Long Smut Poems
Long Smut Poems. Below are the most popular long Smut by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Smut poems by poem length and keyword.
I don’t know if there’s a God,
But I still prayed we’d not be seen,
That night we scaled your neighbour’s fence,
To steal their trampoline,
In the halflight the elastic,
Shone like a lacquered animal skin,
Stretched taut across the beaten frame,
Held in place with rusty pins,
Sat there crouching in the darkness,
Like some huge primeval beast,
Yeah it sat there like a drum,
As our souls slapped a beat,
Put me in mind of Three Blind Mice,
Or God Save the Queen,
Or The Rhythm of Life,
Pulled me closer when the net,
Became an oil slick in the rain,
Said whatever souls are made of,
Yours and mine are just the same,
Well I’ve never like clichés,
And I don’t believe in fate,
I’d prefer you to quote Hardy,
I find Austen quite passé,
But there was something in the way,
That you could spin a phrase,
Yeah when you shaped them with your mouth,
Those old words seemed newly made,
You said,
I’ll live my life according,
To the fortune cookie sages,
And glossy magazines,
With their astrology pages,
We can chart a route to China,
And sail by the stars,
We’ll earn ourselves a name,
In brothels and in bars,
Yes we will make our fortune,
And we will find our fame,
In a place where they write danger,
And opportunity the same,
Well I’ve never been to China,
Couldn’t quite see the attraction,
Why fly halfway round the planet,
When there’s sun and sea at Brighton?
And I never understood,
Your peculiar gravitation,
To late night establishments,
Of a dubious reputation,
With their smoke and smut and chewing gum,
And soggy Carlton coasters,
And air of desperation,
And karaoke posters,
Full of ugly men and women,
Making ugly propositions,
You say ‘perfection is a fault’,
By way of explanation,
And claim that there’s a quiet glory,
In decay and all that’s grimy,
And you’ve always been so partial,
To the charms of ugly beauty,
Then sang,
I’ll live my life according,
To the fortune cookie sages,
And glossy magazines,
With their astrology pages,
We can chart a route to China,
And sail by the stars,
We’ll earn ourselves a name,
In brothels and in bars,
Well they’ll never see it coming,
Our touch will leave them changed,
Once we’ve finished with this world,
It will never be the same,
Oh once we’ve finished with this world,
It will never be the same.
whether you like it or not, your priest, your pastor, your minister,
your clergyman
of whom you hold the utmost regard,
whose very advice
you secretly tell yourself has been inspired by
the lord your god &
maybe even “jesus” himself,
may in fact hold a very
deep
dark
secret---
your clergyman or woman may have come to the
rational
conclusion,
a long time ago,
that what it was that they went to seminary for,
that what it was that they themselves thought in the deepest reservoir of their hearts,
that the pure unadulterated faith
which they once held onto like a child does their mother’s hand
when walking in the city,
which they once thought was so obvious &
real,
is nothing but a cheap hoax of the most serious kind,
&
that it is all a
lie---
at best, this lie which they are still taking part in,
is one which they think brings comfort to their
flock,
it pays their bills,
above all, they have no idea what they would do
if they turned their back on the whole sham now,
after
wasting
half
their
life
peddling religious smut like a pimp on a street corner.
huddled in their corner at home,
locked up in the closet,
they bite their nails and bear upon their backs the weight
of the lie growing like a cancerous tumor---
they may have friends who are clergy,
with whom they can speak of losing faith in a roundabout
manner,
by which both parties are made to feel more comfortable
when the ambiguous nature of a conversation finally gets down to the
nitty-gritty,
that this sham
this character was NOT born of a virgin
that this character did NOT walk on water
never cured a leper
never turned water to wine
never turned a few fish & a loaf of bread to a feast for
thousands &
was never crucified, dead & buried only to
rise again.
inside their minds is an explosion ready to awaken
millions
that finally, even the prime liars in this campaign of
deception that has lasted a few thousand years
is
breaking---
it is all a matter of time before the technology that we
have produced as a species cures our very fear of
death &
without the fear of death,
you will no longer need to be a slave to these
charlatans
that continue to beat you senseless with their
poorly written fiction.
get ahead of the curve &
scrap it all before your shepherds do,
making you look like the sap that you presently
are.
A queen was spinning flax one day.
She gave her loom a jerk.
(Don’t ask what “flax” or “looms” might be,
or why a queen must work).
She pricked her finger (careful, now!)
yet Sigmund Freud would say
these children’s tales are full of smut –
there is no other way.
Three drops of blood fell in the snow
(she’s spinning flax outside?)
She thought that she’d commemorate
her perforated hide.
“I’ll have a daughter,” Queenie thought,
“with lips of ruby red,
and skin as white as that there snow!
Let’s go!” And so to bed.
