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nasty little thing by Ackerson, Mark
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Got Trapped by Nasty Twins by Widjanarko, Yanny
YOUR NASTY WORDS CANNOT HURT ME by Johnson, Al
YOUR NASTY WORDS by Johnson, Al
NASTY HABITS by Crisci, Andrew
Niceness Not Nasty by davis, robin
Nasty Habits by hopkins, lori
Nasty Fog by Ellison, Jack

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The Best Nasty Poems

Details | Nasty Poem | |

The Spirit Of Poetry Soup

I see her from a distance as she soars above the skies 
Below her are the poets, they are watching with big eyes 

Some are blowing windpipes to help the wind rescind
Some are pointing fingers and making lots of wind 

Some are leaving nasty notes while others blessing dotes 
Some don’t’ seem to care they are wearing many coats 

I see her from a distance she’s a dove with a broken wing 
Yes we own lyrics/words, and if we want to, we can sing 

Some just want to use you and some they love abuse 
Some write for the passion and some are quite abstruse 

I see her from a distance she lobs and walks with strut 
Sometimes she seems to me like a little wounded mutt

Some are blowing windpipes to help the wind rescind 
Some are blowing kisses to the windmills of the wind 

You can be the Blesser or you can be the Lesser   
You can put a Smile on us or you can be a Stressor  
 
I have to tell you something, I’m longing for some peace  
I’d rather be a loving dove than be the squawking geese

Some people crash and burn, and some they never learn 
Some people change and better, before they reach the urn 

I see her from a distance flying in the sky 
It’s up to us to keep her there and NOT to make her cry.


Written by: Mystic Rose 
May 4, 2014

I love you all and I am proud to be part of your family 
Please treat each other with kindness  
It’s a tough battle out there, let’s make poetry soup a haven 
And let’s start behaving….


 
Ps. This poem was not written with anyone in mind, it is not my intention to 
offend anyone just to make you aware of how much this site means to me 
and to all of you.

More great poems below...


Details | Nasty Poem | |

In Forbearance

Where was I 
when repo men invaded,
possessed,
boxed me up within his cool heart
fragrant in its distaste of warmer climates?
You know,
climates governed by love.
(Daydreaming of knights, that's where.)

Now I have only so much patience remaining
for this slapstick brain-
a nasty reminder, the heckler of my heart,
what spews sensibility
when I simply yearn to err. 

And I scarcely have time to mourn
his devil's smile
leaving southward in moving vans
transporting my pieces
(all the valid ones)
with him
as I sit numbed,
next to climbing ivy poisoned by my disbelief,
broken
unpaid for.

Details | Nasty Poem | |

Jukebox Gigolo

Old Zack Adams sits a slouch’n so sloppy drunk on a bar-room stool,
Wear’n his cheap-threaded cowboy suit and a stained satin shirt.
All the while a peek’n and a leer’n at women like an old poor fool,
But think’n man tonight—Oh Boy, I’m really gonna hit the pay dirt!

Old Zack in this small Texas town is reputed to be quite a lecherous hoot,
As he raucously and recklessly rolls old worn quarters into the slot
Of the old bar-room Wurlitzer while snicker’n and smil’n to boot,
And plays his tearful and twangy jerk-water music while smil’n a lot!

Old Zack is this town’s “Jukebox Gigolo,” a real lover boy—Oh Boy!
He wears his patched cowboy hat and his scuffed silver-studded boots,
Meant to impress young girls and bar-fly floozies who have the Joy!
Of being with this bewildering, withered, weathered man and his boots.

Old Zack has a fad’n recollection of events and a silver mane of hair,
With a cigarette in his hand and cuss’n like a nasty little stable boy,
He downs whiskey shots and tequila seconds like no tomorrow on a dare,
While chas’n whiskey glass ice cubes and the tequila worm—being so coy.

Old Zack while a swigg’n down his whiskey mucho fast and direct,
He has now that blind courage to fight or to love—whichever is first, 
While the old Wurlitzer resonates a rueful hick song for a teary effect,
But Old Zack can’t move now for this song has him sobb’n the very worst.

Old Zack with his nicotine-whiskey breath and his pockmarked face,
Personifies the image of an ideal loser of a man—with problems all,
While fight’n, scream’n, and punch’n others to gain some precious space,
He’s a showcas’n his reservoir of manly prowess—with problems all.

