Best Playboys Poems
With no toilet seats carelessly left propped up
Oh, now I can be such a comfortable pup
Please take your Playboys straight out that open door
Then shut it quickly; I can take no more!
Be gone with you, take all your shoes
Your hairspray, make-up and your girly blues
Three weeks of the month you loved me fair
For the other week, I lived in fear
MY shoes? Why you foul beast! Your odor eaters
Didn't work! Your smelly boots rest in sewers
Where they belong with that greasy hair goo
That left ugly stains on pink pillows once new
Your pants were too tight, I couldn't get them off
I can now wear my own; no longer you'll scoff
And as for your cooking my health has improved
Your name on the rent book, phew! finally removed
The credit card tab from your pub is gone now, too
That hussy barmaid can deliver it to you
And your shavings that clogged up my bathroom sink
Will be mailed to your mistress fast as you can blink
At least she knew how to look after a man
In bed with you was like a flash in the pan
At least barmaid Betty purred when this Highlander taunted
She was sensuous, delectable and she knew what she wanted
I'll remember you most when viewing pond scum
You sure were a loathsome son of a gun
I'm leaving this pit, too, so what the heck?
I'll send a new address for the alimony check
You'll get your money like you earned it before
Dancing naked on the pole in the floor
I took you in, clothed, cared and fed
But it wasn't me that was in your bed
chieftains trade their loyalty behind the clouds
high mountain king Carrantouhil commanding his Macgillycuddy Reeks
men of begotten rank, scheming skulduggery
secrets hide out of sight, Comeragh mystery shrouds Coumshingaun
flighty earls flee from the Lough Swilly shore
priests conspire, a king, a queen, a lord-protectorate exact revenge
imported evil stalks the land and soul of Ireland
near-on half give way, massacre, starvation, transportation and slavery
annexation by stealth, abomination
exposed Shannon artery, remorseless draining through lakes of tears
solidified karst corpses dissolving
into central mireland, ringed by coastal ramparts and remnant towers
turloughs disappear where the ground is leaking
playboys drink from black frothy pools of humour where the craic is good
where sad refrain gives way to rhythmic distraction
where song, stories, poetry, plays and dance merge in murky island brews
native chiefs are stripped of their Ulster lands
to control, anglicise and civilise a rebellious region
the area most resistant to English rule
official and private plantation, top to bottom colonisation
Gaelic hands across the channel disrupted
Scottish and English incomers, presbyterian and church of England
town and country, protestant domination
Irishmen uniting for briefest moments on higher ground
descent into cold depths of history
the Cliffs of Moher plunging from The Burren's bald barren bleakness
disfigured fingers pointing blame, shame and guilt
like the peninsular lands, Beara to Iveragh, Mizen to Dingle
stretching out to a new land of migrating hope
escaping hunger and abuse of long-robed men and women
the stifling heavy hand of implanted culture
two main layers of tradition now overlaying an unfathomable past
I hate the way romance is lost
on the societies of today;
The ripple effect is a greater cost,
for love becomes a mere game to play.
No more flowers and dates,
just ice-cream and kisses;
No more endless debates,
just morning texts and late wishes.
The concept of courtship is re-defined,
and friendship boundaries blur;
To loyalty, common eyes are blind,
and yet hearts still claim intentions are pure.
What happened to the gentlemen who held the doors?
And the ladies that blushed at a glance?
From where comes the existence of playboys and whores?
People gambling with feelings and chance?
The world is so de-sensitised,
for this is now the norm;
Anything deeper becomes emphasised,
and stands out, for it doesn’t conform.
Old-fashioned is the given word,
for those who choose to wait;
Outrages stories become heard,
one-night stands to end a date.
Well, I won’t fall for cheap pick-up lines,
give me love letters to keep over time;
And I’m more drawn to the Shakespeare’s and Einstein’s,
than I am to the food-stains and grime.
I would find more joy in silence and holding hands,
than in empty kisses and meaningless words;
And better than a dinner worth hundreds of rands,
is a picnic outside, with the birds.
I’d rather gaze upon the stars at night,
and know my love is true;
Than dance in clubs till morning light,
and fear regret for what I might do.
A warning to those who look my way,
my heart will not be torn;
and if you’re looking for daisies, then walk away;
I’m a rose, do not bring out my thorn.
Originally a Russian someone else's poem I translated
I’m doing great and thanks a lot for asking.
