Wednesday, December 23, 2009

TFE Poetry Pressie

Yay! Total Feckin' Eejit's poetry fun is Back! Back! Back!

Christmas themed... here is my contribution.

Mr Creosote's Christmas

Predatory Pringles mingle with tipsy tins of Roses.
Roast potatoes dip delightedly into bowls of keys,
Selecting salacious selection boxes,
disappearing together to dark corners.

Sprouts pout wallflowers unwanted, get their coats and go.
Mince pies laugh as they leave
cleaving brandy butter to their bosoms.
Trifles tickle tousle with the Christmas pud -
wanton lovers devouring each other, unconcerned.

The turkey and ham, wriggle giggle gravily writhe,
beckoning the mash for a threesome.
The Christmas cake hunts the chocolate orange
for a bit of rough.
But the citric circle is occupied elsewhere,
climatic orgasmic with a coquettish chocolate kimberley.

Lonely, a sad After Eight lazily masturbates.

In the cloakroom, icing and marzipan plan
to run away together, once the night is over.
Upstairs in the back bedroom the whipped cream teases the stuffing
tied with tinsel on the duvet, ecstatically prostate.

Oh fucking hell, its the end of Christmas day
I can't believe all I've ate.


Niamh B said...

My god Oub, I don't know how I'm going to face Christmas dinner after that - I'll be blushing all day!

Brilliant poem, made me laugh.

NanU said...

Christmas dinner has never been so orgiastic! Puts a new twist on the whole thing.

Titus said...

God, I thought it had peaked with the climatic orgasmic, but then the poor After Eight and the S and M upstairs!

Wonderful stuff, it's given me the strength to tackle the wrapping-up. I think the children are asleep now... maybe just one more sloe gin first...

Domestic Oub said...

Thanks Titus :)

Oh, goodness, yes, more booze.

I've just iced the Christmas cake - I know, I know, wasn't that a job for months past?

Hubby is chief present wrapper, so thankfully I don't need to worry about that.

Sigh - I need to go mop the kitchen floor... I don't think I could face christmas dinner knowing there is baby flung dried weetabix underneath the table - though I know my mother would be too polite to mention it...