Old Zack was young once and not so wild, withered, weathered like now,
And he thought he was a really smart dude—all right moves and all,
But was really a man act’n far above his funny fake smart brow, 
And now a cry’n on his bar-room stool and act’n like a fool before a fall.

Old Zack Adams—alcoholic as he truly is and sly and slick as a Texas fox,
Is not really so good with his women friends nowadays—for his real talent
Is in roll’n those old worn quarters pieces one-by-one into the old Jukebox,
Sing’n—“I’m the Jukebox Gigolo”—“a Drunk and a Delight,” that’s real talent!

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (October 7, 2014)
(Rhymed Quatrain)

Details | Nasty Poem | |

Garden Party

All dressed in green, the rose bush beams
like a child’s blushing cheeks and pursed lips;
these debutants jilted by the bees
forever waiting to be kissed.
A carpet of phlox giggles like young ladies
and drips over the wall like a Dali clock,
tickled by fingers of lilies and daisies
still waiting to dance,  demurely frocked.
Impatiens wink at the pansy’s goodbyes,
while hostas and petunias wave.
In the light of a late springtime sky
all in the garden would rave.
   No need for people, they’ve nothing to prove
   because flowers can party too!

~Through a wisteria laden arbor~

Ah, the robins are here rummaging in the grass
and they just left the blueberries over the hedge,
a glutinous embarrassment for sure but as
deer prance so properly, I'd rather robins instead;
at least they don't consume the guests
or shall I say, permanent party participants!
Like a "who done it" dinner it's a safe bet
they'll win if the catnip and snapdragons can't.
What is the purpose of being pretty;
ogled and cut by people and eaten by deer -
it's the talk of the party and nasty --
Gossip is (don't tell) that our favorite guests aren't here,
   the honeys and bumbles do tickle and tease
   and though perhaps used, we're left pleased!



Details | Nasty Poem | |

Time For More

Ooo ah baby, I just gotta hear you some more,
Put on my headphones,a world of worlds we explore,
Lyrical romance, you got me spinnin' on all night,
Hearin' your language makes me tingle ya alright.

Baby you got me on, got me up, got me going,
I hear the rapping of your tongue sexy baby, I'm glowin'
I love it so much, Oo this heart ain't slowin'
Here is what I want from you, but I bet ya already be knowin'

Time for more, I hit repeat
Play that song again, threepeat
Over and over in my head playin'
Yeah baby I like what yer sayin'

Doin it dirty, that's the way we like done
Ridin' with no saddles oh you're the one.
a pitbull got the bark you gonna make me bite
Here's the way I like it, uh huh baby that's right

Time for more, I hit repeat
Play the song again, threepeat
Over and over in my head playin'
Yeah baby, I dig what yer sayin'

I'm gonna be your freak, give me your moment
Just an hour or two, it'll be time worthy you spent
Tie it up, take it down, get a lil' nasty I like it wild.
Come and kiss these tasty lips melt into mild.

Time for more, I hit repeat
Play me another musical treat



08-16-2014

More great poems below...


Details | Nasty Poem | |

Signing Off

--Goodbye--To my Addiction-

The time has come to part,
I will leave many with broken hearts
If one day you call on me,
I'm sad to say I will hold my tongue missing each one relentlessly 
I'm not doing this for me; I am doing this for you
I could stay here and win, and not give in 
But, this soup bowl comes with demons and nasty shadows
Demons and nasty shadows, taking and crashing my light
Demons I had to fight off the entire time I was here
Shadows hating the way I welcomed every poet with a happy cheer
Demons and shadows whom drown in their selfish everyday pity.

For those smiling on my departure, 
I want you to have this wonderful gift 
So please copy paste this moment from the bottom of my heart
**I hope this gift brings you laughter, knowing 
I've been sad, these past few days, drying up my final soup tears**

I will miss this part of what makes me ME -my love and lust for poetry.
I agree with many I should never surrender to the envy of demonic dust
Giving up the passion that completed a part of my soul for years
But, the reality of life, is the life's I give and given when I make love happen
In my heart I know it's time to give myself back to reality
SO AT THE END I WIN, I'm the one who ends up with an everlasting smile
I'll finally be free from this place, where most treated me unfair & unkind
Free, from the negativity of the few who hide behind a dishonest disguise?