Melancholy's groundless in my case,
The loneliness I feel results from faces ‘round;
For apathy, one man to blame – myself.
I weighted every ounce and every pound,
I’m nauseous now, I pondered every plan.
What’s haunting me is like some tiny nails
of losses, errors driven into me.
No more ‘playboys’, enough of ‘lady killers’
who paint the town, prodigally, red.
What price to pay for simply being happy?
To end the life to which I had been led?
Assume it’s not unheard of to be erring,
to foul things up with no intention to,
to laugh my head off when I’m feeling like it,
to know I’m right and, off the hip, to shoot.
I must believe the Happy End is near,
forget the plans and hazard for a bliss
by reaching up for stars to get my own,
A happy life’s the greatest thing there is.
Sun-faded cardboard photographs
of 1970’s hairstyles
were tacked to
the brown paneled walls.
His counter was cluttered with
the shiny tools of his trade,
a chipped glass bowl
laden with lollypops,
and a jar of combs
in blue liquid.
National Geographic,
Sports Illustrated,
and Life
were spread out
like Chinese fans
on the coffee table.
On the shelf,
above the coat hooks with
forgotten umbrellas
and orphaned scarves,
and smelling faintly of cigarettes
and of mystery,
lay a stack of glossy Playboys.
I was tall enough,
but not brave enough,
and that brass ring
was never grabbed.
I sat in Gino’s cold
metal and pleather chair
and thought about
warm flesh and silky hair.
I pictured a model
on a bearskin rug
in front of a crackling fire,
clutching a champagne flute,
or a long-stemmed rose,
or another pointless prop.
Images cavorted as
Gino’s quick hands
floated around
my teenaged head
and his silver
and snipping scissors
danced the Barber’s Waltz.
Comb, snip, snip
comb, snip, snip.
Puckered red lips
blew kisses and
high heels clicked
through my head
between clouds of talcum
and splashes of hair tonic.
I hear their idle chatter and wish that sound was optional.
A box checked in a menu, a simple click and forget.
The rapid dilation of my pupils brings me back.
Back to hypnotic aisles of temptation and necessity. A selection of the finest they say.
Right there see, on the cardboard, next to charts and columns of calories and strange
numbers I’d sooner forget.
But buy one get one free still gets me every time.
I stare intently at the dancing numbers until the man with the tie moves away.
Glossy pages shine brighter than the fruit racks they mirror,
Competing for importance in my wallet and my life
The magpie wins and the bananas will wait.
Half the magazines hawk five a day in rounded sans serif, bold against the background of a
chef’s haircut.
Maxims of bizarre cosmopolitan playboys and hustlers marked up at 3.99. Landscapes of
polished flesh glow beneath the loving airbrush of the paycheck. Competing for nuts at the
zoo.
A vanity fair for the hollow, shining in the fading light of a red top sunset.
Paraphrased blogs and condensed morsels of crude celebrity nudes for the I-Generation and
the remnants of New Labour and Thatcher’s Britain.
Anglers, caravans and 50 cent, half the demographic, half the price. Count me out.
I finger a few and find no real desire. The Internet offers this bilge up for free.
They’d all be nude and crapping on each other.
The great silicon toilet of humanity
Past freezers of long dead prisoners, pulped to perfection. Pigs in tubes and flat cow
concoctions.
Pancakes of vomit and fish dishes I won’t ever try. No time for it.
Frankenstein's monster behind glass slides.
Packets of sugar in various disguises. Cereal and chocolate, soft drinks and sauce dips.
Lattes and ladles, loofahs and loaves. The prattle returns through the shelving
I turn around the curries and there is the tie. Talking sport and hard drinking, women and
the weather. Looks me in the eye.
I turn before any interaction and feign interest in something, a scouring pad. Intricately
woven metal coils waste major concentration and he’s gone. Box checked, minimize and move on.
Everything shines in this weird three-quarter light, hypnotic. Confusing. Conscious of the
bottles ahead that I can’t ever touch. Seedy and appealing, puerile and appalling.
Something for everyone.
And nothing for me.
I had a cat that marked his territory right
into our TV – fried the whole thing
But I will not graffiti my alleyways with
crude phalli,
Spewing armchair warrior slogans across the concrete
My best friend growing up was a real whore,
in the kiss-and-tell sort of way
A real ladies’ man... He was a real bastard,
I’ll tell you that
But I will not line the walls of my den with
taxidermied lovers
Nor will I cage my dove for fear of a hawk.
