Long Hooker Poems
Long Hooker Poems. Below are the most popular long Hooker by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hooker poems by poem length and keyword.
The l
A woman I heard of had two s.
One was connected to the uterus
the other, smaller, led nowhere.
Her parents were aware of this, but
too poor to afford surgery
This was a blessing when she, as a woman
became a high-class prostitute.
Using her narrow ; one can say
in this case, smallness mattered.
She was the only hooker in the world
who at thirty was a virgin.
She married a suitable man, married him
and they had two sons.
She could now afford surgery but desisted
nothing in life is certain
Hard time could come it was good
to know she could make an income
to fall back on.
His Vacation In Bermuda-8 word challenge
candy drops rain on drought stricken crops
her triple treats spiraled without any stops
his eyes span kaleidoscope
he rushes to open her envelope
ten years celibacy ending with hollow pops
the sweetness curls of her perpetual motion
the cacophony of waves pounding his ocean
a hooker curbs his hysteria
of soothing his chaotic area
Bermuda triangle's apocalypse, for him a godsend
connie pachecho
9/20/17
1. HYSTERIA 2. KALEIDOSCOPE 3. PERPETUAL 4. CHAOTIC
5. CACOPHONY 6. APOCALYPSE 7. SPIRALED 8. HOLLOW
This poem I didn't enter. I feel it wouldn't smell a rose.
I like the title, ending, how everything ties together but
it would never place.
You scream for my attention in the checkout aisle
With tales of infidelity and sordid guile.
You pique my curiosity with spicy clues.
Gives me those supermarket tabloid blues.
You document the glamour of the silver screen
By trumpeting the rise of some new movie queen,
Then interview the hooker who her husband screws,
Exposing supermarket tabloid blues.
You hear a scandal splash and then you go to press
And document the details of the whole damn mess.
Your hottest stories simmer like delicious stews
To feed us supermarket tabloid blues.
You swear to any rumor's truth, however vague,
By spreading sordid gossip like bubonic plague,
Then quote the Bill of Rights if anybody sues,
Exploiting supermarket tabloid blues.
"The Pentagon communicates with UFOs."
"Archbishop blesses little boys without their clothes."
You’re churning out more headlines than my head can use.
Gives me those supermarket tabloid blues.
There's just one small confession that I have to make;
I’ve got a funny need to hear those stories break.
A guilty little pleasure that I freely choose.
Bring on those supermarket tabloid blues.
The impatient motorist,
drunken and careless, drove
through the red light
and stroke a pedestrian
sending him five feet in the air;
then crashed into a concrete wall,
to commit suicide...
that's why he died!
The drug-addict shot up cocaine
with a dirty needle...in a filthy,
abandoned store on the avenue;
his acute pain was relieved instantly;
he rejoiced for a few moments,
them his red and semi-conscious eyes
slowly began to close and he turned blue...
that's why he died!
The police car chased four robbers
in a stolen car...shots were fired,
and gess who got shot?
The wounded policeman
called for help,but blood
gushed from his dizzy head;
the thieves fled on foot...
to a hut in the parking lot!
The sirens' lights whirred...
they were sourrounded,
but didn't surrender to pleads;
they kept on firing their cheap guns,
they came out challenging,
attempting another ascape,
but they were mortally hit...
that's why they died!
The tripping hooker
in a leather miniskirt,
hustled the motorist
stopped at a crossing light;
she made an offer,
the car door opened
and she hopped in without fret!
By the murky river,
where the streets are empty and dark,
her lifeless body was found;
wasn't safety haunting her foolish mind?...
That's why she died!
The homeless man
begged the passerbys
who usually complied;
nickels,quaters and dimes glittered
in his small coffee cup...
money to be spent on beer,
food and cigarettes...
without having a place to go!
Winter was brute and covered
his frozen eyes with snow...
that's why he died!
The smelly dude with torn clothes walked
in a huge save-a-dollar-store...
with the bad intention he had premeditated;
he had no job: a loser and a destitute...
the wailing owner of the store,
pulled out his rifle and shot him twice!
The leaping robber dropped down...
holding a bloody,sharp knife:
grasping for breath,but found none...
that's why he died!
