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Time to be in Tune with my own Best Dad
Much would it take to cause Celebration
Sermons apart, yet Insights I just had
Took me some Yards taped for Inspiration
Rarely such Species can just Understand
The Skirted *** most Males eliminate
Still most Sires force their Sons on Demand
To spout their Seeds for Pride to propagate
If you can recall those Sales-Slips within
How Footed and Devote your Presence was
Tri-Dimed Corporate; Or Sea-Tigers therein
Is just the Greeting Card I'll Love at last.
Senior come hither; In Prime Deposit
Father my Mentor; In Wisdom ask it.
Always which the Human in me surpass
When Trite Reunion comes to much Expect
Between us, Birth-Father, the Heart must last
And configure our Values circumspect
After seeing those skinned neighbours battle
And DAD the Inspiration I preserve
Comes your Striking Counsel; Which I rattle
And reimburse the Love you so deserve
But, if Favour pleads, renew the Bald Man
Whose Birthdate his Arm's Course Affection share
Teach this Tanned Diver; To widen his span
Knowing such Open Hands breed Anywhere.
Circles are Dangerous, if Minds are locked
He needs to KNOW that; From his own Best Hug.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
. she was 19, i was 21, and i guess i was the first boy who treated her decently, allowed her to slap me in the face and stood like a copper statue before her... she wouldn't have made it at university among all the English yuppies, being pregnant... turns out, she might have opted for the Juno (the movie) route... all i know is that she graduated with a masters in anthropology... she was up in Edinburgh, i was back in London, roofing with my father doing the Scottish Widows HQ and then some other project, trying to weave myself into a managerial position in some roofing company... but then? the psychosis spiral... oddly enough - no hammers, no hearing voices wielding a hammer running down the street naked... contained... walked into a church near King's Cross st., lay on beside a the side altar, pulled the cloth from the altar, and wrapped myself in it... then heard singing, had my iPod with me... turned it off... turned it on again, turned it off... the singing still echoed the church... got up, put the cloth back onto the altar and started running around the church aisles... then a great wind dispersed the singing... what kept my sanity? well... given that i was smoking marijuana and fasting? one word... sátān... the whole 40 days in the desert? cut short... in a concrete desert... i phoned my then ex-girlfriend to meet me at this spot outside the church - right across from a royal mail HQ - and i remember the words: can you bring me bread, and water? nothing... on my own then... no... that sort of experience is no cause for jubilation, there is no ******* euphoria: you're talking about ******* it - in my case? thankfully that's only metaphorical... and i'm not buying the psychiatric *******, the easy way out answer: ooh... but youz ver in a church... what?! what the **** are these people talking about? sober people are allowed to have these experiences? well, really?! so why so many of them are negating or doubting intellectuals?! negation is the new doubt... somehow i managed to fend off the atypical munchies routine while smoking marijuana while walking in public... never bothered me... i was a reggae ***** at the time... notably Israel Vibration, Stephen Marley, Damian & Culture... & ***** and the Maytals... cliche, i know... but **** and rap?! seriously? gangster whatever the hell that means... i've just read an article about cultural appropriation... so what has the Jamaican Rastafarian culture have to do with Old Testament prophets?! JAH... they're always singing about JAH... it's a ******* yak! yah! a german YA! cultural appropriation my ***! it's Jamie Oliver's **** sauce! ****'s sake! yeah, right, Bambi on Jamaica smoking a silly one doing the reinvention of king David's psalms... no cultural appropriation there... nope... none... nothing... nothing wrong with Alpha Blondy singing about Yerushalem... nope... no cultural appropriation.... nope... none... nothing! i mentioned these bands to my Jamaican **** seller... big on the Illuminati conspiracy theories, i liked to listen to him ramble... hardly a Charlie Temple paranoid... loved his ox tail broth, his grandma made it for him... and a pretty daughter, but no mother... eh? his Thai ****? i'd prefer the shorter span of a tobacco high... where? near my old high school, Canon Palmer R.C. - now a ******* academy! whoop! whoop! sound the klaxon! you don't experience what i've experienced and start a cult with *** ****** in mind... like **** if you think you do... you... lay low... you puncture the existentialist exodus from Cartesian doubt - namely outright negation - and you wait for the revitalization of doubt, namely the pop culture variant of belief... doubt is, oddly enough, a variant of belief... and belief? be a leaf... just remember you were once attached to a branch of a tree.

yeah...

        a catholic school isn't
exactly a Jesuit school...

but being asked questions
about abortion
and euthanasia

   aged 15 or 16?

in real life?
  you short-circuit, glitch,
become ronin -

    the personal life, details?
too messy...
   she tells you she's taking
contraceptives,
   she's ends up self-harming...
she says she was abducted
and held for ransom,
she's a russian citizen,
her ex-boyfriend is still
hanging around,
  a son of some Russian oligarch...
you've only dated for a
bunch of months that do not
even make it half a year...
you don't mind condoms,
because... hell...
you'd love to see her wearing
latex...

     you know, the usual bits & bobs...

voodoo...
    for some strange reason i woke
up, and the ring finger blister
on my left hand, made by burning
out a cigarette on it
started bleeding:
  close to the bone -
and look! you get a slot motion
of your body recovering!
  no disclaimer concerning
the pros to what sharp objects
women do, by cutting...

but you know...
      asking a 15 / 16 year old
about his opinion
  about either abortion
or euthanasia?
  bad ******* move...
           at this point i'm thinking:
thank ****...

what does it even mean,
when a woman says it,
she's not exactly point-break
on Cartesian logic...