Does the absence of glimmering swords
Take away from the radiance of her smile?
And what good are these powerful minarets,
Without the sweet, sweet song that echoes across them?
I have not fallen in love with a fish in a
bucket.
I have not fallen in love with a fish in a
bucket that will dart away
Never to be seen, if she ever touches the
sea again...
Which raises the question: why the bucket?
I have no interest in the bucket.
I have no interest in being the fisherman.
I bait no hooks and reel no lines.
I would much rather be a sea horse.
We can all learn a thing or two from the sea
horse.
So enough with this nonsense of honor and
chivalry
Enough of this predefined manliness and
rhetorical dick-waving
Enough of cages and lures and foxes in the
chicken coop
I see a lioness and her fawn under acacia
shadows
While my thirty-something year-old
compatriot playboys
Are on the prowl for pretty young things in
search of a fantasy
Wearing cravates of woven chest hair resting
over shirts not quite buttoned,
With Ralph the Polo Player getting bigger
and bigger
I have no fur coats, and I won’t sport any swag
I have no car horn to honk at your skirts,
No sly comments to mutter as you pass
No scarves to force around your heads
No honor to vest in your purity
I have only my faith in love
And whatever flaws that may bring
So what is it then,
to be a man?
Pretty smile, sincere eyes.
An honest voice that told no lies.
Likeable one from every sense,
Pure beauty’s true essence.
An Angel’s face, that was you
Before your cohorts turned you blue.
Today your brows, two lines drawn down,
Reminiscent of a circus clown,
Tell sad tales about your fall
From Angels’ grace, two steps from sheol.
A piece of cake, the playboys’ toy,
The MDs buy from you their joy.
A feather in the wind, you know no rest,
They work you hard then beat their chest.
Your aura fades, your beauty wanes,
Beneath your laugh I hear your pains.
Teary eyed, I watch you waste,
Each passing day losing your taste.
I saw you float in scanty wear,
A mere shadow of who you were.
Alabaster staircase framing chandeliers
Picassos, Renoirs, Van Goghs lining the walls
Marble floors, dazzling in the starlight
Polished perfection staging the Night
Dainties, delicacies, tray after tray
Sweetmeats, exotic fruits, more on the way
Debonair men in their tuxes emerge from limousines
Women goddesses wear sequined gowns, leggy queens
Playboys, playgirls of the Riviera making the scene
Jealousy left wondering what it all means
To want something strongly felt
is to admit how the fire is burning...
until it suddenly explodes inside;
and if it leaves one hanging,
express it without thinking twice:
could it always remain silent?
From one lover to another
my enthusiasm has turned sour,
not showing my charm to smother,
to deceit and have fun;
I fed my ego of mad fool,
taking all and breaking every rule...
while my true intention
wasn't to be faithful to only one!
I hate this refrain sung to me,
" Silly, silly man this is hilarious,
a satire is not written for someone free
who sees himself as invincible as Eddie:
a person far from kind and generous!
From one lover to another,
the circle has gotten smaller,
nobody trusts me, they think I'm Othello;
they avoid me, they don't say a single hello!
Don't threat women the selfish way I did,
don't leave a trail of undesirable regrets;
romance stories aren't written by pretty playboys,
by cheaters who build their castles in sea sand!
A sultry beauty dressed to thrill,
Her hair and make up without flaw,
Dull parties swing as she arrives,
Intriguing, captivating all.
She knows the famous and the rich,
And sips champagne with Royalty,
A girl that playboys want to date,
She has a secret: she’s a he…
Travelling in your dreams or dreaming in your travels
You want to be seen or you want to be hidden
Selfies are better or nature is bigger
You love the sky or you hate the land
Like a lazy night or a hyperactive bang
Partying hard or driving through the dark
Silent hood or a dog that barks
Love yourself or the playboys
Getting married or become a loner
Eating to live or living to eat?
Using your hands or thighs that spreads
Whatever it is, doesn't make any sense
The chook house was found in disarray;
eggs were broken in a manic affray,
there were playboys galore;
drunk chooks on the floor -
the police are suspecting foul play.
Children once thrilled to brilliant musicians
Hayden and Mozart, Shubert and Shuman
My generation grew up on playboys and madmen
Hugh Hefner and Alfred E. Newman
The musicians gave brilliant exhibitions
My generation shed its inhibitions
Cantankerous celibate husband
long time since male member did expand
overdosed viagra
bulge rivaled Niagara
exciting playboys in grandstand