THE WORD ON THE .NET

Writer T. James' Exploration of Words, on the Internet.

Category: Gross-Out Poetry

Armpits: A Poem.

 

Love them or hate them, we all have them. They are counted amongst the darker, more mysterious recesses of the human body, and yet in most of western society there is no law banning their public appearances—only taboo prevents them from being openly flaunted. Shaved naked or furred, they are never listed as person’s most attractive feature. The humble armpit, or aptly abbreviated ‘pit’ if you come from the USA, is much maligned, and so I took it upon myself to lift our furry friends into the poetic realm for a much-needed boost to their public image. Continue reading

Gaseous Emissions from The Queen’s Regal Posterior: A Poem.

It may seem insincere to say I have the greatest respect for the Royal Family, but financial debates aside, I believe they all, and especially Her Majesty, have worked hard on behalf of charities, and for our country.

Two other facts are pertinent, however:

Firstly, The Queen is still a human being, Her Royal Biology no different from our own.

Secondly, when writing a poem about bodily wind, the more upper-class, and auguste the personage concerned, the funnier it is. It is simply one of the eternal rules of comedy.

So, this is not an attack on the Queen’s Royal Person, but rather an acknowledgement of the paradox that is royalty: that according to ancient tradition* they are God’s Appointed, sent to rule over, and take care of us, and yet, they are also human, and so subject to all of the daily comedies and tragedies of which the human condition consists.

So I offer, this, my humble poetic tribute to the humanity of our Queen, and hope that I may prevail upon the Royal Sense-of-Humour, not to hold this against me when one day, God willing, I will be nominated for a Knighthood. Continue reading

Run-Over Frogs: Gross-Out Poetry.

After this poem came to me yesterday I was forced, after much introspection and self-examination, to come to the inescapable conclusion that I am, in fact, a 9-year-old boy trapped in a grown man’s body. Again, you have been warned…

 

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The Life, and Death, of Snot.

Snot, bogey, luge, luger, buger; its aliases are many, but even in its brief life there can be found the hands of fate, pathos, and drama.

This is my first attempt at poetry in, well, decades. It is written in a style vaguely reminiscent of Roald Dahl. It isn’t pleasant, and I’m not sure if it’s even good, but for whatever it is worth this poem is mine, even if it takes courage to own.

I believe you have had sufficient warning, please proceed at your own risk, as no responsibility will be accepted for any distress, emotional or mental, that is caused by the reading of this piece. Comments, and critique, are welcome. For your delectation: I hope you enjoy:-

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