Submissions by blocat
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
Comedy writer and also write serious stuff from the heart when I'm in the mood. Without humour life has no real balance and we take ourselves too seriously. I use humour as armour against the slings and arrows of outrageous circumstance. ;-)
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
5th Dec 2018 6:54pm
5th Dec 2018 6:54pm
Piles of Trouble
At a barbeque last summer, Bill, my thick-as-a-brick next-door neighbour was boring me mindless with his medical problems. We were both the worse for the drink, he much more so than me.
‘My haemorrhoids itch like crazy’ he said, ‘they drive me mad at times.’ He then started clawing vigourously at his backside, quite putting me off my burger. ‘Ah’ I quipped, laying aside my now unwanted food, ‘I have a great remedy for that, works every time.’
Of course, Bill wanted to know so I told him ‘Take two scotch bonnet chillies and crush them to a paste, stir in two tablespoonsful of...
‘My haemorrhoids itch like crazy’ he said, ‘they drive me mad at times.’ He then started clawing vigourously at his backside, quite putting me off my burger. ‘Ah’ I quipped, laying aside my now unwanted food, ‘I have a great remedy for that, works every time.’
Of course, Bill wanted to know so I told him ‘Take two scotch bonnet chillies and crush them to a paste, stir in two tablespoonsful of...
#funny
532 reads
4 Comments
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
27th Oct 2018 5:11pm
27th Oct 2018 5:11pm
The Gods of the Odds
As a serial killer, Royston Bains was very successful. A quiet little man barely five feet tall, Bains was, he believed, a genius. However, he was a person who went through life largely ignored by his fellow man. At forty-five, he was still single, living with his invalid mother. Men ignored him, women didn’t even see him. His desire to kill, to gain revenge on a world that failed to recognise his genius was all consuming.
Bains carefully studied the routine of one Kayden Norris. He knew he hung around the Chorlton Street bus station until around ten p.m. then cruised Canal Street’s...
Bains carefully studied the routine of one Kayden Norris. He knew he hung around the Chorlton Street bus station until around ten p.m. then cruised Canal Street’s...
#anger
574 reads
0 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
20th Oct 2018 12:53pm
20th Oct 2018 12:53pm
Bath Time Blues
Now I’ll ask you not to laugh
At my misfortune in the bath
A life of drinking too much beer
Has left me portly in the rear
So, one day quite out of luck
I found my backside firmly stuck
I pulled on the taps, wriggled about
And for help did lusty shout
In my fist, the tap broke free
The icy water drenching me
The wife downstairs was watching tele
As I tried to wriggle on my belly
All my efforts were in vain
I sank exhausted filled with pain
The bathroom flooded ran downstairs
I offered up most fervent...
At my misfortune in the bath
A life of drinking too much beer
Has left me portly in the rear
So, one day quite out of luck
I found my backside firmly stuck
I pulled on the taps, wriggled about
And for help did lusty shout
In my fist, the tap broke free
The icy water drenching me
The wife downstairs was watching tele
As I tried to wriggle on my belly
All my efforts were in vain
I sank exhausted filled with pain
The bathroom flooded ran downstairs
I offered up most fervent...
#family
423 reads
2 Comments
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
24th Sep 2018 7:23pm
24th Sep 2018 7:23pm
Mysterious Ways
Father Sean O’Reilly was on his way home to Clonakilty after visiting the Bishop of Cork. At seventy he was still working as a full-time parish priest albeit at his own pace these days.
At the Hayrick and Hoe public house in the village of Innishannon, the priest broke his journey to rest his old horse and have some lunch and a pint of porter.
‘Tis a miracle you called father’ said the Landlord, Patrick O’Hanlon, ‘sure didn’t our poor Father Murphy pass away just last night and the widow Mrs Houlihan due to be buried this very afternoon and no one to take the service.’ ...
At the Hayrick and Hoe public house in the village of Innishannon, the priest broke his journey to rest his old horse and have some lunch and a pint of porter.