Her weaving-loom was black as jet
- another tint to add –
and when she found she was ‘with child’,
a daughter’s what she had.
The girl grew fair, with jet-black hair,
and skin, unblemished, white:
those curvy hips, those luscious lips!
She was a gorgeous sight.
But mother never missed a chance
to put her daughter down:
“Just understand, I rule this land –
the only babe in town!”
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
who’s the tasty totty?”
The magic mirror told her straight,
“Queen, you’re the only hottie!”
But adolescence changes things,
and Snow White turned out fair:
to use the common parlance, she
had grown a lovely pair!
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
I’m still the choicest chick!”
“Well, just about,” the mirror said:
“the kid’s improving quick!”
We’ll drop the Huntsman who was tasked
to take her to the river
(Snow White, that is) and rip her guts,
so Queen could eat her liver.
Why did the hunter like the girl?
Was it her curvy bits?
A friend, he proved – and probably
A friend with benefits!
He told the truth, and now the youth
slipped something in the booze.
She turned real mean – she got the queen
the reddest pair of shoes!
The birthday bash was fairly flash:
for Queenie, two surprises –
no, not the wine ‘improved’ with hash,
as everyone surmises!
Snow White was still alive, the first:
she wore a see-through blouson.
“Mommy Dearest,” red lips pursed,
“Just slip these bright red shoes on.”
The Queen put on the birthday gift
and started twirling, prancing:
the mirror told her, “You’ve been stiffed!
You’re dying, Queen – not dancing!”
That Snow White dame must take the blame:
for she had put together
two metal sheets, a red-hot treat!
Those shoes weren’t made of leather!
continues from part 1
And I to him: “Show me where I can find,
If you want that I bring your news then up,
Who is who foresees with so bitter mind”.
Then he put his hand at the yaw to grasp
Of one of mates his mouth to unlock,
Screaming: “This is the one whose voice has stop.
This, when was banished, then the doubt could stock
In Caesar, affirming that the supply
Was always late to arrive giving shock”.
Oh how much dismay appeared to imply
With his tongue fully in his gullet cut
Curius, who so boldly could reply!
And one who had his hands both cut somewhat,
Raising his stumps in that just dusky air,
So that his blood then made his face a smut,
Shouted: “Of Mosca memory you care,
Who, alas!, told, “End has anything done”,
Which for tuscan people was seed unfair”.
And I added: “And death of yours begun”;
Since those, summing pain to pain all the way
Went on as people who is crazy and won.
But I remained to look the souls array,
And saw a thing which then I strongly fear,
With any proof, to just relate I may;
Although my conscience looks to be sincere,
Thanks to good partner I have had at side
Under the shield of feeling to be clear.
I saw for sure, and still it seems it’s eyed,
A body without head to go on so
As went others of herd of badly died;
And his truncated head held by hair low
Hanging from his hand in a lantern guise:
And that looked at us telling “Oh me woe!”.
Of himself was doing himself light rise,
And so were two in one and one in two;
As it can be, it's known by who is wise.
When he walking reached then the bridge foot through,
He raised up his limb with his head well up
To get closer to us his words for true,
Which were : “You see by now the painful stoop,
You that, respiring, go and dead souls see:
Observe if any is worse than this you scoop.
And so that you to bring my news agree,
I am Bertram from Bormio, just the one
Who gave to the young king bad advice plea.
I made foes among them father and son;
Achitofel with Absalon had no more
And with David evil innuendoes done.
Since I divided people close with sore,
I bring my brain divided, oh weary!,
From this truncated where it was before.
So here see retaliation dreary”.
My dear friend.
The first time we met,
as I held a door open for her stride,
I saw not the eye's image, not yet;
I glimpsed, outwardly, her beauty inside.
I did a double take at that smile,
heard her thanks and silently rejoiced;
her normal visage I saw, after a while,
and 'til now this thought I had not voiced.
We walked inside, and with so many others
we covered that room in song.
Unfamiliar, not yet in practice brothers,
nonetheless not a thing could any find wrong.
Music quickly became our bond,
leading to so much more.
Of her humor and spark, I am quite fond,
life near her never close to a bore.
With the clarinet she made art,
but too, just so with her hands;
the lady with the large heart
your attention her muse commands.
She's told me of despair complete,
of feeling all hope, at times, gone.
She found a way to fight, compete;
to win out to a new dawn.
Faint of heart, weak of gut,
none can accuse her of having been -
we've discussed disease, pain, smut,
her sensibilities speaking falsely of sin.
For in her I can detect none,
one just wanting to forgive, smile and laugh.
I often help her get the latter done,
both drinking deeply from friendship's carafe.
Once so long ago, for so short a time,
we were somewhat more than friends,
kisses and walks shared in a courtier's clime;
never been strained since - just the way life wends.