'matt, i think i'm pregnant'
'well, you know what you should
do, get an abortion.'

mind you... i am a citizen of a country
where abortion is legal...
hell, it might have worked,
*** was good, she could
reciprocate that sentiment...

oh, but if there is a kid at the end
of the tunnel?
i **** sure hope he doesn't
contact me, like a kid from
a ***** donor clinic...
      there's something malicious
waiting for him for me
to add about his mamma -

   aligned?
oh you know... *****, Henny,
  Diana and the Egyptian...
   go Charlie go!

                  please please keep
your name... we need a Charles trinity!

so yeah... Roman Catholic school...
****! oh right, outer east end of London...
Paddy central...
               i wonder...
                  but i'll never know...
the Polish Catholics are leaving...
               good on 'em...
          (yadda yadda, yeah yeah, for them)...

i'll never know...
   am i angry?
               i listen to Byzantine and Templar
chants and drink to a well earned
excess...
               sometimes the odd Bulgarian
******* to hug...
    
oh right... that one last time?
i didn't forget my genitals...
   i did an uncourteous lax of etiquette...
****!
           now it makes sense!
i forgot to trim my ***** hair!
(mumbling out) ******* eureka.
Thus on my genesis Love's fought Regret
My Ardent Sire whose Merits installed
These English Gifts whom I have thanked just yet
Carried Misconstruction; And docked the Fine Toll
This that Penance be my Honest Attempt
Yet still besieged in case of Bad Timing
The Gold I carry an Issue I Contempt
Will try once more to Win his Best Blessing
My how the Fortunes some drive the Mind mad
And took my Heart back to a Wildman's State
This cannot continue; Much have I had
Sponge this Circled Self back to my Constraint.
The Human in me, the Cause of my Lone
And Sister's Reason I banged on the Phone.
James Cushman Aug 2022
A thunderous crack
Echoes in the night.
A monstrous sound
Splitting my eardrums.

****** impure poison…

And it’s funny.
Everybody farts
Cunning Linguist Mar 2015
Tongue in cheek I detest you
Hand over foot
Make a peep *****
And I promise I'll ****** you

Bad tact I'm a cesspool
Festering in the nestle of your daughter's
well developing *******
Everyday I follow her home from school

This unnerving pervert unearthing fervor
making ya catatonic &
giving your heart murmurs
Nurture the thought
It's just the tip
(Of the iceberg)

Gotta stir the paint before you make a mural
Ma'am, I'll purloin your ham purse until my burial
Don't be a sourpuss

It's final
I'm vile
And I swear I'm not a *******.

Want some candy?
There once was a fellow  from Nantucket
Who blew an excellent trumpet tucket
His toot ***** sounded so grand
As he lead the college band
Grand trumpet tuckets tooted in Nantucket
Tina ford Feb 2014
MUD
Mud is good,
Its dead good mud,
It's in me blood,
But where not understood,
Us people of mud,
In the shadow of a gas tank and born on a Mersey bank, I lived on cobbled streets dark and dank,
I played on a ship that sank, and for anything else I wouldn’t thank....... you
On king street docks, girls in cheap frocks, curly locks, time tocks, the boat rocks,
The tanyard smell made life hell for all that dwell, under the bridge,
In Garston L19, it’s the scene, its clean, it’s where I’ve been, it’s not obscene or green, if you know what I mean.
Its community security sincerity and every other word that ends with erity,
But it’s fallen apart,
Don’t lose heart.
I go into town when I’m down, it clears me frown,
I don’t go in me jarmies or me dressin gown,
There’s men with round bellies, toddlers in wellies,
Posh ladies gather in their marks and spencer swagger,
There’s scouse brow teens, sunbed queens,
Hunks and punks, lonely drunks,
Suits in boots forgetting their roots and hens in *****,
Big issue sellers, statue fellas holding golf umbrellas,
Coz of all the rain,
But it’s all good, coz we come from mud,
Let’s cheer, why?
Coz I’m here,
I’m me, me names T, and me hubbys P me best friends she..... lagh,
I like coffee and toffee and Roger Mcgoughy,
I like statistics logistics eye shadow and lipsticks,
I like bags and wags and cigarette ****, but not beer,
I’m fine on wine if I take me time,
I don’t do a line, unless I’m hanging me washing on it,
I work in a bar, not far, I don’t drive a car, and I don’t say Lar or kid or lad or lid or mar,
I’m proud and loud, don’t live on a cloud, and I don’t follow the crowd,
I’m a mum to some, I’ve got a big round ***, but I’m me you see,
I’m not square, I dye me hair, I swear but you can take me anywhere,
Coz I care,
I’m good,
I’m mud; it’s in me blood,
Understood

