Posted in Byron, Creative Writing, Dorian Grey, English Literature, English puns, Free Verse, Humor, Literature, Love, Oscar Wilde, Percy Shelley, Poetry, Relationship, Spoken word, Student, The Romantics, Writing

The man made of literature and technique

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Caress me with caesuras, but don’t break in two.

 Kiss me with ballards, my heart will beat in tune,
With you.

Finger me with free verse until moans escape my lips,

like Enjambment,

Never ending

Oh God , don’t stop this.

You’re Wilde,

Like Dorian,

Be my Mr Gray.

Romantic,

Like Byron,

A Stag who never stays.

Drowning me like Percy,

In a lake of admiration.
Your love never ending,
Like their sexual frustration.

The Bad Boy of Literature ūüėć

Posted in Advice, Comedy, Creative Writing, Dead, Drunk, Emotions, English Literature, Free Verse, Growing up, Humor, Humour, Hungover, illness, Love, Memories, Monologue, Poetry, Regret, Sarcasm, Spoken word, Stories, Student, Theatre, Writing

 Hungover on poetry

Hungover on poetry,

It’s wrapped around my eyes.

I’ve drank it buckets.

Now I see the Light.

Head pounding,

Eyes hurting,

Throat sore with speech,

My eyebags are dark.

Like images of words,

that I now see.

Was the poetry spiked?

 Did I lap up too many,

too quickly?

Yes.

Over too soon.

Did I trip over?

The words.

Did they  make a fool out of me?

Yes..

But I can’t remember a thing.

Words , oh words . Oh God please stop!

There’s  vomit  on the doorstep,

My shoes ,

My hair,

The clean bed sheets,

And the toilet seat.

I shouldn’t have mixed mixed  Carol Anne Duffy, with my own special brew.

Or let others give me shots of

Poems.

I should have closed my mouth

To stop the migraine.

The litre of water last night wasn’t enough.

To cure the poetry hang over.

Breakfast might make it better.

Still more words .

On the box.

Sickness is growing and I can’t stop the din.

The words are louder, 

Caving in.

Dead on my bed, 

I can’t find the cure.

Drink some more poetry.

That might stop the sore.

Posted in Autumn, Creative Writing, Dead, Emotions, English Literature, Fall, Humour, Love, Monologue, Seasons, Self image, Sex, Stories, Weather, Writing

The Mistress of Autumn

The Mistress of Autumn,

You know she’s there.

Squirrel wrapped coat.

Long Raven hair.

“Men ,Oh men .”

She knows where you are.

Her fierce berry kiss..

Leaves a lasting scar.

 Poisonous breath, 

whispers lies in your ear.

Men! Be warned!

Do Not come near!

She will steal your soul and snap it in two.

The mistress of Autumn will tarnish you.

“Virgin.”, she says as she pulls you in.

“Daddy doesn’t allow this.”, she says with a grin.

You roll around in a bed of leaves. 

She sucks you dry.

“Oh Carry on please.”

She tempts, she teases, her arms like snakes . 

Once fucked, your body limp,

 like a rake.

“Have we quite finished?” She asks ,voice of sin.

“No, no carry on.” you say again 

Despite your sore foreskin.

The Mistress of Autumn has you under her spell.

 The Mistress of Autumn won’t treat you well.

The Mistress of Autumn entangles your arms.

“Oh God, Oh no”

You won’t leave unharmed.

Tossing and turning;

 You can’t leave.

The Mistress of Autumn knows she’s a tease.

“Virgin, a lie.” she remarks with glee.

“I thought as much.”  you reply confidently.
Whipped, stripped lying in chains.

The Mistress of Autumn knows you’re to blame.

She digs her nails into your cheek.

“I defeated you, man..I made you weak.”

She saunters off, with a gleeful smile.

” I make you vulnerable, you make me wild.”

~SS

Posted in Autumn, blogging, Creative Writing, Dead, Fall, Poetry, Seasons, Weather, Writing

Dear Autumn

Light up my life,

Teach me to breathe.

Night is a blanket.

I need you to see.

Unmask the Darkness.

Cover the cold,

 Through rays of sunshine;

My eyes to behold.

Scatter the leaves, 

Into distant lands,

Majestic colours  into childrens hands.

Through  decay, keep things bright.

The night is drawing,

Out goes light.

Autumn you’re failing..

Hugging the cold.

 Daylight more precious than gold.

Autumn be Summer.

The woman of madness.

of loose morals.

of mischief.

Blooming her flowery buds.

Autumn ,

Be bright,

Be vibrant,

Be there.

