Best Brothels Poems
Pinhead Lizard
Ever since he was a young boy
He played with balls of fire
From church halls to Soho brothels
He must have had them all
Aint seen nothing like this pinhead
In any amusement hall
That deaf, dumb and dumber kid
Sure plays a mean ol shtick
He weeps at mother Mary’s feet
Becomes part of the molesting dream
Feeling proud at his insulting whit
This Pinhead lizard
Sure is a wee wee twit
The gods looks down in smite and anger
That deaf, dumb and dumber kid
Sure plays a mean mean shtick
He’s a pinhead lizard
Maybe he’s drunk and very pissed
That pinhead lizard sure has a mean twist
How do you think he justifies
God sure hasn’t got a clue
What makes him an evil lizard?
Should have made him into a shoe
Aint got no education
Can’t bear the voices of reason
Don’t see no lights bulbs in that ones head
Makes no sense, but tosses insults like stale bread
He thought he was the charmer
He’s just a pinhead lizard with no crown
Ever since he was young boy
That lizard never grew up
He defames Jesus and preaches
Are all the lizards this lame?
He has his flip flop slippers
No wonder he always falls
Never failing to de-fame
He’s a pinhead lizard
Maybe he’s drunk and very pissed
That pinhead lizard sure has a mean mean twist
Written Sep 14, 2001 Parody on the song Pinball Wizard and a video game at the time!
For thoose of you who may not know.
Just call me gonzo I write the absurd for life is insane and sometimes
it takes a madman to speak the truth so very clear.
I write for the broken vacant faces that have lost all hope.
To the dreamer who's well is slowley running dry from everyone
telling him to stop wasting his time.
I write like a endless highway fueled by whiskey and wild women
every adventure leads to pain but life is pain and i love in spite of it.
I thirst for every unseen mile the desert my brother it's people dwell
in the spirt of the west the opium parlors and brothels spirt still linger.
I write with a hint of danger and a promise of disaster.
Im a blues player whos trying to out run the devil.
Im a outlaw riding to cross the border a woman looking to the
empty range for my return.
I write because I breath in a world were the creative air has gone
stale.
The bottle sits apon table and I welcome any strangers company
I just rather that stranger be a warm woman instead of a
unfriendly amigo who is a little jelouse.
Write to be more than just part of the highways landscape.
Some may call me crude crazy insane some even vulgar and
liar and thief.
But aside from thoose compliments.
No matter what you may call me.
Dont ever forget to just call me gonzo.
Disenchanted with ennui,
I want to my earth
To meet the sky,
To catch a falling star
Outside a ‘Monday thru Friday’
‘Nine to Five’ job,
But traffic on the eight eighty
Enshackles me in the tapestries of my mind.
Amnesia walks me through corridors of lice
Armed with coffee cups, the stock market on the radio,
I have lost all with my nasdaq fall
Into bars and brothels of dubious repute,
All is carnal after all.
Entrapment with Chopin on the alarm clock,
Donuts oozing with cream, wiped away with a napkin,
How do I get away from Tchaikovsky at night?
As the older whores at last snore,
I light a cigarette and lean out my window
To wail a poem, catch a falling star.