By Christina Ford
Jane Tricky Apr 2013
*****
sweet *****
sometimes toetoe
often skits
but always *****
my love
my dream
my doll
the apple of my eye
the nails on my chalkboard
the silver lining to my cloud
the dog whistle to my baby ears
salvation
grace
irritation
gushes
where have you gone?
for, i cannot find you
you are no where to be found
something i am not only uncomfortable with
something that i fear
come back to me
find me
you know where i'll be
black tank.. black socks.. black everything..
i'll be waiting for you
patiently waiting
in the most impatient of ways
i'll even try to whistle when i see you near
if only to remind you that i'm here.
Mike Hauser Mar 2015
this company is heading straight to the top
with our new improved line of fairy farts
soon our catch phrase will be all over the place
a slight touch of magic in a jar

first and foremost a disclaimer though
in the making of farts not one fairy was harmed
we house and feed, take care of their every need
so there's no need for alarm

once we discovered how the ***** could be used
down here on fairy farm
we've had all our men chase after them
capturing bottom barks into a jar

then by hand we transfer them
from pint up to gallon size
to be used all the way from laundry detergent
to a line of makeup that's soft on the eyes

we even have samples of candles
bath and body works just bought the whole lot
plus it runs machines cheaper than gasoline
so far the highest bid is from Exon

we're also in talks of a contract
with a highly secretive govern(mental) agency
who wants all the gas with no questions asked
but on that we'll have to wait and see

in the mean time our workers continue to bottle it up
all the fairy farts from all the fairy butts
it's a job that flatuates deep to the heart
but with this job what's not to love

as you watch the fairies flutter to and fro
hearing the cute little ***** wherever they go
who would have guessed who could have known
how much a business like this would grow
Merry dear Dad his Inner Kevlar endure
And allow my Years to promote his Prove
For Right-Side's Heal let his Honour be Pure
And mirror the Big Hand in Sky's Glory
For if it be this Son, sullen by Age
Of Desert Years twice-score he should Wander
Would share his Bread; To patient Sky quench Rage
And emulate our Saviour's Mercy ponder
Yet you. Still you. Be my Foundation's Best
Apart from Powers I could Un-Concieve
That Feigned but Guiding Hand; With all Lime's Zest
Harness it ever from Sugars too Sweet.
And yes, dear Dad; The Five-Pronged Bot did die
Yet withered their Ghosts to greet your Day by.
Jeff Claycombe Mar 2015
tootsie pops, pop rocks, rock candy
sweet tarts, smelly farts, war-heads, sour patch kids
reeses pieces, reeses stix, snickers lickers
fudge pile, chocolate smile, peanut butter bile, sugary style
baby ruths, almond joys, soy bean sauce, creamy steam
ill give u a payday, mayday, hay tastes good with parfai
milkyways stay gay to play games with sunrays
icing splicing with knife dicing
makes cakes, cook steaks, rumcakes
****** sprinkles, rip van winkle, diddily dinkle
gummy worms, germs impregnate firm, permed urns
angel food, carrots, pineapple upsideways
fruits, *****, parachutes, scooters, jello shooters
goobers, corn on the cobbers,
veggie wedgies, pepper leppers, squash boxes,
fry foxes, fleet rocks', carrot tops',
dishes of fishes,
witches brew platypus and fat kush
pushy slushies riding skateboards on gary busy
fussy hussies getting blushy about cussies
cereal made of creoles, bread straight from dreads,
rice is nice with spice, yeast is beast,
last but not least, wheat is a treat,
kiwis, shmiwis, dodos on go phones, starfruits,
bartlejuice, grape drank, sushi stinks.
ill eat anything.
9/29/11
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Oakes-photo, hypocrisy and flagrant mirky plateau. Brimming celestial warrants overcrowding public housing systems. North-South lights, sell costly iPhone Apps; and then there are Social Societies of non-verbal delight. Password protected non-profitable and over-costly educations of no reward or biblical synonyms. Catastrophizing hash-tag dot.com. Weary party going poster children with glowing anemone guts, fruity looped cantlings, ravenous scattered supper clubbed coughing up ******* on their strange and central affairs unit. Overcome the candisation and sugary affairs of any of the ***** and pops that erstwhile matter less and less. We are speaking of nomenclatures that don't arise. Promises and by which confession aloof romanticizes every Tom dicking Mary that carries the theory of sustainable energy, prussian blue, and irregular browsing.
There's no light at the end of the tunnel
just the train coming fast on the track
there's no hope in my heart
and no star in my start,
because she said,
she's not coming back.
Deana Luna May 2013
Bubble and pop
sweet baby darling
blow
*******, *****
and bring up all the sweet candy corn you can find.

shush and shake sweet honey babe
shush me and taste the shore with the tip of your tongue
can you taste the salt, sugar?
do you feel the rush, daddy?

chew me up like a piece of pink chunky bubble gum
and store me behind your ear.
draw me some cotton candy to munch on
and paint yourself a rocking chair to sit and watch.

*******, babe.
pin me up against the wall and down underneath you
let me be your pinup girl
pull my stockings up
and sit me down on your lap

give me smacks for bad behavior
and leave candy colored crimson smeared across my chin.

