Rather Than Twiddle Your Thumbs, Write A Poem...

[poetsbumcheeks]

a work of veritable finesse, that must have taken a while...?(maybe?)

i must confess tenson i have robbed your first contribution to this thread and featured it in a magazine that will be distributed locally...i hope you don't mind...!

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

and i hope to feature more...

again, with your permission...

object now, or forever hold your peace..!

 

[TENSHON]

hey, when can i get a copy of this sterling publication? sounds bonza.

 

[Admin]

All text and contributions to this Forum, unless otherwise explicitly stated, are copyright © Stafford Forum.. The legal executor of said body is I, the Ultimate Overseer and Megatron of Stafford Forum.. Thusly, no work published under my jurisdication may be replicated in any medium without my express permission.. All contributors agreed to comply with this automatically when signing up to this Forum.. You think Ocean Finance are bad? You ain't seen nothing.. I own you..

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

i can only assume this is tongue in cheek or in bumcheeks, seeing as copyright law says that any work recorded or written down comes under immediate copyright protection, owned by the author or artist etc...huzzah!

slogans or brand name aren't protected until Tradmarked...

disTRaction...

available today in some pubs...

xx

 

[TENSHON]

Sex is when a guy's communication,
Enters a girl's information,
To increase the population,
For a younger generation.
Do you get the information...
Or do you need a demonstration?

 

[TENSHON]

A poem about Jimbob

The art of pretending is tricky indeed.
For Jimbob it takes planning and speed.
His boss comes by so he picks up the phone,
And talks to himself in a professional tone.
A quick click required to change the screen,
So the Stafford Forum remain unseen.

When Jimbob naps he does it with style,
With hands on the keyboard all the while.
He trains himself to wake when needed
And if nobody notices, he knows he's succeeded.
But when Jimbob's caught without excuses to spare
He's just on a break, or adjusting his chair.

Work bores Jimbob, that much we agree
And pretending to work may just set him free.
So take his lead and pretend if you can,
But make sure you’ve got a good backup plan.
Always be ready to bullshit your way out,
Because that’s what pretending is all about.

 

[jimbob23]

A poem about Tenshon's poem about me:

Tenshon's poem was dead right
Here comes my boss
Now I'm in the shite

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

The Sometimes Sadness of Modern Love (A non-philosophy)

We hooked up on a whim really,
Not much else to do,
Pissed up at some nightspot,
It wasn’t exactly true,
Love, came out under the night sky,
Ten minutes later she unzipped my fly,
We’d danced all night to a cheesy DJ set,
Let me tell you it wasn’t the first time we’d met,
Maybe I just felt like a shag,
And I knew on the sly that she was a bit of a slag,
Not in the sense that we all thought that,
I mean she was good to have around,
She was good for the craic,

So these things as they do,
Led one into another,
For the rest of the night we tossed in her covers,
It was good, yeah, it was good while it lasted,
She liked the fact I was a bit of a bastard,
The sex I mean, was pretty good,
Not like some wonderful dream,
From times that have been,
I mean she knew all the right moves,
She’s been through a few,
Although thinking about it now I guess I had too.

Time passed and we were still together,
I looked around at viable alternatives now and again,
Couldn’t see anything better,
So as two years passed by I thought, well…Whatever,
By the then the amount of sex had really started to dwindle,
My fantasies set me as the fugitive Richard Kimble,
On the run to a place of sexual utopia,
But the grass is never greener,
At least that’s what I hoped,
But the passion had reduced to the point of a joke.

So I chatted and talked and listened to friends,
Their stories seemed similar perhaps this was not the end,
Maybe I could keep this discontent to myself,
At this age it’s not like sleeping around would help,
We papered over the cracks,
Did the best that we could,
Even had some good times when we weren’t stuck in the mud,
A few beers out with some territorial mates,
Drunk back at home she’d scream ‘feck me’, that was great,
But that urgency disappeared like a forgotten mistake.

