The Urban Writing Thread
- Thread starter ShiftyBagLady
- Start date
frogwoman
No amount of cajolery...
This is a bit I've just been editing from my anti bullfighting novel. Rita is the cop who was just kidnapped by Tory aficionados and taken on a private jet to the UK in her attempts to save a bull from a drug dealing matador 
----
'Hello, Rita.' Henry's sudden voice made her jump and her stomach twist with nausea.
'Fuck you, Henry,' she said quietly, determined not to show fear. He laughed, sliding back the lid. She winced, blinded by the sudden light above her. She couldn't really see his face, just his shiny loafers as he stared down at her.
'Since you like bulls so much, I thought I’d let you share this experience. But don't worry, I'll bring you out in time for you to see Pepelito running across the sand, tossing his great crown for his final moment of glory.' Rita stared up at him. He was breathing heavily. The thought of her watching the bull die was clearly getting him off.
'That ‘moment of glory’ won’t happen. You're insane. He'll gore you!' Spitting out the words, she made herself believe it.
'He's manso. Have you seen him? He won't gore me. What wishful thinking. Relying on a cowardly bull to save you.'
'Manso?’ Rita sneered.
‘Such an aficionado, throwing around these words. I guess you know how many years my brother-in-law had to train to become a matador. The training isn’t easy. It’s not some course you do on holiday with your friends.’ She mocked him, remembering an email from Heather that morning about the Taurine Club and their Mexican adventures. Praising Castella truly stuck in her throat, but she had to speak Henry’s language.
Betraying no fear, she continued, 'This isn’t some underweight 3-year-old novillo. He’s a full-sized bull who’s already survived a corrida. He’s tame with me, so you think it’ll be easy, I get it. But that’s me. You have no idea what you’re doing.’
Henry was silent.
‘He knows his enemy. He gored one of Castella’s assistants. Almost killed him.' Rita kept her voice calm. Unnerve him enough, and maybe Chicero would have a chance if the cops hadn’t shown up by evening.
'I’ll be in good company, then! Juan Belmonte was gored 50 times in one season!' Henry spluttered at last. Rita's lip curled as she stared dumbfounded, unable to hold back the giggles.
'50 times? Are you sure?'
'Shut up, you bitch, don't fucking laugh at me. Will you just fucking shut up! Shut up! Shut up!' Henry snarled, stamping his foot. He thrusted the metal pole they used to spear on the divisas at Rita, scratching her in the face with its sharp steel point, then her arm, breaking the skin so it bled. He poked her hard in the stomach, again and again. The pain registered; a small spot of blood showed through her top. She tried to grab the end. He was too fast -
'Pardon? Fine, yes, I'll fetch Lord Owenstoft and we'll move the damn thing just before it starts.' He withdrew his arm, flustered, tossing the pole away from him.
'You really want to kill him? Good luck with that,' Rita said under her breath, as Henry slammed the lid down and she was enveloped in darkness again.
In his fury, he didn't shut it properly.
----
'Hello, Rita.' Henry's sudden voice made her jump and her stomach twist with nausea.
'Fuck you, Henry,' she said quietly, determined not to show fear. He laughed, sliding back the lid. She winced, blinded by the sudden light above her. She couldn't really see his face, just his shiny loafers as he stared down at her.
'Since you like bulls so much, I thought I’d let you share this experience. But don't worry, I'll bring you out in time for you to see Pepelito running across the sand, tossing his great crown for his final moment of glory.' Rita stared up at him. He was breathing heavily. The thought of her watching the bull die was clearly getting him off.
'That ‘moment of glory’ won’t happen. You're insane. He'll gore you!' Spitting out the words, she made herself believe it.
'He's manso. Have you seen him? He won't gore me. What wishful thinking. Relying on a cowardly bull to save you.'
'Manso?’ Rita sneered.
‘Such an aficionado, throwing around these words. I guess you know how many years my brother-in-law had to train to become a matador. The training isn’t easy. It’s not some course you do on holiday with your friends.’ She mocked him, remembering an email from Heather that morning about the Taurine Club and their Mexican adventures. Praising Castella truly stuck in her throat, but she had to speak Henry’s language.
