Bragger's Ball

Write about you.

Brag
Boast
Swagger
Blow your own horn


Or just tell us something important to your personality.
Write about your favorite subject.

Strange, since at least a quarter of all poems are poems about one's self in some way, that nobody has a poem with the words "I" or "me" in  it. Simply writing about yourself is fine.

Bump.

"Lock me on Mars"




5am and the grass is dust-dry;
the sky clear as black ice.
It's desolation seems hostile;
placid as Mars with a bit more wind.

I was always charging into battle
with the sun in my face, but I aged,
got wiser maybe
and put my sword down
but I can't find the off switch.
There's faces still perched on the knuckles
staring right down my throat
grinning
at the fear hardening in my marrow.

There is no calming voice
with a welcomed hand on my shoulder
to tell my eyes to look differently.
I know a world enough to keep my jaw tight
though this world's existence  
becomes more questionable with every quiet day.

I'll keep swinging iron,
throwing my fists into things that move
and executing everyone who looks at me.

Am I in the wrong streets
and wrong times?
My palms should kiss a battle-axe shaft
but I'm no warrior,
the real warriors remain unaffected
after people's claws have wrenched hard
at every fucking thing under their ribs
because there's a bigger vision to encompass,
a vision that's not for weak eyes like mine.

I should stay on the grass,
in the 5ams,
just shout me when the screaming starts
if it ever starts.

If I wait there long enough
maybe God will come to me,
lay his warm hand on my tense shoulder,
I'll pat his back
and sigh relief
at his incapable frame.

Water's Body

My river of bile
has flowed for years,
surging downwards
for decades before my birth.

Coursing through pilots,
miners and engineers,
mechanics and musicians,
and lapping against burned, empty homes
or reclaimed council houses,
devoid of any recessed face.

Now there is a river in me,
the collected forces
of broken becks and upset creeks
landing silently and awful
on the shores of my stony chest.

Several glacial cancers
breathlessly drift
against membraneous cliff faces,
leaving shining shards
of black glue on a tearful landscape,
an ageless eroded testament
to these fragile trees.

*POEMS FOR SALE*

gettem' while there hot.
Do you:
~need an apology to sound convincing?
 ... I have scoured the underworld of deceit,
      simply to bring back well enough worded remorse;
      to land you back into good graces
~need to impress or offend the god of your choosing?
  ...my god blushes into orgasm at any attempt at offense
      so should you need to send soft little forget-me-not's to your deity of piety
      or
      want to stiffen the prick of odin,
      I have the heads of weaker gods
      gift wrapped in entrails
~need to slicken the britches of that special lady?
  ...i have searched every angle of coercion
     to tailor suit the phrasing needed
     to make her feel unique

any of these needed, well I'm your guy.
perfect gift for the holidays,
don't miss out!

(lay-away plans are available, and I am now accepting jokes, smokes and foodstamps)
     

haha, LB, i looove this one. ^^ [:



"Empty: Journal Collection - Exhibit C"

I thought when      
I left the screen, the pen, the constant tidy/dinners/laundry/floors    
I would be a new woman    
I would get my gut back, new truth, better lies and a topographical view; but my news is another channel      
for reruns of mirror image stories whose writer was[clearly] a jack-ass.    
   
I can feel the precious words, all of life's poetry, distilling around the stones into waste[without absorption], falling out of my brain
like a 5 lb. piss after sex to swirl through these underground tubes with all the other self-appeasing, self-releasing, badly scrawled journal pages -
and my suspicions are justified:  
I am no poet.    
   
I've spilled into the confines of this feminine object mentally vapid, wits filed down to baseball bats where a javelin's required and    
I leave that space to the gossips[tell-alls] of time and laughter - and cynicism.      
Forgive me, my friend, for another blight;    
   
I observe people and whys well enough, but here
is where the weight is lifted, "and"s are prominent, and easy prose can rattle the life out of these limited meanings;    
because even if    
I've seen this script a thousand times, it is still taking my virginity and    
I know    
I won't regret having dirtied my hands[my heart] trying to bury my feet. Now    
I can say it as one of the mild joys of settling into who      
I am:    
   
My dear friend,      
I am no bloody poet.

You should see the things this man can do...
Picture this: 8 months ago
I was at the end of a 10 year drinking binge
and boy could I hold myself up
like the best of them.
I'd take the whole fucking town on
and not one person ever tried to touch me.
They loved fucking me, the women.
No matter what was in me,
no matter how ill I was
I had stamina
Lots of fucking stamina.
Then, there was that BANG.
Paramedics, therapists, blah blah blah.
All of a sudden it's all gone.
Just a shell
with friends doing no more
than laying a hand on a shoulder
out of pity.

