"Obscenicon"
Oh come on!!!
What the grawlix
He dropped the ball
What a load of bollocks
How would they know?
I mean, this could be AI.
Could write
Any
Old bollocks.
Does it have
The
Spirit; of my poetry?
Where is my
Soul? Is it
Next to this semi-colon? :
Look at it,
Bit lonely there
But
We all are
My son
Is writing a story on paper across the room
Let he forever
Be his own mind
On paper,
In voice
In spirit
I got a polo neck jumper.
She said they were in.
Pep wears one.
He hasn’t manboobs.
Ribbed, dark grey.
Tighter than it should of been.
With a vintage leather, black jacket.
Sophisticated,continental,
so I bought a pain au chocolate.
From Greggs.
I think he thought I was francais as
I ordered and added si vous plait.
Then blew it by being unable to resist a sausage roll.
Which later I found out to be rouleau de saucisse, not un sausage roll, si vous plait.
“What the bollocks do you look like?”
“Where’s the Milk tray?”
were the first comments at the pub.
But their jealousy was obvious and measurable, being directly proportional to the amount of beer spat out as I walked in.
I ordered a Pernod chaser with my pint of pale ale, small steps.
Unlike the Famous Five,
with capers, japes and adventures,
boats and well stocked picnics, we lived
a back street life. With a sock and masking tape ball
and mucky fat sarnies.
The Family Allowance Five.
Each one of us an extra pound.
With facsimile school photos,
in hand me down jumpers and carving knife tread pumps,
floorboard cricket bat and under the bed air rifle.
Crab apple scrumping and tresspassing for mushrooms,
rabbitting before school,
paper round before school,
milk round before school.
Everything came before school.
Sunburnt scoundrels but "never any bother"
Corrugated asbestos roof walkers.
Cinema ticket hawkers.
Unseen, inconsequential, together but apart.
No roots or football boots.
Hot pot bollocks.
One foot here one foot there.
Immigrants finding their way,
but without the ginger beer.
9/27/21
Oh bollocks
An impact on health and the wallet
As an alcoholic
Do I know when to call it
No I don't know when to stop s***
I don't care about your trucks or cars with hydraulics
Am I too caught up in trying to frolic
Got to work towards being brolic
In order to be inside and out solid
Grew up in conditions that were squalid
From day one till now still people are being diabolic
It's become pathetic, if I'm honest
Like my life and addictions, so very melancholic
In a world that can be angelic yet also demonic
I've kept to myself, not wanting to be toxic
Staying rogue
Got problems of my own,
Need to try harder and use logic
For my own benefit as well as any on land, in the air, or the aquatic
Can't get anything done with hands in the pocket
I've got to take off quick
Like a rocket
For you, I left a box of chocolate
That I was able to shoplift
Just kidding, I bought it
But I don't want it
Or any fake love, that's just not it
I can't be on it
The real thing is what I intend to accomplish
Got to work hard and not quit
Can't just give up and drop it
I've understood that and never forgot it
Pay no attention I'm a bit off line
A bit off centre it could be the wine
Or might be my arm pits
Or maybe my bollocks
Perhaps it was that bucket of turpentine
PARKING SPACE
Where I parked my car, near the building
for a long time, there was no protest, or so I thought
someone and they are always anonymous,
rang the police who has little to do in the pestilence
time, I had to move the car and pay a fine I was
blocking someone's walkway which was bollocks
the sidewalk is so big you can park two tanks
side by side and still have plenty of room.
If someone in the building had told me it was illegal
I would have moved the car, ut this not the way
it is done it has to be faceless and whispering
not a part of the Portuguese psyche I care about
Words meant so much to him too
The punchy lyric told you what to do
It was what he wanted to say
Instead of just wasting it anyway
What bollocks, yeah man
Here was where he made his stand
The solitary one in his plan
Too far now from where it began
Opening his old wounds
Too late to bind them he swoons
Just drag yourself on
March on singing your sad songs.