Betraying no fear, she continued, 'This isn’t some underweight 3-year-old novillo. He’s a full-sized bull who’s already survived a corrida. He’s tame with me, so you think it’ll be easy, I get it. But that’s me. You have no idea what you’re doing.’
Henry was silent.
‘He knows his enemy. He gored one of Castella’s assistants. Almost killed him.' Rita kept her voice calm. Unnerve him enough, and maybe Chicero would have a chance if the cops hadn’t shown up by evening.
'I’ll be in good company, then! Juan Belmonte was gored 50 times in one season!' Henry spluttered at last. Rita's lip curled as she stared dumbfounded, unable to hold back the giggles.
'50 times? Are you sure?'
'Shut up, you bitch, don't fucking laugh at me. Will you just fucking shut up! Shut up! Shut up!' Henry snarled, stamping his foot. He thrusted the metal pole they used to spear on the divisas at Rita, scratching her in the face with its sharp steel point, then her arm, breaking the skin so it bled. He poked her hard in the stomach, again and again. The pain registered; a small spot of blood showed through her top. She tried to grab the end. He was too fast -
'Pardon? Fine, yes, I'll fetch Lord Owenstoft and we'll move the damn thing just before it starts.' He withdrew his arm, flustered, tossing the pole away from him.
'You really want to kill him? Good luck with that,' Rita said under her breath, as Henry slammed the lid down and she was enveloped in darkness again.
In his fury, he didn't shut it properly.
bluescreen
tofu eating wokerati
I like it!
Just one very minor thing:
The paragraph beginning 'Such an aficionado...' probably needs closing up to the previous one that ends 'Rita sneered.' and following on there, as it's part of Rita's speech, not Henry's reply. Not the next one though, as it's clear who's speaking.
Just one very minor thing:
The paragraph beginning 'Such an aficionado...' probably needs closing up to the previous one that ends 'Rita sneered.' and following on there, as it's part of Rita's speech, not Henry's reply. Not the next one though, as it's clear who's speaking.
Pickman's model
Starry Wisdom
The worst books ever written are in fact Jeffrey archer's entire oeuvreMy dream would be a negative review by that aficionado magazine saying it's the worst book ever written or something. If that happened I'd frame it and put it on my wall
frogwoman
No amount of cajolery...
Cheers, will have a look at this
There is a claim that Juan Belmonte was gored 50 times in a season lol
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frogwoman
No amount of cajolery...
This is part of a scene where a matador is about to get stabbed to death with his own darts by someone he's had an affair with
---
'Look at him. I bet he wishes he'd accepted your sword the first time,' one of Castella's assistants simpered to his boss, a shit eating grin on his face. Wearing dark glasses, grey chinos and a crisp white shirt, the matador gave a self satisfied smirk as he watched his two prisoners.
'Yes. I'm sure he does.' He took his cape and waved it around over the fence. Chicero ran straight at him, and Javier jumped back as the bull's sharp horns went through the wire. He glared at Pepelito, who glanced at him and quickly turned away. The only thing worse than a scared bull was one that showed no reaction at all.
'What the fuck’s your problem? Come on, toro. Venga, venga.' He waved the cape and Pepelito half heartedly walked towards him and then turned back towards his water.
'Don’t you dare think you can ignore me. Show me some goddamn respect.' He picked up a stone from the ground and threw it at Pepelito; it bounced off his horn. The bull turned around, his sides heaving. Javier picked up another stone and hurled it at him. He waved his cape over the fence again, his Rolex watch glinting in the sunlight. This time Pepelito charged at the material with his head down, slamming into the wire and catching his knees on the fence. He grunted in shock.
'Wow, am I looking forward to killing you,' Javier snarled, grabbing Pepelito’s horns over the fence and tugging him around, forcing the animal to look at him. Javier smiled, his ego restored. The bull he’d been so slighted by once again saw him as a dangerous enemy.
Nobody disrespected him.
'That'll do for now,' he said, giving the two bulls a disdainful stare and turning on his heel. More were supposed to be coming later. He used his ring to host private corridas several times a year for wealthy aficionados - and 'business associates', who, like him, had gained their real wealth, prestige and power through those enterprises the authorities pretended to hate.
