Long Arsed Poems
Long Arsed Poems. Below are the most popular long Arsed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Arsed poems by poem length and keyword.
She pulls the past together,
gathering weeds, twisting kelp,
squeezing minnows of memory
through shrinking nets.
My ex-wife phones
from a former home,
a village by the sea
now sinking
on a shelving shore.
"Brian the pub-crawler
took another tumble
he now gets rat-arsed on his crutches.
They closed the post-office.
the new Indian store don’t sell stamps."
I see them again
through a sludge of low tide.
Some have declined in mildewed cottages,
feet potted and planted,
moving sideways through time.
Some ankles have developed cankles.
The once young
dangle baby toes from stout arms.
The elderly then are elderly now.
"Jack Brown got married again,
his polyps hang like dewlaps.
Elsie Maynard divorced Ken at last,
he’s with a fat woman
that’s got studs in her eyebrows."
I feel her need to update,
to cover sea walls
with new growth or decay.
"Albert Didcott and his wife Dotty
moved to the new estate.
Their kid – the second youngest,
was knifed on a Saturday night
outside the Kings Head.
it was in the papers."
She fills in features
until an image floats upward.
The forgotten and remembered
bob between us as bubbles
faces we push to the center
of a clear glass of muddy water.
Figuratively Speaking... a compendium
I’m having slugs for dinner
Twelve dozen on toast
Some people turn their nose up
Apparently that’s gross
I’m joining metal plates
Using heat to make them meld
I haven’t got it finished yet
It’s not the end of the weld
Noah built an ark
And he bought a plastic coat
He’s waiting for the rain to come...
Whatever floats your boat
He couldn’t shift the damned thing
Even though he winched it
But then he found it moved twelve mil
Cos somebody half-inched it
I’m tired of being flesh and blood
I’d like to change some day
If I was made of paper
I’d be blown away
Four hundred pounds he weighs
That’s bigger than me gran
He weighs more than a camper-van
That’s really heavy man
It landed on some azure paint
That, as yet, wasn’t dry
Then flew around the light bulb
Like a blue arsed fly
Have you seen a flat-fish
With an over made-up face
Taking drags from handmade fags
It’s fairly common plaice
I’ve got three violins
One left, one right, one middle
I never use the second one
I won’t play second fiddle
He’s standing on the glued bit
Where the pipe split on a bend
Slipped off first time he tried it
But now he’s on the mend
"Drunk as a skunk"
Flimsy after whimsy
Flunk and debunk
Or mastered getting "plastered"
"Tipsy as a gypsy"
Sunk like a monk
Miss nights out "on the p*ss"
We shan't blush...can't hush
Us as we gush about the rush
Bliss to kiss the alcoHOLE abyss
Have a crush on the plush
Flush flights of a proper "lush"
Grinned while you sinned
Smile..getting in a right mess
Room spinned ... plans binned
Betting the style's "blotto" lotto
Pinned motto bless the "legless"
Jolly golly gosh "sloshed"
What beats "3 sheets to the wind"
Need a slash..have to crash
After being out on the lash
"Smashed"..bish bash boshed
'Off your trolley" wally or dolly
Bedazzled frazzle on the razzle
Laughter after a dafter shindig swig
On the "sozzle"..off his head ..off to bed
Reason for that big red schnozzle
Let's be frank those who get "tanked"
Get thanked...no..blanked & spanked
Don't deride those who decide
To get plied with or "pie eyed" with pride
Have a tiff with those who chose skew whiff
No need upsetting or fretting
Over a drunkard with a tankard
Rum dumb herbert on the sherbert
Woozy boozy floozy doozy
Getting whistle whetting "wanker*d"
Abuser..winner or loser
The boon of the last saloon
All soon forgetting having hankered
For.. then regretting that final boozer
"Wasted"...sauce basted I stammered
Could've plucked for being "f**cked"
Decoded it besetting with maybe "loaded"
Why's he passed on the class "rat-arsed"
Not fussed..nonplussed he cussed
Sussed just with mates getting 'hammered"
So don’t muzzle the "guzzler"
Cripple the ripple of the "tippler"
Can’t match "down the hatch"
Or sip & sup..because "bottom’s up"
No frowning cake-hole sold on downing
Beer.. .neck oil by heck will spoil our laughing gear
Crowning the glory or gory story
Comedy gold told of being "arsehol*d"
Ickle fickle wee "pickled" trickle tickle
Temptation of a nifty sneaky shifty
Iffy & squiffy in a jiffy veneration
Don't be piddly about diddly while tiddly
They might from afar mutter
Wot a nutter...one too many jars
One too many bars ..not caring...I would utter
Have a flutter...I’m lying in the gutter
Rego & I flying while staring at the stars
1. A dangerous vision coveting another,
blurred by envy to need a mental monocle.