Then, thousands of miles apart,
we talked not quite so often;
then, difficulties pierced her heart,
my words the blows to soften.
Still she's suffering, sadly,
still she's stuck sorrowed;
yet some small slice of it I have to see gladly -
at least that it's my solace she's borrowed.
For she's recovering some of my sanity,
giving me that much more connection to home -
to the therein found sample of humanity
that's solemn upon seeing me roam.
Just today, she's helped me all anew,
drawing the weeping wolf, in exchange for this -
envisioning what will be my new tattoo,
a new mark on the flesh, to reminisce.
No matter what trials befall her in this life,
she simply must know that she's never alone;
during the tribulations and strife,
she just has to pick up the phone.
My dear friend.
Remember the days of
yesteryear
when family ties were
held most dear,
and gas lamps flickered in
the back street
while most of us danced a
different beat!
Tragic alleyways of
smog and smut
“Live over the brush”
Branded a sl*t,
silhouettes infringe the
darkest night
gullible back shift broke the
morning light!
Adventurous nights at
“Townhead mill”
A pint of beer the
back porch thrill,
when no! Meant yes in
rapturous skill
to fumigated music from
“Nashville”
Obnoxious libertine this!
Bread man
bay curtain drawn
delivery van,
the structure conspired
indiscretion
clinical the world’s
oldest profession!
Sporting gentlemen in
summer bliss
caught first ball! Costly night
on the piss!
Pavilion home to
moorside drover
many a chaste maiden
bowled over!
Partial pilgrimage down
“Bolton Road”
Black and amber heroes
round ball code,
liniment buoyant throughout
the room
manly skills embroider the
village groom!
Cardinal days steeped in
“Rock’n’Roll”
Sire in fear of them out
of control,
a colossal wedge
between culture
in shadows of decency
vile vulture!
Repetitious days of
school yard might
“Alfie” Reduced to a life
of plight!
Parent queried! Yet
misunderstood
reasons for mayhem in the
neighbourhood!
Lads and lasses lost in
“Hide and Seek”
Games of “stroke-a-Back”
every week,
by the old school yard we
all did laik*
Now the street is naked, for
“Heaven sake!”
© Harry J Horsman 2020
*laik Yorkshire for play, as in 'play out'
crawling from the box he lived in
after finding the secret number in a smut rag
available to all who seek it out on the street,
he made his way to the seemingly abandoned building
where after hitting the buzzer, he was instructed to give
the password that had been allotted him on the phone prior &
up the grungy stairwell he went.
it took him five floors to get to the room whose glowing red light
steaming from under the pre-war door &
after entering, the darkened hallways let to a large room full of
carnivorous orgiastic wonder---
like something out of
“eyes wide shut,”
women of all shapes & sizes,
clad in PVC & leather,
carrying whips & toys
(not to mention handfuls of cash),
were leading men around to select hidden spots &
doors with big locks,
throughout the large apartment floor.
as where he found the funds to attend such a select gathering
was as much a secret as any of the names or faces of the men
wandering around with cocks stiff & eyes wide,
and so, knowing he wasn’t much different,
he made his way to sit down next to a woman stretched out &
waiting for the next fly to be wrapped up in her spider’s
web.
and while beginning to engage in exhibition,
another young woman in black lingerie walks by,
doing a double take,
for she realizes that he is someone who lives in her building,
in fact, he is someone who turned her down for a date a few weeks ago,
after getting her hopes up.
she walks back to look at him,
and when he makes eye contact,
his face becomes flush with embarrassment,
instantly acknowledging to himself that the person he was when he
turned this young woman down who is standing in front of him,
may not have been the same one who is sitting half-naked on a dark red couch
with another woman’s mouth on him.
the young woman walks up to him & tells him simply,
“please don’t tell anyone in the building that you saw me here,
i need the money”---
his response comes equal with the self that she sees &
all he can say is “maybe we can get together a little later, you look amazing in
that lingerie”---
shaking her head at him and smiling,
she walks away into the darkness of the hallway leading to the
dungeon.
There is no part of life mine alone,
If regarding my whole existence.
What belongs to me is only flesh and bone,
Therefrom this life has subsistence.
Down on the farm I was buying time,
The universe I studied for reason.
Sweetest wine carried me through my prime,
It numbed my pain in every season.
There arrived torturous days galling,
Mainly dispiriting to my mentality.
Yet I operated above whatever was appalling,
I just dared not easily show my fragility.
All this and more, it kept me sane,
Scarcely a day I had without sin.
There was the neglect, and profanity arcane,
Its blasphemous speech was akin.
On a dry creek bed I oft-times laid,
Looking up at the sky in a daze.
Habitually I went there and quietly played,
Literally it was a place I could laze.
