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Poems from a Modern Life

Legs

ADC
Book Reviewer
#1
Arty-farty I know, but I think there's some seriously good poets on ARRSE.

So....

Let's have your poems. Not dirty limericks, not smut - this isn't the NAAFI Bar. Oh, and they must be your own original work.

I'll start us off.

The Devil Takes His Due


T'was grim it was, so very grim.
But was it always thus?
The street lamps either smashed or dim.
On the street a burned out bus.
The good folk have all upped and left,
The streets now owned by gangs.
The spirit dead, the town bereft.
Above you all depression hangs.

I come to see, my world to view.
To claim my inheritance.
I claim my world, a gift from you,
You've all had your last chance.
My prize your soul, your strength, your hope.
I take all that I can.
You did it all, with greed and dope,
Blame yourselves, blame man.
 
#2
Listen mate, congratulations on your cross gender lifestyle choice and I hope the scars have healed, but even real women will think you're being a bit soppy if you keep up with this rhyming whining.

Poetry - not for C21 squaddies.
 
#3
In Cheese We Grate





You said you’re a lover of music,
and I found you listening to Frampton Comes Alive.
Then you asked me who Peter Frampton is ?.
You always keep away from my dogs teeth,
but my dog has armour plated heat seeking testicle hunters.
Even my house doesn’t like you,
it huffs smoke as its pipes moan when you enter its stomach,
and the windows ache to crack with helpless seethe.
But still you offer friendship with your stupid split elephant skin.
Then with ping pong eyes rolling back ,
like in ecstasy from chocolate consumption,
you go into your boring self hypnotised twitter,
with me the reluctant victim seeing your coma stretching dribble ,
the globules giving warped reflections of my ornaments ,
and pooling in oily crevices.
Your nuclear forearm wipes splatters away,
but empty table dents feel left out ,
they echo my earlier phone calls to you,
like when I needed your nose scissors to clip my protruding tarantula legs.
I now have a bike to get away from it all.
But you have become the yellow lines when I am bored.
Lets face it ,you’re my unsanded wood filler.
 
#4
warhead said:
In Cheese We Grate





You said you’re a lover of music,
and I found you listening to Frampton Comes Alive.
Then you asked me who Peter Frampton is ?.
You always keep away from my dogs teeth,
but my dog has armour plated heat seeking testicle hunters.
Even my house doesn’t like you,
it huffs smoke as its pipes moan when you enter its stomach,
and the windows ache to crack with helpless seethe.
But still you offer friendship with your stupid split elephant skin.
Then with ping pong eyes rolling back ,
like in ecstasy from chocolate consumption,
you go into your boring self hypnotised twitter,
with me the reluctant victim seeing your coma stretching dribble ,
the globules giving warped reflections of my ornaments ,
and pooling in oily crevices.
Your nuclear forearm wipes splatters away,
but empty table dents feel left out ,
they echo my earlier phone calls to you,
like when I needed your nose scissors to clip my protruding tarantula legs.
I now have a bike to get away from it all.
But you have become the yellow lines when I am bored.
Lets face it ,you’re my unsanded wood filler.
I Like that, it's very good, one that could only be understood properly by people who have studied poetry or drank alot of snakebite. PM if you have any more little gems like that.
 
#5
Thanks for reply...i have devolved to wine now days....but pissed again non the less.




Jumping Screaming Daffodil.





Winding and tying from feet to the neck,
now quit all the crying you quivering wreck.
Like a wiggly worm you squirm and gyrate,
never to know your beautiful fate.

With a quick splashing of green paint,
as your tear swollen eyes roll to faint,
the useless struggle now beginning to cease,
but awake you must be to become my masterpiece.

Stinging petrol all over your face,
yes awaken my art with prestige and grace.
A scream not quite right to my nurtured ear,
so I’ll scream you the screams that I want me to hear.

Pleading with life at the first match that I strike,
just me whipping up frenzy and anger alike.
You standing balancing and hopping to escape,
this finishing touch sees my work taking shape.

