seams that I will never be able to fix to perfection.
But maybe…
Slowly,
Ever so slowly,
We might be able to stretch the seams of this world.
So that no child has to learn to hate or fear
Their jagged edges
Their unhemmable spaces…
…
…
…
…
But I cannot be one of those children..
So I will use chemicals to hem my voice..
Readjust my buttons…
Stretch my seams…
I will find a seamster more experienced then I
To rip out these traitorous strings
And rearrange the fabric to a more seemly drape.
I will use new fabric to cover up the patterns I am no longer proud of…
The patterns that cloud my days…
I will mend my ways
Learning to live in a patchwork maze
Until my spirit can return to where it truly belongs
In a beautiful blaze.
- EPL 11/6/2017
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 10:41 PM UTC
The sultan kept
A mad desert storm
Sealed away in his bottle
Upon a silken belt.
I bought it from him
For a soul and two pence
My right eye,
a good crossbow,
And a loyal eastern gent.
I fell upon a
merciless jungle
That was filled with
Bodiless masses,
And uncorked the storm
Upon the bird like faces
Then they were swept away.
Why, do you ask?
So I could rule a sandy kingdom.
How does it look?
Like an ocean filled with glass.
A bottle I keep around my waist...
Within it a sandy storm...
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
Growls and snarls emerge from the East,
It’s a mess of teeth and claws.
The land there is ruled by savage beats,
With scaly skin and gaping maws.
The West is nothing but sunstroke,
Barren hills of lost bones and sand.
Such great heat it turns air to smoke,
With evershifiting pieces of land.
The South shivers with warfare;
Bullet shells litter the streets.
Shots ring out and sirens blare,
In a mess of broken hearts and concrete.
But we will stand strong against any threat,
Brace ourselves when evil steps forth.
We’ll cut our loses and pay our debts,
Before we march our souls to the North.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
Pints int sun
Socks, sliders and chit-chat
Walking home in zig zags
Good people
I miss all that
Summer days
Sunny haze
Topping up the tan
In the English rays
Factor 50
Laid on thick
When the temp strikes 20
The sunstroke hits
Ice-cold bevs
On a picnic bench
Tunes blasting
Pints thrown
Am chuffing drenched
The ciggies and spliffs
Chasing the vibe
Oh, what it is
To be alive
The beer gardens
Packed to the brim
“Sorry mate
You can’t come in”
Party in the park
Barbecues
And burnt sausage
Go on then
Another gin
The English summer
What a sight
Top’s off, top’s on
Golden days
And Endless nights
Mar 18, 2025
Mar 18, 2025 at 9:33 AM UTC
1971, they lost East Pakistan,
And Bangladesh was carved.
1972, they conspired terror,
By promising 72 in Jannat.
2024, the fools still believe,
Not just in violence but also in the 72.
****** Nymphs wreak havoc in their minds.
Spreading his Chiropteran wings,
It's actually Satan laughing.
The fools want the world to convert,
Convert to the religion peace at what cost?
They wield their swords and Kalashnikovs,
****** killing, converting, decapitating at will.
They think that they will get virgins in afterlife.
What's described in their scriptures?
72 bathykolpian blue-eyed virgins.
Infinite stamina and limitless wine,
With those 72 eternally ****** Nymphs.
This crude carnal desire motivating,
The ******** to commit more bloodshed.
They rally our daughters, sisters, and mothers.
Like what — they rally them as trophy wives,
Or better if stripped **** and humbled.
They **** our brothers in an exemplary manner,
Decapitating, dismembering, and insulting.
What sort of faith do they follow?
They follow the words of a mad man,
A mad man who claimed to know God.
But actually they follow a barmy man,
A man who lost his mind to the heat,
The Arabic heat with nothing to eat.
No water to drink and it caused him to break,
He was not a sensible man,
About the 2 billion followers?
They're victims of sunstroke too.
We need to strip **** their carnal faith,
Strip them of their human rights,
As they are no humans.
Humans don't behave like jackals,
They follow the religion of the Devil,
But they have the support of bigots,
Bigots who ignore our fallen angels.
Our girls and young women they don't spare,
Why then about theirs should we even care?
Use pliers and plass, pull their nails out,
Send them to their perverted Jannat.
Let the terrorists die of pain,
What will we gain?
Some centuries of actual peace.
Jun 13, 2024
Jun 13, 2024 at 2:19 AM UTC
Away, not home,
this continental heat.
The air pretends
this North Atlantic rock
is worldly
The smiles of the natives
lean manic
as we clutch at multipack lager
and disposable charcoal,
grasp at the living myth
of a cloudless sky
and give ourselves to these gods
Our worship sees us sacrifice
meat and skin,
both burnt to early hours regret
and delicate, bathroom sorrows
A sporadic bacchanal
whose scarcity ensures
that be it working week,
weekend or holiday,
feverish
we’ll pay the tithe
Sunstroke and/or hangover
prove penance for our lapse
from the frigid, three bar
Protestant norm,
but these exotic gods will beguile again
even as the blistered skin still peels
Jul 31, 2020
Jul 31, 2020 at 10:38 AM UTC