Sometimes I caught fresh tadpoles,
Then cooked them in a tin pot.
These larvae's I collected from tiny water holes,
An acquired taste they were hot.
But only to the conversant hillbilly,
I rather was such in an awful rut.
It wasn't something I could flee quite freely,
So in my misery I feasted on smut.
Actually I tried to glance elsewhere,
But I felt like a slave to this stain.
They looked so pretty in their neckwear,
Several were butt naked in the rain.
Across the flat fields cattle grazed,
Completely ignoring the crows.
A vineyard nigh I watched over unfazed,
Lady of plight too would impose.
The grapes of despair I grew there,
Relying on ***** men in chains.
They worked all day till dusk without fanfare,
And none of them had notable names.
It was a harsh country for the folk,
Ye all marked fateful on a tether.
Unfortunates who had no rights to provoke,
Things there were cruel altogether.
The slave tarts I occasionally took,
Most offered no fiery resistance.
But when one did I quickly gave her the hook,
It meant she'd hang in an instance.
Until the grapes of despair expire,
I shall continue my trade of sin.
Down on the farm I expect this life to backfire,
Postulating fears to my hell therein.
A day in my life
I thought to help the wife
I got the vacuum out
A little run about
I plugged it in the wall
Odd, no sound at all
It must have blown a fuse
So I undid all the screws
I changed the fuse with new
When they blow that's what you do
Then I plugged the thing back in
Odd, still nothing, no din
I made a cup of tea
The thought occurred to me
Was the fuse that I thought new
A useless dead fuse too
I scratched my head and thought
Has some fluff and stuff got caught
And blocked up all the tube
Which may have blown the fuse
I was in a flux
So I got my toolbox
First I undid this
Then I undid that
And by the time I undid more
I had a pile of scrap
Now I was in a flap
As I tried to build it back
But I knew I lost the plot
Cos the pile was such a lot
When I knew I could not win
I launched it in the bin
So I went round to the store
Cos my vacuum was no more
And invested in one new
Took it home just like you do
But by the time I did unpack
I had another heap of crap
Cardboard and all that
So I burned it round the back
I plugged my new vacuum in
Odd, still no distinctive din
I was most bemused
I thought a new one can't be fused
So I changed the fuse in new
Then thought I will vacuum , like you do
Odd, not a peep
From my new electric sweep
I thought there's something funny here
Something strange and *****
The room was not its norm
It had no bubbly warm
Then I looked at my aquarium
The fish they did not swim
No lights or bubbling glow
That keep them on the go
I switched the light shade on
No light there just was none
Then I tried the chandelier
No lights from that either
I sat down with a grin
It was hard to take it in
I reflected on the day
The one that cost me pay
I had dismantled something good
For no reason that I should
Then threw it in the bin
And then invested in another
When the first one had no bother
I felt so ashamed but I had myself to blame
I thought, Scott you are a nut
Scott you are a smut
Did you not realise
There has been a power cut
Outside
where are your eyes in the 11th hour?
do they roam to and fro, roaring
with insipid power, baiting the hook,
fishing for retractable men?
where is your nose in the 11th hour?
is it sniffing out a cesspool of plots,
hanging with odious men by the fire,
drawing in men with deceptive smoke signals?
where is your mouth in the 11th hour?
are you rambling out rhetoric, grandiloquent smut,
smirking, curling your lip, your serpentine tongue
slithering and snapping up every adamic crumb?
where are your ears in the 11th hour?
are they trembling with vibrations of horror,
jingling change from restless legs, harkening to
every pandering pain - every wicked wile?
where is your touch in the 11th hour?
are you reddening faces, tenderizing
every black and blue artery and vein,
darkening the skin of Eve like a cancerous cloud?
~ ~ ~
in the 11th hour, her kind eyes shower,
with rainbow tears, leaping upwards,
bowed in reverent fear, insightful and wise,
vigilant and circumspect.
in the 11th hour, her nose drawn to scents,
yes of honeysuckle and baby powder
but also the downpour of the poor and sick,
attentive to the stench.
in the 11th hour, her mouth soothes
with compassion, just and good,
sensitive to worn out souls, smiling
tenderly, speaking at chosen times.
in the 11th hour, her ears ever alert,
pierced by the outcry of Eve’s children,
drawn to lilting laughs, lullabies and psalms,
anywhere a helping plea sounds.
in the 11th hour, her touch gentle and soft,
changing diapers, dusting off tears, foraging food
for her family and the lonely, handing out hugs,
midnight feet tucking in the sheets.
~ ~ ~
Indeed, the 11th hour is here,
a time where good is called bad
and bad pronounced good.
In the overcast skies,
the spread of candlelight
like stars, so mercifully bright.
As midnight strikes,
each star is gathered like wheat,
the sun and the moon fall asleep.
4/2/2019