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.
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.
Yeah sorry. Really.
Amazonian lass with a fetish
Would see dwarfs and become rather wettish
Pygmies gave such delight
Kept her moist through the night
Watching ‘Wizard of Oz’ left her peckish.
Fancy one of these?
Mouth dry, full of regrets and lies
and fading dreams of what we had
they fill my mind when eyes I close
and raging ‘gainst the lovers sunset
I thrash between these sullied sheets.
There in the distance, silhouette,
you walk where once we lingered long
into the night and then slip softly
hand in hand
into someone else’s forever.
To help you through the day…
A sensual baker, filth thinker
She would quite often play with her sphincter.
But could not sell her cakes
‘cos suspicious brown flakes
and the smell, frankly none’s more distincter.
I’ve had flu all week so not written anything and this is the best I can muster.
Backs packed and gloom descending
as the weekend nears it’s ending
‘Monday blues’ on twitter trending
and I curse that I have not yet won the lottery.
For Monday, it sucks balls you see
the thought of it quite bothers me
I’ve felt this way since after tea
and I curse that I have never played the lottery.
Cavernous!
Once a fellow woke up scared n screamin’
as he thought that he’d ran out of semen
with a groan and a thrust
just a moan and some dust
double checked, such relief, only dreamin’
Cavernous!
“Check your prostate” my friend’s wife insisted
so he went pants, dropped face red and twisted
he enjoyed it so much
and went home and begged such
that each night he’s oiled up, roughly fisted
A quickie for you if you’re in the mood…
A buxom young barwench or olde
had a knack of securing men’s gold.
Of her assets quite proud
she’d stand out in a crowd
end even more so when it’s cold.
More Sunday word vomit
One final sleep
‘neath blankets cold
of eath and clay and stone.
And to my end I walk at last
no evermore, or well lived past
and to the darkness wide and vast
I enter all alone.
And you shall be my final thought
my life, my hopes, my joy
remember me, the things I wrought,
my kind and loving boy.
Actually, it’s just gone Monday…
I am finally getting around to putting my limericks into a book. Or some at least. There are about 600 on here so I have plenty to choose from. I think I will call the book “Inappropriate”.
It’s funny going through them because mostly I do not remember them at all…Here are a few I did that I think tell you where I am heading with this.
African crisis I never
have seen such despair, no not ever.
Drought, pain, loss, civil war,
HIV, death and more.
But hey, least they’ve got lovely weather.
I fellow I know, a romancer.
Lovely wife, healthy kids and great dancer.
Had it all so he thought
but it all came to nought
when he died really young of bowel cancer.
A fellow joined up and no doubt
A true patriot so he shipped out.
Lost his legs to a mine,
had some made now he’s fine,
and he always gets parked when he’s out
Actually, it’s just gone Monday…
Once a hairy young lady called Betty
When aroused became musty and sweaty
she’d be down on all fours
as it oozed from her pores
wet and matted, hair hung like spaghetti
More Sunday word vomit
Were I to hear you call my name
and turn, to see you one more time,
a souvenir, momento of what was.
A keepsake of sweet memories
I would commit to not forget
or reckless scant attention pay
for fear of losing priceless gift.
No holding back, no front’s, no walls
this truth I’ve kept for far too long
and though again you walk away
unburdened watch you leave…
Happy Saturday!
Once a crossdressing builder from Dorset
loved to squeeze himself into a corset
he would tape up his bits
wear a fake pair of tits
but still build you a wall, fix a fawcet
More word vomit
When old and grey still close I keep
those memories dear to my heart
and ‘fore I walk to final sleep
and lonely paths to then depart
A final time I will relive and tender recollect
each smile you gifted though I often sadly did neglect
your light by which I found my way and through the dark did chart.
Love generous and without cost
so freely gave and not repaid
and eager how I ate my fill
as sunset sank beyond that hill
were dreams way back were made.
And so at last, though late I know
you lie as pale and cold as snow
and how I wish I had the time
of days were you were always mine
The picture has no relation to anything.
Thsi is one I sent to Linda for Guest in Jest. Please head over to her site and take a look.
I am not sure that we ever truly feel our age, I know I certainly don’t though I am fast approaching fifty. I am perhaps a little slower, broader and less inclined to carrying unfeasibly heavy things unaided than I once was but mostly still feel somewhere in my early thirties. My eldest was just born and energy was in abundance and I was perhaps a touch more excitable than I am now.
I did however feel my age somewhat on Friday evening. For 12 years now the same half a dozen chaps from work have been coming over each month (with some periods of inactivity) to play poker. We all worked together once but have since moved on so it is great to eat, drink and be merry.