Wait until you notice your soup bowl's going stale
You will miss me, and I will miss you
But, my enemy will miss me even more
Reminiscing the times we spent hogging up 70% of blogs,
Arguing and fighting over not agreeing with many thoughts.
But, it was never the differences of opinions, it was more like---
Let's slay the Destroyer, a name like that should never be on top
So please know I am sad, and this is not the way I want to go
I'm not leaving you because I want to 
I'm leaving you because, the rumors are 
"The soup is better without the sweetness of the poet destroyer."
The only big thing about me -was my heart not my ego 
I never claimed to be the best; 
You're the one who claimed I am good enough
You took me in and returned my love
In ways others could and would not accept.
And for you my loving poet friends, and fans
I will walk away with my dignity/integrity; 
I can CARELESS IF I PLACE OR DON'T PLACE IN YOUR CONTEST
I guess I'm finally growing up 
In becoming the bigger/better poet.

Signing Off ---Love 
The Poet Destroyer

Details | Nasty Poem | |

The Two Foods

Health Food natural, low-calorie nourishing, strengthening, boring kale, *kimchi, chips, chocolate tantalizing, satisfying, fattening salty, sweet Junk Food *Kimchi is the national health food of Korea, fermented vegetables, particularly cabbage. It's nasty-tasting stuff, but to each his own. For the Diamante Poem Contest of Regina Riddle

Details | Nasty Poem | |

The Endless War

(not to take too seriously; I think I am immune 
to my "enemies" by now!)

How near to us are foes we can’t resist
when cells, like terrorists that we can’t see
accumulate!  What parasites exist
within our very homes!  We can’t be free
of them, and even the perfectionist
can’t rid his castle of the enemy.
They have no need of camouflage.  They breed, 
for on those cells sloughed off our skin they feed!

Though microscopic, they are numberless.
For those with allergies, the “mighty” mite
can wreak some damage. Nasty, they possess
the air we breathe, the beds we use at night!
And they will never simply evanesce. . . 
To kill them off requires a constant fight,
but no one, sadly, perfectly defeats
them, even vacuuming and changing sheets!

Inside the fridge, on counters, in the sink
lurk others. Do not be too much at ease.
The very sponge you’re using, which you think
is helping, could be spreading a disease!
Who knows what swarms in water that we drink,
on spinach leaves or just a piece of cheese?
How fleet is time; how bleak to have to spend
it on a war  we know will never end!

Details | Nasty Poem | |

A Broken Heart

I have a broken heart so sad with sorrow,
My love’s full of such anguish and fear;
My soul’s afire with pain for the morrow.

My heart seeks such a palliative yarrow,
My thoughts are shattered, no longer clear;
I have a broken heart so sad with sorrow.

My desire’s gone, a victim of a much harrow,
My emotions are awry and bring no cheer;
My soul’s afire with pain for the morrow.

Your anger strikes my heart like a poison arrow,
Your evil intent revealed with no sugary veneer;
I have a broken heart so sad with sorrow.

I live my life now with no surcease of sorrow,
Your former love declarations ring now so queer;
My soul’s afire with pain for the morrow.

My spirit’s in tatters from your hateful harrow,
And your face now haunts me with a nasty leer;
I have a broken heart so sad with sorrow.
My soul’s afire with pain for the morrow.

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, 
Schoeningen, Germany (November 14, 2014) 
(Villanelle poetic format)

Details | Nasty Poem | |

Being Bullied

Sometimes we all say things we don’t mean
Private thoughts to be kept inside that should never be seen
Then others join to be part of the scene
They use nasty words that are meant to demean

Scared to speak for fear of ridicule
How can others be so cruel
They join in because they think its fun
Not knowing the harm they do to anyone

Social media can be fun
But to those being bullied the damage is done
‘Do it, do it, just go away’
These are the words the bullies may say

Until one day the victim they may crack
Those poisoned words can’t be taken back
Till one day they can take no more
And are found lifeless on the bedroom floor

And then those who mock and those who scorn
Turn up at the funeral of those who they now mourn
So think before another word you say
Because the bullied may not be able to face another day

Details | Nasty Poem | |

this is why i woo words

This is why I play philosophy
 on the field that lures lore,
 to gain the literati’s lovely trophy
 and the golden grains of life to explore.	

