A glimpse of June through my camera
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
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 😊
It’s that time again
A young cow hand alone on the range
Felt a stirring, peculiar and strange
Watched steers evening till dawn
Loved their rumps, and the horn
Well lets just say that it made him deranged
Just to get things started again
Hot curry fan who too loved basmati
Rice, samosas and tasty chapati
He’d add chili’s galore
Declared “Please, please add some more”
Left his anus on fire and quite tatty
Really rather vile
Nasty mortician hailed from Brasilia
Spent his nights sweating hard, necrophilia
When suggested instead
Go for live not the dead
He protested “Ive not heard a thing sillier.”
Because why the devil not eh 🙂
Friend of mine met this lass, not realising
That her bum was quite uncompromising
During candle lit sex
Massive fart, and then next
thing her sphincter’s on fire, unsurprising
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.
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
And in the US here
There are ebook versions too.
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…
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.
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
That what could be
Those sweetest of tomorrow’s
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
A glimpse of April through my camera
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.
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…
You’d think I would have given up by now wouldn’t you…
Once this bloke I know works in a kitchen
Sausage got his aroused, he was itching
For a night of rough sex
But by morn was most vexed
As his anus was torn and needs stitching.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Just one of these things.
When skies turn grey, horizon’s shrouded
Compass bearing wayward, lost
I find my comfort wrapped in you
and threads that bind, knit tight.
Drawing close such warmth I find
life’s colours woven through this cloth
though mended, frayed, it’s patched with love
and never out of reach.
This love, this life, our ever more
through storms that roar and rage,
my shelter until morning comes
and sun shines on my face.
Words perhaps? Not Rhymey ones. The other type.
Lips like fire set worlds ablaze
and reckless how they run
those crimson tongues charred ruins make
and promise they turn to ash.
In sweat soaked sheets they smoulder still
the merest spark brings it to life
and lies once more sing sweetest strain
until burnt out flame fades to black.
Seems I wrote one…
I have written before about why I started my blog. For those who missed it one of the main reasons was due to a friend who’s wife, an aspiring writer and a vile human being, insisting that anyone that self publishes does so as an act of vanity which is probably why she had never been published and for the most part refused to work. Writers retreats she enjoyed a plenty I believe.
Anyway, perhaps I ended up proving her point, but I suggested to my friend that I would from that day forth take up writing and publish a book before she did just to prove the point that surely it isn’t that hard and perhaps if she wasn’t such a horrible cow she might have achieved more.
Anyway, the result of that rant can now be found on Amazon in the form of my first book ‘A Collection of Inappropriate Limericks. Its only 300 or so of my limericks but it’s something I guess. Something I made that perhaps my grandkids will hold one day and ask “What the fuck was wrong with Grandad?”
Paperback out now with the E-book to follow on the twelfth mostly because I made a mistake setting it up and couldn’t work out how to remedy it.’
Oh and I dedicated it to her too. Seemed only right.
Paperback in the UK is here
And in the US here
UK E-Book can be preordered here for delivery on the 12th of April.
The US E-Book is here
Who’d have thought it eh…
Nasty nasty nasty
Handsome chap who could not afford rent
Hired his bottom out ’till it was spent
He was battered and bruised
prolapsed sphincter quite used
Lost his home still, now lives in a tent.