she burns in such deadly blast
not to realize the soul already promulgate itself
to the better one.
Nothing can serve as a wake up call
to warn against the penalty point.
What was once a silent partner in thoughts
transform to wicked acts and a stench
not to be overlooked, wanting a friend to be less.
2. Sees up through her friend
both are fine, she wants to be finer
both are well, she wants to be better
a onetime dove becomes arrogantly disloyal
a part-time energy with flashlights
relevant to the downfall of another,
exhibiting abrupt vagaries,
playing billiards not even to win
but to break the board,
watching closely in a bad timing
to revert all positives with negatives.
3. In the flowing dam of our love,
you poured strong acids of your crude emotions.
you are the one downgrading your worth to a bric-a-brac
your unexplained anger proves the more
that I’m by far better.
On this affliction, you stay rat-arsed,
giving jealousy so much importance
to be obsequious to it.
Time to be matey with the envied has passed,
let this dark heat continue fighting
for the devil may care.
Sugar Maple was a beautiful tree
Just as pretty as a tree can be
With a solid and straight trunk so strong
And reaching ever up with graceful arms
Sugar Maple was enjoying some little fame
From folks near and far, from everywhere they came
To admire Sugars autumn gown of red
She shook her limbs and flipped her ginger head
Then as autumn gave way to bitter cold
Bare limbs appeared, making Sugar feel old
“That's just the way of nature”, said Old Dog Wood.
“Most trees lose their leaves, as they should”.
But Sugar Maple was determined to shine!
When she noticed the evergreen, she asked Pine,
How to keep her beautiful colored dress,
As he kept his eternal greenness.
Crude Pine couldn't help himself, he just laughed…
“Don't you know some prefer a lady who is bare-arsed?!”
Indignant and angry, Sugar Maple harrumphed…
“ Just you wait for Christmas, you soon to be old stump!”
Sweet tears began to flow from the Sugar tree then,
Just as the man passed, one of Sugar Maple's friends.
He came to a halt to admire her like most days…
Her foliage nearly gone, but he smiled anyway.
That evening, the man and his whole family too,
Came to see Sugar Maple and try something new.
They told her while performing some strange actions,
That they were trying something called, Sugar tappin’!
“You are a Sugar maple our beautiful dear,
You're so special you cry Sugar tears!
Once you fill this bucket from the tap, to the top,
We will replace it until your sweet tears stop.”
Then the man continued,” your sugary sap will provide,
Such delicious treats when we're winter deprived.
Candies, syrup, and desserts by the pound,
Which can only happen once all your leaves fall down!”
Well that was wonderful...for she knew she could fill their coffers
And she had much more than just beauty to offer!
Have no pity for the overweight,
the out of breath at the garden gate,
the struggling in and out of cars,
cnsumer of syrup and chocolate bars.
Walking sticks and mobility scooters,
the difficult bras encasing hooters.
Red faced men and lard arsed women,
their promise of tomorrow slimming.
Condemn me now, I'm for the blaming,
in this campaign, this body shaming.
So many things beyond control,
my ugly skin and shallow soul,
but when I walk I leave no hole.
People say I'm out of touch,
I think that we accept too much,
fat piggy people should disgust.
Their need,
selfish
greed,
want,
desire,
gluttony,
feed,
pig,
and
opinionated.
Big is beautiful,
big and proud.
And all the while,
the dying sound,
cry of starvation,
die of starvation,
you,
You lie of starvation!
because the pudding was not chocolaty enough!
because there is no ice cream left,
if your wanting mouth needs to consume,
feast on torment of starving children,
drink only tears of broken mothers.