oh, sweet baby darling, don't you crave to swallow me whole?
preservationman Oct 2015
It’s that choo choo sound
.The steam puffing up with the movement in being anywhere bound.
First thing when the conductor says, “All Aboard”
The destination sign that suddenly appears from the board
.The wheels that start of churn
.The coal car on the train burning like a hot urn
.The thought the engine pulling the entire car load
.The movement having power and the look of behold
.As the Engineer ***** the bell and the engine horn
.It’s the Engineer actually saying to the boy, “Railing fantasy my treat”.
Being an Engineer takes endurance and feat
.Well Tom Othello was a lover of trains
.His Grandfather being a retired Engineer having a history and in Tom’s heart that will remain.
It was the beauty of the Super Chief
.As the Super Chief whisked by in hot summers gave some coolness being a relief.
Well seeing the Super Chief and passenger cars up close and personal made Tom appreciative of trains even more
.However, Tom was determined to explore.
There was a toy model Super Chief train set
 The Train Cometh Hobby Shop knew the Super Chief was going to be a good bet.
But the question being would Tom’s parents let? 
It took plenty of convincing to buy the Super Chief set
. However, Tom held onto that train set as if it was a loving pet.
Tom had that train running all through the house
.The Super Chief being a welcome arrival into a little boy’s place.
One thing that is for sure, the experience cannot be erased.
It was an enchanted ride
.We all took it in being our stride
.Well the Super Chief puffs to an endless rail
.The Super Chief thanks everyone for following in the trail
.As the Super Chief rides into the sunset, it’s one puff after another, and saying good-bye and another puff in don’t cry.
1487 Aug 2015
there
will
never
be
another
you
I lost another cat today to cancer. Rest in love Bootsie.
Dominic Simpson Aug 2013
Hi . . . This is about the kinds of people who work in corporate big money office buildings . . . Imagine them at lunchtime, how they interact and picture the scene in any . . .

Busy little bistro

Sharp - sharks - circle - the - pack
Pinstripe finned and eager
Snapping their snacks back with ease
Points to prove with nothing to lose  
No cracks in their creases
They're keen to return to the fray.
These boys play with girls
Aren't yet uncles with nieces
Just unproven throwaway pieces . . .
In shiny  . eat ***** . suited up . Chelsea boots
Bidding for ***** with cute looks and loot
Touting with confident ***** . . .
As mobile as their smart devices
Loose

Next . . . ?
And fresh from a mornings abuse
And fifteen years of fear . .
Beleaguered older shirts sit . .
Flogged dogs with weak barks
Parked packed into packs.
Tongue tied ties tied together
Safety is numbers
Get each others backs
These partially satisfied cats
Know today is NOT their day . .
That was yesterday . . .
Obliging lives and mortgages
The reasons why they stay

Passing Cabs cruise . . .
Seen it all before.
Sat in the back a high class *****
Glazed eyes glancing away  
From her play-away payday
Nibbles in the boardroom . .
Napkins . . for the dribbles
A working lunch for this Girl
Her money-shot a wrap without applause
Was just a  . . . pause  . . . between paws . .

Then Dora on reception
John, who minds the door
Evie in the IT room
Or dave . . who buffs the Marble
Sparkles glinting in the floor . .
And the guards . . who guard . . what exactly . . ?

All of this . . ? Networking . . !!!
Everybody's selling something
It doesn't quite stink
But it definitely smells
A little high

As time whiles by
Seems this
Is the state of our nation
And in this state
Defines our aspirations
And yes . . this state's a splinter
Taunting my imagination . . .
Do I stake my place within this game
Or sit in observation
Commentating on a race
Where human nature fakes it's place
Where people sit as players
Yet no one wears their own face
David Nelson Jun 2013
If you don't know me by now

I am gregarious
I am a loner
sometimes hilarious
other times a moaner
sharp as a tack
dull as a dark cloud
sitting quietly in a corner
other times I'm too loud
I'll lay heaps of praise
I'll call you out
wanna know what's on my mind
I'll leave no doubt
I'll give you kisses
call you an ***
never been confused as one
with too much class
I'm a hard worker
and a lazy ***
I can be your lover
I can be your chum
don't like being played
but crazy about games
don't like loudmouths
love **** dames
have fancy suits
and cheapo shorts
like tasty *****
but no ***** or snorts
oh I will take a hit
off a Columbian joint
get high into a trance
laugh dance and point
yes I am this
and I am that
if you need a friend
I'll be more than that
just treat me right
don't pull my chain
then I'll be there
again and again

Gomer LePoet ....
just in case you were interested :)
Ronald Jones Aug 2016
Today she wore curlers in her hair
looking like cannons staked out ready to blare

Her lipstick and powder
like bouillabaisse chowder

And when she demanded a goodbye "peck"
I said "No way!" to the wreck

Which made her rear back and bray
"Go home then and kiss a stingray!"

She cackled and cackled
raising my hackles

Thinks she is the second Joan Rivers
but she only gives me the shivers

Soon I was fearing another fight nearing
seeing her witch's eyes evilly peering

And when she rose in those clumpy army boots
I heard an arpeggio of loud flatulent *****

Forcing me out the door needing fresh air
and away from her threatening glare

But one day I'll be back
once I can align myself on the proper son-in-law track
vircapio gale Oct 2015
projective geometry used to get me *****
all those positions

,palmately pink and ever green
breathing vasts of void my dark heart laughs in gulping wholes
moaning plenums, hooded over boundless venus-vim

now i'm tired of infinite lines
too many shapes to fit in
too wide, too tight, sharp or empty

,too many ways to come

this was meant to be a disclaimer before a collection of poems

,a way to unclutter
                angst of public  
                              lexicality,
years  after  ­ 'explaining'
                  Samir's 'polygonal me'
                                                to only-me-myself-i-was,
to then indulge this analogic soundlessness...
             
        as i disengage

i can't write without planning on it
i can't write about  writing  without feeling like a fool
                                                            ­                 (,Lear is the only one
that saves me now
                       as now i am the Fool,
                                                 dividing hearts along
in storm-***-love-like railway-*****
                                 steaming full of fiberoptic nooks,
chaining spectra-cogs of a good-will-spirit-****:
                                       concatenated hard-ons every word
each thought a pulsate vulval dream awake,
                                                redichotom­izing lives
                         of shining mons my Athene forehead
                                                      forging fountain thought,
                          urethral letting-beings-be...
freely, my chubby comes back to me
                                         prone before the prostate god)