The police could try to lock him up. But Javier was never going to jail, not for this, not for anything. Sure the dead man was a policeman's uncle, but his guys on the inside would make sure it went away. Since a three month prison sentence when he was 19 for supplying controlled substances, he had learned his lesson and never again been stupid enough to get convicted of anything. As with the ring, he always had a cuadrilla on hand to do his work.
People loved him.
If they didn't, they loved his money.
He thanked his attendants and crossed his huge, striped, luscious lawn. The surrounding countryside in this part of Spain was brown, stricken by drought, and fell victim to ever increasing numbers of fires. Javier never paid attention to that; the state of the art sprinklers went 24/7 and the water in his infinity pool was replenished every day. His property here was like an oasis in the desert.
He'd managed to work himself up from nothing, he thought proudly, strolling through his gangster's paradise. A marble statue stood atop a large fountain on his lawn, and he gave it a loving glance. The statue was of Javier with a cape and sword, staring mystically into the distance.
Just inside the house, Javier brandished his cape at a vanquished opponent, a stuffed Miura bull he’d fought in Bogota. Staring ravishingly into a nearby mirror, he recalled the glorious day – Miuras, after all, were ‘the Bulls of Death.’ Taking place during his first visit since Aguilar was jailed, this corrida was especially memorable. Finally, he was the big boss, the man the cartels talked business with. Outrageously, Colombia had just banned bullfighting. He’d need other explanations for his all too frequent trips.
Javier stepped onto one of the soft red rugs covering his marble floor. He admired the intricately designed gold and silver decor, before gazing at himself through yet another mirror. A full size portrait of himself in his costume hung above the period piece fireplace. He walked upstairs through the hall of mirrors, his eyes lingering on his appearance in each one, making sure he looked as perfect as he told himself he was.
Yet his paranoia was settling in, a frequent occurrence these days. Pepelito's initial lack of interest troubled him; even bulls needed to show him the respect he craved. Maria hadn't spoken to him in over a week. Couldn’t someone remind the conservative Catholic politician that not listening to your husband was a sin?
It had been over two hours since he'd used his golden spoon, and his nose itched for another hit. He walked to the dressing table, watched sternly by a large portrait of Franco in military uniform. Opposite Franco was another painting of Javier himself, posing like the one above the fireplace, sticking out his chest with a macho expression on his face - except this time he was naked. Mirrors lined the walls by the bed, and Javier had installed one on the ceiling.
On a bare section of the wall near Franco's picture, were two yellow and red banderillas, plus his first ever sword. He seldom got his own hands dirty, but the sword wasn't just for bulls, and his underlings all knew it.
He put the spoon in his nose and sniffed hard. For all the good it was doing, this shitty batch might as well be sugar. Maybe it was? So many people were out to destroy him! He huffed several more spoonfuls, then pounded the table in rage – there was no difference in how he felt. Exactly the same as two hours ago!
This white gold usually kept him at the top of his game for daring feats of bravery, alert enough to see off rivals for his empire. But this time, the rush he craved didn't materialise. Instead, there was a pain in his nose. He felt a trickle of liquid and then a gush as blood began to pour from his corroded nostrils – which now happened with ever increasing regularity.
It had to be stress, right?
Or, was Eloise right about vaccines? Could it be that 5G mast down the road?
‘You’ve got a drug problem,’ Maria had shouted. A drug problem?
As if that bitch knew more about drugs than him!
He staggered to the luxurious en suite bathroom and tipped his head back, sitting on a chair with a warm, wet towel over his nose, but nothing seemed to stop the bleeding. He was in perfect health, he could handle his coke – so it couldn’t be that. He wasn’t addicted. Today, he’d barely had any!
Maybe it was poison?
---
'Look at him. I bet he wishes he'd accepted your sword the first time,' one of Castella's assistants simpered to his boss, a shit eating grin on his face. Wearing dark glasses, grey chinos and a crisp white shirt, the matador gave a self satisfied smirk as he watched his two prisoners.