But, you should see what this man can do.
I took it all and ran from it.
I wanted to be as far away
from that drunk fuck as I could be.
So I learnt to fight
I'm still learning.
My body tightens
and my prick stays hard.
Ten years of reading in the bars
has stayed with me,
and now the mind and the body fuse.

Ok, ok. On a modest note
I don't have anything else,
but what the fuck would I need
other than a mind,
two scarred fists
a sharp tongue
and eyes that keep the tossers at bay:
Eyes that know more
than I do.

“Nameless and Tethered”
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/images/uploads/poemimages/75550.jpg
Frozen at six-thousand meters plus,
high above the corrupt-material world,
I communed with glacier gods and my kindred buddies,
tethered by thin strands of bright kernmantle wearing clawed boots,
we shaped routes through crevasse-scarred mountainsides,
the majesty of all creation, portals to our existence.
And, though we exhausted our oxygen supply,
the summit was all too fleeting as the descent,
we cry quietly wearing invisible suits of armor
at sea level rubbing elbows with loud devils.
Witnesses to the curvature, we rode
the jet stream on our dreams, angel clouds
danced with our crew of nameless friends.
Back to unreality, where we remain
a silent secret sect of true believers
with nothing left to prove, as we’ve
touched the black sky, not blue.

Just A Thought.

 
I can bend my mind around any shape
stretch a thought like an elastic band
making sure that I keep the control
to release it back slowly before I rub it out
 
 
 
I can manipulate my mind how I choose
well at least I know I can most of the time
brainwash myself without the help of anyone
thoughts like to play games with my intelligence
 

 
Give me a thought and I will shake it about
undo its threads and load it with doubt
I can take a thought and project it out
with energy and will watch it start to sprout
 
 

Do we think a feeling or feel a thought?
I often wonder about the order of such things
subconsciously we manifest those silent demons
harder to bend tougher to stretch control lost
 
 
 
I can take a thought and make it my choice
build it in strength and my future dreams
as it eats away at the negative strands
that tangle and weave through my Universe

Braggman, hope you don't mind if I use this comp to try out a short story. I'm in it so maybe it's ok?  

The 13th apostle was a Craic dealer

Jesus, bless him, was never the brightest spark in the hearth. He'd spent his younger days lost in daydreams where his real father was a God, not some woodworker struggling to put food on the table.

Mary his mother, was starting to regret telling him the story about how she magically got pregnant and traveled for miles on a donkey to find a place to give birth to him. his father, Joseph  hated how his son spent all day with his head stuck up his own arse talking to 'his real father

Joseph told Mary in no uncertain terms that she should tell Jesus
the truth about his conception and birth. He told her to include
how at the time, she was a raging alcho who spent too much time
on her back either unconscious or oblivious to who or what was
taking liberties with her modesty and that she should tell him
how the three wise men she talked about were in fact three really
worried married men who came to bribe her silence.

Mary refused point blank, Jesus was the apple of her eye and the sun that brightened every day she was alive. "besides" she said " I haven't drank in years so I don't see why I should open that can of worms now of all times"

Joseph lost the head a few times when Jesus hit puberty. He'd asked him to cop on to himself and knuckle down with the woodworking business. Jesus just shouted "you're not my real father!, you can't tell me what to do! my real Dad will smite the
fuck out of you if you even look at me with that tone of voice again" then he'd disappear for the day until dinnertime.

Outside, Jesus watched a young ruffian steal an apple from the
market right under the eyes of the owner, then without any
hesitation take a bite out of it while talking to him. He
wondered who this kid was and so moved closer to hear what was
being said.

"yeah man, gree with you there, price of a good stone is off the fuckin wall man, and here, this apple is rotten, shame be upon
you ya robbin bastard" The apple seller was livid, and shouted
"come here you ya fuckin thief, I'll have your guts for garters"

Jesus watched the kid run away through the market and wondered if
he'll see the strange kid again.Some days later, while Jesus was
strolling through the town, he heard a strange voice address him.
"here you, what's the fuckin craic man, hows it going, what's
your name?"