,in other words
              the same,
                     i cannot write as other than a fool
for
why should i repeat the abject horror of the world?
isn't despair a bit.. overdone at this point?!
and why should i write just the happy!? i'm not in denial, am i?
or am i in denial
about insisting on being in denial absolutely?
--like mind-only schools...
(O the uselessness of words, dismissing patriarchal vigor with yet another wave, the 'brine-milk' ends unending,
forever Femen liberating us of words,
replaced with Fragilaria,
wasting diatomic seas and waterways,
depleted algae gone, extinct: metaphysiCalListo-craticality aborted on a broken Amazonic spear,
our bodies, bodied-hearts, finally won as ours, across Alternaqueeria, fully lucid human-species spanned
i blink my tears and blur my gaze at weeping Pleides

the plan was this: painful poem, pleasure poem, painful poem, happy poem... **** poem, sterile poem, carnal poem, priggish poem, punk poem, open poem, confessing poem, eros poem, **** poem, 'obscene-attractive' poem...
to cleanse inverted mainstreams of my steady-rhythmed pratitpaksha-bhavanams; not "poem, poem, poem, poem..."
but a taut poeming in and out of poems of poemed poiesis prosing poets free to **** again in Issa's snow, or *** on Chiera's cumaholic Shards.

pendulum left, pendulum right; then two pendulums, then none; then one that swings right and left at the same time; then one that spins all the way around, but only clockwise; then one counter-clockwise; then one both clockwise and counterclockwise; then one timeless, then one imaginary one... full of infinite little ones... to represent all the pendulata in the universe as experienced through minor parts of self.. itself as universal part-whole-parcel self-hood spanning star-births yet to come...
,
,
,but it's time to eat a 'square' meal
take off my job-search tie, my peddled lies
                   forget the sunrise vestibules we sipped from,
                                           sleeping by commoding cows

and pretend i'm not dicking myself over
                                                          by­ retreating
into cryptic spectionism-voids again
                                               all seagull-divert-adverts, play
of frozen youth abstrused,
                      self-referred referring loosed
                                          staggered worse than marginalia
no single species 'seagull' singing here
Amy Lockwood May 2013
I have one grandmother
And one grandfather.
Cousin Kate has two of each.
When I was young she tried to teach
My to call them Nana B
And Dadda B respectively,
But I guess that was too hard for me
So I just call them
Nana and B.

Nana looks a lot like mom
Except she's got more wrinkles on.
And lipstick that's a perfect pink
And dog treats underneath her sink
And a silver hairbrush,
Creams for foots,
And on occasion she calls me "*****".

My B, he's from Pier-Dip-Pah-Too.
His real name's John
(My brother's too!)
And B works on the radio
And tells me things I didn't know
About boats. And on the holidays
He always serves glasses
Of Seven-Sideways.

In my family we have this tradition
Called "the annual lake freeze competition".
My aunts and uncles, they all guess
Then me, of course, then all the rest
Which day Lake Ontario
Will freeze right over
So we know
Who. Gets. The Trophy.

Nana, she records the dates
And then with B she sits and waits
Day in, day out
They watch the lake
For one fine day
When no wave breaks the ice
...and someone wins The Trophy.

(One year the lake never froze and there was NO WINNER. My dad is obsessed with Global Warming and no he always votes anti-freeze.)

Now today's my day: January 21st
And I'm so excited I could almost burst
Cause I just know that phone
That's ringing
Is the call to inform me
Of my winning.

Gasp It's for me!

Hand me the phone, Mother ,
Give it here.
Why hello, Nana!
(She says "hello, dear")
Oh. I didn't win.
Well that's okay.
B says its a gamble this game we play.
Turns out it froze yesterday
And the trophy goes to
Cousin Kate??!!

Next year I think I'll vote anti-freeze
And I'll throw big rocks right through the ice.
Or maybe my brother, he'd suffice.
It's just not fair! Kate's won it twice!
But I did get to talk to Nana and B
...and that was nice.
Mike Hauser Sep 2018
this company is heading straight to the top
with our new improved line of fairy farts
soon our catch phrase will be all over the place
a slight touch of magic in a jar

first and foremost a disclaimer though
in the making of farts not one fairy was harmed
we house and feed, take care of their every need
so there's no need for alarm

once we discovered how the ***** could be used
down here on fairy farm
we've had all our men chase after them
capturing bottom barks into a jar

then by hand we transfer them
from pint up to gallon size
to be used all the way from laundry detergent
to a line of makeup that's soft on the eyes

we even have samples of candles
bath and body works just bought the whole lot
plus it runs machines cheaper than gasoline
so far the highest bid is from Exon

we're also in talks of a contract
with a highly secretive govern(mental) agency
who wants all the gas with no questions asked
but on that we'll have to wait and see

in the mean time our workers continue to bottle it up
all the fairy farts from all the fairy butts
it's a job that flatuates deep to the heart
but with this job what's not to love

as you watch the fairies flutter to and fro
hearing the cute little ***** wherever they go
who would have guessed who could have known
how much a business like this would grow
They’d never got on before the dance
And they certainly wouldn’t now,
For Geoffrey Raise had showered praise
On the Fireman’s girl, somehow,
And she, Charlene, was impressed, it seems
With the Engine driver’s call,
And changed her date, though it seemed too late
To the Fireman, at the ball.