'Yes. I'm sure he does.' He took his cape and waved it around over the fence. Chicero ran straight at him, and Javier jumped back as the bull's sharp horns went through the wire. He glared at Pepelito, who glanced at him and quickly turned away. The only thing worse than a scared bull was one that showed no reaction at all.
'What the fuck’s your problem? Come on, toro. Venga, venga.' He waved the cape and Pepelito half heartedly walked towards him and then turned back towards his water.
'Don’t you dare think you can ignore me. Show me some goddamn respect.' He picked up a stone from the ground and threw it at Pepelito; it bounced off his horn. The bull turned around, his sides heaving. Javier picked up another stone and hurled it at him. He waved his cape over the fence again, his Rolex watch glinting in the sunlight. This time Pepelito charged at the material with his head down, slamming into the wire and catching his knees on the fence. He grunted in shock.
'Wow, am I looking forward to killing you,' Javier snarled, grabbing Pepelito’s horns over the fence and tugging him around, forcing the animal to look at him. Javier smiled, his ego restored. The bull he’d been so slighted by once again saw him as a dangerous enemy.
Nobody disrespected him.
'That'll do for now,' he said, giving the two bulls a disdainful stare and turning on his heel. More were supposed to be coming later. He used his ring to host private corridas several times a year for wealthy aficionados - and 'business associates', who, like him, had gained their real wealth, prestige and power through those enterprises the authorities pretended to hate.
The police could try to lock him up. But Javier was never going to jail, not for this, not for anything. Sure the dead man was a policeman's uncle, but his guys on the inside would make sure it went away. Since a three month prison sentence when he was 19 for supplying controlled substances, he had learned his lesson and never again been stupid enough to get convicted of anything. As with the ring, he always had a cuadrilla on hand to do his work.
People loved him.
If they didn't, they loved his money.
He thanked his attendants and crossed his huge, striped, luscious lawn. The surrounding countryside in this part of Spain was brown, stricken by drought, and fell victim to ever increasing numbers of fires. Javier never paid attention to that; the state of the art sprinklers went 24/7 and the water in his infinity pool was replenished every day. His property here was like an oasis in the desert.
He'd managed to work himself up from nothing, he thought proudly, strolling through his gangster's paradise. A marble statue stood atop a large fountain on his lawn, and he gave it a loving glance. The statue was of Javier with a cape and sword, staring mystically into the distance.
Just inside the house, Javier brandished his cape at a vanquished opponent, a stuffed Miura bull he’d fought in Bogota. Staring ravishingly into a nearby mirror, he recalled the glorious day – Miuras, after all, were ‘the Bulls of Death.’ Taking place during his first visit since Aguilar was jailed, this corrida was especially memorable. Finally, he was the big boss, the man the cartels talked business with. Outrageously, Colombia had just banned bullfighting. He’d need other explanations for his all too frequent trips.
Javier stepped onto one of the soft red rugs covering his marble floor. He admired the intricately designed gold and silver decor, before gazing at himself through yet another mirror. A full size portrait of himself in his costume hung above the period piece fireplace. He walked upstairs through the hall of mirrors, his eyes lingering on his appearance in each one, making sure he looked as perfect as he told himself he was.
Yet his paranoia was settling in, a frequent occurrence these days. Pepelito's initial lack of interest troubled him; even bulls needed to show him the respect he craved. Maria hadn't spoken to him in over a week. Couldn’t someone remind the conservative Catholic politician that not listening to your husband was a sin?
It had been over two hours since he'd used his golden spoon, and his nose itched for another hit. He walked to the dressing table, watched sternly by a large portrait of Franco in military uniform. Opposite Franco was another painting of Javier himself, posing like the one above the fireplace, sticking out his chest with a macho expression on his face - except this time he was naked. Mirrors lined the walls by the bed, and Javier had installed one on the ceiling.
On a bare section of the wall near Franco's picture, were two yellow and red banderillas, plus his first ever sword. He seldom got his own hands dirty, but the sword wasn't just for bulls, and his underlings all knew it.
He put the spoon in his nose and sniffed hard. For all the good it was doing, this shitty batch might as well be sugar. Maybe it was? So many people were out to destroy him! He huffed several more spoonfuls, then pounded the table in rage – there was no difference in how he felt. Exactly the same as two hours ago!
