» Tightwads

She fell with a saddening thump
As she stood over the railings, the school yard, looked empty. The singing, the teasing washed over her like a putrid river.
Her bendy legs arched around the gate. The rusty old padlock, while not the most recent technology, certainly did its job and prevented her from falling into the swirling rapids.
"Here comes Paul Proudfoot!" they shouted, as the fledgling teacher lumbered from the old red doors and towards Mary. She was far to busy to even notice him looming in her shadow as she leaped from the walls edge and grasped at the old wire fence, she regained her poise and realised that she had actually done what none of the others had managed. She had crossed the river.
"I'm peeing! I'm peeing!" she yelled as she stepped to and fro, hoisting her apparel into the air.
Shocked the matron watched as she micturated at will. Holding for a moment then, with added gusto firing an arch of golden sunshine all over the petrified others.
"...and I’ll tell you what else!" she boomed, "I'm shitting!, I'm shitting!" she croaked, as she forced a nidorous budgie out of her puckered onion and grabbed it with her enormous dick skinners.
"Take that society!" she wailed, and threw clump after fetid clump of contaminated she-sludge at child and teacher alike.
"Mary Poppins come down from there this instant!" bellowed Mr Arkwright, a man who's frame was intimidating enough not to be trifled with.
"What on earth is the meaning of this you wretched urchin?" his weary face had turned an eloquent shade of violet.
"I shall do as I please!" she warned "I have gone quiet mad as a result of Mr Proudfoot's incessant and often brutal sodomy of myself and my loyal friends" she revealed.
"We know not of what which you do refer too Mary, honest we don't!" shouted all the other children in unison.
“Really?” she queried.
“Honest we don’t” they replied immediately.
"Then perhaps… it was a most peculiar dream, a reoccurring dream, a video taped dream, an oily dream. . . the buggery. the tears, all in my head? Yes! that's it, all in my head!" Mary smiled her million dollar grin and smudged a fresh line of lipstick across her bloated face. Mascara ran from each weepy peeper and into her now gaping maw.
"Chim chimney...chim chimney chim chim cheroo" she wailed...
She fell to her knees and emptied the remains of her bowels into her muddy stockings.
"Buuuurrt? BBBUUURRT!!?"
But Burt didn't come, no one ever came.
Mary's eye's bulged and snapped from side to side, her mouth contorted and her throat began to swell.
She manically gestured to the others for help as the beginning of a behemoth of feces poured from her flapping gullet and onto her hands in front of her.
She wailed at the sky a stream of feculence slopping clump by clump into her cupped hands which mangled the turds like fresh bread.
...or I may have misread the question.
(Wed 29th Oct 2008, 16:14, More)

» Addicted

Wrath of Khan
When my father died I suddenly felt very alone in the world. I didn't see him too often anyway working away in Amsterdam all the time, and him back home in Oklahoma really put too much distance between us. In Oklahoma there are two things to do in your spare time, hunt or fish. Neither my father or myself could bare the idea of hunting and so, whenever I was home, we went fishing.
We'd load up the pickup and head to Pickwick, which is where most of the local guys my dad worked with chose to fish.
The mississippi always reminds me of my dad and I honestly think that my happiest times have been spent with him there.
The most common fish in the rivers is the white bass, beatiful fish they are, a little too oily to eat but great to catch and release.

We used to sit in our boat with an old stereo playing country songs and fish all night. Slowing drinking the beers my dad always sneaked past my mother and into the truck.

I'd agreed to make a journey over one weekend in febuary but work suddenly offered me double time to stay the weekend and work. Lovley cash, and i really did need to catch up.
i called my dad and told him that I was working late in transformatorweg, and i wouldn't be able to make the journey.
He sounded ok and i promised that next time we were over we would spend two days out instead of just one.
Later that weekend I got a call from my mother, Dad had been out fishing and not come home, she'd sent his friends out to look for him and when they'd found him he was collapsed in his boat on the shore. He'd had a massive heart attack and later died on his way to the hospital.
I never got to go fishing that last time.
Now i have my own son i go fishing as much as i can with him. My wife complains that it takes up every weekend. we still listen to that old stereo and he's old enough to have a beer or two now.
Inside i always toast to dad.
Two weeks ago my son asked me why i looked sad when we were fishing.
I explained that standing by the stereo I'm feeling so alone
My back against a speaker and I'm moving on my own
Surrounded by so many and they're staring at my face
They're picking up my problem

I'm totally addicted to bass
Wow woah ho
(Sat 20th Dec 2008, 18:29, More)

» The Boss

True
"You and your bloody sausages! One of these days you'll turn into one!" howled Mother. "Nonsense!" spat Dad his mouth full of Lincolnshire’s best "I'm saving up for a pig!" chuckled Dad spitting sausage fat everywhere.
"Daaaad!" we piped up, but it was no good.
Dad was tucking into his daily breakfast of 12 sausages, 8 rashers of bacon, 3 fried eggs, black pudding, beans, hash browns, tomato and 2 rounds of toast.
"My favorite" he munched. We'd warned him before that it wasn't good for him "nonsense!" he mocked, wiping his brow with a fried egg.
I sat and watched as dad shoveled mouthful after mouthful into his maw, spilling egg down his beard, sending mum crashing around with a wet dishcloth.
"I'm as fit as a fid-" he didn't finish the sentence...

Just stood up and went for a bob.
When he returned there were still lashings of hot breakfast left, mum had topped his plate up with various odds and ends that we'd all left. A rasher of bacon here, sausage or two there...