They stood on the plate of the Duke of Kent
With the fireman raising steam,
Shovelling coal to the firebox
In a movement swift and clean,
He scattered the coals on the glowing bed
With a practised twist of his wrist,
While the driver kept his eyes ahead
As the steam built up, and hissed.

‘Why did you jump on Charlene then,’
Said the Fireman, Henry Rice,
During a break, his back was bent
With sweat, but his eyes were ice,
‘I don’t have to answer to you,’ said Raise,
‘Charlene was anyone’s girl,
I liked the way that she held herself
And she sure knew how to twirl.’

The train pulled out of the station with
A puff and a cloud of steam,
And clattered along the track from Klifft
On its way to Essingdean,
Pulling a dozen coaches and
A Guards van at the rear,
And a hundred and twenty passengers
At the high time of the year.

‘What would you say if I did to you
What you did to me, back then,
Cutting in on your date that night,
What was her name, that Gwen?’
‘She wouldn’t have looked at you,’ said Raise,
As he pulled the chord to toot,
‘And as far as your feelings go, old chum,
I really don’t give a hoot.’

The train was rocketing down the line,
And flew past the water tower,
While Raise had opened the ***** right up
To give the Express more power,
The gauge was inching at sixty five
As they flew past Barton Dale,
While Rice was shovelling coal once more
Though his face was pinched and pale.

He took Raise down with the shovel as
They raced through Weston Town,
Who lay, half stunned on the footplate
Hanging off and looking down.
He kicked on out at the Fireman with
His size twelve steel-capped boots,
Who reached and hung on the chord that gave
The Duke of Kent its *****.

The train was racking up seventy five
As they kicked and punched and swore
Totally out of control it passed
The Halt at Elsinore,
They narrowly missed a rumbling freight
As the points took it aside,
While Raise had yelled, ‘You can go to hell,
But control your wounded pride.’

The Fireman opened the firebox
Spraying hot coals on the plate,
‘Now dance again as you danced Charlene,
If you think that you’re oh so great.’
‘Just let me get to my feet,’ said Raise
‘Or you’re going to wreck the train.’
‘It might be time,’ said the Fireman,
‘For your life to fill with pain.’

They hit the buffers at Essingdean
And the engine left the track,
It leapt up over the platform as
The roof ripped off the stack.
Raise was told when they went to court
That he’d never be re-hired,
And Rice, for want of the girl he sought,
The Fireman was fired.

David Lewis Paget
Hannah Thacker Aug 2010
I am from climbing the rocks by the beach with the dim morning light of the rising sun filtering through the morning fog of summertime.

I am from lying in my warm bed, giving into my dreams while listening to my mom sing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”

I am from the foggy mornings in Monterey Bay watching the sun burn through the marine layer every day. The sun always won its morning battle, but while it struggled I would watch the rainbows come dancing through the fog.

I am from sitting in Mr. ***** coffee shop, sipping hot chocolate with piles of whipped cream and a smile on my face on cold Friday nights, listening to my dad play Paco Bell Cannon on violin while Hannah Beckham plays on the cello.

I am from playing in the waves on warm summer days; catching the sand ***** and throwing them back into the ocean. Finding seashells and putting them in my dad’s pocket so I didn’t have to carry them.

I am from walking down Soquel Creek, finding big rocks, falling in the water, riding on my dad’s shoulder on the way back because I got tired, and playing on the swing set that was at the end of it.

I am from hiking through Nicene Marks Redwood forest with my dad and whoever wanted to come. Watching the leaves fall down off the trees, ever so slowly, like angels falling from heaven.

I am from the night I moved from all I ever knew, watching my child hood home fading in the distance.  I watched while my friends waved at me as they faded away in both my vision and my memory. I never saw them again.  Goodbye, I whispered, as every thing I ever knew faded away. Goodbye.
I still remember stepping on a worm barefooted that night.  Now I can't stand worms.  It ****** that night when my friend tryed to get me to get one for fishing. I refused, and she threw a handful of worms in my face.
Victoria May 2014
Stop calling me exotic
Unique and hard to tell
I'm more than almond eyes , complexion caramel

My make up isnt determined by the measurement of my thighs

It's not the clothes I wear or my victorias' cup size

I'm much more than this concept that you have for me
I am more than what meets the eye
That's why makeup's not for thee

You think you know me well
But YOU have no idea
What makes me tick and motivate
You don't have time to hear

I dont twerk or get low to attract a crowd to me
Id much rather read a book, in two places I shall be

If You really think  you know me
What makes me  motivate
Then you should know that *****,  boo,  ***** and hunny are what make me irritate

You've no consideration for the things I love inside
The things that I love the most, I often have to hide

I love goosebumps and dandelions and living by the sea
I love dub step and movies  and my family
I love teaching,  and writing and all the things you hate
I love sailing and fishing and baking cookies late
So

Stop calling me exotic
Unique and hard to tell
I'm so much more than almond eyes , complexion caramel
Jenny Gordon Jul 2017
L14:  No, *****, but...enjoy the moment.



