OK, so my cyberstalker is being dealt with and deserves no more of my energy or attention. Now, back down to the crudeness that is MY blog. Just say no...=)
Martinis Be the Best of Me
She french kissed the starfish
with soft tongue to O-rung,
and had there be the thought of three,
she then to would make it so.
With bossom pressed on winter glass,
3 ledges more from bottom floor
shown the nips of her equips,
a baren bush in morning glow.
The bed was made with wanton rage.
Sheets long tossed – lust and lost.
Hands that tore a closing door
sort the seconds that stay and go.
Had he smudged across the rugs
with wayward drool that milked the fuel,
on empty glass while bossoms pass
leaving nothing left to snort.
A slug of blood joins the suds
at the base of his disgrace.
In this time he captures mind,
With the demons he now consorts.
The powder slung through his lungs
of hours poured the night before
to a comprimise he realized
Martinis be the best of me.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
39 Hours
A chair, cold and bare,
awaits tiny toes shuffled
across a hard wood morning
marching towards war.
Crayon and a conflict
on hand plastered walls
funnels silence
from the toy riddled bunker
opposite an empty enemy
stockpiling cereal in the corners
rationing ill rationale
where small voices fall
to screams and welts.
Hurtful hands labor
39 hours confinement
birthing prisoners of war.
www.childabuse.org
awaits tiny toes shuffled
across a hard wood morning
marching towards war.
Crayon and a conflict
on hand plastered walls
funnels silence
from the toy riddled bunker
opposite an empty enemy
stockpiling cereal in the corners
rationing ill rationale
where small voices fall
to screams and welts.
Hurtful hands labor
39 hours confinement
birthing prisoners of war.
www.childabuse.org
Monday, May 4, 2009
Little Is Said Again
Bones so prone to her neglect
show the blows where fists have met.
Swollen eyes still need to weep
and moans will burn throughout their sleep.
Through the days the backs were broke
again in sin with fists she spoke.
In Sunday School she told not tell
before the Lord his eyes still swell.
Help prevent child abuse!
www.childabuse.org
show the blows where fists have met.
Swollen eyes still need to weep
and moans will burn throughout their sleep.
Through the days the backs were broke
again in sin with fists she spoke.
In Sunday School she told not tell
before the Lord his eyes still swell.
Help prevent child abuse!
www.childabuse.org
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
OK, Now Go Away!
Much more the need
to prove indeed,
You have moved forward.
The rush to tie
the binds and sigh,
Whatever have you done?
The thoughts you dare
That I could care,
You were so very wrong.
And now at last
your head has crashed,
realization setting in.
Your time was ill
worth keeping still,
I laugh at your pathetic.
Your flesh meant less
than others’ caress
and far less pleasing.
So, in your choice
I can rejoice,
go away and leave me be!
to prove indeed,
You have moved forward.
The rush to tie
the binds and sigh,
Whatever have you done?
The thoughts you dare
That I could care,
You were so very wrong.
And now at last
your head has crashed,
realization setting in.
Your time was ill
worth keeping still,
I laugh at your pathetic.
Your flesh meant less
than others’ caress
and far less pleasing.
So, in your choice
I can rejoice,
go away and leave me be!
Monday, January 26, 2009
2 new poems - a break from the story
Here are 2 new poems I finished this past week. The story is still writing itself, do not worry! It will be back shortly.
Lurking Ledge
On the under side of an overpass,
steel I’s riveted with curiosity,
questioning the tenderness of flesh,
cradling a tattered cloth.
In the shade of coldest days,
nip of January stands sentinel
beat by the indifference of inhabitants
and watching over an old shoe.
Against the gust of rushing cars,
rafters, covers from heaven’s harshest and
disturbed with citizen disregard,
houses soiled hand-me-downs.
Above the whine of passing diesel #523,
a winter solid earth twist rotisserie,
not so warm, wonders for the hardheartedness
and carries a concrete coffin.