‘Tis a miracle you called father’ said the Landlord, Patrick O’Hanlon, ‘sure didn’t our poor Father Murphy pass away just last night and the widow Mrs Houlihan due to be buried this very afternoon and no one to take the service.’ ...
#fiction
414 reads
0 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
27th Aug 2018 1:44am
27th Aug 2018 1:44am
Traffic
Lured by lies to a life of shame
On promises of jobs, men of wealth
Awaiting exotic love
London landing
The streets paved with grief
The gates of misery open
Herded, beaten, abused
Used for five-minute fucks
Shunt, grunt, come, go
Next one, on and on
No respite, arm-spiked junk
Keeps them dependent
Damaged goods, sold on
To someone less particular
Junkie whores soulless now
Blank eyes despise the world
Hurled abuse bounces off
Only the pain speaks now
Men prey, they...
On promises of jobs, men of wealth
Awaiting exotic love
London landing
The streets paved with grief
The gates of misery open
Herded, beaten, abused
Used for five-minute fucks
Shunt, grunt, come, go
Next one, on and on
No respite, arm-spiked junk
Keeps them dependent
Damaged goods, sold on
To someone less particular
Junkie whores soulless now
Blank eyes despise the world
Hurled abuse bounces off
Only the pain speaks now
Men prey, they...
#sex
442 reads
4 Comments
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
5th Jun 2018 1:02am
5th Jun 2018 1:02am
Mighty Military Magic
The biggest bully boy in the gun Battery was a large lumpen lout of Scottish origin whom we’ll call Horrible Hamish. He spat in my brother David’s beer one night in the NAAFI* ‘Whit ye gonna do aboot that, shitheed?’ he asked.
David looked at his oppressor and smiled ‘you can buy me another pint and be forgiven, Hamish, otherwise it’s the watch-your-step curse.’
‘Awa’ tae fuck ye wee gobshite afore ah twat ye.’
‘OK’ said David calmly ‘have it your own way, Hamish. The watch-your-step curse it is, then.’ He left the pint and walked out.
...
David looked at his oppressor and smiled ‘you can buy me another pint and be forgiven, Hamish, otherwise it’s the watch-your-step curse.’
‘Awa’ tae fuck ye wee gobshite afore ah twat ye.’
‘OK’ said David calmly ‘have it your own way, Hamish. The watch-your-step curse it is, then.’ He left the pint and walked out.
...
#funny
#MyInspiration
516 reads
6 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
8th Apr 2018 2:12pm
8th Apr 2018 2:12pm
Myrtle the Wall-Eyed Witch
Myrtle would hurtle upon her broom
Round and round her living room
Knocking pictures off the wall
Her eyesight wasn’t good at all
Myrtle was a cross eyed witch
With casting spells there was a hitch
Her wand was crooked as her sight
So her magic rarely did go right
The vicar called her a nasty name
‘Right’ said she ‘I’ll fix your game ‘
She drew out her witchy wand
To blast him into the village pond
Alas she missed and hit a horse
In the dangly bits (Of course)
Down the street tore the angry beast
Into...
Round and round her living room
Knocking pictures off the wall
Her eyesight wasn’t good at all
Myrtle was a cross eyed witch
With casting spells there was a hitch
Her wand was crooked as her sight
So her magic rarely did go right
The vicar called her a nasty name
‘Right’ said she ‘I’ll fix your game ‘
She drew out her witchy wand
To blast him into the village pond
Alas she missed and hit a horse
In the dangly bits (Of course)
Down the street tore the angry beast
Into...
#funny
429 reads
0 Comments
NON-FICTION PROSE
Published
2nd Mar 2018 11:46pm
2nd Mar 2018 11:46pm
23 Almond Street
Memories of early childhood just after WW2 when the UK suffered its worst winter for decades.