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXVIII)


The mourning dove ere twilight yield calls, whence
Orange winks upon thet waking thought's detail,
And lo, I hear it softly coo.  Grey mists in frail
Nigh ghostly touch a thin suggestion, thence
Do maples faintly shiver in suspense?
I thank the LORD for that voice on the pale
First notes of whither, erst wont to avail
My soul, and dawn sifts through to crown that sense.
How Joey worked "each day this week," yet fer
All that's forever on my mind.    What, to
Effect, now does the culver's song as twere
Mean?  How I used to know.  Or thought I knew.
Now like a memry of sweet days lost, poor
Though what be?  Does it bless our hopeful dew?

05Jul17b
I read something recently about mourning doves' call and--but I forget what it was; it was good, though.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
when i started to smoke marijuana aged 20
with this russian cupcake of falling asleep in a seashell entwined
i took to listening to: ***** & the maytals, culture,
israel vibration, damian marley, stephen marley, ziggy,
basil daley, brenton dowe, bunny wailer,
burning spear, cornel & the brentford rockers,
earl zero, freddie mckay, jackie mittoo,
keith hudson, king tubby, lloyd robinson & brentford disco,
lone ranger, peter tosh, soul vendors, sound dimension,
the heptones, the new establishment, wailing souls,
willie & the brentford rockers,
winston & the new establishment...
i sometimes wish i went into the stoner rock direction
to experience that side of the ethnic cultural exploitation
of a certain intoxication... anyway, whatever...
i forget to mention barrington levy, gregory isaac,
alpha blondy and sort of classify collie buddz as reggae’s eminem.
Jane Tricky Apr 2015
can we really make this work?

smoke one thousand cigarettes
sleep one hundred hours
act like **** for all the times

and still love one another?

is that what it really is?
this thing they speak of
the undying
the eternal

can we?
just you and i
mere mortals

our lives slipping away
some faster than others
but always looming
you're not a robot
and i
well i never wanted to be
but it doesnt mean i still dont fear death
even though im always waiting for it
its always looming
its forever been my shadow

can we continue on this way?
for eternity
infinity
lord father god

we pray (prey) on
full disclosure
and the tells (and tales)
of each

we take pleasure
and solace
and grief
and guilt
and home (comfort)

in knowing all the things
every
single
thing
do me a favor?
tell me them all again

and this time
i promise to write them all down
im so afraid to forget
and apart of me knows i never will
but the rest of me remembers i can't not
and that is my greatest fear

can we keep writing forever?
line upon line
because we know (and rejoice)
knowing that others read them
and take pleasure in them
but what we get off on the most
is writing them for each other

can we always feel this way?
despite locations
distances
abilities to breathe
and desire

can we please promise?
to one day rest together
the only sure promise
i will ever ask of you

forget the truths
and the honesty
and the lies
mostly forget the demise

can we please remember?
the time in our hearts
individually
where the thought of one another
the feeling of our love
made each other
so anxious
so happy
so nervous

when our love was at its best?

first date nuts
tents
camping
adventures
spit wars
feet washes
sunsets
sun rises
sun baths
sun gazes
all things sun
star trek
star wars
star gazing
all things stars
big spoons
little spoons
spoons all the times
crooks
nooks
*****
skitts
triangles
kiddens
stomachs
Picket­t
wildflowers

the list will never end
it can never end

but mostly
i miss your voice
and your touch
your kiss
caress
the grin that has made me weak
weak for fifteen years

so i just ask
can we, please?

if just one more time.
we always can.

see you soon.
Jay Forrest Mar 2013
Things change and friends leave
And life doesn't stop for anybody*
It's a fast paced world
If you can't keep up they'll knock you down
The land lord doesn't care that jimmy got sick and you had to use the rentoney for antibiotics
*******. Pay me.
Car broke down?
*****
*******. Pay me.
Grandma died?
I don't care
Pay me.
That's the kind of world we live in *****
So *******
And pay me
I've been doing a lot of guided writing. They will not be edited and i will post all of them as is so if they **** or make no sense bear with me it's all part of the process. The part in italics is a line from somewhere else I ripped randomly and built off of. I would love feed back on them. More pieces like this to come!!!
Kody dibble Oct 2016
Someday, we will meet again
Like rocks of unchanging nature
We tiddle our barriers beneath,
Silent callings of exasperation
We find our fortune in streams of
Pink lattices drissled in every
Position of pondering

I write this to you
As if you are in my room
Staring blankly at a wall
Or unturned in your bunk bed
While I whistle away our creative bliss
Many will not read this fully,
Because of the vexation of length,
But many do not know you
Or the length of your days
How they were cut short by the change
Of ways,
I sadly recall that I left you barren
For a day for friends cold and brand
I love you my dearest ally
For us life never end
Maybe when Jesus ***** his
Horn of victory we can
Whisp our way to His garden
And steal the night away
Because in Heaven there is no night
Or so the owl does say,
The children are forging
Way beyond their time
Don't forget my friend
Love is not a crime
Until that glorious day
I bit you dear farewell
At all my greatest friend on earth
Atlast we'll sing again,
Breathe for me the air of Heavens great
Delight and bare with me this somber,
Lonely night
To Dalton Grove R.I.P
Gleb Zavlanov Aug 2013
Most its merry, little rhymes
Every joyous, little beat
Make me hop and dance in joy
And tap to with my feet

A little syncopation
Every little thing within
Turn my heart an airy white
As I beam and as I grin

The piano's white and lambent
The Sax ***** in delight
The drums give a little jingle
The music's great and bright