This white gold usually kept him at the top of his game for daring feats of bravery, alert enough to see off rivals for his empire. But this time, the rush he craved didn't materialise. Instead, there was a pain in his nose. He felt a trickle of liquid and then a gush as blood began to pour from his corroded nostrils – which now happened with ever increasing regularity.
It had to be stress, right?
Or, was Eloise right about vaccines? Could it be that 5G mast down the road?
‘You’ve got a drug problem,’ Maria had shouted. A drug problem?
As if that bitch knew more about drugs than him!
He staggered to the luxurious en suite bathroom and tipped his head back, sitting on a chair with a warm, wet towel over his nose, but nothing seemed to stop the bleeding. He was in perfect health, he could handle his coke – so it couldn’t be that. He wasn’t addicted. Today, he’d barely had any!
Maybe it was poison?
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I’m Sorry I’m Not A Musician
and that you have to pay attention, sit and listen,
that you feel you cannot clap or click,
sing or dance or move,
that I cannot let you lose yourself in rhythm.
That I can’t buzz bass deep in your belly,
melt your skeleton to jelly,
that I will not lift you clear from your daily woes and fears,
fill you up with mighty BOOM,
slip inside, grip your spine, screaming anthems
designed to raise the roof and shake the room.
I’m sorry I’m not a musician
but if you really really want me to,
I’m sure that I could raise a tune.
I have this old kazoo, a triangle and drum.
You could hum, whistle, bellow
all together, and, you know, silver linings,
at least it’s not jazz or experimental techno,
there’s no indulgent solo that goes on and on
and on and on
and on and on
forever.
I’m sorry I’m not a musician, but
poetry’s an ancient art, older than the written word,
we’ve recorded history, told stories about odysseys,
adventures and injustice, buried secrets in our verse,
sent signs, coded words, for all the hidden ears to hear.
We get murdered for subversion, all across the world.
That’s how dangerous we are.
Let me listen to your heart, see scars,
taste the flavours of your deepest darkest 4am,
show your shame the light, let it know it’s not alone,
hold hands with the ugliness inside
and give it succour.
I know you swallowed lumps for breakfast,
dinner, tea, and supper.
I understand you’ve suffered,
that you feel you’re always underneath,
never getting better, never equal,
that it’s easier to let it out, let it loose in movement
but I’m here to reap and sow the seeds of change
and write for revolution.
I’m sorry I’m not a musician,
but if you absolutely need me to,
I’m sure that I could raise a tune.
I have this old kazoo, a triangle and drum.
You could hum, we could sway,
and though there’ll never be
a verse/chorus/verse, 3 chords, a middle eight
to break monotony,
at least there isn’t feedback, an out-of-key harmony,
missed beats, pipes of peace or tambourine solos.
You know, silver linings, glass half full.
Let me alter your perspective,
change what you think a poet is to what you didn’t,
evoke, poke, offer gifts,
give you something different.
Let me love you with a poem,
wrap my lines and rhymes around your heart to lift it higher
for a minute/second/hour, know the power
that resides in a poem, not a song,
that a voice can be a fist
or a mitten
or a litany of wrongs that could be fixed
if we all stood together.
Thanks for listening.
and that you have to pay attention, sit and listen,
that you feel you cannot clap or click,
sing or dance or move,
that I cannot let you lose yourself in rhythm.
That I can’t buzz bass deep in your belly,
melt your skeleton to jelly,
that I will not lift you clear from your daily woes and fears,
fill you up with mighty BOOM,
slip inside, grip your spine, screaming anthems
designed to raise the roof and shake the room.
I’m sorry I’m not a musician
but if you really really want me to,
I’m sure that I could raise a tune.
I have this old kazoo, a triangle and drum.
You could hum, whistle, bellow
all together, and, you know, silver linings,
at least it’s not jazz or experimental techno,
there’s no indulgent solo that goes on and on
and on and on
and on and on
forever.
I’m sorry I’m not a musician, but
poetry’s an ancient art, older than the written word,
we’ve recorded history, told stories about odysseys,
adventures and injustice, buried secrets in our verse,
sent signs, coded words, for all the hidden ears to hear.