On the pigeons’ lurking ledge,
hungry bones frozen
shake under rags and newspapers unconscious
of architecture, autos and trains.
The Pending
Threat approached
from over arms folded
and perplexed
and stress fractured
in slings
of ghost runners
holding fast
the approximation
of should-be friends.
Security flutters
and runs uncontrollably.
Flaps of flesh flailing
on fiery torso
hurtling towards
super nova.
Watching our future scrutinized
by the highly defined
through dinners,
arms forced applauses
and dance after dance.
Watching with eyes spliced
taking in the skies
finding
no snowfall fell
with a blizzard
of intentions
and torrential expectations.
100 days hated
with nay-sayers soothing
previous contusions
and laborious lacerations
hemorrhaging dinero
all the while slandering
the ways of change.
Frigid precipitous
stayed away,
narrow-minded munitions
remained chambered
and the bombers
in bay waited
another day.
Lurking Ledge
On the under side of an overpass,
steel I’s riveted with curiosity,
questioning the tenderness of flesh,
cradling a tattered cloth.
In the shade of coldest days,
nip of January stands sentinel
beat by the indifference of inhabitants
and watching over an old shoe.
Against the gust of rushing cars,
rafters, covers from heaven’s harshest and
disturbed with citizen disregard,
houses soiled hand-me-downs.
Above the whine of passing diesel #523,
a winter solid earth twist rotisserie,
not so warm, wonders for the hardheartedness
and carries a concrete coffin.
On the pigeons’ lurking ledge,
hungry bones frozen
shake under rags and newspapers unconscious
of architecture, autos and trains.
The Pending
Threat approached
from over arms folded
and perplexed
and stress fractured
in slings
of ghost runners
holding fast
the approximation
of should-be friends.
Security flutters
and runs uncontrollably.
Flaps of flesh flailing
on fiery torso
hurtling towards
super nova.
Watching our future scrutinized
by the highly defined
through dinners,
arms forced applauses
and dance after dance.
Watching with eyes spliced
taking in the skies
finding
no snowfall fell
with a blizzard
of intentions
and torrential expectations.
100 days hated
with nay-sayers soothing
previous contusions
and laborious lacerations
hemorrhaging dinero
all the while slandering
the ways of change.
Frigid precipitous
stayed away,
narrow-minded munitions
remained chambered
and the bombers
in bay waited
another day.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Clown Shoes & Cottage Cheese: Part 5 (A Short Story / Short Fiction by B. L. Edwards)
This fargin tart needed to be destroyed hella slowly and uber painful!
I will tell you that seizing the reigns on a head wrecked with pain was no matter of moments. Days hated with raw fists punching shat and believing every receiving jab was felt by the chubby fargin face of Fattie-4Is. Your Archie heard Fattie’s voice repeating in shrilling, with doughnut chugging flavor, “I blame you!” Yours truly hammered his surround in complete and total disgust. Walls, windows and wind chimes all were thrown the terrible beating, but what started as venting on inanimates became acting aloud and overcome with fight. Your narrator’s inner workings slowly developed into street side madman’s theatre. This Archie began to see Fattie fargin bish everywhere and everyone and as this Archie swung and kicked, he only jones’d to fight more, but there was no Fattie at all. What was inanimates became innocents that bore the brunt of a dark Archie’s hatred. Many victims fell in the name of Fattie Fargin Twinkie huffin bish. Many blackened eyes were crying, many were contused and confused and many hit the walk with fatal smash. Many laid slain, and Reese was there to take it all in.
Of course, Reese hesitated little in hurrying, yet again, to the feet of the scope-eyed sharpshooters. Reese’s accounts needed not, but did, grow with enormous exaggerations. What may have been a few lost to the cause, was told with near sexual pleasure as an unparalleled killing spree. Reese mustered grey fodder to devise a story so heinous that it was worthy for generations of story-tellers and sure to expel Archie from any prolonged existence. This tale that Reese had told certainly raised scope-eyed brows and immediately birthed an investigation. Your Archie was again viewed through the cross hairs of the gore gleaming snipers.
