Submissions by billy423uk
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
20th May 2011 00:41am
20th May 2011 00:41am
Furies of Anne Gray Harvey: (mild content)
For you, my confessor,
from the garter-belt of my soul;
to the undergarments of my hell,
pressed upon the Hoffman.
Pressed within the steam of a child god.
The room cocoons me like a shroud
I'm a penguin out of water,
a fish out of oxygen;
facing the corner, crying poetry.
Feeling myself through cotton knickers.
You father, who thinks to sanitise me,
with your overbearing mouth.
You father, who wishes to own this parody of a sylph
you have always owned me.
I hate you for owning.
Words for you...
from the garter-belt of my soul;
to the undergarments of my hell,
pressed upon the Hoffman.
Pressed within the steam of a child god.
The room cocoons me like a shroud
I'm a penguin out of water,
a fish out of oxygen;
facing the corner, crying poetry.
Feeling myself through cotton knickers.
You father, who thinks to sanitise me,
with your overbearing mouth.
You father, who wishes to own this parody of a sylph
you have always owned me.
I hate you for owning.
Words for you...
1066 reads
3 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
19th Jan 2011 12:15pm
19th Jan 2011 12:15pm
Hello Gran.
The candlelight whispered on the walls
of the room; like her, the bed was old
and cold. The quilt was older, stitched
with her nimble fingers in the not-so-roaring thirties,
by the light of a huge open hearth volcano.
A cut glass perfume bottle by Lalique glimmered.
Filled with her essence, the scent of Guerlain;
it was who she was. It permeated the space
in the cedar shuttered room like words in a book
of love poems, or coloured glass in a Tiffany store.
Looking at the well worn slippers on polished pine.
Feeling the room share her...
of the room; like her, the bed was old
and cold. The quilt was older, stitched
with her nimble fingers in the not-so-roaring thirties,
by the light of a huge open hearth volcano.
A cut glass perfume bottle by Lalique glimmered.
Filled with her essence, the scent of Guerlain;
it was who she was. It permeated the space
in the cedar shuttered room like words in a book
of love poems, or coloured glass in a Tiffany store.
Looking at the well worn slippers on polished pine.
Feeling the room share her...
973 reads
3 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
22nd Nov 2010 9:18am
22nd Nov 2010 9:18am
Little Strangers.
The countryside as I recall, sedately passed by clouded glass
and you; the girl who shared my seat, as journey trundled on
swung your legs above the floor and covered up your knees
I turned my head and saw a merriment upon your reddened face:
Joined you as you swung your legs in rhythm to the steam train’s chug.
Both hands Trapped beneath our knees we daydreamed as the views rolled by.
We stood and let the window down, we screamed and hugged as noisy tunnels bled
to black and back to dazzling day; that was when I snared your soul.
Affirmation came...
and you; the girl who shared my seat, as journey trundled on
swung your legs above the floor and covered up your knees
I turned my head and saw a merriment upon your reddened face:
Joined you as you swung your legs in rhythm to the steam train’s chug.
Both hands Trapped beneath our knees we daydreamed as the views rolled by.
We stood and let the window down, we screamed and hugged as noisy tunnels bled
to black and back to dazzling day; that was when I snared your soul.
Affirmation came...
828 reads
2 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
17th Oct 2010 3:57pm
17th Oct 2010 3:57pm
The Quimmerdog.
It swiggelled tho' the wallen crake
had fruked and dorkal-smashed the gleave;
Afore a calm of perripake,
be-stroked the yewker meave.
"Look out for Quimmerdog, my seed!
the breath that burns, the piss that pits!
Look out for burble rats, and heed
the churnoir slipsenshitz!"
He gripped his snarlig spear with hand:
crow-nested at the hive he scoped –
in dreams beside the knockerbrand,
and for a while he hoped.
And while in sophish thought he sailed,
The Quimmerdog with fir that bled,
raced snaffling through the...
had fruked and dorkal-smashed the gleave;
Afore a calm of perripake,
be-stroked the yewker meave.
"Look out for Quimmerdog, my seed!
the breath that burns, the piss that pits!
Look out for burble rats, and heed
the churnoir slipsenshitz!"
He gripped his snarlig spear with hand:
crow-nested at the hive he scoped –
in dreams beside the knockerbrand,
and for a while he hoped.
And while in sophish thought he sailed,
The Quimmerdog with fir that bled,
raced snaffling through the...
890 reads
3 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
11th Oct 2010 4:18am
11th Oct 2010 4:18am
One Night
The small plywood hull
hampers the furrowed swell.
“Splosh, splosh “ the waves laugh,
then slap the citrus green of a pretty prow--
and rings the red buoy’s bell.
