The Hitherto Uncollected Poems of Aimless

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These poems first appeared in the forums, Ask A Drunk and Mindless Prattle. What with the usual run of threads around ILE, I thought these might provide a welcome break from the humdrum. I make no other claims for them.

Dearest Mother

Thinking of you, dearest mom,
Every day since you departed,
Of your laughter, sweet and calm,
And your corpse - how it was carted

Down the hall upon that gurney,
With the wobbly, wacky wheel,
By an intern, taciturnly.
Fainter grew the wheel's squeal
Until there banged a swinging door,
And your sweet laugh was heard no more.

Now all I have are memories
Of silver hair and eyes that burned,
Lord! How they burned! But not your teeth.
I know. I found them in the urn.

I Could Puke (in bad imitation of G.M. Hopkins, S.J.)

Gob-smacked, whacked, whirled earthward.
Down-driven, 'neath my knee dark dirt hard touched.
Crutch wanting to bear me up eye-high.
No more the bare bar before, I know naught but God's rebuke.
I could puke.

Ears ringing, singing banshee-like, off key.
I grope the foot rail, baleful blind worm I.
Sighing, some rat's taste my tongue's taste, aye.
Rising awkwardly as prayer gummed or a great whale's fluke;
I could puke.

Gone all slack, wracked, drooping hopelessly
Hard bit, smitten with draughts I quaffed; pub grub
Unbidden seeks release as I kneel, a reeking snot tub.
Rubber-legged, bent, penitent and wretched as a straitened duke,
I could puke.

The Flower of England Is Planted In The Countryside Of La Belle France,
Since Rendered Unpalatable By The Hun

Over the top!
Over the top!
The cries came foaming down the trench
In glottal stops.
And from the glop
You rose in waves, you fell like crops
And came to rest in stench.

O! noble youths!
Like petals strewed
Across the cold and clodded lea,
Your limbs askew,
And rather few,
Not often numb'ring more than two
Or, at the outside, three.

No maidens come
With rare aplomb
To smile and chuck your pretty chins
And sweetly tell
How good you smell.
Your odors make young maids unwell
And set insides a-spin.

Timothy Leary R.I.P.

It may be said
Tim Leary's dead.
So let us mourn his blazing head.

He came. He saw.
He raised his paw,
And flapped his flabbergasting jaw.

"Shut your yap trap.
"Toss the claptrap.
"Shake and wake up from your daft nap."

Said the fellow,
Of smiles mellow,
Of Harvard sheepskin and lime jello.

He turned his back
On off-the-rack
Grey flannel suits and ties that lack

When he embraced
The mien of grace
And moments gone without a trace.

― Aimless (Aimless), Saturday, 18 September 2004 02:52 (twenty-one years ago)

Er, um. (*Waves hand*) Close bold tag!

― Aimless (Aimless), Saturday, 18 September 2004 02:55 (twenty-one years ago)

Aha! I like these a lot. Try this:

THOR AND THE JOTUN UTGARDSLOKI: ALLEGORY 1

See, once there was this fellow called
Thor, bigger than Mr Jaws himself,
As good at butchering goats
As Father Abraham, skinning them
Without so much as breaking a bone.
Well, it happened that he was also good
At eating, and fast, too
But not as fast as Loki, who ate so
It seemed the meal was consumed
By fire, ate the bones, and trough
As well, so it was plain
Who won that contest hands down.
Kept poor Thor so weak he couldn't lift
A cat. Found himself outwitted
By somebody's grandma as well,
Crooked old crone that she was. Hoodwinked
By Old Age herselfm indeed
Consumed by that self-same Wildfire
He chose to better. Never had a chance,
Knowing too late the cards
Were stacked from the beginning
And the games were fixed.

(*Back at ya") Er, um.

― pepektheassassin (pepektheassassin), Saturday, 18 September 2004 14:45 (twenty-one years ago)

This one was composed for Lynskey. We miss you, acushla.

HORNY BOB's Lament

She's got a TAIL,
She's got a TAIL,
She's got a TAIL that just won't fuckin' never quit!
Now my head is in a square.
I can't seem to get nowhere.
So I think I'll fuck my friends and throw a fit.