These Snipers, overlooking every pencil pushed, were a black natured kind that salivated over carcasses of the terminated and the shat flavor of the to-be disposed-of’s. If there was ever any load blowing experience, it was that of the snipers snuffing out any flesh from the left and laying it to rest. The rifle-wielding beasts blasted any guilt clean from the face of the workforce. Hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, were lumped into the dead waste pit at the cold precise trigger fingers. While there was/is no wait for their kill, they, being the snipers, did/do salvage a moral basis for their killing. The snipers not only served justice, but also practiced justice and justified every death sentence served. This moral basis worked well for Archie as the snipers again found little truth to Reese’s grandeur claims of mass murderings.
Stay Tuned - To Be Continued…
I will tell you that seizing the reigns on a head wrecked with pain was no matter of moments. Days hated with raw fists punching shat and believing every receiving jab was felt by the chubby fargin face of Fattie-4Is. Your Archie heard Fattie’s voice repeating in shrilling, with doughnut chugging flavor, “I blame you!” Yours truly hammered his surround in complete and total disgust. Walls, windows and wind chimes all were thrown the terrible beating, but what started as venting on inanimates became acting aloud and overcome with fight. Your narrator’s inner workings slowly developed into street side madman’s theatre. This Archie began to see Fattie fargin bish everywhere and everyone and as this Archie swung and kicked, he only jones’d to fight more, but there was no Fattie at all. What was inanimates became innocents that bore the brunt of a dark Archie’s hatred. Many victims fell in the name of Fattie Fargin Twinkie huffin bish. Many blackened eyes were crying, many were contused and confused and many hit the walk with fatal smash. Many laid slain, and Reese was there to take it all in.
Of course, Reese hesitated little in hurrying, yet again, to the feet of the scope-eyed sharpshooters. Reese’s accounts needed not, but did, grow with enormous exaggerations. What may have been a few lost to the cause, was told with near sexual pleasure as an unparalleled killing spree. Reese mustered grey fodder to devise a story so heinous that it was worthy for generations of story-tellers and sure to expel Archie from any prolonged existence. This tale that Reese had told certainly raised scope-eyed brows and immediately birthed an investigation. Your Archie was again viewed through the cross hairs of the gore gleaming snipers.
These Snipers, overlooking every pencil pushed, were a black natured kind that salivated over carcasses of the terminated and the shat flavor of the to-be disposed-of’s. If there was ever any load blowing experience, it was that of the snipers snuffing out any flesh from the left and laying it to rest. The rifle-wielding beasts blasted any guilt clean from the face of the workforce. Hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, were lumped into the dead waste pit at the cold precise trigger fingers. While there was/is no wait for their kill, they, being the snipers, did/do salvage a moral basis for their killing. The snipers not only served justice, but also practiced justice and justified every death sentence served. This moral basis worked well for Archie as the snipers again found little truth to Reese’s grandeur claims of mass murderings.
Stay Tuned - To Be Continued…
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Clown Shoes & Cottage Cheese: Part 4 (A Short Story / Short Fiction by B. L. Edwards)
The next scene of months decided against your narrator as Reese struggled to contrive a yarn placing me squarely in sight of the scope-eyed snipers. Yours truly eyeballed the firing squad abounding occasions to be released due to meager claims. Reese forced himself to silence unable to plot against, but this did not stop Reese’s seething at the very every site of your trusted wordsmith.
At this same time, word of Smegma and Matthew Bill Tyrant’s affair grew legs and became a world class sprinter, and when I say world class sprinter, I am greatly understating this rumor’s athleticism. No track athlete on any fargin level has managed the speed with which the news hurdled through the left in record rumor time. Every pillow hummed with stories of Smegma and a tyrant, every stall bore a carved story of the two and every lecher leaked of new yarns, truth or farse. Had the snipers not known it yet, they just had to be deaf or dead.