It started with an apple in paradise or was it a date they consumed
Had they kept their clothes off laundry day would have been easier
The smell of seduction and no fake news
Honestly who cares whether it was pure sex or sweet requited love
Darwin had his way and they followed a journey to un-heavenly bliss
Candied peel from a fruit of nibbling temptation
It was a Saturday and procreation their Christian duty to comply
With the rule of nature to mix seeds in fertile pastures of joy
Russian roulette from a gene pool of ancestral relief
I hear you say its the parents’ fault that happiness mutated
Into a warm gun with too many bullets to the beat of a drum
Golden delicious pipped kernels for conquest
Peaceniks taken to task for one simple innocent transgression
A nudist colony abandoned in the name of belligerent arrows
Collateral damage and indiscriminate targets
The story stemmed from every one begetting each other’s brethren
Breathless cohabitation under the watch of place time and poppies
Fig leaves of duty and denuded trees
Kalashnikovs draped on the snake’s slithering sleaze and corruption
Corporates bonking for virginity and testimony of final selection
Dripping deceit like custard on rotten flesh
Under a mushroom cloud hell fire dispenses irrefutable evidence
That the emperor’s garments are ragged down to a lice infested core
Adam and Eve seek asylum in a mental ward
Bedlam bound in shackles to the jester’s snide mocking applause
Psychotropic injections to remedy catatonic results of one violation
Rape pillage and plunder and Satan as a voyeur
Field brothels and comfort women un-sheath prickly pears in disguise
Persimmon dishes out passion steeled in sharp blades of the paring knife
And so we choke on what should have been celestial food
Pious and devoted to whipped cream and second helpings of anger
We feed on desolate fields and irrigate fear suffocation and slaughter
Eves of destruction and her toy boy sheds venom and pain
25th January 2020
He learned the trade of punchin' cows
An' silence of the men
He was alone but so were they
Not like it was back then
Not like the days of sweepin' floors
In brothels and the bars
An orphan lookin' for a meal
An' washin' whisky jars
Now he crossed the plains wide and free
An' saw the mountains rise
It was almost, almost enough
'Til he recalled her eyes
She'd been sixteen an' so had he
They didn't know 'bout love
So they held hands an' talked all night
An' counted stars above
Then she was gone, just slipped away
An' he was punchin' cows
He had the world to call his own
With all the heres an' nows
An' so he looked at all the world
An' marveled at its size
It was almost, almost enough
'Til he recalled her eyes
10-16-20
Contest: Have You Published
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Poem from the book
"Almost Enough, Cowboy and Western Poetry" April 6, 2010
Amazon Publishers, ISBN 9781519762481
Brothels have closed now what?
Does anybody care?
Did anybody think about the hapless women living there
What about them?
What will they do now for two square meals a day?
Many saddled with children
Can they go back home?
Will their families and society accept them
That too with their children?
Will anybody give them a job?
For some it maybe a great relief
But even they
Where will they go back is the question
Most of them uneducated
Inducted into this trade while young
Whole life lays in front of them
Many have only one option-
To die
Along with their children.
19th February 2021
Enemies of the peace
Are not consecrating the life
Tampering with the nature
Crucifying the childhood
On the sidewalks
Burying the chastity
In the brothels
Killing the light
Before coming the dark
Enemies of the peace
Adoring the wars
Kissing the poverty
Dreaming with the famines
Clapping for catastrophes
Destroying everything
Schools
Hospitals
Synagogues
Churches
Mosques
Temples
Enemies of the peace
They want to uproot feelings
To extinguish the flaming longing
In the hearts
And burn the growing yearning
In depths of humans
Enemies of the peace
Robbing the dreams
Jailing the tears
Deforming the colors
Crushing the flowers
Turning off the hope
Enemies of the peace
Not knowing the love
Not appreciating the values
Not believing in the peace .....................
Hills crowd close yonder,
My cries echo back & forth-
Th' void in my heart.
Blameless Sunday night,
Punished nonetheless: by your
Selfish Monday gloom.
Love does not live here,
Not anymore; ever since
We became brothels.
GOTHAM
The brothels are terrible in Gotham City
and do little excuses
no one is safe from a bite
there in the shadows where the bodies are dried
from morning until evening, and where three channels in black and white and a touch of reality is structured
-Gotham-
There are four patriarchal figures making waves
and gigantic shadows behind them
dormant in the darkness
and where I see the Patriot Village
who believe blindly in what they say news
the repeating word for word what he believes is true
there in the corner surreptitious
-Gotham-
This is the sunset in Gotham city
a small town
those who are the least damaged in times of crisis
Ay! my Gotham
Welcome to Gotham
if you want to run away if you want to mourn
DEATH'S SHADOW!
Death has a shadow of an effervescent wall.
A whore is defined but to never exist in the world.
This child is of spirit and soul but death’s shadow savors her.
A girl lies in her resting place,
To sleep and dream up beautiful images.
Where the darkness is light relishes.
Brothels of men appear.
She is only four years point six months old.
