pretenuse her smile
her oohing wooing walk
that sparkle in her eyes
the confident way she talks
get the heads ah-turning
when she walks by
find your self grunting
and everyone knows why
at a snap of her finger
she can get the men
to attention
never mind what she's saying
it's all in the mention
it's so expected
and whispered
in discussion
she's an honest expression
of desire
beleive us we aint fronting
she's got that ooh wee ooh wee ooh
that specail way that she do
she got that auh I wanna ooh
it's expressed in everthing
she do
Nadine and
Dianne Dougherty's one
hundred and
eighty detained tonguing grey-
hounds were
heard to be denying any
dainty handouts or
unadorned rough hy-
dration treatments from the
eighty or so once weedy
youths who had dared to
face their dread by
grunting their
way clear through in-
dentured servitude to a
naughtier space for
authoring gutsy hind-
sight recollections of
satan's black sun san
francisco church in
all of its
morning glory seedliness.
Mery Christmas: oh thanks honey (they Kiss) and a Merry christmas to you!
Two turkeey's and what a big peice of beef!
We doing it up this year aint we: yeah I wanted our last
Christmas before the baby to be specail.
Something to compare to throughout the years. Valintines Day is
the due date.
Ya'll some romantic people aint you. Huh: we aint had thyme to reherst anything
but we still singing! That's right not even orgazition
or should I say the lack their of stop this show!
We sangin Christmas songs tonight!
Just then that mean ole Mizzer came to the door
ya'll aint singing nothing up in here.
Gone out in the barn sing out their.
Not even a compasion for Jesus could
melt your chilly heart. We singing here tonight mister!
IIf ya'll is ah singing then
I is ah leaving said the man, who
appeared to be husband to the pregant woman. I aint putting no stress on my baby
and the way ya'll sing is quite stressful, all that
blue humming and grunting and all those yeah:yeah's.
Un amplified classical singing. we singing here tonight: the other woman clapping that's right! Singing tonoight!' Of his coming, his devined nature and his earthly role!" Yeah Jesus oh Jesus!"
I wake in a rush~
green, fuzzy, full of purpose
until a racket smacks me
into sudden enlightenment.
I sail, spinning,
seeing the world in fast-forward:
white lines blurring,
players grunting,
the sun cheering me on
like a loud, overexcited coach.
I hear everything~
the gasp when I clip the net,
the groan when I bounce out,
the triumphant whoop
when I land exactly
where someone wanted me.
I think a lot, actually~
mostly about momentum,
destiny,
and why humans argue
so passionately
over where I land.
But what I feel
is the court beneath me~
its clay, its grass, and grit~
a brief, grounding moment
before I’m launched again
into the bright, chaotic ballet
of being a ball
with no say
in where I’m going next.
I have a manic heart.
It’s not made of the real stuff.
Just gelatin, sprinkles, and glaze.
Fake like cracked tiles (don’t believe them.)
I have a manic heart.
I dropped everything like it was her birthday cake.
No one died, I hope.
They just gasped and cried because I had done it (plop.)
I have a manic heart.
Does it remember lists, names, or random junk?
Like a cardboard box grunting.
I hate the real stuff, the golden, sopping stuff.
I have a manic heart.
Tried to surrender once.
I have a manic heart.
Maybe twice.
Gloomy-green, forested
Man, these are the haunts
Of what even now is
Leaping, while unsheathed, at
But strange food to it!
No less, for a creature
Friend, snorting, grunting
Wild; for the sound it makes.
Vain; in hoofing away.
Trying to outwit!
Shocks like elastic repeated.
The globs of them.
Grunting feelings with packaged up tears.
I could have done more relaxation but it feels uncanny.
Like a zipper in my veins.
Cold shocking sensations, clapping hands and amazing tricks.
Drastic measures feel like cinnamon in my nose.
And a breeze of lost air.
The thing about panicking is that…
It’s a feeling as groaning as spaghetti for the tenth time this week.
And it’s always still this weakness.
I wish that the afternoon air was less grumbling.
There’s a skeleton shooting harpoons into my muscles.
And that’s not the last trick he has for me.
Set your scowl in stone; immovable neck.
Lace an ornate pearl necklace around throat.
You stand at a cold precipice, a rock.
A snake with slinky-bones, writhing, not slack,
And fangs of gold - they’re not nearly a threat.
Set your scowl in stone; immovable neck.
Those pearly teeth squeeze, kiss with velvet peck;
Constricts like a boa with bruised forget.