The older we got the more responsibility we had,
Going to bed early made me feel glad,
But she’d stay up and drink cheap wine,
Then I knew that she wanted excitement to find,
I thought she was like me and had given up on kicks,
Maybe there was something, something I’d missed,
Did she feel like a woman? Did I feel like a man?
Why is she so cruel after a couple of cans,
And the comfort I have or at least what’s left of it,
Is that the others I know think I’ve got the best of it,
They tell me envy about how they’re so alone,
It makes me feel lonely because they just don’t know.

I thought perhaps I’d be fine if I expected less,
But I can’t help but feel I’ve accepted second best.

 

[DaveDon'tRave]

PROPAGANDA AND CLIVE MCKAY

PROPAGANDA AND CLIVE MCKAY

I met this bloke at the pub on Friday night,
He had a few teeth missing and a wonky nose,
Broken last week he'd said, in an unnecessary fight.
Obviously my initial assumption,
Was to treat him care, that is to say,
I treated him fairly and wouldn't have dared,
At least at first to disrespect his wares.
We introduced ourselves, why not?
We were stood at the bar that time forgot,
Waiting for a glimpse of the barmans' eyes,
To serve me beer and this new friend of mine,
Against the grain I'd guess you'd say,
A glass of the finest most expensive wine.
It transpired his name was Clive Mckay,
Who got out of prison just last Wednesday,
Having developed a little repartee with Clive,
I felt it acceptable to ask him questions,
And take a chance on leaving the bar alive.
"Why were you inside?" I asked,
The obvious question of course,
Clive looked me up and down clearly ensconsed in his thoughts,
Then opened his mouth to continue our discourse.
"It's a long story I can tell you my new found friend,
perhaps if we drank all night we'd get to the end,
I can tell you one thing,
About the nature of my reprimanding,
My time inside was based on one huge misunderstanding!"
And so he embarked on a tale of woe,
About how he was innocent,
Or at least why he thought so.
He certainly painted a convincing picture,
Of the guilt of the man who he portrayed as the victor.
The case had dragged on and on and on
For each side of the story the case was strong.
But still, Clive had not mentioned,
What he was accused of doing wrong.
Another drink arrived at our already laden table,
Clive had purchased us so much while telling his fable,
The bar staff bought our drinks over,
As Clive and I were clearly unable.
As I stumbled out from the pub that night,
I felt in no doubt that Clive was in the right,
The way he told it, it had been an unfair fight.
I mean I know theres two, even three sides to every story,
But Clive didn't seem the type for needless warring.
And so on to work on Monday in the Magistrates court,
Sat at my desk and manning the fort,
When the name Clive Mckay slipped in to my thoughts.
The next thing I did was type his name on the system,
And out came the offences a whole farking list of 'em!
Fraud, deception and theft that was Clive's thing,
I glanced at my hands, he'd stole my ring,
I sat and gasped, coughing and spluttering.
His lies, his story, the stange tasting drinks,
The whole night now it seemed, was just a farce,
It was more than a ring he'd stolen,
He'd loved me right up the arse!

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

Ja Das Pen Ist Mightier Dan De Sword.

Words have touched me,
I bet they’ve touched you,
But they never touched me,
On the bumsy.

 

[db]

Ja Das Pen Ist Mightier Dan De Sword.

Words have touched me,
I bet they’ve touched you,
But they never touched me,
On the bumsy.

lol this is my favourite contribution so far

 

[DaveDon'tRave]

Google Me.

Google me baby,
You just might find my name,
Written in the stars or HTML,
Google me baby,
And you’ll know me well,
Google me baby and feel no shame,
I want to feel your Google,
And play you like a game.

I’ll Google you,
You'll Google me,
Together we’ll Google,
Until each other is all we see,
Meet me on the forums,
Forget about decorum,
We’ll purchase on ebay,
Romance on Myspace,
Spend all day surfing,
Though I've never seen your face.

I like the way you type,
The syntax so right,
I need to read your posts,
It’s what I love the most.
I'd rather read your blog,
Than give you a snog,
So Google me baby,
Google, Google, Google,
I’ll treat you like a lady,
Yahoo!


Haha.