Prophecies begin to unfold.
Was she the chosen one?
She does not enjoy what has formed.
She runs into her mother’s room.
Highly favored, she is consoled.
She is held closely until she falls asleep.
Her mother tucks her in.
Phantasm is this girl transition into her spiritual orbs.
She sees each body normal with her bare eyes.
She does not ogle.
Through fear, she embraces slumber.
Dynamism will be known.
Death’s shadow is unveiled.
\___________\______________/
Penned on December 06, 2014!
Crumble
brothels sprout
flesh peddlers collect their fees
selling daughters
in twos and threes
Lopez or Diaz
lazy or defiant
escaped
in polluted lagoons
the virus spreads
Dancing with the dead
priests absolve the devils
in their mist
Pilar sold her virginity
for a few bars of gold
wrapped in an old ladies hatred
she murdered her vows
Mexico is a land of smiles
the knife only glints
in the Aztec sun
as they bury you
after eating your heart
Of all the minin' camps in old Colorady, the town of Tin Cup was truly,
With all its gamblin' halls, brothels and sleazy saloons the most unruly!
'Tis said that Jim Taylor dipped his tin cup in the 'crick' to take a sip,
And found gold in the bottom of his cup even before liftin' it to his lip!
The rush was on and in 1880 the rowdy town of Virginia City sprung up!
In 1882, assorted drunks and ne'er-do-wells insisted on namin' it Tin Cup!
Stakes were claimed, shovels flew and ore was packed out to railheads.
Men who worked in 'ore houses' were the butt of jokes by facetious heads!
By 1881 there were 6000 denizens and over twenty saloons in the town.
Gamblers met at Frenchy's Place and they controlled ever'thing aroun'!
Marshals were told, "see, hear and do nothin' or yer first arrest will be yer last!"
One quit, two were fired, three were shot, one went insane leavin' the town aghast!
For those who died gloriously or otherwise from flamin' guns and billowin' smoke,
Boot Hill Cemetery was established south of town to plant many a hapless bloke!
Raucous prospectors spent their 'dust' on booze and 'soiled doves' in their cribs.
Others got uproariously drunk and awoke with busted heads and shattered ribs!
In its heyday, Tin Cup produced millions of dollars in choice Rocky Mountain gold.
The last mine, the Gold Cup, closed in 1917 spellin' disaster and the town did fold.
Alas, today 'tis a ghost town with curious tourists and sagebrush driftin' about.
The ripplin' streams teem, not with gold nuggets, but with fightin' rainbow trout!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
If heaven is a rest for the imbeciles,
the banes of hell my portion must be.
If cloud nine is a bordello,
and the streets of gold are carved along the red-light-district,
then god must be a panderer.
Am I not already rewarded?
My woman is: an orange, perfect in the sun;
a watermelon, succulent;
a mango with sweet nectar;
a passion fruit, freshly plucked.
One woman is ecstasy,
two is hell’s gate.
A saphead is a glutton for pure virgins.
Lives foolishly forfeit for peculiar sayings.
Let not this bird fly,
for the two that is promised?
When god became a sexist,
it came to pass that man recreate himself, a lunatic,
and the woman he objectified became the dominant sex.
Covet not the splendor of paradise,
where the mansions in my father’s house are brothels
perfumed with the scent of intercourse.
A gift of seventy-two maidens
is an everlasting punishment.
To the one who searches for
any available pleasure here and now
She makes herself available
even if the brothels had to close
~
The wages were usually enough for a living
she does not neglect the church
- the hymnal was on the dresser
places where sexuality is expressed, without taboo
Power and submission
The female body _
an object of masculine desire
A crack of self-loathing
camouflaged well
The despair and the fear
by threat or risk
~
When the brothel is closed
the women ends up on the street
Violence against prostitutes is increasing
they become defenseless
Body will always sell
Prostitution _
is the world's oldest profession,
and it will never crumble away
The window of the soul is misted by tears
Although things do not changes for a tear
16/02/2021
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
They Closed The Brothel Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
6th place in the contest
She sells love for peace
The Saint Of The Brothels
Is your sister Kong Ming