All posts filed under “Poetry

I’ve been known to write forms of poetry from time to time. I don’t claim that they are in any way good, but they exorcise something. So there’s that.

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Cords

​A man I know likes cords,
He wears them every day,
I cannot stand they way they feel,
But could never bring myself to say.

I wish he’d not make me rub them,
As he does so with such glee,
That I can only believe he knows my fears,
And deliberately torments me.

If such’s the case, I’m not impressed,
I don’t find it very funny,
I guess there’s worse that he could do,
As it happens away from my mummy.

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My Fat Arse

Ode To My Fat Arse
By
PRAEst76 (2003)

My arse is huge and fat,
like an disturbingly swolen cat,
who’s abdominal infection,
is beyond retraction,
and that is the end of that…

My arse is mammothly vast,
like an ancient remembered past,
full of great battles and wars,
and people keeping scores,
and the building of empires to last…

My arse is the size of a planet,
etc…

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Are you there?

Mr Click-Clack followed me home last night.
Follows me home every night.
Home to my abode where I lock the door,
to keep myself safe,
from Mr Click-Clack.

What does he want this Mr Click-Clack?
Why is it that he follows me?
Why does he always wait,
outside my door?
What is his raison detre?
What is he here for?

I block up my ears,
so I can’t hear,
Mr Click-Clack.
His nefarious ways, his moral decay,
the whispered promise of what he may…
I don’t want to hear the thoughts,
of Mr Click-Clack.
His sharpening of knives,
His rubbing of thighs,
Oh How I hate that man,
That Mr Click-Clack.

One day I’ll let him in,
I feel my discipline is wearing thin,
I need to know what it is that drives him
One day I’ll have to meet,
that Mr Click-Clack.

But for now I hide, beneath my bed,
Balled up rags, stuffed in my head,
To keep out the fear, of sounds I’ll hear…
Sounds…
That are only made,
By Mr Click-Clack.

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Elevenses in the Hell House

Here I am.
I’m lost again.
Silly Me.
What must you think?
I never seem to find my way.

‘Silly you’ you say.
‘oh well, have some tea’.
Try again tomorrow, yes
‘it happens’, you say.
Then you see the blood,
and broken bones and,
‘Silly you’ you said,
‘you always do such silly things’.

Same time the morrow?
Tea and sympathy.
Sympathy for silly me.
I’ll break my bones,
and spill my blood.
Have some tea you’ll say.
Make it ok.

Tea and sympathy.
Fixes everything.
Broken bones and minds.
Tea full of my blood,
and broken bones.
But there is no limit,
to the sympathy,
you seem willing to expend on me.

I’m tired.
Go to bed now,
aftertea and sympathy.
‘Feel better now?’
‘Yes’ I say, tea and sympathy,
fixes everything.
‘Thanks’ I say.
It’s always appreciated,
at some level, beyond,
the lake of blood,
and broken bones.

Anytime you need it.
Come to me,
for tea and sympathy.
to my horror home of broken bones,
upon the lake of blood.
Milk and lies,
with your tea and sympathy?
Or will you take it dry like me?

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Solitary Soul

Hello old friend,
how are you today?
The same I’m guessing,
as you were yesterday,
and the day before.

Is there a limit to what you can take?
Every day you are here,
doing the same things.
Does it not make you crazy?
Does it not hurt?

Don’t you ever feel alone?
That solitary life you lead,
Can’t be rewarding,
Can it?
What is it keeps you going?

What is it I’m missing?
I used to think I was so much better than you.
But I guess I’m just different.
Somehow.
I wish I knew your secret.

How terrible it is to wish,
at times,
that I was you.
The punishment I must suffer,
I guess,
for those times wishing you were I.

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PLZ TNX

Every day, so much mail
I thank you all
For your well wishes
And the kind offers
of those Tiny Teens
Sukn Fukn just for me
Paris Hilton uncut,
Barely legal, and free.

And generic viagra; the weekend pill
Codine, Tylenol, Ambien too
Prescription drugs
Straight to my door
Premature aging? Not anymore
You don’t know how much this all means to me.

And for being so honest
On the sensitive topic
Of my inadaqute genitals
And for offering to help
Painlessly, and without surgery
I Thank You
But I think I’ll Pass on this one.

And Mr Oladimeji Afolabi it is
In times such as these
A great comfort to know
That someone would place
Such trust in me
It makes one wish to weep

And to those people
With kind offers
Of low cost loans
And debt consolidation
And all the qualifications
A guy like me could need
Through the mail
Guarantee’d satisfaction.

But such enthusiasm
And effort
Day after day
Is overwhelming
And you should stop
No, Really
Stop.

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Untitled

She shuffles along the same path.
Vacant expression on her prematurely wrinkled face.
Eyes tightened in a mask of mildly assumed pain.
Manually opening and closing the doors between the mutual destinations.
Taking time to check that they are sealed.
The pause before entering. The pause before leaving.
Just to be sure.
Treading frictionally along the same path.
Hour after hour.
Day after day.
And On.
A cup in one hand.
A small bemused cat in the other.
The tea grows cold before journeys end and so a return is planned.
And on.
And on.
Until worlds end.