A Monday Limerick

Well it’s Friday here…

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A lewd husband, bum obsessed, inventive

Begged his wife for love, back door, incentive

Of her beauty he’d gush

For a crack at her tush

She’d not budge, no way, anal retentive

Some Writing Prompts – August 2019

So for those of you who like a writing prompt or two here are some for August.  Three fairly obvious themes I think.  Make sure you add a pingback and I will attempt to pull them all together at the end of the month.  Let’s see what you got. 

  1. The day the skies burned
  2. Monorail
  3. Tomorrow, today.
  4. Dead satellites
  5. Orbital lockdown
  6. Binary lovers
  7. Apocalypse 2029
  8. Turbo
  9. Above the clouds
  10. Born to the stars
  11. Gravity
  12. Roses and bullets
  13. Darkest valentine
  14. Broken Mirror
  15. A lover’s touch
  16. Lips, blood red.
  17. My tomorrow, my yesterday.
  18. Summer no more.
  19. Innocence
  20. Love’s call
  21. Between the sheets
  22. The longest night
  23. Fangs
  24. A voice from beyond
  25. Our darkness
  26. Necrodancer
  27. Putrid
  28. The things inside
  29. Swarm
  30. The Awakened
  31. Sunrise no more

I do love me a limerick as you know…

Shall we? It involves body parts and a selection of greases

A stammering tart  from Calcutta

Rubbed her bottom with handfuls of butter

Smeared oils on her tum

Grease upon her front bum

“Ch-Ch-Cheaper than lube”, she would stutter

A Friday Limerick

Well it’s Friday here…

Loose bowelled Hermaphrodite from Nantucket

Had a penis so yeah, she would suck it

He would caress her clit

Explode cum, squirt, n shit

Near the bed kept a mop and a bucket

Okay so I realise that that first line hardly flows and is somewhat jarring but how often will I ever get to use the phrase “Loose bowelled hermaphrodite”.  And I wanted to combine with the limerick classic location of Nantucket which I seldom use.  Just let me have my moment okay 😊

Things I would not place inside myself – A poem

it’s somethign I guess…well actually not really…meh…

It seems that there are those that will, and I think it’s a farce,

but people (per the internet) do hide things in their arse.

I’m told (though not seen it myself for I share my PC

with kids) so cant research it but if I did I would see

 

Ripe marrows place in darkest holes, and veges by the barrow

inserted, lubed and with great force, pushed into bottoms narrow.

Digits, midgets, varied widgets placed where sun shines not

a friend of mine vanished a vase when on it she did squat.

 

This bloke from Scotland, cavernous, spread wide, bent to receive

the contents of Old Nick’s full sack when drunk on Christmas eve.

And I did read a tale of woe of one lad who took pleasure

dressed as a pirate placed gold coins inside like hidden treasure.

 

A story told of one young chap one night when feeling fruity

filed down a tooth bruch, electric type, to place inside his booty.

But not outdone a lass invited several chaps to sample

her gaping hole but it turned out that just the two were ample…

 

Things stuck inside, spread open wide, or isides falling out

each to their own, and when at home, I really have no doubt

that there are those who cant recall, have lost things, or forgotten

I might suggest they might just be lodged inside your bottom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My First Book – For those who missed it last time…

Seems I wrote one…

You can read about the WHY here…but it’s out there.  300 of my finest limericks.  Currently trending at number 359 in the limericks category on Amazon!

After a few people have read it I am probably about ready to admit I am kinda proud of it now.  🙂

Paperback in the UK is here

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1916089011

And in the US here

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1916089011

There are ebook versions too.

 

 

Still processing this…

They say confession is good for the soul but bad for the reputation.

I wrote here about things I am not good at.  Mostly to do with towels.

Anyway, turns out I dont know one superfood from the other either.

It is school holidays at the moment so I’m mostly spending time with the boys, not doing a lot but enjoying it nonetheless.  So we sit down and we are watching something on netflix and for whatever reason they serve up a serving of quinoa.  I believe it is pronounced Keen-wah.

Well I believe it now but until yesterday I had no bloody idea that is the same as that quinoa (Kwinoah?) stuff I force down my face when I am feeling particularly fat.

I honestly had no idea.  I mean one look at me abnd you’ll understand that I am don’t have a heavy keenwah intake but for whatever reason the fact just avoided me and I thought they were seperate things.

I told the family and they all laughed their arses off at me.  Even the 14 year old who’s brain only works between 11 and 2 each day and who is currently obsessed with knives and fire.

They then reminded me that until perhaps 8 years ago I had no idea that the spike in the end of an ointment cap is used to pierce the film lid.  Up until then I tended to use the outer prong of a fork though this did often result in something of a premature ointment explosion.

I reminded them that they were all garbage human beings and the 11 year old blonde one, fond of his facts and a bit of a know it all, ceased laughing most heartlily when I reminded him that he still couldn’t ride a bike and he better hope his hair darkens before he gets older because blonde haired male adults are just weird and creepy.

I wanted to say he would look like like a kiddy fiddler but showed some restraint when Mrs Afterwards gave me the look.

The even came to an abrupt end and we all had an early night after I suggested they eat my backside.  I know, wrong on so many levels and I know I ought to be ashamed of myself.

I blame it on the lack of keenwah in my diet…

 

 

 

 

Waking

These battles played out on the streets….

These battles played out on the streets

For heart and soul, beneath the sheets

And words they spill, lips full of rage

And like blood spill onto the page.