Jesus looked at him [a bit taken aback by his tone]the best he could come out with was "I'm Jesus, son of God and savior of the world" Craic, who was always
ready for a bit of banter thought Jesus was pulling his leg and was eager to see where it was going. he laughed, eyed Jesus up
and down for a minute and spoke."Oh, the fuckin son of God no less, well fuck me pink we've got a live one here"

Jesus went red in the face, he was clearly hurt to the point his hand started shaking, then replied "look, don't talk to me like
that, peasant. I'll easily have my dad kick your ass for you, or send a shit load of frogs to run amok around your crib, I'm sure
he's already watching you anyway what with you being a dirty
thief an all"

Craic, seeing the reaction got stuck into Jesus who was starting
to sound like he actually believed the shit he was coming out
with "oh, kick my ass for me now will he, last I saw your dad was
trying to sell a woman some weird wooden thing 'bout *that* long,
saying if she got splinters he'd bite them out himself. no offence kid but your dads seems like a bit of a muppet"

Jesus was visibly shaking with the anger now and was secretly asking his real father to send a lightning bolt hurtling from the
sky to knock the cheeky bastard in front of him out for a few
minutes "yeah, well he's not my real dad, my real dad is a God
and I'm the product of a miracle"

This was gold to Craic, he was really starting to like Jesus and
decided to cut him some slack "ahh, your some kind of a fuckin
miracle alright kid. my name is Craic, my Dad was a lepper and my
Ma was a Chinee dancer, here take a smoke of this shit" Jesus was fond of the weed himself and had already told his real dad to
hold off on the smiting for a bit because he believed he could save Craic from himself and make a good honest Christian out of the heathen fucker.

The two lads became friends that day and spent many days and nights smoking their brains out at stonings. talking 'bout the stars and how the moon sometimes looked like one of the huge tits on the woman that sold fish on a Friday.they talked about weed and the best person to score some off. they talked about how when they got their own land they'd grow the best weed this side of
the Nile and how they'd have every cunt so stoned on their weed
they'd make a fortune selling snacks up and down the streets.  

Craic was fascinated at the story Jesus's mother told him about
his conception and birth but had already heard the real story
many moons before from the erb dealer who also supplied Mary soon
as she quit the grog. Craic, decent chap that he was, decided to
do everything he could to help Jesus become the man he wanted to
be "what's the worst that can happen" he thought "sure it'll be
grand.."

Part 2

One evening both Craic and Jesus ventured into a circle of lads. In the center of the circle, an old bearded man was talking. "dooom is upon us, an angel spake to me last night". The lads were passing round a fat ass blunt and egging the man on. "Jaysus man, dooooom you say, that's fuckin heavy shit, and what else did the angel say". the lads laughed and the man got angry.

He looked at Craic and shook a bony finger at him. said "you there, you've the devil in you"  Craic laughed and replied "yeah, then the devil was in your daughter for ten minutes last night..the slapper" the circle of lads fell about laughing and the old man seeing no one was taking him serious moved his soap box to another area.

with the old man gone, the lads turned to the two newcomers. "story lads. wanna puff from this, I'm Simon, that's James and John, Andrew, Phillip, Thomas, Bart, Mathew, Simon, James, Thaddeus and Judas, watch that Judas cunt though 'cos he's on the opium, chap'll rob the eyes out their sockets then help you look for them"

Craic took the blunt and replied "cheers man, I was dying for a fucking blunt, I'm Craic and this is Jesus, he's the son of god don't ya know, but he's cool and he gets some kick ass erb off his mother" Jesus said "yeah I'm a Godling but you can just call me Jay c, pleased to meet you all"

The lads sat around and talked, joked and wrestled one another for hours 'till Mary Magdalin walked by on her way to work, all the lads stopped and took notice. She could hear them talking as she walked by "oh would you look at the fuckin ass on that one lads, fuck me I'd leave her paralyzed from the waist down then go back for afters" she was used to it but still gave a flick of  her hair and an extra twist of her ass as a thank you.

Next day, Craic was on his way to Jesus's house. he bumped into the twelve lads sitting in the field. Simon called him over "hey craic, sup man. come, sit have a toke" Craic, glad of the toke went over to chat with the lads. Simon was first to talk "so..Craic, what's the story with your mate Jesus? he's a bit out
there wouldn't you say"

Craic filled his lungs with the good smoke and thought for a second blew out the smoke, said "holy shit man, that stuff is fuckin 'a , yeah ok Jay c is a bit out there but he's sound as a pound, look, fact is he really thinks he's the son of god, and let's face it, this bleedin kip could do with a few fuckin miracles going on, I think we all should help Jay c to be a proper son of god, and have a good fuckin laugh while were doing it..so happy days?"  they all agreed to help Jay c become a proper son of god.  

Bump.

Well well well....I don't mean to bragg, man, but I'm all over this like a fat-chick on Milkshake Man...

Well good then. There is quite an impressive cast lining up in this one, so far.