Passionless lies turns to unmoved bigots thoughts
with emotionless half arsed hearts consumed by hate
splitting hairs we all know fact from fiction
Try to claim killing the unborn is care giving
then this retro bias claims a man has no right to speak
equality speaks from the soul without division
Where each son has a mother who protects who
when lines are drawn in the sand this is not about gender
This is not about women having the right to kill
Or even twisted sinners of men who live on cloud coo coo
Time waits on no man or woman to love and cherish each living heartbeat
we are brothers and sisters of the one God
His words have impact in those whom truly believe
Behold the cold village watchtower fog
and holiday summer fields bundlin' hay,
the Officers Club back door buyin' grog
till all our money slowly pissed away!
Up the back roads hoonin' in the hot seat
and down Sparkin Hill runnin' on fumes,
or ride that city bus into Queen Street
after school up in the snooker rooms.
And lock and load shoot to kill in dead fall
the winged corpse of blackbird and pheasant,
when fools, tricksters and gamblers staked all
in the gamin’ rooms of Hitchcock Crescent.
Oh youthful crimes and misdemeanours
in Hillmans, Zephyrs and Cortinas.
And when the sins of youth had lost its thrill
I would walk to the house up on the hill.
In the bright burnin’ lights of the prison
runnin' like a fugitive in the night,
and as the last beer and hormones kicked in
so did crimes of passion in the moonlight.
In rush of young blood in curves and curls
between the sweaty bales of Percy’s barn,
where tales of turgid boys and bare-arsed girls
spread like the clap village rumour and yarn.
Oh youthful crimes and misdemeanours
in Hillmans, Zephyrs and Cortinas.
And when the sins of youth had lost its thrill
I would walk to the house up on the hill.
And in my rum soaked body and soul
hungover in my DTs and detox I lay.
Smokin' doobies of Acapulco Gold
sorely truly fu*ked on my bed of hay.
Through all my changes I was a dreamer
and lived a trepidation and a ruse,
but when she lay bare and I between her
I lived the dream in my puberty blues.
Oh youthful crimes and misdemeanours
in Hillmans, Zephyrs and Cortinas.
And when the lusts of youth had lost its thrill
I would walk to the house up on the hill.
Written: April 2000
"Immolation"
I move into you
like a roaring Queensland Summer
You’re overtaken by heat, yet think I’m unobtainable
I’m too far away
A grown-arsed man
owns the footsteps he walks in
travels his world
scared of a woman
gone
grown-arsed girl
“Man Oh Man
she’s so not safe,
she’s so non-linear”
I move into you
like a roaring Queensland Summer
You think I’m unobtainable
I’m too far away
The fuel is laid
Sparks lit
communication is at least laid
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
“Three simple rules in life: If you do not go after what you want, you'll never have it. If you do not ask, the answer will always be no. If you do not step forward, you will always be in the same place.”
"I tore myself away from the safe comfort of certainties through my love for truth - and truth rewarded me."Simone de Beauvoir
She pulls the past together, gathering weeds,
squeezing minnows of memory through shrinking nets.
My ex-wife phones from a former home,
a village by the sea now sinking
on a shelving shore.
‘Brian the pub-crawler took another tumble
he now gets rat-arsed on his crutches.
They closed the post-office.
the new Indian store don’t sell stamps.’
I see them again through a sludge of low tide.
Some have declined in mildewed cottages,
feet potted and planted,
moving sideways through time.
Some ankles have developed cankles.
The once young dangle baby toes from stout arms.
The elderly then are elderly now.
‘Jack Brown got married again,
his polyps hang like dewlaps.
Elsie Maynard divorced Ken at last,
he’s with a fat woman
that’s got studs in her eyebrows.’
I feel her need to update,
to cover sea walls with new growth or decay.
‘Albert Didcott and his wife Dotty
moved to the new estate.
Their kid – the second youngest,
was knifed on a Saturday night
outside the Kings Head, it was in the papers.’
She fills in features until images floats upward.
The forgotten and remembered
bob between us as bubbles
faces I must push
out of a glass of muddy water.