Long Bordello Poems
Long Bordello Poems. Below are the most popular long Bordello by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bordello poems by poem length and keyword.
The bordello camp
Morning in Aruba, the cock has crowed three times
Men get out of beds that hundreds have slept in
of other men, they are silent, waiting for taxis
to take them back to their ship
Sad men, there is no jubilation here, cigarette smoke
A cold morning beer while waiting for the transport
A seaman, overcome by the tardiness, tries to run away
There is nowhere to run; the whore camp is in the desert
on a desert, sand, bushes, and snakes.
The madman, plied with alcohol, is sleeping.
The other carried him onboard.
In the courtyard, a woman swipes the dance
floor, doesn't bother to look up, when this day ends
They will be back again, or someone like them
will come, here, drink, dance, and pay for sex
a shipmaster in love
The boat that left at sunset didn't have red sails
but fading sunlight painted grey sail red
even though the vessel was not going to China
not this year or any other year, the Oriental
wanted to know why he lost two wives
in, the short span of seven years
His third wife sees the boat disappear from
the safety of her verandah she doesn't like
a vessel moves and stays at home
She is secure, and pregnant, a feat his other wives
managed, hence that's why he sold them to
a bordello in Tashkent
the boat is a brigantine made of Canadian wood
the timber has the habit of groaning when
sails have no wind and days appear longer than
when a storm is brewing
The captain has a shopping list for his third wife
gave him, about buying figs in Sumatra and
coconuts in Congo, the captain smiles, his wife
she has never seen a map
When asked to write Limericks about ladies
I said, "Oh, no. There's no way in Hades!"
Too many are my friends
I'd have to make amends
Not even for a brand new Mercedes
Then, I gave the matter a bit more thought
And chose women closest to my heart
The ones in Milton Creek
Five who are quite unique
All lovely women who are very smart
Jan holds ownership of the Manx Saloon
Where two lovely ladies sing a fine tune
It's where Milt played poker
But do not provoke her
Jan has been known to throw a mean spittoon!
Tania now runs the bakery in town
Her Whiskey Whoopie Pies are world renown
Come to Kitchin's Kitchen
She might let you pitch in
to help her make the best pastries around
Deb manages the Manx with extra care
No outlaws allowed, so you'd best beware
If you're packin' a gun
Or maybe on the run
She'll call the lawmen and they'll be right there
Two recently hired ladies fit right in
Caren tends bar, pouring jiggers of gin
Anne-Lise is the town flirt
Servin' drinks in ruffled skirt
Fine ladies, living at Aces with Lin
There's a few others at the Bordello
I hear one's sweet on a certain fellow
Maybe just a rumor
A tale told with humor
The Creek's calm enough to hear cows bellow
Residents will keep it free of all spats
No bad hombres who'll be wearin' black hats
More ladies will arrive
Our little town will thrive
Mayor Tom will have more to say 'bout that
Within this slice of bleakMoment i am pondering my
madness AND do sane people wonder if they are
quite crazy -- this i cannot know / but if while
thinking of my insane need for sanity these thoughts
as cold as mountain icy water squirrels through the
deep rivers of my nut-brain;
of course the glass box contains a hidden object
that only longNeck banana beating gorillas should
(never cross a mean cockSlinger in a bordello) eat
now the priest having said his sacrament of
(i did not do it) confession a youthful thought
flew by the stained window with an oversexed
persuasion and the bread and wine were not
entirely enough for heaven but
hell thoroughly enjoyed
if fearIs the mindKiller then what of souls;
beyond the third door onThe left near the
tissue and suppositories says the underlaid
underpaid thinly lipped clerk holding a banana
whistling Ode to Joy__ohboy.
:: 06-04-2018 ::
Homeless, destitute with nothing more then a backpack and cigarettes
down the rabbit hole she went, no linen tablecloths just stricken wood,
in a house of ill repute;.
She could not refuse the hunkering of a horny man who lived by threats
so she counted her bills and tucked them in her brassiere with a tear
She cringed when glass smashed and grinded her teeth when she was cold
it was a bordello made surreal by alcohol mellowed Johns who were so old
A bawdy crib, (bagnio del innocente) bath for the innocent...
a knocking shop that foiled the linen and gave shiners to young girls,
no one cared
in this disorderly place, where the stew was watered down with whiskey float
Then came the raid that brought everything to a halt,
in a gestalt moment she found freedom, perhaps her prayers were answered?
Down to the river she went for a bath and a rest,
it was then that she remembered her first time, it was incest *
The wild caged bird had no other place to hide but in this fortress
she slept for days on the grass beside a great big boulder, ,
all the wild animals in the forest thought she was a Princess.
They let her sleep, and fed her pine nuts from the trees. Until this day,
Gianna never mentioned the brothel to anyone, no even herself.
Feb. 20, 2021
...See, when she let her guard down, when she looked deep,
she saw things that left her somewhat disturbed,
Roxanne didn’t know her man’s favorite color,
and that fact didn’t really upset her.
She didn’t know that much of his home town,
or of the dreams that pushed him on in life,
she didn’t feel the need to learn the things
you normally expected of a wife.
And sometimes she imagined, when they made love,
some of the men she knew in the old days,
she even recalled a fine brothel client
the night that their second daughter was made.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like her Stu,
there was little to criticize in him,
but could she survive without him by her side?
Yes, she could, she realized to her chagrin.
