Long Splutter Poems
Long Splutter Poems. Below are the most popular long Splutter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Splutter poems by poem length and keyword.
It’s great to be a member of the global elite,
The bean poles in my garden are standing proud and neat.
Organic veg is thriving thanks to ample bags of peat.
I never hear a siren roaming down my street.
I’m fairly relaxed when an airline goes under.
Got a business proposition? Let me find you a funder.
“When will I fix their boilers?” my tenants do wonder.
I’ll soon find a scapegoat, if I should make a blunder.
A product of a public school, the pride of Shrewsbury,
Forcibly convinced that you would rather be me.
The reality is I’m at the top of the tree
So every branch manager is looking up to me!
My diary is dependent on the diligent Katrina,
She runs the show like clockwork, you’ll find nobody keener.
She cuts through all the jargon so the minutes are much leaner
And can text me at the golf club or on my yacht in the marina.
I’m awfully busy, cannot give you an appointment.
Upbeat copywriters - you can find a place in my tent.
Relatively shielded from the risks of disappointment,
You’ll never find a fly in my ointment!
If the radiators splutter, I call my handyman,
If my money’s on a racehorse, then I hope it runs to plan,
On the promenade at Paignton I’m a suave and sandy man,
To a certain travel agent, I’m her “neat and dandy man.”
My doctor comes a-running if I ever get a cough.
Your trusted friends will recognise when you’re a toff.
I flutter like a butterfly high above your moth
So the sprinklers on my lawn are rarely turned off.
Sundays see me mulling over crossword clues
While my weekend valet cleans my outdoor shoes,
Got to keep my name out of the news.
Remember buddy: heads I win and tails you lose.
Now most of my investments are quite discreet,
There’s a chalet in Antigua and a villa in Crete.
Want some carrot cake while you’re thinking on your feet?
Then you’d better not quibble with the global elite.
This poem first appeared in the P.U.W. Anthology "In the Name of Democracy - Poetic Voices" on 22nd May 2021.
Candle glow at midnight
The hatch is locked
A scrambling splutter
As I reach for the key of circles and bolts and lines
But just as before
The circle ends
Four corners behind
And I'm scrambling again for another key
I plead the glow as I–
Well, do I cherish my existence once more?
Foot taps to the humming
Blood rushing under my skin
I'm thrown to the couch
A corner, I curb
Did I feel the end? Was there an end in sight?
My head tilts, and I
Can't quite seem to keep the colours
Steady in my mind
For better or worse, I do mind
Do I love?
I don't love, I don't love, I don't love
I don't love. I do love. I don't love. I do love.
There it lay, lovely loose ooze on my path.
Black, sticky, stinky mud with aftermath.
I knew the feeling as feet slither in
As I grinned and grimaced with chagrin.
Squelch, squish, slurp, splutter and splat the ooze groans,
As my feet are soiled to pitch black tones.
Such a disgusting feeling with feet stuck
In the vile pile of gloppy, sloppy muck.
Through the mud up to top of thighs I wade,
But, creeping along, slow progress is made,
I sink lower down to my waist and stall.
Appalled, I squirm on my belly and crawl.
As I dragged myself up, the ooze clung on.
Any hope of staying clean was long gone.
I dodge the mirror like it’s coming to get me
I lay around like something will change
I curse my frame and do not eat
then I mess it all up again
I spark one up as a way of releasing
then wonder why I feel the same
I’ve never been the jester type, I lose most every game
and how I tower, splutter and scour
putting in my two pence when the bill has been paid
Yet when I yearn for a different shape, different pastime, different state, every drop of me dries up
every lump, with it every bump, is part of my mosaic
every thorn has its rose, there’s a darkness behind every pose
Imperfect is my perfect; it’s me everyone knows
Yes, I bare all my emotions
I can be short, I can form oceans
I get things wrong, sometimes more than right
I don’t foresee with perfect sight
But I’ll be there when things feel off, when you’re drowning and it all just stops
I’ll prove myself when you’re not sure
when I fall down I’ll find another door
Imperfect is my perfect and will be for ever more
Candle glow at midnight,
The hatch is locked
A scrambling splutter
As I reach for the key of circles, bolts and lines.
But just as before. The circle ends 4 corners behind
And I'm scrambling again for another key
I plead the glow;
It flickers as I-
Well, I,
I cherish my existence once more
As another circle starts to grow...
My foot taps to the humming,
Blood rushing under my skin, I'm thrown to the couch–
It's way past midnight. Immobile, so I curb the corner.
Did I feel the end?
For better or worse, the hatch unlocks, no key.
My head tilts, and
I can't seem
To keep the colours uniform again.
I spiral to only splatters of *pink* and *green* caressing the wall
Overwhelmingly.
Please, don't, love.
But I do, do I? FOR WHAT PURPOSE?
I plead once more.
And become void, I hate. I hate. I hate.
But only pink could resonate.
Get out of my head mister chatterbox!
Ransacking treasure trove
of maximum headroom.
To remedy a fate worse than death
or orange hair oaf becoming
forty seventh president
or contracting one
of several viral diseases named pox
permeate heavy shut tight door
with numerous deadbolts
and sophisticated locks
and impossible mission to out fox
analogous to roach infestation,
who favor nesting within custom made
Roper men's shoes brand name Docks.