While these stories were entertaining in the least, yours truly was capable to dedicate no time to such fables. Your narrator was taxed entirely with the burden of rejecting Fattie-4Is and her ever-surmounting advances. One such advance occurred with Brazilian trim, a delectable sight on most, but it was a new kind of ewww for Fattie. Where most bare more skin with no fur to hide, Fattie only showed lumpy milky white like the container was spoiled and rotten, and it did also have the effervescence of a dead carcass. When failure once again consumed Fattie following the donning of her new trim, she seemed to suffer some sort of head trauma and raged with a crisp all intense crazy. A fit of torrential hate showered yours truly in a verbiage so violent it bruised the tiny hairs on mine ears. This spew divided families, drowned puppies and killed the pope, but my constitution against Fattie fargin bish held impervious and your story teller somehow survived this maelstrom. Ahegh-ahegh-ahegh- Fattie was winded. Ahegh-ahegh- the tidal rant of hideousness took her every energy. Fattie squirmed to find a gasp to gulp and suffocated the air with her noxious being. Fattie polluted her surround with a spill of rank defecation and she breathed. As you can imagine, once Fattie regained her twinkie and cock riddled breath and a few particles of sanity, she retreated to regroup her attack, but somewhere during Fattie’s pursuit of yours truly, she neglected to keep up appearances with Smegma fargin tart and became unaware of and unable to halt the momentum of the rumors she unleashed.
Twig, a short gossip pal of Fatties that enjoyed finger fargin his own shat chute, was instrumental in casting hate and discontent and did so with an artistry deserving of its own medium. Twig liked to bore through the shat and loved to regurgitate to any wide ear, only this time, the rumor became bigger than its intended audience. By the time Fattie was collected and the sobbing had subsided, the chuckles of passers-by had become the background tune in the surround of Limp Reese and smacks of lips jacking was the anti-applause to the halls around Smegma and Matthew Bill Tyrant.
Now, fargin Fattie, with renewed malnourishment, licked her fugly chops and plotted another run with undying lust to touch all through yours truly, only this time she would not arrive in skank’d fargin person. This time, Fattie squishy bish had reasoned that a lust memo was again the plan to break your narrator down to usable means. Obviously, this dumb bish failed to learn from her previous fargin follies when XY intercepted the first memo that she had attempted. Nevertheless, this documentation was to be a “love letter” that dressed Fattie’s mouth to paper better than any incarcerating conversation conducted live to her chubby fargin face, but it did not read with love. This timeline of sorts played as a hateful blame game that indicted yours truly for every mistake Fattie did, could or would accomplish, for every dawn to dusk, for every star to blue roof and every fargin cycle blamable.
Now, what you would think to be leaving me flattered, instead infuriated your narrator. I mean, the gusto of this fargin tart to blame yours truly for her own miscreant behavior is absolutely not acceptable in any court of life. This new spew of Fattie’s stirred maniacle machinations internal, only these machinations would not be confined. A hatred boiled to mine gut and steamed through throwing a dim tint and barren things like a frozen January. Every hour, every day, everywhere was a dank grey desolate shanty awaiting demolition and a mercy killing. But this bish was undeserving of a merciful death – this bish deserved the same torment she delivered – This fargin tart needed to be destroyed hella slowly and uber painful!
Author's Note: I was not fond of the title for this piece, so I am going to be changing it along with some of the present structure adding in more character to the speaker of the piece. Once I feel like I have come to a proper ending, I will repost the story in its entirety along with the character changes that are neccesary. Enjoy and thanks for all the feedback I have been receiving here and especially via email. You can reach me by email and I will be glad to respond.
B. L. Edwards (bootny.lee@gmail.com)
Stay Tuned - To Be Continued…
At this same time, word of Smegma and Matthew Bill Tyrant’s affair grew legs and became a world class sprinter, and when I say world class sprinter, I am greatly understating this rumor’s athleticism. No track athlete on any fargin level has managed the speed with which the news hurdled through the left in record rumor time. Every pillow hummed with stories of Smegma and a tyrant, every stall bore a carved story of the two and every lecher leaked of new yarns, truth or farse. Had the snipers not known it yet, they just had to be deaf or dead.
