I sold my brother's coin collection for a fix/
Police and thieves/
Coke n smack, synth riffs and puffs
Jack McDuff, Sure ’Nuff ’n funk for you/
My life is on freeze, please don't tease
Pop the beat, heroin junkies down the street
Hookers trickin' where we used to meet/
Jazz horn and the abstract truth
The cross is afraid of women's rights/
Stay on the fight, the truth is right
Lo-fi delights while eating shrooms/
Mojave Desert eagle walk
While wearing peyote buttons round my neck
As we talked, a raven's feather flew in her hair
She was high on acid and said
I looked like a shaman dancing with a bear/
Sabbath the day, moons burn bright.
Kiss me upon a candles light.
Priest have forgiven, for what they have sinned.
Fire burns bright, within Gusty winds.
The Sabbath a day, a day we must pray.
Hookers are lerking, church on Sunday.
Alterboys run, they cry, they hide.
Heaven provide, a gift from inside.
they’re made for walking
Nancy Sinatra
red ones on toddlers
mud puddle jumping
hookers tall fashion
freezing leaking
winter snow boots
cowboys go-to
Irish clogging
loud running
clip clopping
line dancing
stomping
tromping
boots
Tinkerbell was thrown in the pokey with hookers and thieves four.
She tried to fly her way past the police chief and out the door.
The detectives were angry now; she had almost gotten away.
You have to stay, they said sternly, you have to stay!
But I am a fairy, not a human, your laws don’t pertain to me!
She pleaded and begged and threatened to bring the calvary.
Why was she arrested? Peter Pan asked, coming into sight.
Her flashes were obscene, she was showing off a red light!
But it’s Christmas eve, said Santa, who had come in to help.
His reindeer were waiting on the roof, eating mussels and kelp.
The policemen finally let her go but made her change up her light.
“You guys are easy!” she yelled as she and Santa flew out of sight.
Some go to canberra to look at the sights.'
Some went in 22, to complain on its blights.'
Its a strange old place canberra.' A shop window of sorts.' A (w e f) example of just
What has been bought.' Gee thery are a strange mob in 'that place' but the best place
TWOT'S; to see..And in great numbers; just take it from me, maybe that could become
Passtime.? We'll have to wait and see.'Go up there and (count the TWOTS?) Well you'll get a whole lot.' All in
One place they be .' ( its almost a humanistic zoo) My proverbial God.' Its
TWOT town Australia..' but you need to be in a good
Numbered crew, cause they can be quite savage, wow I'm tellin you.' They
Have been known to be agressive.' To spectators when up close.' I saw a TWOT once
Ram a convoy..Screaming expletives mouthing hatefull boasts..But go on up by all means.!
Just stay protected from ( their cookers ) and
Don't let them know you're counting..Thats a
' thing i'm told; best never done in front of hookers'
When business went
from bad to worse
and the Nookie Bookie
(a pimp)
with a curse
saw the number of customers'
trousers drop
he took umbrage
at an advertisement in the press
inserted by the local knocking shop
(where pleasure is a business)
which was seen to say...
RED LIGHT SPECIAL
Too many hookers spoil the brothel
Gentlemen
today's the day you're in luck
2 for the price of 1
more BANG for your buck!
Bowling bunnies sit in the booth
Sharing boyfriend stories
Oohing and ahhing when there is a strike or a spare.
Flashing their painted pointed three-inch nails
They wear ripped out jeans with high heels
Dressing more like hookers than hookers
No ugly numbered bowling shoes for them.
They are like rock and roll groupies
Except louder, so they can be heard above the pins.
Dirty martinis and Cuban cigars
Fishnet stockings on hookers Playing my guitar.
Long days at the beach
Women without wedding rings
Making a list of my favorite things
Sex before Breakfast
Out running the cops
A judge that grants bail
Then getting bailed out.
Books by Sandra Cisneros
And Renaissance Art,
All of these things have a special place in my heart
But when the bars close
And I'm still sober
My dealer doesn't answer the phone
I think on these things
To keep from getting pissed off
And I express how I feel
in a poem.
Rock n' Roll music and classic cars
Rockford Files reruns
Deep cuts that leave scars
My probation officer not making me drop
Dive bars bad girls and musty bookshops
A day at Wrigley
Watching the Cubs
Cool Tucson mornings
And falling in love
The sound of my children's laughter
and the first day of spring
What an exceptional life I've had to be part of all these things.