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

SERVED COLD


Nathan pushed his glasses back up his nose and snorted indignantly. He snorted in such a way, while he contemplated the stupidity of the general public and their inability to hand their library books back in on time. He snorted in such a manner at the unnecessary and insistent way that members of the public would argue with him, contesting the fines he was authorised to impose on them should they flaunt, “and they did flaunt†he thought to himself, the library’s rules and regulations. Nathan had come to realise, at twenty-two years of age, having worked as a Librarian Assistant for three years now that, with great power came great responsibility.
He had pondered from time to time in his school days, well perhaps more often than that, what destiny and fate may have in store for him. It was a great comfort to him during the torture of virtually every school day; that his life was to mean so much more than to be the stooge for his other class mate’s jokes. There had been a time when he had actually become fashionable and part of the in-crowd, he had at this point believed, albeit temporarily, that his destiny had become manifest at this time. Only to fall to earth two weeks later as the current zeitgeist was replaced by the next, Peter Glews’s sideburns suddenly gained hip status and notoriety amongst the fourth years. In hindsight he should have seen it coming, he had often seen other social outcasts raised up and spurned as quickly as they had been glorified like some cheap novelty toy, used, abused and then tossed aside left broken forever. How had he fallen for that fickle demon; fame. Fame didn’t care about hearts or minds; it only cared for the sensation of the here and now. He could still remember the day vividly when he walked into his form room. Expecting to hear the cries of adulation in praise of his ‘I Love Computers and Computers Love Me’ badge his mother had bought for him. Nathan instead was ignored, the post-modern ironic flavour of the badge had been forgotten, if not altogether dismissed, just another meaningless statement, a relic already, its kudos lost to the comedy value of sideburns. Without the badge and its untold power, transient as it may have been, Nathan metamorphosed back into his previous incarnation, a geek, a gimber, a gimbo, a donut, a loser, a wimp, a Gaylord, the list was endless and life was cruel, so, so cruel.
Now, seven years later, Nathan understood that his destiny had not been mapped out for him, so to speak, but that fate had led him in its own way to a role that suited him well. He was a guardian of the nobility of the library, a protector of its integrity and more than that he was a Knight for knowledge itself. If the citizens of Stafford did not understand the value of return dates, so be it, he must swing his sword and bring it down mercilessly upon them, and demand the library’s rightful dues and help maintain the equilibrium of justice. Of course, this was not the only grudge Nathan held against the philistines who entered his palace. Everyday he simmered with incandescent rage at the sheer idiocy of the incapacity of the library users to replace the books in their rightful place. It was as if, he thought, all the foundations of education carefully laid by dutiful primary school teachers passing on the system of the alphabet to young minds had been torn up and tossed casually away. Nathan would try and hide the pleasure he felt, as he demanded monies from the bookish outlaws, or reprimanded a reader who replaced a History book back in the Geographical section. However, his true feelings often exposed themselves in the form of a self-satisfied and snide grin, this sadistic tendency he had however, could be masked with the righteousness of his position. Perhaps it was revenge he wanted, for the hurt that he’d been caused, or perhaps he really was a moral guardian of the town. Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
Either way, Nathan knew that sometime soon, the tendency in modern culture to worship and discard, and then resurrect and view through rose-tinted spectacles past fashions and misdemeanours would work in his favour. The badge that had given him his first taste of fame, which he still wore everyday, would awaken this lust for nostalgia in his ex class mates who frequented the library. Once this happened he would be adored once more, and at last his destiny would become manifest.

 

[DaveDon'tRave]

DIFFERENT STROKES

The Fonz woke up. It was a cold and icy morning in deep winter. The Fonz quite liked the cold weather he enojyed being able to see his breath in the air. He slid out of bed rested his feet upon the floor and stood up to gaze at his reflection. Then as always he reached for his black leather jacket and slid it on over the top of his white t-shirt. He returned to face the mirror hanging on his wall and dipped his fingers into his hair-oil and began to slick back his hair with his customized comb. It had ‘The Fonz’s written on the side of it in embossed gold font. It had been a present from one of his funny guys, who had served by his side a while back, just before the hey-day, a prelude to the beginning of the halcyon days. He continued to slick his hair back, reminiscing about the good old times, not noticing his cock was hanging from out of his boxer shorts, slightly shrivelled from the arctic breeze whistling through his CK’s. An hour later he was at last satisfied with his ‘do’, every curve was streamlined to the contours of his head and the oil made his dark hair glisten like a deep, deep river. He smiled to himself and let out a long wet fart, he hoped it hadn’t splattered at all, but no matter, his shit didn’t stink.