Dedicated in memory of Mr Dangerfield, Rodney.
He was a comic few will ever forget.
He is most known probably for his classic routine;
"I Don't Get No Respect.
When I was born the doctor delivered to my parents the very sad news.
"We tried everything, but I'm sorry, he managed to pull through."
I Don't Get No Respect.
I remember taking my first steps so vividly
and then dear old Dad tripping me.
I Don't Get No Respect.
I asked Dad if I could go ice skating on the lake with all of the others.
He then said to me, "Wait until it gets warmer."
I Don't Get No Respect.
My mother practiced this form of birth control constantly.
Whenever Dad wanted sex, she'd show him a picture of me.
I Don't Get No Respect.
"I lost my parents. Do you think we'll ever find them?" I cried.
"I don't know," said the policeman, "There's so many places they can hide."
I Don't Get No Respect.
In the kidnapper's note to my parents for ransom
it read, "Give us five thousand dollars or you'll see your kid again."
I Don't Get No Respect.
Last night, my wife wearing a sexy negligee met me at our front door all alone.
There's just one problem with this scenario. She was coming home.
I Don't Get No Respect.
My wife phoned and said, "Come on over. There's nobody home."
When I arrived, guess what? There was nobody home.
I Don't Get No Respect.
During sex my wife always wants to talk to me.
She called me from a hotel recently.
I Don't Get No Respect.
One day I came home from work early
and saw a man run naked jogging past me.
I asked, "Why are you jogging naked buddy?"
He replied, "Because you came home early."
I Don't Get No Respect.
"What'll ya have?" the bartender asked me.
Indecisive I replied, "Just surprise me."
So he pulled out a naked photo of my wife for me to see.
I Don't Get No Respect.
I went to a hooker, thinking it might be nice.
When I dropped my pants, she dropped her price.
I Don't Get No Respect.
My psychiatrist said that I'm going crazy.
"I'd like a second opinion," I replied to she.
"Very well," she said, "You're also ugly."
I Don't Get No Respect
I told my psychiatrist, "I'm going to kill myself when I get the chance."
She told me I'll have to start paying her well in advance.
I Don't Get No Respect.
No Respect At All.
I've had enough of all of this.
This is my final curtain call."
(Sonnet for Indian Lake)
I met a young girl on Saint Patrick’s Day.
She was looking for something important
To fill in the void she was dealing with.
She was pleased when I offered my content.
I rented a house on a scenic lake,
And worked very hard to give her a home.
It didn’t take long till the tide came in
And my credit cards drowned in the foam.
What I took as love was a two-faced con.
She had a road map to a better life.
But her route didn’t count on remaining
A loyal and strong, "We’ll deal with it," wife.
I took her on as my duly wedded spouse.
She turned out to be a hooker playing house.
THIS SPACE RESERVED FOR
GOLD DIGGERS WHO GIVE GOOD ILLUSIONS
[I was damaged property. That part’s on me.]
He loiters in shadows in line for no harp
The tools of his trade all surgically sharp
He slices their throats before they start yelling
The Lord knows his name but the Lord isn’t telling
So prowling these lanes seeking hooker or stripper
To bolster the legend of Mister J Ripper
He skulks in the gloom, an All Hallows’ day tripper
His yen to splay female flesh wide like a kipper
Thus, nervous and pretty with Lilly-white skin
Her blood gushes free from just under her chin
A flash of a blade in the moonlight is made
And she lies agape and ravaged and flayed
His lust and sick love precludes notions of rape
He melts in the night with a swish of his cape
They don’t understand so they call it a crime
But Jack will be back... at least one more time
But there’s no monopoly on London’s streets
And angel or Satan... everyone eats
Yet too many nutters the law cannot track
So, why not blame all of the carnage on Jack
And when Jack returns to a lust fuelled delight -
(A lady who markets her wares in the night)
A chilling voice whispers, ‘Wrong alleyway bud’
And the Vampire moves in to savour Jack’s blood
4 May 2021
Contest: A Poem of Horror
Sponsor:Funom Makama
I yelled and flung the empty whiskey bottle through the air
The marching high school band is getting closer
Children running, playing with the pygmy bear
The carny selling snake oil, argues with the grocer
Soldiers marching past the fountain try hard to hide their stares
as ladies of the night walk by and boldly strut their wares
The preacher turns the other cheek, and quickly looks away
As mothers hide their children’s eyes, on such a dreadful day
The hunchback and the midget playing baseball on the grass
run off the growling rabid dog that almost bit their ass
The fishermen pull up their anchors in the dark and tranquil bay
and sail off to their secret place, where mermaids swim and play
The doctors and the lawyers and their limo drivers too
lay drunk across their tables in the dimly lit saloon
The one eyed hooker sings aloud her favorite Country tune
As the village idiot runs in circles, howling at the moon
And me I’m just here sitting, watching from the bleachers
As children on their outing, yell profanities at their teachers
The firemen turn their hoses on the salesmen trying to sell
Direct TV subscriptions, as the crowds yell “go to hell”.