While these stories were entertaining in the least, yours truly was capable to dedicate no time to such fables. Your narrator was taxed entirely with the burden of rejecting Fattie-4Is and her ever-surmounting advances. One such advance occurred with Brazilian trim, a delectable sight on most, but it was a new kind of ewww for Fattie. Where most bare more skin with no fur to hide, Fattie only showed lumpy milky white like the container was spoiled and rotten, and it did also have the effervescence of a dead carcass. When failure once again consumed Fattie following the donning of her new trim, she seemed to suffer some sort of head trauma and raged with a crisp all intense crazy. A fit of torrential hate showered yours truly in a verbiage so violent it bruised the tiny hairs on mine ears. This spew divided families, drowned puppies and killed the pope, but my constitution against Fattie fargin bish held impervious and your story teller somehow survived this maelstrom. Ahegh-ahegh-ahegh- Fattie was winded. Ahegh-ahegh- the tidal rant of hideousness took her every energy. Fattie squirmed to find a gasp to gulp and suffocated the air with her noxious being. Fattie polluted her surround with a spill of rank defecation and she breathed. As you can imagine, once Fattie regained her twinkie and cock riddled breath and a few particles of sanity, she retreated to regroup her attack, but somewhere during Fattie’s pursuit of yours truly, she neglected to keep up appearances with Smegma fargin tart and became unaware of and unable to halt the momentum of the rumors she unleashed.
Twig, a short gossip pal of Fatties that enjoyed finger fargin his own shat chute, was instrumental in casting hate and discontent and did so with an artistry deserving of its own medium. Twig liked to bore through the shat and loved to regurgitate to any wide ear, only this time, the rumor became bigger than its intended audience. By the time Fattie was collected and the sobbing had subsided, the chuckles of passers-by had become the background tune in the surround of Limp Reese and smacks of lips jacking was the anti-applause to the halls around Smegma and Matthew Bill Tyrant.
Now, fargin Fattie, with renewed malnourishment, licked her fugly chops and plotted another run with undying lust to touch all through yours truly, only this time she would not arrive in skank’d fargin person. This time, Fattie squishy bish had reasoned that a lust memo was again the plan to break your narrator down to usable means. Obviously, this dumb bish failed to learn from her previous fargin follies when XY intercepted the first memo that she had attempted. Nevertheless, this documentation was to be a “love letter” that dressed Fattie’s mouth to paper better than any incarcerating conversation conducted live to her chubby fargin face, but it did not read with love. This timeline of sorts played as a hateful blame game that indicted yours truly for every mistake Fattie did, could or would accomplish, for every dawn to dusk, for every star to blue roof and every fargin cycle blamable.
Now, what you would think to be leaving me flattered, instead infuriated your narrator. I mean, the gusto of this fargin tart to blame yours truly for her own miscreant behavior is absolutely not acceptable in any court of life. This new spew of Fattie’s stirred maniacle machinations internal, only these machinations would not be confined. A hatred boiled to mine gut and steamed through throwing a dim tint and barren things like a frozen January. Every hour, every day, everywhere was a dank grey desolate shanty awaiting demolition and a mercy killing. But this bish was undeserving of a merciful death – this bish deserved the same torment she delivered – This fargin tart needed to be destroyed hella slowly and uber painful!
Author's Note: I was not fond of the title for this piece, so I am going to be changing it along with some of the present structure adding in more character to the speaker of the piece. Once I feel like I have come to a proper ending, I will repost the story in its entirety along with the character changes that are neccesary. Enjoy and thanks for all the feedback I have been receiving here and especially via email. You can reach me by email and I will be glad to respond.
B. L. Edwards (bootny.lee@gmail.com)
Stay Tuned - To Be Continued…
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