 

My now

Your then

Our what might be

 

And blinded, clambering to see

The path not taken, setting free

And time will tell, and roads will wind

As shrouded pasts are left behind

 

This evermore

That what could be

Those sweetest of tomorrow’s

Stars

Like stars beyond my reach …

Like stars beyond my reach those thoughts of you

slip through my fingers to my feet

head bowed faintest recollections blown like sand

I’m left here on this precipice.

Here in the darkness looking out

and fire burns on horizon distant

blood red, golden on my face

One last time wind whispers your name

Fading

One of these?

At night he whispers sweet reminders

of how it felt, quite swept along.

Returning tides compelled, jump in,

strong currents have their way.

And beaches red at sunset burn

as she returns to land once more

and on her lips his promise lingers

salt stained on her skin.

 

Until tides turn and whispers fade,

sepia tinged her longing rests

and deep she sighs, sea at her back

and smiling turns away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wtf

The end is nigh!

I’m away in the van out Flanborough way for a few days with the boys and within 5 minutes of arriving the sky turns into something I imagined would surely herald the end of the world.

I got the tent out that fixes to the van but hastily packed it away as there was no chance of getting it up before the storm arrived.

More to follow but just lying awake rather early due to my snoring, flatulent children and my most urgent bladder…

Next time…less beans…

Kiss my nuts

Okay so perhaps a work in progress title but it got your attention I am sure. Just in one of those moods 🙂 Sorry. Kinda.

Were I at last to recognise the thing that we became

The thorny, bristling, spite filled rage

That spews from me onto the page

And like so many through the age,

At last I give it name.

 

My not again, my what the fuck, my who the hell was I

Quite compromised, unrecognised

And like those fools, philosophised

That I was there, just drowned by lies

And watched as life passed by.

 

And then, unshackled, this my thought

Regret no more, not turning back

And craving not the things I lack

now place your lips upon my sack

And kiss them like you ought.

 

 

 

Chilled

Come on, were all a bit too serious sometimes

In sleep I kiss your lips now cold

and miss the hand I used to hold

but god you made me feel so old

I’m kind of glad you’re dead

 

Heart’s drift apart when rent asunder

but can you blame you blame me there’s no wonder

from day one it was quite a blunder

should have listened to what friends said.

 

Mouth full of lies and legs oft parted

and that time you shit when farted

Inside I smiled when you were carted

to final slumber’s bed.

 

On and on such endless droning

pretty mouth but so much moaning

okay so I quite liked you groaning

when you were giving head.

 

But time moves on and people change

yeah yeah I know I may be strange

but jesus you were most deranged

and filled us all with dread.

 

So fare thee well, you did expire

now consumed with roaring fire

toast marshmellow on funeral pyre

I’m glad you’re gone, ’nuff said.

Debris

Just one of these things.

This cliff top wreckage of the place that once our hope protected

I stand and feel the chill of night as shadows slowly lengthen

And as my thoughts are drawn to betrayed memory of promise

Those icy fingers of regret squeeze tight and leave me gasping.

 

No night, no stars, no restless slumber

Horizon sparks and crackles

Into this tempest I will run

And scream your name one final time.

 

Lungs bursting, eyes red as the blood

That thunders through these veins

The words are lost as rising waters

Drag your ghost to inky depths.

 

And on that beach as morning comes and calm creeps with the sun

I turn , soft waves lap at my feet, and look back one last time

There in that place where love once blossomed nothing now remains

Your name now lost upon the breeze that blows upon my face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Things I cannot do

We’re all shit in our own unique way.

There are things that I am good at which I am comfortable with.  I do a decent limerick, I”m shit hot with spreadsheets , and I make a bakewell tart so good that you’d likely let me touch you inappropriately just for a slice.  I think there are others but thise are the ones that spring to mind.

This though is not about my ability to make Microsoft Excel talk to you and tell you it wants to watch you take a pee.

This is about my inability to fold towels.

Well I can fold them but for the life of me I cannot get any of them the same bastard size.  It’s never been something I thought about much, intent as I was in the past to stack them in such a way as to make a pretty pyramid akin to the sort you get if you get a bundle as a gift.

God that’s a depressing thought in itself isn’t it.  A gift of towels.  Reminds me of the Christmas I found myself disappointed I never got any socks.  I died a bit inside that day I tell you.

I am also not talking making towels of vastly differing sizes fold to a similar footprint.  That would be stupid.  Hmm.  I think I’m still pretty crabby about it.

No, thing is Mrs Afterwards has this knack of folding all the varied towels and they all end up beign of a similar size and stack wonderfully and whilst she doesn’t admit it I know she is smug as fuck about it.  Well I would be if I had achieved such a feat.

Today I decided I would do the same and it did not go well.

Within ten minutes I happened to call a particularly tricky black bath sheet a bastard in front of the youngest, and followed that up by telling all the fluffy white ones to go screw themselves because even the ones of the same size refused to allow themselves to be folded to the same dimensions.

Eventually I rolled them all up instead like in a hotel but they didn’t fit on the stand in the bathroom so redid them just like one of those lovely stacks you get as a gift from your sister when you move into a new home.

Anyway, I imagine it is something passed down from mother to daughter but there is no way I am asking the missus.  I’d rather air dry.

That reminds me, does anyone know how to change a duvet cover.  Last time I did one I ended up with a prolapsed sphincter and a dislocated shoulder.

 

 

 

 

 

Hey look another limerick

More than 600 limericks and first time I have used ‘front bum’.
Yeah I know, surprised me too.

Woman, goodstanding of the judiciary

had a front bum that smelled like a fishery

She would hand down decrees,

Judgements, consider pleas

But if upwind then that was true misery.