Protecting your children with tender care.

Instead you rot ,

Turn brighteness to decay.

You back stabbing beast.

No one wants you to stay.

 Winter , the Ice Queen will get in your way 

The power of icicles jabbing your heart.

The frosty breath killing your soul.

Leaving a trail of death as she walks through the land.

Autumn she’ll kill you if you don’t flee.

Go..Go away now!

Go be free.

~SS

Posted in Creative Writing, Dead, Emotions, English Literature, Love, Love letters, Marriage, Monologue, Poetry, Regret, Relationship, Stories, Writing

Valentine

I’m not giving you a heart or a beautifully penned poem.

Wrapped in a brown parcel;

  an onion.

Like the moon shedding light onto your darkened world.

Multi layered, complex , hard to unravel the mysteries of a woman.

 You peel trying to undress her;

Feeling the curves of her smooth bottom, breasts, hips. Undressing love, until there is nothing but a twig.

Shatter her in half.

You will feel the sting burn your eyes. Tears. Trembling reflection.

The fiery kiss will leave you with an urge for more. An addiction;

 Leaving her breath , the taste of her love on your mouth for days.

Faithful, like we are.

As long as we both are.

Shrink  it to a wedding ring, if you want.

Leaving the perfumed scent on your fingers for eternity.

Everlasting.

Murderous.

Clinging to you.

 Your life.

Your knife.

~SS

Posted in Animals, Creative Writing, English Literature, First poem, Humour, Media, Monologue, Poetry, Theatre, Writing

The monologue of a sexually frustrated half goat man 

I don’t think I can ever rid myself of the shame..Goat legs. It’s not that they’re hairy, monstrously hairy. I’m actually half goat..My mother could never explain why or the doctor. They just looked at me and sighed..Some sort of genetic defect. There’s one thing about being a goat I can’t stop eating..Or the other thing where two bodies merge into one. I haven’t had a lot of that recently with a human or goat for that matter. 

Maybe it’s the legs, the hairiness seems to put them off a bit..Or is it my hoof feet. Or maybe it’s because women have something against bestiality; Belle commited that. The one from Beauty and the beast. I suppose despite various anger issues money always wins.

I’m currently unemployed,I got fired from my last three jobs. The first job the telephone wires seemed very tempting resulting in the network going down for several days. The second job I may have eaten a computer screen..I was hungry. Then the last job…Well I may have accidentally shagged my bosses wife. She was blind, very ugly I suppose that’s the beauty of being blind you never have to look at your own reflection. Other people have to suffer the pain. 

I was desperate, she was too..It was like animals at the zoo. The goat hair and the lipstick stains scattered over the table like confetti at a wedding.

Then her husband walked in.

~SS

Posted in Creative Writing, Dead, Emotions, Poetry, Weather, Writing

Rain

An attention seeker. 

Tapping on my roof with little hammers.
Tapp, tapp, tapping. Louder , louder , louder.

Bouncing downwards dripping on my forehead;cleansing my face in autumnal tears as the clouds cry ;  causing  makeup to peel from my face.

You shower me like a baby. Icy droplets shocking my skin like an angry lightning bolt.

Oh heavens how you weep;   grieving for your dead child. Instead washing squirrels tenderly, giggling as you watch them flitter from branch to branch. Taking away your pain.

Giving the rosehips a new coat of polish preparing them for human reflection. Oh rain you cause the mud to grow trapping wellington boots, dragging them into a murky grave.

And yet you still keep bouncing.

~SS

Posted in blogging, Creative Writing, Dead, Emotions, Poetry, Stories, Stress, Student, Writing

The Dance of the Dead

I saw them plastered into the wall those heads, those mouths. White eyes reflecting the rays of the sun looking at us as we entered the school gates. Sticks ,stones , old battered text books thrown at their unblinking faces. Their mouths still open as if the plaster had silenced their repeated mumbles.

They were staring at us as if they were trying to give us some message about God, or the meaning of life , or something, something which I couldn’t place my finger on.

Then the darkness came, the sun dipping like a wave , shattering everything. Their eyes blinked, a spark enlightened. The heads along with morphed bodies filled into the playground like a line of soldiers marching.

Haunting music played ,the bodied danced intertwining legs, arms, bodies tongues; In a repeated seductive whisper.

The children watched frozen like ice. Their heads tearing away from bodies, their blood pooling into a river. Eyes popping out of sockets.

The music stopped playing ,the noise ended. The heads, the bodies floated only to be muffled by concrete and dust.Voices silenced, pupils vanished.

Leaving me . Alone.

~SS