© Paul Warren Poetry
They say oh this old bollocks trick
and know just what to do
they've never been in politics
know more than me and you
They say the Tories liars
politicians all the same
overpowered by desire
tell how to play the game
Opposite them we have remain
whom can't accept defeat
camping in the wind and rain
protesting every week
They say it's not democracy
we should have a second vote
a contradiction they can't see
through desperation hope
Both sides are going mental
just can't control themselves
if only we could give brains frail
a few extra braincells
In this humid summer air
I don't wear my underwear
my bollocks get all sweaty,
for that I do not care.
It's not amusing they sweat profusely
along with the crack and sweaty pubes
whilst women have their sweaty boobies
seems we all have sweaty rude bits.
So if you girls want to air out your ****
us men will too our balls and dick,
an idea from which we all benefit....
go on, get out your luverly nips.
I’m led on the floor
and it is a bore
I look at the dust
I look at the door
flimmin’ sciatica
soars again
never felt crappier
hoarding pain
Try giving birth
women are thinking,
I can’t do that,
what are you drinking?
stupid comparison
can’t be compared,
I've no lady parts
I’m somewhat impaired,
You're designed to give birth,
it’s actually natural,
so I say it’s worse
getting hit in the sacktual.
The body doesn't protect the balls,
the only vital organs not indoors,
no adjusting in our body, we don't learn or prepare,
breathing control, contractions, or you're almost there,
no experts to care, midwife just there, we don't even swear....
just get hit in the bollocks from out of no where!
There's no wonderous magnificent little life that rewards,
we don't see doctors or ambulance it to hospital wards,
no luxury, that "blame put on us",
and no one gifts or "Congratulates us",
at least women have an upside, something good,
we just worry if it's deadwood.
I have always, always loved you…
Even to this day, for you, the roses in my garden still bloom.
All I ever done was sustain their beauty, year by year.
So long it has been, since you were last here.
I remember the moment when we first met, old friend.
My inner desires were repressed by those youngun years of innocence.
It was in this very garden then, that you caressed me in your arms.
Handsome you were, bollocks, you are still so handsome.
Hell, I may have also hated you as well.
Always gracefully prancing about in my garden.
Watering every flower with that pale blue pail of yours.
I could swear, you were as happy as a frog in a forest.
Yet your smiling face has often made me wonder,
Have you ever had any burdens?
Envious of your luxuries, I held contempt for thee.
The left blame the right, the right blame the left,
both concealed in ideology logically lost on me.
It's not that I don't understand, there's no one with which I stand,
both succeed in ways necessary then turn sour though a good recipe.
The point and blame at those with fame game stays the same,
.....somewhat lame.
All I've learnt from this,
is they've no alternatives,
so take turns in bliss
and ignorance lives.
And as the system alternates,
between political counterweights,
with opposing views on politics,
all I think is bollocks to this.
Pen in hand, a thought provoked
I can’t find the words
I can’t find the strokes
all jumbled up like a flock of birds.
I’ll take a break, it’ll come to me
A cup of tea, a slice of cake
I’ll write my works, you just wait and see.
Epiphanies inside my mind, make no mistake
They are there I feel them in the back of my mind.
They need to surface, need to break through.
I wish I could see them I feel quite blind.
The frustration mounts, but nothing I can do.
Eureka! It’s there Finally seeing clear.
No Longer fuzzy, no more little quirks
This pen it’s working the words I hold dear
I start my verse, My Master works
Roses are Red
Violets are….OH BOLLOCKS!!!
The serpent whispered secrets in her ear,
Enticing Eve to eat forbidden fruit.
The tree was rank and rotten to the root,
When Adam thought their maker wouldn’t hear.
As Moses rent the waves with wooden crook,
His master breathed his blessing from above.
But did our high, benevolent Father’s love,
Shine down on feeble man when Sodom shook?
Was Christ his son forsaken on the cross
Only to drive the boulder from his tomb?
Did this act save mankind from sinful doom,
Or from our necks still hangs the albatross?
Believe it so, these writings are the truth.
“Bollocks! Where’s the photographic proof?”
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