This is why I fraternize fair play
 on the pitch where wisdom wonders,
 to dichotomize shadows and sunray
 and to preach ours’ to plough and not to plunder.

This is why I write white
 on the surface that’s clean and clear
 to rid the world of nasty knight
 and to harmonize monks and men each year.

This is why I woo words 
 to have rhymes as my errand boy
and lyrics as the golden cords
around the poetry pen I will always employ.

Details | Nasty Poem | |

Wild Cherries

A giant snowball in springtime
From twenty yards out the sound and smell
Closer now; breathing her numbing scent
Listening to the drowsy hum
of greedy and jealous bees
forced to share her bounty
with Tiger and Zebra Swallowtails
School will be out soon...

Memorizing every branch within reach
Her limbs are just low enough
for a boy to scramble up quickly
fleeing imaginary monsters
still lurking and prowling below
Taking ignorant and blissful advantage
of this daughter of the wild; his protector
His big sister to run to...

Shiny and slippery black bark
that oozes burgundy sap
which dries in animal shapes
Summer twilight is coming
Bats twittering overhead
chasing nasty mosquitoes
A noise echoing from far off
A door slamming maybe...

Tucked safely away in his favorite pew
(Naughty boy, eating during church!)
sampling her forbidden fruit
sweet and sour...half is seed
Thieving Blue Jays get the most
Screaming and scolding arrogantly
yet flying away unpunished
Grannny will make jelly...

Oh everlasting Father, creator of all things
He knows that heaven is far beyond the grasp
of a feeble and fumbling mortal mind
But when You decide to send Your beloved Son
back to rule the earth for one thousand years
If he is judged worthy to be in that count
May one humble servant say if it's like this
that would be just fine...


Details | Nasty Poem | |

What's up with Santa

                                 I played a nasty joke on Santa
                                     once on Christmas Eve,
                                  I put some exlax in his milk,
                                       and he drank it clean.

                                                (hehe)

                           Now that’s one Christmas I remember,
                           Dad sat on the Lu till end of December




                              Another time we greased the roof
                                      My brother Clay and I,
                                       Hoping to catch Santa
                                      when we heard him cry.

                                                (Nothing)

                         Another Christmas I couldn’t forget soon,
                      Dads leg was in a cast, till the middle of June.




                        The next year we decided to write old Santa
                                    And apologize for our tricks,
                                   I guess old Nick squealed on us,
                                 Cause dad came with THE stick.

                                                   (Ouch)




                    I believe Santa's still mad at me and my brother Clay
               Cause he never brings our kids, presents on Christmas day.


                                              (Party pooper)


Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
11.29.2014
Contest: What’s up With Santa
G 4

Details | Nasty Poem | |

King Vlad Redux - Second Cold War

King Vlad Redux – Second Cold War

Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin’s grimy fingerprints on current history
are for him nothing to gloat about—au contraire I say emphatically:
His actions bespeak one who’s not an architect for peace—not at all,
rather a quite deceitful dictator and a harbinger of a Second Cold War.

King Vlad’s old Soviet-style actions are clear for all who care to see,
and make no mistake about it—he’s without remorse and a soul to boot.
A Master of Malarkey and an International Bamboozler Supreme, he
certainly is, with a menacing image and not one iota of conscience.

King Vlad risks a Second Cold War with his violation of international
law concerning the blatant, illegal annexation of the Crimean peninsula.
With his brand of new style Soviet adventurism on the march, the Old 
Soviet Bear has been resurrected anew—and it’s hot on the prowl again!

King Vlad’s new spirit of nationalism for Russia is not at all progressive
as evidenced by his current war on certain ethnic minorities: Jews, Tartars, 
Armenians, Gypsies—to include anyone who chooses to resist and protest
against his new age fanaticism rebranded anew in the twenty-first century.

King Vlad’s lineage to and proclivity for the old Soviet Union and its star
cast of past gangster luminaries: Lenin, Stalin, Beria, Molotov, Brezhnev, 
and Andropov—to name a few, are quite telling since they reflect the real
nature of his psyche and the tragedy he brings now to the world stage.

And lest we forget, the innocent souls of the murdered passengers from flight
MH17 in eastern Ukraine who cry out, as do their families, for justice from
the criminal thuggery and hooliganism perpetrated by King Vlad in support
of proxy groups that do his evil biddings soaked in lies, treachery, and deceit.

