Best Smut Poems
Smut old tom cat
Blind as a bat
incontinent as a baby
Casanova, maybe?
Gentle smooth lover
Naps over and over!
This community of poets is very diverse
From love poems, to dark poems, to poems about hurt
But through it all
This jester does scrawl
Some sillies, some crazies, and smut quite overt
© Jack Ellison 2015
Never in a rush
Keeps his meow on the hush
King of his ground
Never backs down to any hound
Smut Scarface Casanova bwana stealth of a great lion. A relaxed and gentle lover Miss Kitty
purrs a sweet sexy song when king of the junk yard pride saunters along her way.
Other toms walk a wide path around the fearsome fighter. Despite his street wise charm
And cool airs he’s a man’s man and a gunsmith assistant. Always at the ready for a great
hunt or just palling around.
He doesn’t like to be pranked yet he’s quick to reciprocate a prank given the chance.
Address the grey aged cat with all due respect and a food offering to cheer his kind soul.
He lived his life his own way and died his own way in peaceful slumber hidden warmly among
the oak leaves.
True friends are hard to find and harder to replace. Smut the grey Russian blue will forever live in
our minds fondly.
Smelly Smut, you casanova cat
Ladies swoon and mew to have your pat
Sleek and lean, really mean
Ladies want to be seen
Walking with the tough tom cat, so phat!
Doris-for the cat poem contest
The winter emerged bare chested and ripe, stripped of summers hot and heavy lusty nights.
A virgin frost had formed upon the flesh of the olive branch, and the flushed face of summer's bloom slowly sank.
Cloudburst now revealed the nude turquoise of winter, which flooded the skies with its breathless chill of frigid pleasure.
The man lept from our balcony row and landed directly on Tebow and K'Vnulash, who began to tongue kiss passionately, realizing their final moments were at hand. It was not a gory explosion, but one that inspired thirst. We stopped by the Liquor store on the way home, almost parking in the spot that nobody parks in because it's filled with broken glass. I crunched over it with my wooden-soled plaid crocs and entered the swill-exchange. The clerk procured one bottle of Popovs, but my eye saw an 8 oz. flask of Thunderbird nestled between a quart of Bailey's and the dirt-flanged walls of the establishment. I questioned the price, and found I was several dollars short. I returned to my vehicle and informed coraline of the problem, to which she replied with a most devious and predictably effective plan: crush up the bottle of aspirin in the glove compartment and hock it as coke to some dumb junkie in the alley. This alley was around the corner, a dead-zone of perpetual shade between towering concrete and steel dildos, ever stretching to the possibly homophobic sun. As I entered the triangle of darkness in search of a derelict, some stringy white liquid landed on my forehead from what must have been a very high point, as it stung with velocity. I concluded that it was a message from Zoroaster, who revealed to me that it was actually the product of a frittering stock jockeys mid-morning wank finished out the window. Thank Zoroaster. I quickly found an unfortunate and vapid urchin who gladly exchanged eight dollars for a paltry sum of ground aspirin. He snorted it immediately.
I said: praise Zoroaster
The lims keep flowin', don't know how I do it
Guess I'm cleaning out my system, I'm full of s--t
Filled to the brim
No more can cram in
Thanks for always reading this smut I submit
I sense here some things sinister—a scent
of sulphur, sulking in a sultry pit;
a serpent’s hiss, expressed from space unlit;
a warm spell spilling from some seething vent;
I find now some things filthy—foul ferment
foaming, frothing; a gaseous, gurgling slit
discharging fetid, festering, sour spit;
malignant mold in cold, cracking cement;
So languid, loath, obtuse I trepidate
on into the black bowels of my home.
Gagging back a nausea’s tepid bubble,
shivering a shudder that won’t abate,
discover I a gory catacomb.—
Woah… I see well now how bad my trouble!
This community of poets is very diverse
From love poems, to dark poems, to poems about hurt
But through it all
This jester does crawl
Some sillies, some crazies, and smut quite overt
This community of poets is very diverse
From love poems to dark poems to poems about hurt
But through it all
This jester does crawl
Some sillies, some crazies, and smut quite overt>center>
This community of poets is very diverse
From love poems, to dark poems, to poems about hurt
But through it all
This jester does crawl
Some sillies, some crazies, and smut quite overt
This community of poets is very diverse
From love poems to dark poems, to poems about hurt
But through it all
This jester does crawl
Some sillies, some crazies, and smut quite overt
Hollywood's dirty laundry exposed in the Enquirer
We drool with anticipation at the juiciness we acquire
Why do we revel so
As in smut, we wallow
It sure isn't difficult for our minds to decipher
My woman is
a sad French painting,
feeling.
A chardonnay and cheap red wine,
contradictory, yet refined.
My woman glitters like the chandelier of
an old world building, clear and bright.
Graceful, sensitive, secretive,
forgiving of much too much and
vengeful all the like.
Wild,
ever wild,
adventures à la mode.
Waxed in all the right places,
with hair I like to pull.
Sexy, sure of herself and confident.
Cheers to you, the other half of me
I am sure to never
find.
You may see me as so much smut,
in my mouth lies the hardest stone.
A single bite straight to the bone,
rotting diamond teeth will still cut.
I’ve got this age-resistant strut,
ninety proof that I walk alone.
You may see me as so much smut,
in my mouth lies the hardest stone.
Filled with such polished etiquette
the sick properties held are known.
There are things I haven’t outgrown.
With all four ‘C’s keep the door shut,
you may see me as so much smut.