"It all adds up!" bellowed dad with an enormous belly laugh.
Suddenly Dad stood up again, he clutched his left arm!
"my.. my .. my .. watch.." he gasped, "where is it?".
Just then he saw his timepiece over on the television and strode over to inspect it. "hmmm, yes a quarter to nine" he burped in a high pitched funny voice.
He whooshed past me and back toward his chair, then he suddenly stoped, he'd noticed something, something had caught his eye. He ran over to the dog and lifted up its tail.
"WHOTHEFUCKSBEENTOUCHINGTHEDOGSBUM!" he yelled, each word blending into the last.
"WHOTHEFUCKSBEENTOUCHINGTHEDOGSBUM!" he shouted again.
"Geoff! sit down" mum barked and dad slinked over to his chair.
He knew when to push mum and when not.
He sat in silence for the remainder of the meal, quietly shoving mounds of food in, quietly thinking to himself.

Later that morning Dad gave me my usual lift to school, "see you later dad!" I shouted, he smiled and waved.
As I got towards the school he called me back. "Carly!" he shouted, I gave my books to Jenny and jogged back to the car, "what's up now dad? Dad?" I looked in the front of the car but it was empty. Where on earth was he? was he playing games?
Suddenly the side door of the SUV swung open, revealing dad on one knee, pointing with one hand and holding the dogs tail in the other.
"WHOTHEFUCKSBEENTOUCHINGTHEDOGSBUM!" he screamed, "WHOTHEFUCKSBEENTOUCHINGTHEDOGSBUM!!".
I didn't answer, just pulled the door shut and ran back to Jenny. "what did your dad want?" she asked. "Oh" I replied, "not much".

Back at home later dad seemed fine again. We all sat around the table patiently waiting for him to finish our supper.
"sausages!" I moaned, "not again!"

"they're my favorite" chuckled dad, stuffing his thumb into the mash and producing a hefty mound of it to munch on.

"...and beside's..." he continued "it's your mum's night painting tonight so she'll not be back till past ten".
I knew for a fact that mum wasn't painting, she was having another of her ruddy affairs, the only reason I knew was: one: because I knew her too well and two: becuase I’d seen her with Michael, the blind estate agent from down the road, kissing at the back of the Odeon.
Still, Dad was none the wiser and it was good to see him laughing and joking in the kitchen.
We had one of those houses with a serving hatch between the dining room and the kitchen, open, but for a pair of small saloon doors. Quite a dated fashion these days, but still quite functional.
Suddenly they swung open. there was dad, he'd somehow managed to get the dog onto the worktop and was holding its tail up and pointing at its anus through the gap.
"WHOTHEFUCKSBEENTOUCHINGTHEDOGSBUM!" he wailed pointing,
"WHOTHEFUCKSBEENTOUCHINGTHEDOGSBUM!" he repeated.

Not long after this dad did the bad thing and mum didn't wake up.
Now I just sit and rock, stuffing in the porridge every other day so I don't die.
My name is Lewis Capes.
(Wed 24th Jun 2009, 16:02, More)

» Get Rich Quick

There he goes again
There was a man, in times of yore,
who walked with burley gait,
His fashioned arms,
swang too and fro,
A stride clans would debate.

His mighty march, would fill the sails,
of all who saw him canter,
his tongue was quick,
to fill the air,
with mirth, folley and banter.

He wandered forth, unto the hills,
in naught but socks and cheer,
the wenches he happened upon,
would grin from ear to ear.

His beard was stout, his eyes were true,
barrel chested, honest stock,
for many reasons none could mock,
you'd hear a titter "what a cock!"

It's girth matched only by it's size,
its merry eye would hypnotise,
the hoards the thing could mesmorise!
it slapped and chaffed upon his thighs.

His name by chance was Brian Blessed,
his terrible groin was a mass of writhing bore worm,


oh, "get RICH quick!" i thought you said "worrying poems about brian blessed".
(Wed 6th Aug 2008, 16:43, More)

» Abusing freebies

She stole my weary heart
When I was a lad, a girl of 12 stole my lad sized heart with a superb game she had invented. Let me start at the beginning.
She was a fairly plain looking girl with fiery red hair, piercing blue eyes, metal spindlefingers and a heart as black as coal.
She was Mo Mowlam.
She was Sting.
We could talk to each other about anything, sex, drugs, spindlefinger. You name it, it was on the cards.
One day we were playing said game, it was called 'wheeltrim catching'. one of you would stand at one end of the park, the other at the other end and then, without warning whom so ever was holding the acquired wheel trim would launch it at the other brother and other said brother would attempt to pluck it from the hardened sky.
The yoghurty duck pond was shimmering in the twilight.
One day I threw said wheeltrim at my earnest companion, she attempted to catch the thing but alas it was never seen again.
"F**& you, you F&*&ing stupid wheeltrim!" she screamed. "F&*& you and your F&8ing deadbeat friends with their pathetic little lives! I've got the fingers now!" She cried "I've got the F&*&ing Fingers and you've got C&*t all you snivelling little b^%$ards!"
I left immediately, trolleys around my ankles making a dash for the sanctuary of home.
I set up camp in at the base of some iron steps and waited until morning.
I gingerly tiptoed out of my den and realised that she had gone.
All that was left was me and the body of the girl I'd raped and murded to keep myself busy in the night.
I turned to her.
"Well I never!" I raised a quizzical eyebrow. "That's the worst case of abusing Frisbee’s I’ve ever seen!"
We laughed and laughed and laughed.
She has no eyes now. We dance to circus music in the dark.
Sometimes I cry on what's left of her.
(Thu 8th Nov 2007, 18:40, More)