Matches in hand and a flick of the wrist,
the whoosh of your head 'voila' my fingers are kissed.
My beautiful artwork my elegant kill,
my jumping screaming daffodil.




(art within art)
 
#6
Liar.





What say you custard face,
before you crawl back to your place.
And get ravaged by the retributive piranhas,
you sugary revengeful cuisine with sliced bananas.

From the same boat you came in on,
the long one with the false bottom.
Matching the colour of your chameleon back,
from green to yellow and now charcoal black.

And left out in the cold again in your place of heart,
you fitting companion for any seasoned tart,
that will take you in with a tear in her eye,
If you promise her another piece of custard pie.
 
#7
Greetings All You Computer Heads







So stance us…like praying mantis,
to evolve from circumcisions,
and the painful city erections
of architectural cost cutting.
Unquestionable fashion
of modern penny pinching design .
Rise businessman seeking non rejection
from umbilical chord sucking…
money hunting babes,
that break ancient religious code ,
with a no money back guarantee
from the worlds murder incorporated
suited and booted arrogant city slickers.
Whilst the overweight
yeast infected hairy has been majority,
are subdued in warm government funded
genetic engineered chip oil.
Our pearl in the oyster
now worthless excrement of extinct mollusc.
But deep inside…the obvious logic
ripples stagnant waters
for a rather quaint rebel .
Made lazy by booze and chocolates
and out of date chemicals prescriptions.
Supplied by friendly doctors
to the dying confused generation .
So enter the lost generation.
Like blinkered militant pit donkeys…
we have devolved on asses.
Us the forever seated ,
in preparation for the lying .
And a little black book with poems in ,
that voiced an honest subconscious ,
becomes a sell out to libraries ,
for the vanity novel making press.
A fake national marketing flurry for liberal minds
and its boasting well read middle classes.
With souls wasted behind windows of sunglasses ,
walled in like over protected water in prickly cacti .
Our reflecting dictatorship is to scholar,
like the fascists we’ve warred .
“ Put your plastic id cards on the table please students” ,
to make psychedelic reflections of tomorrow ,
and melt even longer faces with bunson burners
in sulphur smelling physics classes.
And bravo the invention of smokeless fuel ,
that smokes in its making .
Such pointless mitigating trials
that ends with a four o’clock bell ring .
Conveniently omitting the poison proof
of the left over creosote that is refined
into tasteless e numbers.
Agitating our already unruly children ,
inviting prescriptions for illness,
and adding dilemma to the cramped life style
of damp over lit …scratched DVD living rooms .
With jar fed dirty mouthed babies
that have become tasteless reflections
of fashionable football stars and pop singers .
That threaten economies with cult religion.
Sponsored by the political parties .
To make them quickly out of date from over exposure,
There names then given
to second hand beloved paint faded sports cars .
Owned by the next generation
of lean grey haired sudo rich.
We have almost perfected the antichrist ,
and are selling it cheaply
through the global anarchy of democracy.
Waiting impatiently with the cogs of fashion ,
for a king of revolution to be found naked ,
and us to become naturists…
A modern name for Neanderthal .
Starting again in downward spirals .
Laying hatchling ideas like a lazy mother goose
on warm tree embers.
To teach our chicks the worth of natural oil in kale ,
from distant violated grounds.
All this a kick in the redundant testicles
of the future transsexual human race .
Free basing on inventions that already exist to harness.
 
#8
The optimistic officer



Lets not give up lads , while we still have our wits .
Our dysentery will sound like thundering horses .
And cracking backs be the misfiring flares of the night .
We’ll fly our frost bitten fingers as poison arrows .
And roll rotting sparrows in limed graves ,
to throw them as patronising grenades of white feathers .


Love letters in the pockets of our missing friends ,
will bring them tears like mustard gas.
And bloated corpses we shall hang on empty rifles…
To be soldiers that march on full bellies .
We shall have white horses to ride away on .
So don’t give up lads , Lets make them think twice .
 

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