Long Pimply Poems
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Reunion, Reunion I have to go
To meet those friends I used to know.
And talk about the days gone by
When we were young with spirits high.
But, all I found was a money speech
Asking for me to reach deeply
Into my pocket for Dollars, or Pounds.
The amount they wanted had no bounds.
With speeches long and thirst so strong
The glass was dry, when toasts came along.
With glasses raised and wine no more
We sucked the vapour to its core.
While standing listening with a wandering mind
I looked once more to find a friend
There she stood with long blonde hair
I could not help but stop and stare.
A figure slim, and breasts that call
Enough to make me crawl a wall.
She turned, our eyes met
My heart soared like a fighter jet.
I turned away to catch my breath
My lungs had stopped, I was near death.
When I looked back, she was gone
Where she’d been, there was no one
I scurried dazed without much grace
My soul now captured in a nostalgic chase.
Her name. Her name. I must find her name
I was now a player in the courting game
Quickly reading the guest list
I came across the girl I’d missed.
Then paging through my memory’s blur
I thought of how I had remembered her.
Thin scraggly hair, a pimply wimp
With glasses horned, she looked a shrimp.
A pathetic picture, I now recall
The lonely wallflower of the Rag Ball
Why in my youth was it hard to know
An ugly duckling into a swan might grow?
Or a creepy caterpillar worm
Into a butterfly would turn?
Why did I treat her so mean?
Why had I not seen her beauty?
I must apologise and admit my shame
For my role played in youth’s cruel game!
I’ll tell her now I am glad we met
She taught me lessons I won’t forget.
I’ll tell her that never again
Will I say a word that brings pain.
I’ll always make low spirits raise
With words of hope and heartfelt praise.
Some days later we finally met
Just as she was boarding her private jet.
As her handsome companion opened the door,
She told me sweetly “You are such a bore”
First Day of the Year, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s Premier de l’an by T. Wignesan
Each moment of waking up is an act of giving birth
I use the iron tools myself on the mother
To death
Myself : Who is this myself ?
Am I somebody else other than the weight I bear
Who resists who clings refuses
To be born ?
This weight deliberately reinforces itself
Through its heaviness
It wouldn’t want ever to be anything but matter
Half-conscious half in a state of stupor
Root before being stem
Seed which pushes upwards through the ground
Without being pulled out
Meanwhile it fathoms its false state of sleepiness its
burrow
(And) in delving into it it expels proportionately
All its skin goose-pimply to the touch
Hairiness of anguish enormous world
She kneads it more and more into the narrow passage
Her own abdomen compresses in vain his anguish
Towards the interior and the exterior at the same time
An every day happening that’s always impossible
The act of giving birth
This first day of the year nineteen seventy-three
Aged fifty-six years and eight months
Once again after twenty-thousand times more
I knew I have to be born
I do not want to.
I cry out to Someone who is stronger than me
That he might pull me out of my old fears originating from
my mother*
That they put me on this earth
So that I might walk towards my end once and for all in
my stride
With my dead elder-sister for company
On this earth of living beings
Someone who is I right at the end of the route
Up above
Puts aside with might the thin-lined horizon
So that I might be born
One day the more.
• See his poem : « Now to be flesh of a man and a woman »
(Sophia, O.C., t. II, p. 416)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
who left trail of heartbroken sage woman
commander in chief deliberately stoked,
née sparked long
simmering smoldering, and stewing
long festering white supremacist altercation
fiendishly igniting racial conflagration
exploding during late spring 2020.
No matter no child left behind kibitzing
(yours truly as boy plucked petals
off daisy reciting "she loves me,"
"she loves me not"...
cupid loosed an arrow
into boyhood neighborhood sweetheart
she innocently bespoke
"I wanna marry you,"
when uttered courtesy Sherry Jones,
a little girl who lived
approximately three doors down
along cul-de-sac within Apple Valley
perpendicular to Lantern Lane,
or more age apropos,
when young gallivanting
purported vestal virgin ladies
nonverbally signalled
libidinal proclamations of emancipation,
as demurely expressed
lest unlucky (chaste into)
precocious phallic proclivity
suffered the punishment
of being buried alive.
Now back to present day,
when our old geezer,
the prototype garden variety
male of present poem -
any resemblance between general referenced
fella and living persons purely coincidental.
He (yours truly) easily qualified as
overly cocky whippersnapper,
i.e. young buck and/or Casanova wannabe
experienced bit torrent
hormonal secretions gushed
particularly in close proximity
wherein wafted pheromones -
think a waif faring ingénue.
As evident and quite obvious,
I fabricate (prevaricating
my signature trademark)
rather than stating bland reality stark,
yet will plainly explain issue
in summary essential rhyme
without reason constitutes
nothing more spectacular than
garden variety generic pockmark
excised pustule ofttimes hallmark
of teenage/ pubescent pimply benchmark.
