Pissed-off poem #2

I don’t know why I write the shit I write
I don’t write about fucking rainbows
angels…eagles….or lambs
nor do I write about sensitive feely things
like fucking rainbows…angels….eagles or lambs
I don’t write novels… not that I couldn’t….I just don’t
I read them but I won’t write one
they’re too verbose and they take too long to develop
all those shit eating ass kissing characters
and above all a fucking plot…..
then there’s that stinking ending….
there has to be an ending so there can
then be a brand new beginning
that’s horseshit…..
I don’t have the patience or the desire
(which is why most people prefer internet porn to actual physical contact)
to spend a few months or a few years
writing anything
Nope
for me it’s ‘Wham bam and take that you bastard’
I don’t know what to call what I write
some people call it poetry without the
rainbows….angels…eagles…or lambs
some people have compared what I write to pornography
without the ‘Happy Ending’ or the ‘Money Shot’
I don’t even know what to call this random rambling of mine
when I was young I would write mostly because
I was pissed off at the world
now….that I am almost fucking dead
I write to piss off people who piss me off
……don’t ask why…. or you might piss me off
it all depends on the mood I’m in or not in….
what I write….
I would best describe as idioms….
idioms for an idiot like me
‘Pity fucks for the Soul’I'm damn good at it even if I can’t spell…..

Ted Sheridan

Pissed Off Poems

There are some days when life seems to be going round and round and not advancing.

When those days come, in fairness, the best thing I have done is accepting the shittyness of it all,

then say BYE to it, or even a seeya; no need to put up with all this again.

 Pissed off poem #1

How such lips can twist into such pyhsical hate
amazes me,
just as much as your ability
to harm the things you love.I know that beating something that wills on the pain,
gives the subjector no satisfaction. Like eating cold food.I saw a film once about a soldier
who when stumbling open
a dead enemy
would ram his knife
reapeatly into the chest
crying out like a Shaman

He killed himself in the end,
placed the rifle
between his legs,
and ate the barrel.

I remember how the director
followed the journey
of the blood
on the wall
where his head was.

If i was to kill myself
I would do it like that
I would leave such a mess
for I know my death
would not faze
you
but the mess
the mess
that would really piss you off

Vincent James Turner