Best Famous Snips Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Snips poems. This is a select list of the best famous Snips poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Snips poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of snips poems.

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• All Famous Snips Poems

Written by Maggie Estep | Bad Day At The Beauty Salon I was a 20 year old unemployed receptionist with dyed orange dreadlocks sprouting out of my skull. I needed a job, but first, I needed a haircut. So I head for this beauty salon on Avenue B. I'm gonna get a hairdo. I'm gonna look just like those hot Spanish haircut models, become brown and bodacious, grow some 7 inch fingernails painted ***** red and rake them down the chalkboard of the job market's soul. So I go in the beauty salon. This beautiful Puerto Rican girl in tight white spandex and a push-up bra sits me down and starts chopping my hair: "Girlfriend," she says, "what the hell you got growing outta your head there, what is that, hair implants? Yuck, you want me to touch that ****, whadya got in there, sandwiches?" I just go: "I'm sorry. " She starts snipping my carefully cultivated Johnny Lydon post-Pistols hairdo. My foul little dreadlocks are flying around all over the place but I'm not looking in the mirror cause I just don't want to know. "So what's your name anyway?" My stylist demands then. "Uh, Maggie. " "Maggie? Well, that's an okay name, but my name is Suzy. " "Yeah, so?" "Yeah so it ain't just Suzy S. U. Z. Y, I spell it S. U. Z. E. E, the extra "e" is for extra Suzee. " I nod emphatically. Suzee tells me when she's not busy chopping hair, she works as an exotic dancer at night to support her boyfriend named Rocco. Suzee loves Rocco, she loves him so much she's got her eyes closed as she describes him: "6 foot 2, 193 pounds and, girlfriend, his arms so big and long they wrap around me twice like I'm a little Suzee sandwich. " Little Suzee Sandwich is rapt, she blindly snips and clips at my poor punk head. She snips and clips and snips and clips, she pauses, I look in the mirror: "Holy ****, I'm bald. " "Holy ****, baby, you're bald. " Suzee says, finally opening her eyes and then gasping. All I've got left is little post-nuke clumps of orange fuzz. And I'll never get a receptionist job now. But Suzy waves her manicured finger in my face: "Don't you worry, baby, I'm gonna get you a job at the dancing club. " "What?" "Baby, let me tell you, the boys are gonna like a bald go go dancer. " That said, she whips out some clippers, shaves my head smooth and insists I'm gonna love getting naked for a living. None of this sounds like my idea of a good time, but I'm broke and I'm bald so I go home and get my best panties. Suzee lends me some 6 inch pumps, paints my lips bright red, and gives me 7 shots of Jack Daniels to relax me. 8pm that night I take the stage. I'm bald, I'm drunk, and by god, I'm naked. HOLY **** I'M NAKED IN A ROOM FULL OF STRANGERS THIS IS NOT ONE OF THOSE RECURRING NIGHTMARES WE ALL HAVE ABOUT BEING BUTT NAKED IN PUBLIC, I AM NAKED, I DON'T KNOW THESE PEOPLE, THIS REALLY SUCKS. A few guys feel sorry for me and risk getting their hands bitten off by sticking dollars in my garter belt. My disheveled pubic hairs stand at full attention, ready to poke the guys' eyes out if they get too close. Then I notice this bald guy in the audience, I've got a new empathy for bald people, I figure maybe it works both ways, maybe this guy will stick 10 bucks in my garter. I saunter over. I'm teetering around unrhythmically, I'm the surliest, unsexiest dancer that ever go-go across this hemisphere. The bald guy looks down into his beer, he'd much rather look at that than at my pubic mound which has now formed into one vicious spike so it looks like I've got a unicorn in my crotch. I stand there weaving through the air. The strobe light is illuminating my pubic unicorn. Madonna's song Borderline is pumping through the club's speaker system for the 5th time tonight: "BORDERLINE BORDERLINE BORDERLINE/LOVE ME TIL I JUST CAN'T SEE. " And suddenly, I start to wonder: What does that mean anyway? "LOVE ME TIL I JUST CAN'T SEE" What? Screw me so much my eyes pop out, I go blind, end up walking down 2nd Avenue crazy, horny, naked and blind? What? There's a glitch in the tape and it starts to skip. "Borderl. . . ooop. . . . . Borderl. . . . ooop. . . Borderlin. . . . . ooop" I stumble and twist my ankle. My g-string rides between my buttcheeks making me twitch with pain. My head starts spinning, my knees wobble, I go down on all fours and puke all over the bald guy's lap. So there I am. Butt naked on all fours. But before I have time to regain my composure, the strip club manager comes over, points his smarmy strip club manager finger at me and goes: "You're bald, you're drunk, you can't dance and you're fired. " I stand up. "Oh yeah, well you stink like a sneaker, pal. " I peel off one of my pumps and throw it in the direction of his fat head then I get the hell out of there. A few days later I run into Suzee on Avenue A. Turns out she got fired for getting me a job there in the first place. But she was completely undaunted, she dragged me up to this wig store on 14th Street, bought me a mouse brown shag wig, then got us both telemarketing jobs on Wall Street. And I never went to a beauty salon again.