We get murdered for subversion, all across the world.
That’s how dangerous we are.
Let me listen to your heart, see scars,
taste the flavours of your deepest darkest 4am,
show your shame the light, let it know it’s not alone,
hold hands with the ugliness inside
and give it succour.
I know you swallowed lumps for breakfast,
dinner, tea, and supper.
I understand you’ve suffered,
that you feel you’re always underneath,
never getting better, never equal,
that it’s easier to let it out, let it loose in movement
but I’m here to reap and sow the seeds of change
and write for revolution.
I’m sorry I’m not a musician,
but if you absolutely need me to,
I’m sure that I could raise a tune.
I have this old kazoo, a triangle and drum.
You could hum, we could sway,
and though there’ll never be
a verse/chorus/verse, 3 chords, a middle eight
to break monotony,
at least there isn’t feedback, an out-of-key harmony,
missed beats, pipes of peace or tambourine solos.
You know, silver linings, glass half full.
Let me alter your perspective,
change what you think a poet is to what you didn’t,
evoke, poke, offer gifts,
give you something different.
Let me love you with a poem,
wrap my lines and rhymes around your heart to lift it higher
for a minute/second/hour, know the power
that resides in a poem, not a song,
that a voice can be a fist
or a mitten
or a litany of wrongs that could be fixed
if we all stood together.
Thanks for listening.
Presidential Clerihew
Joe Biden
is a memory recall titan.
His thingymajig is perfectly fine
and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with his doodah, the thing that lives in his head, no not brain, the other one, ooo it’s on the tip of his tongue…(6 months later) MIND.
en.wikipedia.org
Joe Biden
is a memory recall titan.
His thingymajig is perfectly fine
and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with his doodah, the thing that lives in his head, no not brain, the other one, ooo it’s on the tip of his tongue…(6 months later) MIND.
Clerihew - Wikipedia
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surreybrowncap
“Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand"
BEHIND THE MASK
I’m writing this letter
Through drink and self pity
From my empty mansion
In Gotham City
Blood shot eyes
Unshaven face
I’ve hung up my cape
Given up the chase
BatPole has cobwebs
BatMobile’s got rust
The phone’s disconnected
Alfred’s turned to dust
I lift another glass
Of whiskey and rye
Staring out the window
No BatSignal in the sky
The Penguin’s stopped waddling
Joker no longer smiles
Riddler asks no questions
CatWoman fell off the tiles
It’s the end of an era
Superheroes are all missing
Who’s that in the callbox
It’s SuperMan just pissing
SpiderMan’s in handcuffs
WonderWoman gives him the lash
Fantastic 4 are wearing kaftans
Getting high smoking hash
Lying in the gutter
It’s drunken Dan Dare
Captain America’s now living
In Moscow’s Red Square
Sitting in my rocking chair
Cat upon my lap
I can’t climb up the batrope
My punch has lost it’s ZAP
This one time Caped Crusader
Is now well past his best
Feeling so low
Since Robin flew the nest
An overdose of bat pills
Will take away the pain
Remember me always....
Sincerely,
Bruce Wayne
I’m writing this letter
Through drink and self pity
From my empty mansion
In Gotham City
Blood shot eyes
Unshaven face
I’ve hung up my cape
Given up the chase
BatPole has cobwebs
BatMobile’s got rust
The phone’s disconnected
Alfred’s turned to dust
I lift another glass
Of whiskey and rye
Staring out the window
No BatSignal in the sky
The Penguin’s stopped waddling
Joker no longer smiles
Riddler asks no questions
CatWoman fell off the tiles
It’s the end of an era
Superheroes are all missing
Who’s that in the callbox
It’s SuperMan just pissing
SpiderMan’s in handcuffs
WonderWoman gives him the lash
Fantastic 4 are wearing kaftans
Getting high smoking hash
Lying in the gutter
It’s drunken Dan Dare
Captain America’s now living
In Moscow’s Red Square
Sitting in my rocking chair
Cat upon my lap
I can’t climb up the batrope
My punch has lost it’s ZAP
This one time Caped Crusader
Is now well past his best
Feeling so low
Since Robin flew the nest
An overdose of bat pills
Will take away the pain
Remember me always....