It was much to my horror though that a few of the lads seem to be exhibiting classic old man syndrome (which I will refer to as OMS for the remainder of this piece). One chap, I shall call him Paul, because that is his name, expressed the sort of fear of gadgetry that only someone with OMS can display. As we discussed the merits of the commected home he was covinced that the risk of wifi enabled light bulbs far outweighed any benefit they might offer.
Apparenly they can be hacked and people can then take over your computer and your life and all manner of beastly things can happen. I am pretty certain that he was convinced that my Roomba (you know those automated vacuum cleaner things) was eying him up and that should he perhaps trip and fall and bang his head he would come to only to find that the Roomba had taken off his trousers and was rubbing itself against his exposed anus in a most sexual manner.
Simon was next to exhibit symptoms. Simon is a bright lad, a great coder and hardly someone that should be fearful of technology. I have seen him impliment some quite fantastic data solutions over the years but when it came to my Amazon Alexa it was beyond him. He could not simply shout across the room for her to play a selection of songs from the nineties. No. He had to leave the table, wander across in the nervous way one might approach an attractive woman in a pub, and with all of the confidence of that man who knows full wel that she is out of league mumbled something about Oasis.
Alexa ignored him.
To complicate matters the Alexa is connected to a Sonos speaker…
I eventually had to step in when he was shouting at the top of his voice insisting that Alexa was a dick head with ‘Dont look back in anger’ blaring out of the Sonos and the Alexa playing ‘Wonder Wall’ equally loud. Apparently he also managed to play ‘Champagne Supernova’ in my youngest’s bedroom at full volume which nearly made him shit the bed.
Oh and two of them were drinking Becks Blue non alcoholic beer because they had to be up to play golf in the morning.
Not that I’d mind particularly
A hirsuite young woman called mary
dark thick armits of hair, rather scary
curly thick and full bush
and my goodness her toosh
hair as thick and as long as a prairie
Stupid, childish, purile and ridiculous. Meh, least I’m not fiddlign with kids or beatign my wife or listenign to K-Pop.
Hey week, yeah you, yes over here
it’s over now and how I fear
I need to let you know you suck
and right now I don’t give a fuck
about how monday made me blue
Tuesday, wednesday, Thursday too
cos Friday my balls oft caress
and leaves my trousers quite the mess
and saturday, well that’s hard core
my skimpy clad foul mouthed hot whore
Sunday will spoon me, there’s no lack
I feel it’s love pressed to my back
You did your best and hey that’s fine
something something 69!
Word vomit
Those moments where you cross my mind
and fondly I recall just how
we filled our days with blissful laughter
nights I felt such warm embrace.
And as I linger, holding tight
to thoughts I know will soon drift off
like smoke upon the summer breeze
I live again just one more time.
That once, that chance, that single glimpse
that slipped away and from my grasp
relived and dearly held once more
until again or never more.
Rather rude and inappropriate.
An adventurous fellow each friday
would eat cock, twas his sexual bi-day
through the rest of the week
mostly pussy he’d seek
though each wednesday was anus cream pie day
Before you say anything…It’s Thursday where I am.
A philandering chap from Belize
would bed women with greatest of ease
unprotected, no fear
now he has gonporrhoea
and it burns just like fire when he pees
Borrowed some emotions from someone far deeper than me.
If cut then I should surely bleed
were I not drained, face cold and white,
and curled beneath your naked branches
fade for lack of love and light.
Roots of dismay my heart entangle
moss grows thick upon my chest
and to the earth I am returned
at last, in peace, to sleep, to rest
Long day…just let it out I reckon.
Might I suggest if you don’t mind
you place your lips on my behind
and there remain and tender linger
and oh look, a middle finger
just for you, in fact there’s more
you offspring of a rancid whore
and siphilitic hobo dad
in fact I would be rather glad
if you succumbed to aids, grew frail
and had your mouth abused in jail
by strapping chaps called Whale and Moose
who’d leave your anus gaping loose
Happy Tuesday!
Count your blessings!
Once a fellow, most poor, from Calcutta
ate his meals from the bins and the gutter
closed his eyes, fantasised
as ate leftover pies
vindaloo, mouldy bread, maggot butter
Wordy Monday words
Would I
If given half a chance
and unrepentent dare to take
that single opportunity
and in the moment
live?
And would you
If you full well knew
that daylight would no sins reveal
and faultless you would
sit and smile
and contemplating
feel no guilt?
Afterwards 