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

Reflections

I turn to face you again,
And treat you,
Like I will always treat you.

I forgive always,
But never forget.
Why is it so hard?
For you to choose,
And not turn the screw.

Reflections are everywhere,
Not mist, not cloud,
We are not unique,
We are all of equal beauty.

The disfigured and the mistreated,
Are abused and become useless.
As we let the lunatics overrun,
This asylum.

If I could protect myself,
If I could wear the mask,
I would not,
I could not.

I want to reach out,
There’s too much at stake,
In my heart,
Just to give up,
On you.

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

MEDIOCRITY

Plug in again; to the machine,
To the TV,
To the radio,
Read the magazine.

I forget to feel,
No time to think,
When the phone rings,
By the kitchen sink.
Or a text beeps,
And your heart sinks,
It’s not your friend,
But a sponsored link.

In the morning,
Wake to catch the train,
Outwardly silent,
But in my brain,
And through my ears,
Down to my feet,
My walking steps,
Count out the beat,
Those familiar dreams remain undreamt,
For just another week.

Everyone you know,
Is plugged in,
Powered up,
All ready to go.
Voyeuristically observing,
Our Cyber-lives,
With aimless surfing,
But I am distracted,
It must be working.
No time for reflection,
Or meaningful introspection,
At work or at home,
No escape from half-baked communication,
We’re drowning in a quagmire,
Of electronic medication.

Turn off the ‘News at 10’,
There’s no need to ask why,
I can travel in my living room,
Through the channels on my Sky.
Conversation that requires,
No emotional responses,
I’m comfy here,
I’ve lost my fear,
No need to count my losses.
Protected by my screen,
A solipsistic dream,
Watching some farking,
Think about farking,
Wishing how I was better looking,
I’m not lonely now I’m in control,
But the servers down,
It’s clear in desperation,
I sold my precious soul.
The renaissance,
The enlightenment,
Have become left forgotten,
There’s something about pornography,
That leaves me feeling rotten.

So how to be alone,
Find the real you,
The real me,
Some decent company.
Rather than all this commotion,
The speed of light.
I never get the chance,
To give you my devotion.
Behind the screen,
Its just imaginings,
Sometimes of desperation,
In real time I know,
You never speak,
Without some hesitation.
Check my phone,
Check my emails,
Am I wanted?
Do they care?
I wait,
Wait and sit and stare,
Waiting for a distraction.
From this most mediocre,
Nightmare.

So plug in; to the machine,
To the TV, to the radio,
To the magazine.
I wait,
Wait and sit and stare,
Waiting for a distraction.
From this most mediocre,
Nightmare.

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

Violent Minds pt 1

Spontaneity,
When I say so.
I cracked a joke,
Canned laughter please,
Don't question me,
get on your knees.

There is no god to speak of,
No master absolute.
Women; they can learn,
But only from me,
Speak when I say so,
When I imply that its your turn.

Violent Minds pt2

Its quicker if I do it for him,
Its easier if I make the descision,
My maternal feelings are eternal,
He's just a little boy;
She's just a little girl,
I'm your Mother,
It was me who made your world.

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

Bank Holiday

I love your smile,
and all the buttons,
That come undone.
Just like your trousers,
I love the Sun.

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

God Is Dead

She wears sadness like a badge of honour,
She stains the pillow,
For whom; I do not know,
Then spreads the word of misery and despair.
She is the sympathiser,
The shoulder for tears,
But I do not understand,
I do not know her,
My smile to her,
Is a thorn,
Without pity.
Wherever it is,
That she lives,
However it is, that she loves,
I do not wish to dwell there,
With the sad angels,
And love defined,
By need.

I have felt her storms,
Of Thunder,
And the quiet aftermath,
That leaves survivors,
In terrible solitude.
Pre-occupied by the threat,
Of happiness,
However temporary,
Is still the fickle demon.
What more could we expect?
But for all this,
I am told she loves,
As if it were,
The last century,
Still just beginning.