Written by Barry Tebb | IN HARM'S WAY I was never a film buff, give me Widmark and Wayne any day Saturday matin?es with Margaret Gardener still hold sway As my memory veers backwards this temperate Boxing Day- Westerns and war films and a blurred Maigret, Coupled with a worn-out sixties Penguin Mallarm?- How about that mix for a character trait? Try as I may I can’t get my head round the manifold virtues Of Geraldine Monk or either Riley Poetry has to have a meaning, not just patterns on a page, Vertical words and snips of scores just make me rage. Is Thom Gunn really the age-old sleaze-weasel Andrew Duncan says? Is Tim Allen right to give Geraldine Monk an eleven page review? At least they care for poetry to give their lives to it As we do, too. My syntax far from perfect, my writing illegible But somehow I’ll get through, Bloodaxe and Carcourt May jeer but an Indian printer’s busy with my ‘Collected’ And, Calcutta typesetters permitting, it will be out this year With the red gold script of sari cloth on the spine And **** those dusty grey contemporary voices Those verses will be mine. Haslam’s a whole lot better but touchy as a prima donna And couldn’t take it when I said he’d be a whole lot better If he’d unloose his affects and let them scatter I’m envious of his habitat, The Haworth Moors Living there should be the inspiration of my old age But being monophobic I can’t face the isolation Or persuade my passionate friend to join me. What urban experiences can improve Upon a cottage life with my own muse!

Written by Rg Gregory | the adventures (from frederick and the enchantress – dance drama) (i) introduction his home in ruins his parents gone frederick seeks to reclaim his throne to the golden mountain he sets his path the enchantress listening schemes with wrath four desperate trials which she takes from store to silence frederick for ever more (ii) the mist softly mist suppress all sight swirling stealthily as night slur the sureness of his steps suffocate his sweetest hopes swirling curling slip and slide persuasively seduce his stride from following its essential course seal his senses at its source bemuse the soil he stands upon till power of choice has wholly gone seething surreptitious veil across the face of light prevail against this taciturn and proud insurgent - o smother him swift cloud yet if you cannot steal his breath thus snuffing him to hasty death at least in your umbrageous mask stifle his ambitious task mystify his restless brain sweep him swirl him home again (iii) the bog once more the muffling mists enclose frederick in their vaporous throes forcing him with unseeing sway to veer from his intended way back they push and back make him fall stumble catch his foot become emmired snatch hopelessly at fog no grip slip further back into the sucking fingers of the bog into the slush squelching and splotch- ing the marsh gushes and gurgles engulfing foot leg chuckling suckles the heaving thigh the plush slugged waist sucking still and still flushing with suggestive slurp plop slap sluggishly upwards unctuous lugubrious soaking and enjoying with spongy gestures the swallowed wallowing body - the succulence of soft shoulder squirming elbow wrist then all. . . . . . . but no his desperate palm struggling to forsake the clutches of the swamp finds one stark branch overhanging to fix glad fingers to and out of the maw of the murderous mud safely delivers him (iv) the magic forest safely - distorted joke from bog to twisted forest gnarled trees writhe and fork asphixiated trunks - angular branches hook claw throttle frederick in their creaking joints jagged weird knotted and misshapen petrified maniacal figures frantically contorted grotesque eccentric in the moon-toothed half-light tug clutch struggle with the haggard form zigzag he staggers awe-plagued giddy near-garrotted mind-deranged forcing his sagging limbs through the mangled danger till almost beyond redemption beyond self-care he once again survives to breathe free air (v) the barrier of thorns immediately a barrier of thorns springs up to choke his track thick brier evil bramble twitch stick sharp needles in his skin hag's spite inflicts its bitter sting frederick (provoked to attack stung stabbed by jabbing spines wincing with agony and grief) seeks to hack a clear way through picking swinging at the spiky barricade inch by prickly inch smarting with anger bristling with a thin itch and tingling of success - acute with aching glory the afflicted victim of a witch's pique frederick frederick the king snips hews chops rips slashes cracks cleaves rends pierces pierces and shatters into pointless pieces this mighty barrier of barbs - comes through at last (belzivetta's malignant magic smashed) to freedom peace of mind and dreamless sleep

Written by Carl Sandburg | Death Snips Proud Men DEATH is stronger than all the governments because the governments are men and men die and then death laughs: Now you see ’em, now you don’t. Death is stronger than all proud men and so death snips proud men on the nose, throws a pair of dice and says: Read ’em and weep. Death sends a radiogram every day: When I want you I’ll drop in—and then one day he comes with a master-key and lets himself in and says: We’ll go now. Death is a nurse mother with big arms: ’Twon’t hurt you at all; it’s your time now; you just need a long sleep, child; what have you had anyhow better than sleep?