City lights come alive, the cats desert the streets
The silence of the falling leaves, are gathering at my feet
As I walk past the working men, erecting circus tents
To bring tomorrow’s curious here, to offer new events
Twas the night before Christmas I went shopping suits,
As shoes looked rat-eaten, needed also warm boots;
Sales girls, in malls displayed suits in variety,
Blown up cost and lean purse grew my anxiety...!
Malls are looters, I thought, like the fox and sour-grapes,
Have proprietors, owing greed, have become apes?
In cool colors and satiny shine they sell soul,
Counting cash at the cost of the poor is their goal...!
Textile showrooms, as less showy, could be better,
They might not put me a perpetual debtor;
Varieties, there could be more, in cost less,
After all, to grace all seasons I need good dress...!
American Giant; Peter England; Rouje;
All internationals seemed like dagger and gouge;
Fashions so funny; rough and gunny; yet the cost,
Summing my few notes repeatedly, I was lost...!
Settling to try local stores, I slowly walked,
Shops were numerous like swarms serially stocked;
Each had limits in my sight; in brand or in grant,
Grade low if price less and vice versa if looked grand...!
Some smiled; some giggled; some, like friends made me convinced;
Some, like hooker-women luring actions evinced;
All these shops and show-rooms, as I narrate, not bad,
Within, I know, lack of notes is what made me sad...!
Street textile vendors will help me out, I believed,
By such sure sincere folks I will not be deceived;
With such thoughts, like an athlete I ran to each street,
Challenges like pain and perspiration, I did beat...!
You are late - they said, they pack up by twelve at night,
On Christmas they feast; though fiscally they are tight;
I went back thinking of suits within my wardrobe,
Though they have many holes, they are best in whole globe...!
25 November 2022
The Night Before 3 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Bull eve me (Adam, whether existence
fact or fiction),
his immediate legion heirs whole
heartedly partook
to regale no Joe king paternal prominence,
sans legendary, fraternity,
and consanguinity subsequently implemented
faux pas threatening Nittany Lions role
attested by this papa, a curmudgeon
resident of the North Pole
burrowed deep within tundra
necessitated drilling permafrost black hole
son, which boring task found me dissatisfied,
asper penultimate existential goal
thus, I decided to sell coal
to New Castle, transported
within loco motive conveyance
doubling up as fish bowl
decimated crossing Arctic
great barrier reef Atoll
lauded me with mouthy gift horses,
(one Mister Ed, adore
hubble hoof only high saddled
Equus caballus neighing boar)
feted me, a hay er raising chore
followed by Mister Barns Noble encore
generation standing ovation,
a deafening applause
resonated across the floor
then an electrifying speech
by (plan net fitness diehard) Albert Gore
describing raping, pillaging,
And looting dip lore
able incursions as heath n (moor
or less opprobrious upon poor
sacred Mother Nature
whimpering and softly doth roar
ring, now treated like a whore
telltale global devastation
impossible to ignore agog
pollution extant across
entire world wide web bog
gulls restorative legislation,
when offal debris doth clog
estuaries, where watersheds habitat
choking with despair,
thus imperative to grab hold collective
figurative (corny as this may seem) ear
cuz jackknifed, irreparable,
horrible gnashing fear
fully betokens catastrophic
environmental fractured glare
ring hooker impailment here
and everywhere.