To a five-year-old me in the winter of 1947/48, 23 Almond Street was a place of wonder and excitement. A small terraced house in a street of them in a grimy Northern mill town may seem the epitome of boring. Far from it.
It was my birthday, February 12th, and the snow hurtled down the street riding the wild horse wind like the shirt tails of a giant ghost. It raced horizontally past our single glazed window. The gas lamp outside rattled and shook in sympathy with our front...
To a five-year-old me in the winter of 1947/48, 23 Almond Street was a place of wonder and excitement. A small terraced house in a street of them in a grimy Northern mill town may seem the epitome of boring. Far from it.
It was my birthday, February 12th, and the snow hurtled down the street riding the wild horse wind like the shirt tails of a giant ghost. It raced horizontally past our single glazed window. The gas lamp outside rattled and shook in sympathy with our front...
529 reads
0 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
25th Feb 2018 7:08pm
25th Feb 2018 7:08pm
Emergency
I ring 999
‘Emergency, which service do you require?’
‘Cleansing department please’
‘I’m sorry sir, Police. Fire, Ambulance or Coastguard?’
‘The cleaners’
‘What is the nature of your emergency, sir?’
‘I’m unable to use this effin’ phone box,
It stinks of stale tobacco and ancient piss
Can’t use it like this’
‘And someone puked in the corner last month
The evidence is still festering here
My dear.’
I can’t see through the windows
For the obscuring grime of time
The smoke smell from the ashes of yesterday ...
‘Emergency, which service do you require?’
‘Cleansing department please’
‘I’m sorry sir, Police. Fire, Ambulance or Coastguard?’
‘The cleaners’
‘What is the nature of your emergency, sir?’
‘I’m unable to use this effin’ phone box,
It stinks of stale tobacco and ancient piss
Can’t use it like this’
‘And someone puked in the corner last month
The evidence is still festering here
My dear.’
I can’t see through the windows
For the obscuring grime of time
The smoke smell from the ashes of yesterday ...
471 reads
0 Comments
EROTIC POEM
Published
23rd Feb 2018 10:54am
23rd Feb 2018 10:54am
The Slut
Some people manage to evoke feelings of lust and compassion at one and the same time. A rare gift.
The Slut
Eyes that smoke with passion
Suggesting lascivious longings
In the bar, no bra
Doing a sluttish solo dance
To decadent music
Slippery saxophone sounds
Slide across her salaciously
Muted trumpet wails for this strumpet
Her hands caress her thighs
Sliding like sinuous snakes
Her hips gyrate inciting
Delighting
No underwear
Inviting
I stare
She doesn’t care
Suggestive tongue
Pouting...
The Slut
Eyes that smoke with passion
Suggesting lascivious longings
In the bar, no bra
Doing a sluttish solo dance
To decadent music
Slippery saxophone sounds
Slide across her salaciously
Muted trumpet wails for this strumpet
Her hands caress her thighs
Sliding like sinuous snakes
Her hips gyrate inciting
Delighting
No underwear
Inviting
I stare
She doesn’t care
Suggestive tongue
Pouting...
637 reads
0 Comments
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
20th Feb 2018 3:11pm
20th Feb 2018 3:11pm
Fire Insurance
Elmer towered over her ‘you have no goddamned right to this house’ he bawled. He was the only son since his brother David died. Only son and heir, wasn’t he? His mother had no right to leave her house, his house, to her. She was his sister-in-law, that’s all. Jessica and her brat had no damned right at all.
‘But, Elmer, it was your mother’s last wish and it was me who nursed her for the past fifteen years, after all. Besides, where would we go?’ Her lips trembled, her cornflower eyes, wide with fear, looked unnaturally large in her deathly white face. She was glad her Susan was...
‘But, Elmer, it was your mother’s last wish and it was me who nursed her for the past fifteen years, after all. Besides, where would we go?’ Her lips trembled, her cornflower eyes, wide with fear, looked unnaturally large in her deathly white face. She was glad her Susan was...
553 reads
2 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by blocat