King Vlad takes pleasure in fulfilling a fanciful role today of the old Soviet
Bolshoi Nachalnik (Big Boss), whose historical antecedents from Soviet Big
Bosses of past fame, doesn’t augur well for future democracy in New Russia,
and doesn’t align with the precepts of good governance and human rights.

King Vlad’s treachery and deception are certainly open for everyone to see 
as he executes his plan of disrupting the balance of the current world order.
We all should be forewarned of the clouds of tyranny and aggression that
could be unleashed one day on the European continent and the world today.

King Vlad, despite very strong objections and economic sanctions imposed
by Western leaders and diplomats, understands only one word rendered so 
poignantly in the German language: die Macht (or Power), which lurks ever  
behind his public mask and psychological makeup as a former KGB officer.

King Vlad’s actions reflect his virtues of lying, denying, accusing, rejecting,
and criticizing—all poison arrows in his quiver as a Master of Prevarication.
His real mask is that of a Monster who had the very best Soviet teachers and 
wishes to tilt the axis of his New Russia on a collision course with the West.

And so Generalissimo Stalin . . . how do you like your nasty little boy now???

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (November 30, 2014)
(Narrative Quatrain)

Details | Nasty Poem | |

Burning Flesh part 1

Things begin turning around and very 
slowly they take a nasty foreboding twist
as Hell's Dragon has not breathed yet 
a deep burning fire melting red his eyes
dripping blood upon fury and destruction
pumping inside the uncontrollable fire 
equal to that of a thousand steamboats 
and only he sleeps in the dark dungeons.

Chained and suffering in utter Hellfire
chained in untold torment and anguish 
unleashed he would burn your heart no less
in a flash—while scorching all to nothingness 
fried black from the deepest ashes falling
cold silently sleeping with wings on fire and
chained to love’s weakness as the dark fables say:
Do Not Call Upon This Beast—He’s The Devil’s Own.

Hell’s Dragon stirs inside with tongues of flames
lashing with the pains of hate to strike all now
leaving hottest cinders and funeral pyres a plenty
it’s now the Devil’s very moment to unleash His Evil, 
His Demon Dragon upon the saintly and the pure
and the precious doing their good works and all
and unsuspecting of the malevolence awaiting them.  
  
The Devil enters afresh the earthly plane once more and
releases His Dragon to inflict harm and to upset
God’s celestial equation of peace, harmony, and light—
bringing death, destruction, and retribution to all in
its flight path while breathing out the harshest and
cruelest and hottest flames of fiery perfidy in the 
name of Lucifer—Himself laughing boisterously at God
all the while not knowing the coming angelic answer.

The Almighty Lord works indeed in the most mysterious 
of ways and He will not let his Fallen Angel Lucifer (or 
“The Devil” on Earth) have His way by murdering 
innocents through His Dragon proxy only too willing to
serve His Master to bring horrible hideous death to all
of mankind who fall within its flight path and intention
to inflict the most treacherous and dastardly plan of
of unmitigated death and horror ever to be unleashed. 

Continued burning flesh 2    

Liam McDaid and Gary Bateman – A Collaborated Poem, 
Copyright © All Rights Reserved (November 28, 2014)
(Free Verse poetic format)

Details | Nasty Poem | |

Pocket Pool?

A political pundit with power
stuffed dollars in his purse by the hour.
When called to court,
he said “Why not, sport?”
My daughter’s in real need of a dower.

And, while running a nasty ad game
He cried out “Why I’m not to blame!”
He did it too,
So *crew to you!
And he rose up on a tide of acclaim?



Details | Nasty Poem | |

Santa Jack

With Christmas time coming
It's time to call Jack
Sears needs a Santa
to get the Families back

They look for his number
It's no where to be found
They look in all the drawers
Managers buzzing all around

Then almost like magic
Who walks through the door
Sure enough it's Jack
no need to search anymore

His boots are all shiney
His beard white as snow
He looks like Santa's twin
His eyes even glow

Retail season is saved
The people coming in today
Will get to see Santa Jack
And put gifts on Lay Away

The children all love him
They don't give him a break
Poor Santa Jack has to go
His knees start to shake

He drops little Johny 
Jumps over some trees
Slipping on a present 
He falls down on his knees

The real Santa's watching
Down in the North Pole
A special gift for Santa Jack
This year he won't get Coal

Perhaps a red new suit
with some non slip boots
No more nasty stains
When Santa Jack gets the toots

For Carol Eastman's Christmas Contest.
I think the kids will enjoy Santa Jack.




