SH Poetry Corner

Muses

Muses, sadly, all must learn
That artists have their lives to earn
As a consequence of which
A muse’s portion is not rich.

An artist treats his woman bad;
He makes her sad, he drives her mad
To make the woman bite him back
Lest he forgets what he may lack.

Artists don’t have much to say
When contentment rules the day,
They only go and strut their stuff
When their women cry “Enough!”

And those who thought that they’d inspire
With beauty, kindling arts desire
Find as woman succeeds the girl
It’s grit in the oyster makes the pearl.

Sexual Politics

Remember how we talked about political lesbians?
The ones, we said, were lesbians for political reasons
Rather than political for lesbian reasons?
And then I said; “How sad.
How out of touch with their bodies they must be!”
And you agreed.

I thought we had agreed because you knew
That sexual love cannot be fuelled by politics
Any more than it can be by money,
Or status, or power, or materialism.
And that the satisfaction of desire
Is a personal - not a party - responsibility.

So why do you expect me to perform?
Sexual love cannot be made conditional;
Does not depend on politics, nor deeds,
Nor even promises fulfilled.
Sex may thrive, but never love
When it is made conditional.

And why have you lost the excitement
Of delight in our physical love?
Without the prejudice of grudges borne?
Only by releasing material gravities
Can we rise above the numb mundane
Without the weight of baggage materialism carries.

Remember how we once loved
Unweighed down by dross?
Each of us excited by the other’s passion?
It’s all still there, I promise you
Beneath the load of politics
Passion still struggles under the burden of ideas.

Remember these, and then forget
Political conditions;
Forget me, forget yourself,
We shall rediscover one another:
The me I love to be when I am with
The you you love to be when you’re with me.

How ironic that the glue which bound us first
Has been destroyed by problems it could mend
If recognising its power
And accepting it unconditionally
We could neither be frigid for political reasons
Nor could we be political, for we wouldn’t be frigid at all

Advice to the shy.

I couldn’t always talk to folk; I used to be so shy
I couldn’t ask a lass for a poke - not even in my eye.
But my life’s been an adventure from the day I went to work
When my boss said, “Glad they sent yer, the last bloke was a berk.”
I found that I’d be working in an old converted church
Where appliances were lurking for medical research.
The job was hardly spicy in fact it banished lust
The temperature was icy as ‘In God we trussed’
But me workmates took me drinking and I’m telling you no joke
The drinking set me thinking that I was a bolder bloke.

Very soon I gave the lasses much more than the eye
If you get my meaning, it was ‘fish and finger pie’.
I moved on to a factory where working was a chore
But it was full of lasses who all came back for more
In no time I’d earned a name for very canny shagging
I gave such satisfaction, lasses said my piping needs no lagging.
They told me other lads would try to fool them with a sock
Inside their jeans where I have always filled up mine with cock.
Where lasses hope to find a thing to make them all say ‘Gosh!’
They’re often disappointed by a pair they’re asked to wash.
I have to say it’s made my day and made some happy nights
To find out I’ve been blessed with what delivers such delights
And now I am experienced, I’ll give you some advice:
Big genitals can help a shy bloke... but on lasses they’re not nice!

once it was stickied at the top of the page
now its the subject of Freds daily rage
but say what you will, its now free to float
amongst other thread classics like...
how to shave a scrote

Spy

You are a spy
In the dark house of love
Revealing your secrets to no-one
There’s nobody here
With whom you’ll share trust;
In spying, it takes one to know one.

You have your cause
For which you will fight
And wrestle with love, undercover
Abusing their trust
Indulging your lust
Leaving nothing that they can recover.

Your enemy’s truth
So nothing you say
Or do is ever consistent
With the way that you feel
Or the way that you are
Your cover is ever persistent.

But what may be clear
To those who hold dear
A notion of you that is false,
Is you shall not reveal
How they might appeal
Or partner you in life’s waltz

You won’t be led a dance
To the old doublecross
Of your enemy’s deepest desire
And you will not succumb
You think intimacies numb
As moths in the flame die in fire.

Your identity’s secret
You won’t give your name
To do so would cede all your power
For you have been trained
To conceal who you are
And to wrench out their heart in an hour

You are a spy
In the cold house of love
Dissembling and claiming you love me
And plotting the steps
You will take whilst I sleep
To take your advantage above me.

Last edited by on 28th Jan 2006 - 9:18pm; edited 1 time in total

Roses are red
and smell quite distinctly
Don't iron your cock
if you find it's gone wrinkly

Ode to British Railways

Overpriced and crappy food,
Staff always in a bad mood,
Abuse of power comes to mind,
But that's just me being kind.

Some stations falling apart
Others so bad they tear out your heart
Home to ferral chav kids and drunks
One wrong move and they'll end up in chunks.

Trains barely on time, always delayed
Some so late they should have stayed
"We apologize for the inconvenience"
Fuck you and your arrogance.

Rip off prices, discounts rarely,
legal side of extortionate barely,
Supersaver advance a pain
Only valid on that train.

Fuel price hike is what they say,
we'll never believe that any day,
Fat cats want an extra yacht,
Everyone think's they've lost the plot.

Toilets that smell or never work,
Enough to make you go berserk,
Worst of all is Virgin trains,
Who's toilets smell like public drains.

Rush hour comes, trains are packed,
10 a pile is how they're stacked,
Hard it is to ignore your mind,
as it tells you about the breasts in front, and erection behind.

Humpy Grumpy scratched at his balls
Watching the poetry thread as it falls
So all the loose women and all the slack men
Bumped it up on the page again

Poetry thread falling,
It really is appalling.

O poetry thread, I need you baby,
I'll do the same as the Apollo lady.

BUMP

Oh frettled grunt buggeley
thy mixturations are to me
as fertled blotchets
in a lurgid bee

Groop I implore thee
my foonting turling drones
or I will rend thee in the goberworts
with my burgelcroncheon.......... see if I dont.


(shortened thread bump version, appologies to author)