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Michael W Noland Sep 2012
[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

[B] is for the
Bah of
Black sheep, and
Big
Bit¢hes, fat cats,
Bombarded in the
Blasted,
Bastion of
Blackened
Benevolent
Blokes,
Berating the
Blasphemous,
Be-seech, of
Brains, to feel
Bad, about the
Blotching of
Binary codes, erroding, the
Blanked out
Books, of
Belittled
Bureaucrats,
Bowling
Back the
Bank rolls of
Betterment, from the
Back of the
Blackened
Bus, as i'm
Busting guts, in the
Bubbling
Butts, of *****
Benched, but
Beautiful, in the
Battle, in the
Bane, of existence.
Baffled, in the strain of
Belligerence, in
Beating the
Beaming
Butchery into
Billy's
Broken
Brains, in
Bouts, of
Battering
Bobby's for
Bags of
*******
Before, affording to
Build
Bombs, is just
Beyond
Breaking
Beer
Bottles on the
*******
Benefactors of
Boulder
Bashing with the
Beaks, of
Birds, with no
Bees. just a
Being, trying to
[B]


[C] is for the
*****
Courting the
Choreography, in
Computerized
Curtains,
Circumventing the
Cultured,
Contrivance of
Chromatic
Cellars,
Calibrating, to the
Contours of
Calamities,
Celebrating the
Cyclical,
Cylinders of
Cyphered
Calenders,
Correcting the
Calculations, of
Crooks
Coughing, in
Courageous
Coffins of
Canadians,
Collecting
Cobble stones, from
Catacombs, in the lands of the
Conquered,
Capturing the
Claps of thieves, sneaky
Cats, of greed. its
Comedy. oh
Comely, to my
Cling of
Cleanliness, and for your self
[C]

[D] is for the
Dip *****, as they
Delve
Deeper in the
Deliverance, of
Deviant
Deities,
Dying to
Demand
Dinner
Delivered in the throws of
Death,
Deceiving
Defiance of
Darkened
Dreams,
Demeaning that which
Deems the
Dormant of the
Dominant, to be
Demons of
Deviled
Devilry,
Dooming us for
Destruction.
Deploy the,
Damsels in
Duress.
Defiled and
Distressed,
Detestable and
Dead. in the thump of
Drums,
Dumbing down the
Debts of,
Dire regrets.
Dissect the
Daisies of,
Disillusion, in the current
Days,
Diluting night into
Dawn,
Disconnecting the
Dots of the
Dichotomy, and arming me, in the
Diabolatry, of,
Demonology, as i watch me
Dwindle away, the
[D]

[E] is for
Everything in nothing,
Eating the
Euphoric
Enigmas of
Enlightened
Elitists,
Exceeding in the
Extravagant
Essence of
Esoteric
Euphemisms,
Escaping the
Elegance of the
Elements in the
Eccentricity of
Eclectic
Ecstasy,
Exhaling, the
Exostential blessings, of inner
Entities, and renouncing the
Enemies of my
Ease,
Easily to appease
Extraterestrial
Empires,
Extracting the lost
Embers of
Enlightenment, in
Excited delight, but to later
Entice, the fight, and
Escape, like a thief into the night of
Everywhere,
Entering the
Exits of
Elevators leading no where, to
Elevate, this useless place,
Encased in malware in the
Errant
Errors of
Every man,
Enslaved, of flesh and
Entrails,
Enveloping the core of
Everything, that matters,
Enduring, the chatter, of
Evermore,
Ever present in
Everybody
Ever made to take
[E]

Funk the
Ferocity of
Foolish
Fandangos, with
Fanged
Fanatics,
Fooled in the
Fiasco of
Fumbled
Fantasies,
Falling through the
Farms of
Freely
Found
Fans,
Flying in the
Fame of
Fortune.
Fornicating on the
Fallen
Fears of
Fat
Fish getting their
Fillet of
Fills.
Feel me in the
Frills

Granted with
Generosity.
Giblets of
Gratitude and
Greed,
Greeting the
Goop and
Gobbled
Gore,
Gleaned from the
Glamour of
Ghouls in
Gillie suits,
Getting what they
Got
Going, in the
Gratuitous
Gallows of a
Game
Gaffed by
Giants.