Cool salt spray in small amounts
lift and leave the slightly foamy crest
to spray and slightly spot
a slightly spotty face,
and almost wet a vest.
A breeze balloons to blow its breath
into an empty sail. It doesn’t fill the sail that much,
not one tiny little bit.
really not a breezy...
hampers the furrowed swell.
“Splosh, splosh “ the waves laugh,
then slap the citrus green of a pretty prow--
and rings the red buoy’s bell.
Cool salt spray in small amounts
lift and leave the slightly foamy crest
to spray and slightly spot
a slightly spotty face,
and almost wet a vest.
A breeze balloons to blow its breath
into an empty sail. It doesn’t fill the sail that much,
not one tiny little bit.
really not a breezy...
819 reads
0 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
28th Sep 2010 1:09am
28th Sep 2010 1:09am
Building A Snack by William Marsland.
Smooth, it beds in on warm buttered toast
like soft cement on sun warmed bricks.
Mace laced mortar, salted and peppered.
The blunt knife dresses the breads edge
brings the mud to the very brink but no further--
Elevenses and the taste of potted beef.
like soft cement on sun warmed bricks.
Mace laced mortar, salted and peppered.
The blunt knife dresses the breads edge
brings the mud to the very brink but no further--
Elevenses and the taste of potted beef.
697 reads
6 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
15th Sep 2010 7:43am
15th Sep 2010 7:43am
Barabbas By William Marsland.
More skin shows than fur
too much to call it patchy.
His one good eye leers out at all
who have temerity to lay
a hand upon his crusty head.
He’d much prefer to lick a hairless ball.
One neighbor said in abject consternation
as he placed his toy upon the stoop
“the vet should put him down”
All Barabbas did was poop
cock a leg and pissed upon
the gay guys leather brogues.
too much to call it patchy.
His one good eye leers out at all
who have temerity to lay
a hand upon his crusty head.
He’d much prefer to lick a hairless ball.
One neighbor said in abject consternation
as he placed his toy upon the stoop
“the vet should put him down”
All Barabbas did was poop
cock a leg and pissed upon
the gay guys leather brogues.
738 reads
2 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
14th Sep 2010 7:28am
14th Sep 2010 7:28am
Urbanised by William Marsland.
A countryside of sorts
arrives in a flurry on the fifteenth floor
finches, mating pairs.
Flitting from balcony to concrete balcony
darting, diving, weaving
through paint peeled drab, playing
catch-up on the wing.
when they alight outside the window
their light dissolves the tragedy of towers.
arrives in a flurry on the fifteenth floor
finches, mating pairs.
Flitting from balcony to concrete balcony
darting, diving, weaving
through paint peeled drab, playing
catch-up on the wing.
when they alight outside the window
their light dissolves the tragedy of towers.
841 reads
4 Comments
DRUGS POEM
Published
17th Aug 2010 9:39pm
17th Aug 2010 9:39pm
Better Than Beans On Toast.
1191 reads
8 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
17th Aug 2010 7:32am
17th Aug 2010 7:32am
I Wish
My little sister liked swimming with the fishes,
though we have none down the well.
She loved to really sing out loud,
I heard it in her yell.
My little sister always had her puppy by her side,
she never let me play with it, told mommy that I lied.
Now they both swim with the non-existent fishes
and I have my own little puppy.
though we have none down the well.
She loved to really sing out loud,
I heard it in her yell.
My little sister always had her puppy by her side,
she never let me play with it, told mommy that I lied.
Now they both swim with the non-existent fishes
and I have my own little puppy.
957 reads
2 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
17th Aug 2010 6:24am
17th Aug 2010 6:24am
In the Water by William Marsland.
Your body doesn’t move,
though it does seem that way
if I look at the glass plain of calm shallows shimmering
after they caress your calves and ripple shoreward;
concentric semicircles of light and life.
artwork; In The Water c.1913 by Eugene von Blaas (1843 – 1931)
though it does seem that way
if I look at the glass plain of calm shallows shimmering
after they caress your calves and ripple shoreward;
concentric semicircles of light and life.
artwork; In The Water c.1913 by Eugene von Blaas (1843 – 1931)
865 reads
4 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
24th Jul 2010 10:36pm
24th Jul 2010 10:36pm
Personal Property by William Marsland
No officer
I didn’t gut him first
nor did I knife him
splice him
cut and dice him
I merely stabbed him
through the heart
after telling him
not to ride my fuckin bike
then I shot my bike through the head
you’ll find her in the bedroom”
I didn’t gut him first
nor did I knife him
splice him
cut and dice him
I merely stabbed him
through the heart
after telling him
not to ride my fuckin bike
then I shot my bike through the head
you’ll find her in the bedroom”
916 reads
6 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by billy423uk