Sincerely,
Bruce Wayne
frogwoman
No amount of cajolery...
Heres the pre order link to the kindle edition of my book Sangre De Toro which will be out end of April or beginning of May. https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CWCYL...&dplnkId=50e1b82d-37d3-4f1b-aeb1-cef7b756144d
Last edited:
Wookey
Muppet is not a slur
Hey, cheers mister!I think that's fucking ace mate.
In Gratitude
We’ve known each other all our lives.
You’ve been there for me day and night,
every minute, every hour,
without me even trying.
I have taken you for granted, all the time,
and I am sorry.
I only know I need you when you’re running short,
shallow, caught or less.
I've seen you lend yourself
to other chests, to fading days,
dying lights. Heard you roar,
gasp and stumble, putt-putt tumble,
rasp and tremble.
First to rumble, last to leave.
That night of a thousand years?
She had no idea you were there,
how hard the working
when the rest of her was folding in
but I was watching, marvelling
at syncopating rhythms,
at the bidding of a bellows.
We’ve been together every second,
most without me knowing.
I owe you everything.
I have grown in your presence.
So this is yours, my offering.
A quiet prize, nightly heed,
I let you lead each gratitude.
Without you, I’d be nothing.
We’ve known each other all our lives.
You’ve been there for me day and night,
every minute, every hour,
without me even trying.
I have taken you for granted, all the time,
and I am sorry.
I only know I need you when you’re running short,
shallow, caught or less.
I've seen you lend yourself
to other chests, to fading days,
dying lights. Heard you roar,
gasp and stumble, putt-putt tumble,
rasp and tremble.
First to rumble, last to leave.
That night of a thousand years?
She had no idea you were there,
how hard the working
when the rest of her was folding in
but I was watching, marvelling
at syncopating rhythms,
at the bidding of a bellows.
We’ve been together every second,
most without me knowing.
I owe you everything.
I have grown in your presence.
So this is yours, my offering.
A quiet prize, nightly heed,
I let you lead each gratitude.
Without you, I’d be nothing.
surreybrowncap
“Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand"
All our hearts
Are egg timer shaped
I cracked mine once
And sand escaped
Time's running out
For all the lovers
Because some of us
Have less sand than others.....
Are egg timer shaped
I cracked mine once
And sand escaped
Time's running out
For all the lovers
Because some of us
Have less sand than others.....
Aladdin
Well-Known Member
Summer 2024
Well this has been
Rubbish...
Damp and dreary and
Annoyingly sluggish.
Went to the beach
To be blown away.
Sand in my eyes..
Lots of sea spray.
Oh look
There's the sun!
On no
Now it's gone.
Day after day
Knowing not what to wear.
It feels like winter
I do declare.
Hark here's a butterfly
All happy and free,
And there's a wee bumblebee
Busy as can be.
Little do they care
Rain wind or shine,
Their tasks are predestined...
I wonder is mine?
So autumn is whispering
As it creeps into view
"Won't be long now
Til the snow is here too"
The year passes faster
The older I grow,
I hope to live long enough
To say "it's not slow".
Maybe next year
Summer will return..
And I'll write a poem
About my sunburn.
Well this has been
Rubbish...
Damp and dreary and
Annoyingly sluggish.
Went to the beach
To be blown away.
Sand in my eyes..
Lots of sea spray.
Oh look
There's the sun!
On no
Now it's gone.
Day after day
Knowing not what to wear.
It feels like winter
I do declare.
Hark here's a butterfly
All happy and free,
And there's a wee bumblebee
Busy as can be.
Little do they care
Rain wind or shine,
Their tasks are predestined...
I wonder is mine?
So autumn is whispering
As it creeps into view
"Won't be long now
Til the snow is here too"
The year passes faster
The older I grow,
I hope to live long enough
To say "it's not slow".
Maybe next year
Summer will return..
And I'll write a poem
About my sunburn.
Last edited:
krtek a houby
Anger is Hi-NRG
Wrong thread
Last edited:
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