Dedicated to my friend Jack, a jolly old soul who's never lived at the North Pole.

Details | Nasty Poem | |

King Vlad

King Vlad is anything but Democracy’s man of the hour.
Rather, à coup sûr, he’s really Stalin’s nasty little boy
who ironically parades "svoboda" and "glasnost" like 
he really means them—actually he means them not.

King Vlad’s political traditions and pronouncements 
are well-known among those who are sadly aware
of his tapestry of treachery and deceit—oh so slovenly woven
for all to see, just like some of his fellow-gangster favorites:
Lenin, Stalin, Beria, Molotov, Brezhnev, and Andropov.

King Vlad is anything but a real world leader . . .
His "Kind" are an open book for all to see and understand
what they are and what they mean for all who strive
for openness, decency, and real compassion in the
twenty-first century world order.

King Vlad—just like his Dracula name sake,
is a man without a soul, without a conscience,
who shall never shudder, wince or cry
at the piercing death rattle of a Kalashnikov.

King Vlad is truly no friend of Democracy, 
sounding even at times not unlike Hitler;
he’s a demon leader with innocent blood on his hands,
always quick with the old Soviet reply:
Lie . . . Deny . . . Accuse . . . Reject . . . Criticize . . . 
all tools of this redoubtable master of prevarication.

King Vlad should know that the Heavenly Souls 
of flight MH17 know the "bitter truth," gorkaya pravda, 
surrounding his lies, treachery, and deceit—all pejorative 
attributes to a man with the mask of a real monster who 
had the very best Soviet teachers.

And so Generalissimo Stalin . . . 
How do you like your nasty little boy now???
He’s right up your alley, right???

“Putin” has five letters just like “Devil.”

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (August 9, 2014)
(Free Verse)

Details | Nasty Poem | |

Cross-Eyed Woman -Limerick-

Cross eyed woman had a nasty fall after running into a brick wall she was hit over the head with a big loaf of bread while trying to play basketball. Copyright Cynthia Jones Sept.23/2004

Details | Nasty Poem | |

Lost

Horrid, horrid thought;
Tiny Mother reaching forth,
Reaching always to enfold,
And in enfolding just to hold.

Crying from want…and need;
Crying from loss and deed.
What to do? What to do?
I am me, and I am you?

Looking for a glint of power.
Searching, searching, hour by hour;
Love…caring…heedless heart;
No Mother were you from the start.

Crying from want…and need;
Crying from loss and deed.
What to do? What to do?
I am me and I am you?

Broken waif, soul chafed;
Battered daughter, mother’s pride;
All that’s beautiful she must hide.
All that’s soft, all that’s warm, half formed.

Crying from want…and need;
Crying from loss and undone deed.
What can I do? What can YOU do?
I am me, and you are you?

Crushed like flower pedals in a fist,
Flung haphazardly in the mist.
Nasty, sour, bitter lost;
She was forced. We are forced.

Is all lost?


Date 10/12/2008

Details | Nasty Poem | |

i am so bright my mother calls me sun

the sun is mean here
it’s too bright
and i don’t mean smart

it shines in my eyes
i have to wear dark glasses just to drive
yesterday it burned my skin

but today i am ready
i’m wearing lotion 
spf one thousand

if that doesn’t work
i’m wearing my long underwear
of course the sun will make me sweat
it is a nasty vengeful sun
i’ll be all wet

i am going to wear it down
that’s the wrong spelling of wear isn’t it?
with all this heat i can’t think 
sun stroke maybe

i'm fed up i am going to get rid of it
i'll look mean 
scare it down
i'll make it go away

oh my goodness
it’s working finally 
the sun is leaving
the sun is gone 
hurray

oh no
i can't believe it
look 
the sun
it just mooned me.

Details | Nasty Poem | |

POSSUM JUGGLING

POSSUM JUGGLING  
  Written By the Poets Listed After The Poem.  
  