But when I'm hungover
And I've got warrants
Or when my car breaks down
I think about all of my favorite things
And haul my butt out of town
JSB
We are giddy,
witches wear fish-net stocking
and black garters
or dress up
as naughty female devils
our minds run after.
Party shops are
sexualizing fantasy
nighty gowns
and ruby
high-heeled slippers.
Halloween’s a dirty dream
for those not naturally
lechers or hookers.
What fun we shall have
when the kids are in bed
asleep from trick or treating,
hands may roam over flesh and form
stirred-up by festive drinking,
behavior far from a usual norm,
acts some may well regret
come the sober light of dawn.
Climate changed into just weather.
We watched it happen,
watched the meth-maidens and the hookers
turn pale and ill
Senators secretly paying their motel bills.
Denials fling insults at each other,
It's election fever
and we are fools or establishment tools.
Picking sides is a choice between lies
yet go vote anyhow
you're fully vaccinated now
buttoned-up tight
nothing bad could possibly happen - right?
Stale milk sky,
traffic is trawling for any surfacing light.
Rubber squeaks on the smeared blacktops.
No hills to climb in this part of town
we are flat earth
and mostly just tilted into our daydreams.
Corner shops are damp and derelict
or heaving with low class crime.
Shadows pounce if you drop a dime.
Its a crawl through a gauntlet
no one runs here unless they flee.
The car radio is set to Fox News
we haven't seen a fox hereabout in years
only concrete cemeteries,
islands of amnesia
sprinkled with stone angels,
hidey-holes
where daytime hookers gather
to pray for better weather.
I woke up laughing
It all got better from there
Something way down deep in me
Was asking to be declared
So now I prepare
If I don’t, somebody else
Will make it to the punchline
Of the joke that’s on myself
Three hookers and a rabbi
Walked into a candy store
The Hindu behind the register
Said, “We only allow three whores.”
The joke that never ages
Is the Holy Word can’t be spelled
The Name that can’t be uttered
‘Til the joke is on yourself
Take up thy cudgels
Drive the poems into your sin
If you had your disgrace to live over,
For God’s sake do it again
There is no reprisal
An honest set of lips can tell
As rainy as the letdown
Of the joke that’s on yourself
So come baby with me
Shootout at the Okay Corral
In the Valley of the Mediocre
Another staging of Guys and Dolls
Those failed comedians
Keep drawing from an empty well —
Don’t find yourself in their audience
Of a joke that must be on yourself
The joke must be in your self.
Her confidence introduced her by walking into every room first.
Wearing lipstick and eye shadow like Barbra Streisand’s from the sixties.
It would have looked ridiculous on all the rest of us.
We would have looked like trailer trash hookers.
On her, it looked elegant, lovely, unique, and chic.
She could have walked in wearing a gunny sack
And we would have all run out to buy our own.
Sure there were haters, but she did not notice.
She was too busy engaging others in conversation.
The lucky ones who were too busy staring at her beauty to hate her.
Shebra was a luxury he could ill afford.
Expensive tastes, and wanted designer clothes.
Her shoes cost him a week’s salary.
But he was tired of paying child support anyway.
She is a ho, one of his friends said.
You are jealous, he answered. She is a call girl.
You have to pay her right?
He refused to say.
Merry Christmas said his friend.
Ho Ho Ho he replied, trying to be funny.
Later regretting that he had bought into the tease.
That will be a hundred and fifty, she told him.
I didn’t even get a kiss, he argued.
Hookers don’t kiss, she said.
But you are a call girl, aren’t you? He asked.
Ho ho ho, she said, winking and holding out her hand.
Paper lanterns carrying spirits of the dead
Wind their way toward the Sea of Japan;
A procession bearing its own light,
Silently, to a destination without moments.
Moments, the interface through which life flows
From now to then, are put back like old videos
To be on recall; the deeper the collection,
The more likely reruns become loops.
A sign above the bar promises, “Free beer tomorrow”.
Tomorrow, alas, never a moment, but a construct
Residing near yesterday, is as misunderstood as
The Hookers of Kew; pressing, mounting.
Copyright 2021, Paul Thomson
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.