I was born to the broken people, shit poor and 5 generations deep in cruelty and rape and the casual hatred fathers poured into sons to make ‘em men. Yeah, you remember when. I was so fucking poor I didn’t wear shoes until I was ten, my toes so splayed I cried for days while the bones of my childhood forced themselves to fit the bitter world of shoes and rules and grown-up school. That was nothing but practise for the next, when all hell broke loose and my old man took to mum with fists and knives and carved up lives. She lived, he didn’t, by his own hand, then she took us and ran from that small town and after that we drifted with the whims of that ugly women while she chased cock and pills across the country, dragging me and my sister through every kind of hell at the hands of men my father would have spit in the face of rather than let in the house to fuck her unlovable cunt.

At fourteen, running wild, learning my fate was also fists and knives, she kicked me away to the other end of the country, to find out that no one gives a fuck about a boy that someone broke, so I lived my way, paid for my last year of school, got out, got a job, went truly bad, went mad, went sad, crashed car after car after car, rode fast bikes across the country week after week, high on liquor and weed and riding as hard as the throttle would go, and never ever ever didn't take the gap. I Fought in the ring. I fought in the street. I fought and ran and came back, died and lived, fought and lost and lost and fought and won and lost again, fell into drugs and liquor, found my way out, went back to school at 26, paid for it all again, went to the community college as a tough and dumb three-words-a-day ex-forestry worker,  then off to work as an engineering foreman,  then back to university to become The Engineer. I won awards and all that shit, still a drug addict, still a drunk, went to work, went hard, went well, gave a shit, worked through the ugliness of men dying for money and dirt, lived harder.  Collected cars and boats and women, sailed oceans, miscarried some kids, got tattoos, more drugs, more liquor, twice gathered what I needed to kill myself and didn’t do it only to teach the old man he didn’t make me into him. Now,  42, in the top two percent of earnings in the world, say that number again, still an addict, still the boy who left, who couldn’t get enough love from his mother to stay, who died a thousand times in fights and nights and love and hate, and here I am, motherfuckers, as tough as all fuck, loaded, running my own race. I don’t need you, don’t need anything except my lungs and heart, and through all that, through all of that, and the shit I won’t write ‘cos fuck you, stranger, and for the pity of my sisters who deserve some kind of peace, through all of that and every day more, I have love, I am love, I am joy, so close to god in every waking moment, in every twitch of cock and willing woman come to be slain, I am love, I am love, I am love.

Before I die I will sail every ocean, build my own house, lay down with the Jesta, build a bike that pulls 250 mph and ride its fucking cunt off at Bonneville, and finally truly deeply become loved for my words. Yes I will.

My name is Hugh. I am mayhem, joy, life, legend made flesh, every inch my father's son, yes, the bad one.

Now get the fuck outta my way.



{steve....edits are now completed...she's all yours}

An Ego of Antagonism

A death so befuddled could only be foolish;
I've made a deal with the devil and will soon perish
Into his mordem of torture that varies so motley;
As I end this show - I drift from a faceless pageantry

Linear and trivial has this question period been;
And now I'm seeing the chariot of the poets serene
It's majesty of profundity and his youthful command
A boy-ish preface to his ceaseless alluding brand;

Of starved affection expressed through the bards lute
As the actor of fate - I'll hang over the mandrake root
A skeletal descendence into the earths pigment;
With no curious exhumers to defile or prevent

Asmodeus and I - As we share our laughable fears;
Appraisal from the creator of what I hold dear
Willingly abiding his whims and demented court;
As the next generation that twists and contorts

The extremes of thought into something strange;
Removing all pride from what shouldn't change
If it seems so be working then why fix it?
A hypocritical cliche lost in the sanskrit!

There's nothing one can say that hasn't been said;
In this replicated existence recycled from the dead
Societal fornication leaves naught but a sour mind;
Obsessed with the golden rays that present us as kind

Laborious and ridden with worry over wealthy trouble;
Caught up in normality our purpose left in rubble
Conceiving the end of life as something of a curse
Cowering at the sight of the imminent black hearse

How can all these people fear the only thing certain?
Dreading the day they witness the closing curtain
Or have I just thrown away my use for living;
And Gifted all the words that prove costly for giving?

Or perhaps we've so much to tell with no one to receive?
what's the point anyway? Just to preach and deceive;
Ignorant and narrow- we're all just avoid-ant invertists
With the sole reputation as simple egotists

Regret takes it toll in the oddest form
Just like the queerest smirk I felt so warm
Creaking my limbs until they were hanging loose;
Killing the mechanical switch at the end of a noose

My Prevailing senses fading from light;
And her captivating eyes as my final sight
Clenching my last breath as my only unseen coven;
For I will never perceive this life again..

I awoke inside of a room that i'd knew in a memory;
Where Was I sent? Is this purgatory?
I rose up from my resting place with an agonizing scream;
For I was in my bedroom - It was all a dream....