Possum juggling is a trick conjuring sport.  
You should never do it if your arms are short.  
Nasty teeth are gnashing as they're tossed in air.  
The juggling of possums requires flair.  
Full-grown possum are very massive fellows.
Their bulk when lifted, like handling jell-o.  
They are so at ease as they fly through the trees.  
Are you ever so tall?  Fight them on your knees! 
Though cuddly and soft, please never be smitten.  
Asleep they appear, in a flash you're bitten.  
Upon one look, so UN-cute the ragged claw!  
Surely reminds me of my mother in-law.  
In my compost bin found this fury creature.  
Pointed nose, stinky as my English teacher-  
For that part which sticks out of the can at dark.  
Not a pretty site though pink, duck. It’s a fart!  
Quickly grab his leg and throw him really high 
Let the little blaster soar into the sky! 
Be quick, juggler, Granny Clampett is waiting 
It's possum stew she hopes to be creating 
Wait, I forgot! My arms are too short for this.
Now on my face sprinkles a souring mist.
The moral of this story, surely you see!
Never juggle opossums! Just let them be… 

Contributed Poets (in alphabetical order)  
Charma Chircop, Austin Daver, Carolyn Devonshire,  James Frazer, Robin Gass, James M. 
Goff, Raul Moreno, John Robbins, James Peranteau, Dane Smith-Johnsen,

Details | Nasty Poem | |

Nasty girl

   There you go again doing things that you are not suppose to be in and then you look at 
me like oh i'm so sweet if you only knew I can be a freak without showing it. Here they 
go listening to the rumors but i'm your friend so in the end I know that they are true. 
How could you do that with him and her and they were on the ground you were pretending to 
pick up gum? You need to be safe, making out with strangers girl I aint no saint but god 
what are you doing? I don't want to see you years from now telling me you got aids, I 
worry about you and I feel like your special so I even wrote about you come on look how 
much you mean to me. You like him I get it but how many other guys have you liked in the 
past. He's your only, he's a phony make sure he's not just in it for the prize because 
girl you never know some guys are. It's the truth and you need to listen, I don't mean to 
sound bossy but soon enough your name is going to be posted on all the bathrooms walls. 
Telling things that you haven't even done yet. But you will front about it, Lie again. 
Telling everyone it's happened how do we know what's real or fake. I love your 
personality I wish I could steal it, Your loud, and flirty, daring and smart girl you got 
too much heart to be showing it to everyone who wants a sip. this is for all the nasty 
girls out there who think I don't know what i'm saying just ask anyone of them who are 
dead now or are on the streets prostitiuting. Don't be afraid to be a freak it's healthy 
but sometimes it's better when it's secret closet freaks have more fun.

Details | Nasty Poem | |

Eating with bigfoot

My baking skills I have to change
Vast quantity is needed now
Cos I invited Bigfoot to lunch
Do I serve deer or a tasty cow

He doesn't want meat and two veg
His menu would want meat and nuts
For a whole deer he will surely beg
Must have protein and carbohydrates 

A nut roast to accompany his steer
Meat like a hog roast is cooking fine
Hmm nasty smell I think he is near
I hope he realises some of its mine

He squats his frame against a tree
Looks over to where I am
Geez I think he fancies eating me
Licking his lips causes me alarm.

But all is well he has spied
Lurking in a tree above
A grey squirrel looking boss-eyed
At big foot with a look of love

Down it comes and sit's quite near
Espying of the fruit and nuts
It doesn't eat cow or deer
I will high 5 this squirrel cos it has guts.

So all is well Bigfoot eats with glee
Most of the deer and nuts as well
Managed to leave a bit for me
Then up he leaves, left this story to tell.


Penned 17 April 2015 by Seren Roberts











Details | Nasty Poem | |

Psyched Out

He stares at her picture, 
the night dark in his room,
his hands are shaking, 
hes phyced out, unsure what to do,
he thinks, what if he looses her,
and looses that adoring, happy look on her face,
his heart stops, he cant loose her embrace,
the tears fall from his fragile eyes,
they wont stop no matter how he tries,
they splatter on the memories,
she's in his heart, like words carved in emory...

she breathes his smell in through cloth,
his jacket held to her face, pressed over her heart,
her mind slips into the night,
the dancing thoughts have a nasty bite,
what will she do, if he goes away,
if she looses him, the thought makes her sway,
the tears spill down her cheeks,
shes crying so hard she cant even speak,
the thoughts in her mind remain so haunting,
shes phyced out, theres no way she can stop,
with every tear that falls her heart unlocks,
he's in her heart, like words carved in rock...