Prevarication permits pretend perception, presenting
piquantly piqued, pimply pimping playboy, plucky
pulchritudinous previously pusillanimous, prevalently
puckish, psychic packman, pokemon playing proletarian
puppeteer pygmy, peevishly punky, plummy, plumy,
pompously pushy, pampered, prefabricated pinchbeck,
pokily plying plowshear, plodding peregrination, pied
piper pitifully peppy pornographic potato pealing,
parsimonious paradoxical protagonist, proposing
preposterous panicky pacification plots, prioritization
pertinent penultimate peroration, perhaps perceiving
perjuring, perplexing, perverting puzzling pronouncements
projecting pulsating pixelated pulpy pinball pinging
packets prompting pacific, poetic, phlegmatic purplish
psoriasis plagued, plumbum pallor pallid, Paleolithic
protuberance pronounced, psychosomatic prohibitionist,
polarizing perfunctory peculiarly progressive, patriotic
postmodern pathologically proud paternal panache,
peripatetic panaceas portraying prescient perfidious
puerile president, predominantly proposing parochial
principles, plenty public parking, purposefully
promoting pharisee phalanxes, pilates practicing
paragons, perennially peaceably proficient protesters,
profitable polygamy, pugnacious pitbull powerball
players, pandering polyandry, propagating professional
palindrome pensive peeping people, peddling,
proselytizing predicating prostitution, proliferating
phenomenally, populist persona promulgated peyote
phased physicians pioneering prescription promoting
paradisiacal pricey photographic pictures, placating
phrenetic physical perturbation partaking place
purchased (paid paltry pennies) por palatial piazza.
Ladies sitting on a bus with nothing much to discuss
Just the daughter’s wedding and the fuss
As another passenger gets on the bus
The sales are on “jeans and tops” she declares
Now she really got a bargain there
Idle chatter without any meaning
While I sit on the bus idly dreaming
The faces telling so many tales
For the working man there are no cocktails
There isn’t a stretch limo for the poor
Or even a taxi that’s for sure
People like the bus on a roundabout
Accepting not protesting with a shout
Being jostled and pushed by the crowd
Like automatons nothing proud
Accepting mediocrity like a shroud
A pimply young youth out for a lark
A man who for forty years has been a clerk
Both chatting together looking at an advert
Exciting young escorts for the convert
A child tries to sneak on for free
The driver on the lookout uniformed tyranny
A cashier from Woolies, who’s name is Shirl
Her companion trying to give her a whirl
Two excited students chatting in Chinese
As the driver says ‘Lady pay your fare please”
The woman embarrassed shows her pension card
That’s all she gets for working so hard
On the production line in the factory at Pritchard
The old drunk with sacred flask in pocket
When emptied, his courage soars like a rocket
The Greek on his way to his second job
The giggling girl and her latest heart throb
A constant blur of humanity filing in and out
Never the rich or the ones with clout
Just the deprived the old and the thrifty
Over the years a sea of ever changing faces
Heading for work, shopping, footie or the races
Humanity squeezed into a fourteen ton carriage
Jostled and bumped in a never ending marriage.
Wee, wee rid rid coated thing
tae ma hert sic joy yea bring.
Wae elegance an' tender charm,
ma racin' hert yea sae disarm.
Yea hang there among yer kind,
Bright an' braw but sae refined.
Ma wee rid rid coated friend,
sae Bonny, I'll nae pretend.
Each year fur us yea come along,
espousing nature's sweetest song.
A song not o' sound but o' exotic taste.
a taste fur oor lucky paletes tae be graced.
Here fur oanly a wee wee time,
yea mak ma taste buds gently chime.
Tastin' like nuthin' else oan this earthy place.
wae yer wee rid rid bonny smilin' face.
Frae yer parent tree yea duly burst ,
as a wee fluer yer gently nursed.
Caressed by bees yer scent doth bring,
eventually tae be a wee green pimply thing,
Bathed wae the Sun's life giving rays,
growing, maturing in such a wondrous way.
Changin', yellow, pink, noo tae yer rid rid style,
tae a Bonny Cherry tae please us fur a wee wee while.
Av jist picked yea up frae among yer like,
frae the box foo o' Cherries whay are jist alike.
But you ma wee wan are jist fur me,
hope yer taste is in the proper key.
Oh my, sic a burst o' pleasure,
ma wee wee rid rid bloomin' treasure.
Say juicy say sparklin' ma mooth foo o' joy,
wunnerful, exotic, aw ma senses yea do employ.
hank yea, thank yea ma wee rid rid friend,
yer the greatest, aye I'll nae pretend.
Tull next year, tull wee meet again,
whin I'll listen tae yer song o' sweet refrain.
A song o' taste an' no o' sound,
o' tasting magic from aw Cherries abound.
Rest now yer gentle parent tree,
an' please bloom anither day fur me tae see.
The Auld Yin.