And Jazz shall never die or wane
But live in every heart
It gives life to all life itself
An unparalleled form of art
Copyright Gleb Zavlanov 2013
Mike Hauser Mar 2020
this company is heading straight to the top
with our new improved line of fairy farts
soon our catch phrase will be all over the place
a slight touch of magic in a jar

first and foremost a disclaimer though
in the making of farts not one fairy was harmed
we house and feed, take care of their every need
so there's no need for alarm

once we discovered how the ***** could be used
down here on fairy farm
we've had all our men chase after them
capturing bottom barks into a jar

then by hand we transfer them
from pint up to gallon size
to be used all the way from laundry detergent
to a line of makeup that's soft on the eyes

we even have samples of candles
bath and body works just bought the whole lot
plus it runs machines cheaper than gasoline
so far the highest bid is from Exon

we're also in talks of a contract
with a highly secretive govern(mental) agency
who wants all the gas with no questions asked
but on that we'll have to wait and see

in the mean time our workers continue to bottle it up
all the fairy farts from all the fairy butts
it's a job that flatuates deep to the heart
but with this job what's not to love

as you watch the fairies flutter to and fro
hearing the cute little ***** wherever they go
who would have guessed who could have known
how much a business like this would grow
A repost but I figure at a time like this who couldn't use a laugh. ;0)
David Nelson Aug 2013
Story Teller II (the mill's on fire)

the bells are clanging and sirens scream
woke me up from a most unusual dream
oxygen was getting low about to expire
heard someone yell help the mill's on fire

jumped out of bed grabbed my boots
truck horn is blasting giving two *****
slide down the long pole helmet in hand
down through the tunnel to never never land

the giant cat with whiskers of gold
shivering now why is it so **** cold
my naked body exposed to the raw
took a swipe at me with his huge paw

men on unicycles doing fancy tricks
juggeling ***** and poking me with sticks
somebody tell me what does it all mean
Gong show's Gene Gene the dancing machine

someone please help me show me the way
this dream is a blast but I cannot stay
crackling timbers that horrible sound
the fire is burning the mill to the ground

I really must wake up and go I have a job to do
it is desperate when someone's counting on you
just 40 more winks though would really be nice
just spray it with water and tons of shaved ice

Gomer LePoet....
my loose leaf like sway
situates in light, right in
wind, life

leaves me loose
along the precipice of this
coagulated noose

oh hoots and *****!
my boots cannot take me anywhere
today, they
lack distance to stretch

as string stretches all along
our stratified souls
they say, oh
give me a rest

so,
      death;
must you
                  be such an ending
to this terrible mess?
I guess not, i guess
it is not the correct thing to discuss

Let's discuss the
superfluous stuff,
the dramatic tease of interest,
the emaciated conversations of puff,
please, please, situation
and
     nothing
               else, nothing
will tough the brave disguise
of this stuff

the life of this everything stuff
Malcolm McGill May 2013
The train conductor ***** the horn quietly, to not awaken the babies
a mother next door has cried over for weeks--
A response team arrived twenty minutes after gas crept from the walls in satiated exultation--
Our sky wishes to be alone tonight--
It turns out the water heater was inexperienced and quit.
Ryan O'Leary Feb 2021
Am                            G
Ripples are echoes, for those who can't hear
Am                                    G
thunder has light-ning, to tell them its near
Am                                G
The moon is an echo, for no sun in the sky
Am                     G
day is an echo, for night that is why

Am                              G
Guitar’s are in echo, when they are strum
Am                      G
voices respond, re-sounding the hum
Am                               G
Shadows are echoes, at NOON they’re alone
Am                                   G
but the word it reflects, so its called palindrome

Am                                     G
Trains they make echoes, in tunnels with *****
Am                                     G
and though it’s but one, they call them two hoots
Am                           G
A bell has an echo, when ringing the news
Am                            G
anvils have echoes, when horses wear shoes

Am                                  G
Rainbows have echoes, in pots at each end
Am                       G
who was it said, that sunbeams can't bend
Am                           G
Lighthouses flash, with echoes in Morse
Am                                G
for posh sailing boats, and not Viking Norse

Am                            G
A bow has an echo, with a wow at the end
Am                            G
one midnight bark, starts setting a trend
Am                             G
A dream is an echo, of what we once did
Am                   G
hid in a bottle, behind Jeannie’s lid

Am                                    G                
Our words in the ether, will never meet
Am                            G
that’s why an echo, can never cheat
Am                           G
My echo my echo, is loneliest of all
Am                                  G
that’s why they listen, at my wailing wall

Am                                 G
Heartbeats are echoes, like yours and like mine
Am                              G
that’s why this song, must end with a pine.


                             Chorus

        Am                       G
        Echo all echoes, are art on the wall,
        Am                                G
        must be the sadd-est, sounds of them all
        Am                       G
        Echo all echoes, are art on the wall
        Am                               G
        must be the sadd-est, sounds of them all
        Am                       G
        Echo all echoes, are art on the wall,
        Am                                G
        must be the sadd-est, sounds of them all.




Ryan O'Leary ©
25/02/2021
Dennis Willis May 22
i have a flagship
full of your thoughts
sailing to

less ness

which constitutes
***** ***** *****
you

I have sound
left-ing and righting
itself

as if you're a whim
aura slim
sim sim sim

i always make you up
to argue with you
about me

I always wake you up
I have to convince you
to believe

you exist
when's so obvious
you don't

what are the feelings
of the made up
people

perhaps you can tell
us who made you
what what

— The End —