When she realized this she heard that damn man,
her last client back at the bordello,
the man she had dismissed as a sexist,
now she wondered, had he been in the know?
It took her many months to accept this,
it went against all she’d ever been taught.
Could there be truth in his thoughts on women?
And if it was so, then what had she wrought?
Had her teenage self been so arrogant
to think that she could outwit tradition?
Had she destroyed her chance to truly feel
following her 'free-spirited' vision?
She’d always though the restrictions on sex,
at least those placed on the female kind,
had been oppression, acts of injustice,
but now troubling thoughts came to her mind.
If all this was older than what she learned,
if innate truths had long been in action,
why had she not learned about such a threat?
Why had these ideas never gained traction?
Why weren't women being told how things were?
Why all the half-truths of what lay beneath?
Could she have avoided this emptiness
if she'd been warned of what paths not to seek?
And now, nearly forty, it was too late,
she could not change the girl she had once been,
she had lived as they told her to believe,
and now she never could really bond with men.
Roxanne liked her husband, liked Stu a lot,
but she now knew it could never be love.
She wouldn’t divorce, that would hurt her girls,
she would stay with him, she would make it enough.
How would she live, how could she deal with this?
She didn’t even know where to begin,
but she’d do what she could to make sure her girls
both made it to the altar as virgins.
He plied the Mississippi River on the paddle wheeler 'Dandy Dame'.
Gamblin' was his profession and three-card monte was his game.
He became very creative at palmin' that elusive ace of spades.
Such dexterity and sleight of hand he had practiced for decades!
He embarked in Saint Louis for a cruise to the town of New Orleans.
On his arm hung one of his gaudily dressed bordello 'queens'!
He wore diamond rings on each finger and impeccably tailored suits,
A homburg hat, pearl studs, gold-tipped cane and alligator boots!
He toted a concealed derringer just in the event there was trouble,
And he took a table near the door so he could lam on the double!
He ordered Jack Daniels bourbon for the dudes he was soon to con,
And sized up the naive and hapless victims who dared to take him on!
The gambler let others win a hand or so to make them feel at ease.
His shill closely watched as the gambler, his moment was to seize!
His winnin's piled up as bettors tried to locate the shiftin' ace.
Losers dropped out of the game and other suckers took their place!
One astute monte player saw the scam and called the gambler's hand.
He drew his forty-fours, chairs toppled and folks fled to beat the band!
The gambler drew his rod but he met his God, blood oozin' on the floor!
His sobbin' 'queen' clasped him to her breast to know his love no more!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 2 in Paula Swanson's "Pick A Card, Any Card" Contest - Jun 2011
The day after I was birthed,
God and a bunch of sassy angels
played Irish fiddles in a beery bordello,
a place not yet colorized into reality.
The next day,
squealing in my two-day-old
tight Rubenesque pinkness,
I was immortalized in a Brownie Box Camera,
the guys in the men's room
pissed themselves with a teary laughter.
On the third day of my fleshy ascension
a thin women said she was going to love me
for a little while only.
I took the deal.
So many days have fallen away now.
Sex saturated, love begotten, a damaged
dance of a life,
but there was always wine.
An old, white-beaded gent,
has bequeathed me two holy relics,
iconic images of Santa,
and Michealangelo's painted finger,
when I hold them up to the light
I can almost see through them.
Haiti is a basket case.
They marched him down the gangway by
the feared Tonton Macoute, armed men dressed in Hawaii shirts
and slacks, partly concealing their guns
The young thief shivered, I thought they were going to kill him.
At the pier, they spoke friendly to him and told him to run away
he ran and ran, as he was running to the corner of a warehouse
thinking if he got around, he would be safe they opened up the fire and
shot him dead, his feet still running on the ground.
I have a vague recollection of seeing Peter Ustinov, but I think
was because of Graham Greene’s book “the Honorary consul”
I was an avid reader when young and tended to put myself in
the action, one can say I was captivated by the book I was reading.
even Micky Spillane was on the menu.
I had given the Tonton people cigarettes and whisky they saw
me as a good guy and invited me to go with them to a bordello
I found an excuse for not going, I had a great fear of these
murderous thugs.
Haiti is in the news again, gangsters have taken over, but
the country has always been run by gangsters the biggest
problem is the access to US guns; I do think the USA will
end up like Haiti if America loses all discipline and lets hatred
often combined with race, take over the country.
Is he absurd to appreciate the abnormal?
Is it admirable to accept her appreciative acrobatic antics?
He's a cool cat, she's his celestial canary caught.
A kept creature can be clearly quite costly.
Young Brandon builds her his best beastly bordello.
Every excellent engineer emits erotic emotions.
Thankfully she is gorgeous, genial and generous.
Golden feathered gown shed, she's gracious and gratuitous.
Perfectly broken she's bouncy bendy and bodacious.
He puts her in his bird like cages, pays her his hurtful wages
She somehow helplessly hopes his hands will heal her.
As her inner Iris increases an iota, he explains why he's irritable.
Cock block knock stops the clock...,
she can't console him with candle lit canary kisses.
No more kink or cum cuz un-kindly doc chimes "she's contagious!"
Out the door on an orange overly dark morning.
He hungers for eggs over easy cause his mind is storming,
worrying about going back to a life that's boring.
But soon a sexy new sparrow with opal eyes is his to order!
Written July 5th 2016 for a July contest.
For Broken Wings' I got Zero, Nothing Nada contest 2.
I thought about it for one day, wrote the next day and edited and revised on the third day.