Upon prima facie first blush
me mind's eye all atwitter,
sans long forgotten
"FAKE" sexual exploits
set mum (chrysos anthem) all aglitter,
boot like short order cook I hapt tubby
quickly realized trumpeting collusion,
a near fatal collision course
with Das scribe's antimatter
caw zing friggin insomnia
finding ma noggin scrambled
likesome lithesome cockamamie critter
whipped into frenzy
like battered butter
holy grits, alm manned
in fight of ma life
cause I haint acquitter
baa (jaw edge), ah woe cup feeling
hedged hog extremely bushed 'n bitter,
this raging red bull inside me mind,
now body wheeling wickety wack,
lichen to moss elf gut seasonal litter
bitta asthma - insides
got balled into wah racket
like quietly rioting unfetter
herd plain tennis (see) hens,
gone south tub bespatter
ear rilly jawboning jabberwocky
reducing gray matter,
and all flesh sundered
into meaty platter
to pulverized, irradiated,
cremated... faux fluffernutter batter
analogous tummy Aunt
Jemima's famous flapjacks,
she fantastically fashioned better
than Betty Crocker
tossing spatulated glommed
gook suitable as bonesetter
high as the Taj Mahal,
while she merrily jabbered,
her native patois singsong blatter
all this inaudible clatter
muffled 10,000 maniacs mad as a hatter
madly clangorous dinner cowbells
aroused bacchanalian sybaritic skitter
ring jitterbugging fantasies
of barenaked ladies doth splutter
as bedraggled, frazzled, grizzled...poetry
like cocky rooster that did stutter!
I saw a guy on the older side, he donned a mask
(All jokes aside) I do believe it worked for him'
On election days with glitz and spin, he soon found
That it would always magic away, all doom sayers
On most weak-days' also he didn't need a cape to
Escape, when reality menaced; right in his face.'
He'd just reveal his ace; in the hole, it seemed it
Would serve for any jail... Er I mean goal.!
It also helped when eating food, it cut on splutter
Which some think crude, I don't know if he's tried
It for dates ? Yet better late than never, also a
Spare might be useful? should the constipation break'
Suddenly..' He had a thought; on a cure, for all others'
Errant minds, maybe lobotomy's for them one and all?
Perhaps more panicking? Would be the call? Like Barak
O' Harris was often saying, get with programme'
There can be no neighing.' Just keep trotting on like
This; and see' its all in the scripting ( for the time to be)
Afterwards It's going to change, You'll get bigger letters
Apart from that; its just the same; old same.'
the creek is quiet, mossy
phantoms surround inlet
safeguarding all who visits
a lonesome eagle overhead watch
me strike a match _____ flame
dies in cold breeze
silent is vast sky
slowly life appears
chameleon on sediment
gecko peeping
fire I try to kindle splutter
gasping for breath ~
orange tongues appear
god’s original juices
consecrated ibis lands as if
sent from Nile where I drank
waters centuries before
sweet solitude filled with
memories of pharaohs
chariots, hieroglyphs
inlet waters fill voids in mind
I’m inconsequentially cosmic
egyptian geese descend
estuaries flow through limbs
nurturing blood …
_______________________
Placed : 5th : Premier Contest
Sponsor : Brian Strand : May 26
They don’t give a monkeys
You’ve read what they’ve said
These flunkeys are off their head
Braggadocio pinocchio junkies
Baz cronies nutter baloney utter
Phoney show ponies in the gutter
Stutter one more flutter then splutter
Aussies like a knife through butter
The death of a nation..us all pining for Bazball’s fine dining/opining alright whining degustation;
Amuse bouche (louche with a bag of douche);
Golly gosh Hogwash
Humpty Dumpty Numpty
Total scrotal Tosh
To start (brain fart);
Fish have another swish
Trumpet Bazball strumpet crumpet
Dish of death wish Gibberish
To cleanse the palette (God dammit);
Far too mellow sickly sweet lemoncello
Take a mallet to the Bazball planet (grief aperitif & digestif)
Entree (naysay it's okay.. the way we play come what may every bloody day);
Ruddy veteran fuddy duddy buddies bash
Splash of rash & brash
Off stump chump slump rump
Dash..lash then crash
Flash Balderdash hash
Desert ( just desserts)
Teasing wheezing ego pleasing Trollop
Dollop of Codswallop
With a twist of narcissist mist (you get the gist)
Cheese board (traditions ignored)
Aussie gloat aged goat
Camembert despair
Double header immature cheddar
Out fought and out thought Roquefort
(served with they're crackers and in a bit of a pickle)
Petit Fours (flaws encores & guffaws);
Scoop of NincomPOOP
Tasty bit of hasty bullshi*
Peacocks big bolloc*s
Tripe as ripe as our Gripe
You don’t get a coffee because like Test cricket they can’t do it for toffee
A skinny black girl, her torso submerged,
long neck holding her head up like a swimming Anhinga.
I should not know what a ‘snakebird’ is --- I am eleven years old
and have lived in the same dirty part of London all my life.
Florida is a missing piece in a school jigsaw,
while the British Empire is a scummy quarry basin pond
behind a brick factory.
My body feels rasped by cosmic sluice gates.
I could tell the girl wonderful things,
but my skull is an open hatch
jettisoning the rest of my life.
Small boys call to me in a trilling tongue,
a pictorial language made from sticks and stones.
Their faces familiar but their names
long drowned by decades.
I am recalling, falling through a time circle
in a rippling pond.
Anhinga-girl circles around,
eyes wide, waiting for me to say something.
I don't know how to speak to children from other places.
I gulp water and splutter from a faraway memory.
She grins and frog-legs away.