A brand new car gleams with silver and unblemished paint
Never belonging to anyone else brings its own desirability
Virginal, it might be called…longed for but never driven
Lovely girl with her makeup just right
Yearned for and desired by men
She chooses you, requirement virginal
Everything about a new vehicle cries out for purchase
Little down, guaranteed and under warranty
It’s tuned to perfection
Beautiful hair, glowing skin
Smiling with perfect teeth, matching figure
Her life geared toward marriage and family
Oiled with expertise
Mirrors adjusted and radio playing
Seats smooth as leather with that new car smell
Her guaranteed…must please her man
Keep the shape, cook the meals
The feelings…mutual, emotional, and sexual
Once the car gets on the road, things may change
That first ding in the car door
The rear ender that wasn’t your fault.
Three years in…two children later
Hair shaggy and skin pimply
Smiling but with cavities shining
Leaking oil after the too close curb
Radio lost its antenna only static
Smell is now of smoke and bodies
Five years in…three children now
Lost her guaranteed warranty…new car purchased
Newer, younger, and more desirable
Trade her in…get the best deal for the money
Wives and cars…hmm
How does this equate
God is the only man in her life
Work, children, and baby sitters
How will she pay the bills?
Parked in the garage waiting, this woman
Worried, alone, and struggling, this woman
Someone else will want to sit beside this beautiful woman.
“Mr. Edwards please make your way to the managers office,”
James could picture her pimply face as she expressed each syllable from her orifice.
The twenty that walked down the isle to his office were laid off,
A young blooded manager was reducing the work force, his name, “Mr Scoff.”
How Ironic,
Sitting in his flashy office drinking Gin and Tonic.
James walked the death row isle,
His colleagues faces staring helplessly, none with a smile.
Architecture was his life and this was the end it seemed,
His pencil would not draw another success for Designer Beam.
The old carpet’s familiar crunchy sound,
Under his shoes many happy memories of the now ghosts that paced up and down.
The walk seemed longer this time, then he paused at the door for a while,
He briefly turned to see the head peaking over the partitions, none offering an
encouraging smile.
James faced the door, cleared his throat before knocking and with a bowed head he
went in,
Faint murmurs were heard outside as if debating a his fate for a cardinal sin.
Mr. Scoff’s scornful laugh was heard through the door,
Then absolute quietness, nothing was heard any more.
An hour later Scoff walked down the isle,
With his briefcase in hand daring someone to smile.
Fifteen minutes later, James quietly came out
Everyone looked at him questioningly, none knew took place or what it was all about
He turned and removed Scoff’s name from the door
And replaced it with Mr. J.C. Edwards Lotto winner, say no more...
As if I wasn't the best that emerged in those dry lands that begged for rain but received only filthy blood...
I was a foreigner in my town and later in my own mind, dodging the obtuse company of overbearing parentes, colleagues and friends.
I eradicated each one of the prejudices that intended to contaminate me on the streets of a city infected by the arrogance that ignorance hides.
So, goodbye Peter, stay there with your messerschmitt model aircraft collection, your exaggerated care with the miniatures exudes the smell of your rotten and nazi heart.
I will forget you Lucia, and hope you meet a hideous man in the bingo hall, blind to the pallor of your plump thighs that vulgarly invited my adolescent eyes, while with the head said no.
The cakes weren't good, Madalene, the oranges were sour, uncle Gerald, no interesting books in Esmeralda's bookshop.
Mom don't take flowers to dad, his grotesque soul hated nature and if he saw a cat in the garden it was me who needed to bury the poor thing.
I will never see your disgusting and pimply face again Matilde, make good use of the rock records you stole from me.
To the bar where I left my dollars and the gym where I was embarrassed for exercising my brain more than my muscles, I just hope they burn out on a summer night.
Goodbye everyone, I intend to get to hell sooner and prepare a warm welcome for you all, unless my father himself made a deal with the devil before.
Andy was a pretty young girl,
Flirty, fun, always busy, in a whirl,
She was popular at school,
Was intelligent, nobody’s fool
She never was short of a date,
But this would become her fate!
There was at college with Andy,
A nerdy guy called Randy,
Always unpopular heartily disliked,
He spent time alone, always hiked,
And occasionally, biked.
He asked Andy to join him one day,
She felt sorry for Randy, decided to say
Yes, so off they went on a trip
On his bike,
She had no idea Randy was
A complete psyche,
Rode far away from people in sight,
He bludgeoned Andy to death
With might
Used his bicycle pump, threw her down,
Off a mountain, into a shallow
Lake to drown!
Rode back to college, and was in tears,
His face had scratches, her friends
Worst fears,
Were foremost in their mind,
Randy was a freak, one of a kind!
She fell of the ledge Randy lied,
As he continued his story, and cried.
A helicopter flew to the scene,
The police were at this stage keen
To discover the absolute truth,
About this nerdy looking,
Pimply, youth.
Police feared that Andy was dead
The Chief of police at a
Press conference said,
Randy killed Andy, her hair stuck to his
Bicycle pump,
Pushed her and she had landed
Below in a slump.
Randy was found guilty, sentenced to die
By lethal injection,
Which didn’t bring back beautiful Andy,
With her fair complexion!