Category: Poetry

If only Amnesty could rise to every little problem…

The Alternative Advent: Day 12

day 12 naughty croquetWho’d need Viagra?

Naughty croquet…

What on Earth’s
the worth of girth?
she said in bed
with Ted who said:

“It’s good but wood’s
not always like
the night we’d
start with head—
I’d like to feel
your hands instead.”

So that’s the plan
to get it working
or MC’s twerking
might get him jerking—

And without a sound
the hand was led
inside the bed
inbound-toward
to Ted’s renowned
pure thorough-bread
to get aroused
a—long—side dead—

She’d racked
and wrought
an oak provoked
by stroke
reversed Martini’s-waken
unstirred?
no good
unshake?
try Mâcon

Oh how to spur
Ted’s broken bacon—

“Come South my dear
and bring your mouth
it needs something
to fight fatigue.”

We could always try an EKG?
she sneezed—

“Oh please!”
he swiftly pleads
and shifts
to unimpede
his lead and hopes
his pope will lift—

“Commandeer my pier,
my dear
and persevere
I know I’m near.”
This year?
“You think?” he said
she winked
and fed herself
his spear—

It was
an organ
she’s certain
was shortened
by boredom
as the burden
to harden was hers—

Not that I mind
I’m inclined
if I may
like a bloke
to unwind
but Ted—

A joke is a joke
cos this member
is smote
there must be
a new note—

I want someone
to drill me
and you can’t
even fill me!
you won’t have me stay over:
a soiree is cliché
when there’s no naughty croquet whatsoever—

So Ted sorts out
his creature—
it’s not he
that’ll feature
on the singles-night
bleacher parquet
on a weekday—

He finds something
inside him
to help her
bestride him
and ride him
despite him
reviving the pipe
that denied him—

Earlier that night…

Those who today still feel a sense of impotence can do something: they can support Amnesty International. They can help it to stand up for freedom and justice…

Peter Benenson

In ancient times cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this…

The Alternative Advent: Day 8

bailey catsThe Secret Life of Bailey Cats—

There’s danger in the air…

When like vampire bats,
there’s tacit catsent
circumventing other cats’
nose for a scent—

And feline-combat
who’ve their bents made too fat,
Hell dis-management’s lent
dire rules supplemental:
cos unless you’ve not noticed
they’re all derangemental…

So it’s war for clan Bailey:
‘no fire fur first’
for engagement is lore—
before who comes out worst—
we’ll see three pick on one:
in a fight to the last paw…

The sound of discrete feet(s)
abound are coming
from somewhere(s) over there-
It’s Fritz: she sneaks around and sits;
I think sensing purring in the air.

Then a sound disturbs her.
Potts smells catburger.
and Jabber,
thinks he’ll have her,
to himself.

So by stealth on delft paws,
she beelines for the doors
between Jabber’s hind legs
and Pott’s jaws…

Sandwiched tippy-toes to mind her
she’ll be sure they’ll not find fur
to lead them;
cos they know
she’s frightened of claws.

Tri’s pounces were announcements,
she’d discredit then denounce them—
any cat who had motives
less emotive than hers.

No tit-for-tat, prattle-splat
at this or spat at that
or bric-a-brac
and cranny.

She’ll take a look
in every nook such are
snooks-a-cocked, uncannily.
Guggie’s slink was succinct
and instinctively trying.
her cruelty ensuredly unindemnifying.

So when she offered to nobble
Fritz’s mid-thorax bobble:
an offer as kind as maligned by design.
“Fluff?” Frtiz thought ought,
not be enough—
had Guggie
tried to “break me—
in half!”

She puffed
and waved away the axe—
and immediately.

Declined…

With revolt in her steps
you can bet that she crept
like a colt from the bolt
(e)scapegracely.

A prima facie evasion,
from oedemas and abrasions;
Fritz was not
in way, shape or form
porkholt.

Although Fritz found the chasing
at times too defacing
she was so gracefully pacey and
If I’d’ve seen her,
I would’ve timed her.
but that’s before she’d seen
gleaming
and sheaningly gleaned
the dreamcat
catkilling
machine:

Guggenheimer…

No matter how much cats fight, there always seem to be plenty of kittens…

Abraham Lincoln