You stand at a cold precipice, a rock.
Let down your gargoyle guard, for not a sec.
Why’d you set paper mâché, were you provoked?
Set your scowl in stone; immovable neck.
Spectacular species, like grunting hock,
And won’t even say boo, like bully ghost.
You stand at a cold precipice, a rock.
Unconscionable, a solid train wreck;
Ancestors and posterity revolt.
Set your scowl in stone; immovable neck.
You stand at a cold precipice, a rock.
Tiptoe the finest, fine twine, needle-eyed thread
and a glitzy sequined clasp, tiny
tweezer-tie it finger-tip fast with a nuanced knot -
my, my, the pedantic perfection of the master jeweller.
I have the servile subtlety of thick thumbs,
all clumbsy carpals, my fudging finesse
better suited to a beanie'd stevedore, loud lugging
heavy-haired harbour rope to ship-secure
a brutish lump in the line.
Tongue tied up, spun on my own silver yarn
like a crystal jeweller, giddy with champagne giggles,
dizzy on a spinning chandelier high strung from the pressed ceiling.
Oh non, pas moi! Mine is more an oiled elegance,
heavy handed, ham-fisted like a scabby wharf rat,
chased and unchaste.
Dextrous in the strangest ways -
gutsy and glamourous,
ours is a nuanced life of grunting grime
with the briefest flashes of bedazzled dance.
A woman was dress to kill
But quickly took a large pill
She snatched off her wig
Start grunting like a pig
Then ran on all fours up the hill
The children came late, at the end
among the bodies, naked, stripped
the corpses starting to distend
with gaping wounds where swords had ripped
and hacked to recognitions fall.
Their foes had taken life and gold;
the wives to stricken poor to pall
these men whose lives were dearly sold.
The children came, as did the rats,
the cawing crows, the hungry dogs,
the ever-present feral cats,
and fat pink grunting, rutting hogs.
They came to scavenge what was left
upon this greenfield butcher's block
and what they took was not the theft
it is those who lead should be in dock.
My Rose Garden was devoured by a cow that thought it was a bull.
The farmer and his wife pleaded with the cow to go back to the field.
But it refused by stomping and grunting.
Now what remains is a baren field, and a broken fence.
With not much to eat in the garden but rose thorns, the cull cried of stomach pains.
Throughout the day and night she mooed as if to blame the world for its life.
In time, not even the steer expressed an interest in his mother, as his future was cut short.
With no calves in the field, the bull left for the furthest sections of the property.
And with no place to escape, and no cows and rose gardens to be found, he simply laid down, and died.
by, Martin Braun
12/21/24
The humidity was doing a good job of keeping pace with the temperature. Until around 10 AM when the thermometer pushed its way past 100. That’s when 176 frightened kids and a few old hippies staggered out of the crowded cattle trucks. “Alright you maggots, RUN,” voices screamed from beneath wide brimmed Smokey Bear hats. So, we ran…and ran, duffle bags slung over our shoulders. Hours passed before we finally came to attention under the blistering Missouri sun. All the while, the bears circled. Sniffing the air and grunting. “Don’t show them any fear,” one of the old hippies whispered, “they pray on the weak.”
Like nature intends
Survival of the fittest
Do not show weakness
When the Cro-Magnan’s sat down to eat their fare,
The master screamed, and went on a tear.
Grunting, ‘Woman you goofed,
Coz on this saber tooth,
I bit through one of your yard long gross hairs!’
She yelled, ‘That’s what you get when being fed,
After dragging me around by my head.
So enough is enough
And I’m getting tough.’
He quipped, ‘Yeah, just like the food on this spread.’
Although words from both of them sounded brave,
She truly thought of him as a low knave.
And he was amiss
Aiming for a kiss,
Coz on that night he slept out of the cave.
A NOTE FROM MALCOLM
My advice is free, and time’s not billable
Try speaking French and I will soon know
Don’t claim a local or a provincial accent
It really does not sound as if heaven-sent
Nor a comment heard such as il fait beau
As the accent is always on the last syllable
As a teacher, these things do really matter
One must develop that Gallic look as well
Sometimes that simple shrug just says it all
From Southern Pyrenees up North to Gaul
Whether from Paris or le Midi, one can tell
In some regions, the vowels do sound fatter
So, let us practice the deep grunting sounds
And don’t forget all those hand gestures too
But accents can apply to letters when written
Cedillas, acute or grave never seen in Britain
Where just the plain and simple words will do
Whilst pretty perfume accents do the rounds
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