I love her TAIL
I love her TAIL
I love her TAIL the way a wino loves his kip.
But she turns her side to me.
So her ear is all I see.
And I end up trying to stick it in her hip.

I want her TAIL
I want her TAIL
I want her TAIL so bad it's all I think about.
My IQ has hit rock bottom.
And as for friends, I haven't got 'em,
Cuz I'm just a fucking stupid drunken lout.

Now I'm her TAIL
Now I'm her TAIL
Now I'm her TAIL who tails her all around the town.
Where she wanders I go, too.
She makes me wait outside the loo.
Now I'm stuck and it's her TAIL that I'm stuck on.

― Aimless (Aimless), Saturday, 18 September 2004 16:43 (twenty-one years ago)

Closing the Bar (with a wink and a nod to Lord Tennyson)

The heavy clock above the fireplace
Stood on the hour, chiming lowly,
As Iolanthe, the lovely, slowly, slowly
Brushed her hand across her face,
As slowly as the clock did tell the time.
She grunted soft, as sweet as ever clock did chime
For bitter pain upwelled within her heart.
And as she gazed through glass into the street
Bubbles light as faery's feet
Eructed where her crimson lips did part
Tasting of bangers, love and rue,
Tasting of Watney's bitter brew,
One hour to closing time.

― Aimless (Aimless), Saturday, 18 September 2004 17:06 (twenty-one years ago)

one year passes...

MY PERSONALITY

My personality
Is really great
That is why
I have so many mates

Lovers, kisses
And close pals
Very few people
Can say that about themselves

― marzipan, Friday, 3 March 2006 07:55 (nineteen years ago)

THE PERILS OF INTERNET ANONYMITY

How often have you wondered
What will happen when your ID is uncovered
Will you feel sick, walking down the street?
Will you squirm no matter who you greet?

They may not know, your little secret
But you know thought isn't that implicit
Hovering in the air around your flinching mug
Your internet blurting hangs in a blushing fug

― marzipan, Friday, 3 March 2006 07:59 (nineteen years ago)

seven months pass...

Ode to Sarah's Tits, as composed for Esteban Buttez

Sarah's glamorous mammary glands
Protrude in ways no prude could stand,
And beg for double-helping hands.

I doubt that you could understand
How soft they seem, how sweet, how grand,
Nor how they grew, unsought, unplanned,

Nor how they dominate the land
From Timbuktu to Samarkand.
Or so it seems to Esteban.

If other women's breasts are pleasing,
Sarah's twain are ultra-teasing.
Jiggling like jello haltered,
Causing Esteban to falter,

His brain turned into jellyfish -
Bedazzled and with but one wish,
The wish to grab, to grip, to grasp,
To fondle with her bra unclasped

Those orbs so lovely and so nippled.
Our Esteban is fairly crippled
With desire for those two things
That Sarah carries in nylon slings.

-- Aimless --

― Aimless (Aimless), Thursday, 5 October 2006 22:57 (nineteen years ago)

haha i read this as "the hitherto uncollected poems of amateurist", which would probably be different

― mookieproof (mookieproof), Thursday, 5 October 2006 23:12 (nineteen years ago)

As quoted from this thread:

there is no poetry in my soul

-- amateur!st (amateur!s...), July 26th, 2004.

(P.S. This appears to be some sort of imposter poster!)

― Aimless (Aimless), Thursday, 5 October 2006 23:51 (nineteen years ago)

PPS I say this because the poster's contention is so obviously false.

― Aimless (Aimless), Friday, 6 October 2006 00:04 (nineteen years ago)

twelve years pass...

Westbrook is a saddle horse for his emotions; they ride him wherever they please.

― brimstead, Tuesday, 12 March 2019 05:22 (six years ago)

<3 just loved that post

― brimstead, Tuesday, 12 March 2019 05:23 (six years ago)

This one thread I did not expect to see revived!

― A is for (Aimless), Tuesday, 12 March 2019 05:32 (six years ago)

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