Hello to the
Horizon of
Hellish
Hilarity, in
Hope of
Happy, to
Heave from
Heifers, to
Help the
Hemp
Harshened
Hobos in
Heightened
Horror, to
Honor the
Habitats of
Hapless
Habituals,
Herbalising the work
Horse, named
Have Not, in the
Haughtily
Hardened
Houses of
Happenstance.

Ignore the
Ignorant
Idiots, too
Illiterate to
Indicate the
Indicative
Instances of
Idiom in the
Irrelevant
Inaccuracy of
I,
In the
Intellect of
Idle
Individuals,
Irritated with the
Irate
Illusion of
Idols
Illustrated upon the
Iris,
In the
Illumination of
I.

******* the
Jobless
Jokers, and
Jimmy the
Jerkins from their
Jammie's, in
Justified,
Jousting off the
Jumps, in
Jokes, and
Jukes of
Just
Jailers,
Jesting for
Jammed
Jury's to
****
Judgment from the
Jitter
Juiced
Jeans of
Jesus.

**** the
Keep of
Khaki-ed
Kool aid men,
Kept in the
Kilometers of
Kits,
Kin-less
Kinetics,
Knifing the
Knights of
Kneeling
Kinsmanship,
Keeling over the
Keys of
Kaine, with the
Karmic
Karate
Kick of a
Kangaroo.

Love the
Levity, in the
Luxurious
Laments of
Loveliness,
Lovingly
Levitating in
Level,
Lucidly.
Living in
Laps, of
Lapses,
Looping, but
Lacking the
Loom of the
Latches
Locked with
Leeches of the
Lonely
Lit
Leering of
Lightly
Limbs, that
Lash at the
Lessers in
Loot of
Lost letters,
Lest we
Learned in the
Lessons of
Liars.

Marooned in
Maniacal
Masterpieces,
Masqueraded as
Malignant
Memorization's of
Motionless
Mantras, but
Merrily
Masking
Mikha'el the
Mundane, who is
Musically
Mused of
Monsters,
Mangling the
Monitor, but
Maybe just a
Moniker of
Marauders.

Never to
Navigate the
Nautical
Nether of
Never
Nears.
Not to
Nit pic the
Naivety of
Nicety.
Notions
Neither take
Note
Nor
Name the
Noise of
Nats in the
Nights of
Neanderthals
Napping in the
Nets of
Ninjas

Ominous in the
Obvious
Omnipotence of
Oblivious
Obligatory
Opulence,
Of
Other
Oddly
Orchards
Of
Offices,
Ordaining
Orifices in
Offers of
Ordinary
Ordinances in
Option-less
Optics,
Optionally an
On-call Oracle, in
Optimal,
Overture.

Perusing the
Pestilent
Pedestals of
Personal,
Parameters,
Pursuing the
Petty
Plumes of
Piety with the
Patience of a
Pharaoh,
******* on the
People with the
Penal
Pianos of
Port-less
Portals, in the
Paperless
Points in the
Palpal
Pats of
Pettiness.
Poor, but
Prideful.

Quick to
Qualify the
Quitter for a
Quick
Quill in
Queer
Quivering of
Quickened
Questioning,
Queried in the
Quakiest of
Quandaries.
Quarantined to a
Quadrant, of
Quagmires.
Questing the
Quizzing of
Quotable
Quartets.

Relax in the
Relapse of
Realizations, and
React with
Racks of
Rolling
Rock to
Rate the
Rep of the
Rain-less.
Roar in
Rapturous
Rendering of the
Random
Readiness in the
Ravenous,
Rallying, of the
Retinal
Refracting of
Reality.
Realigning, the
Righteous
Rearing of the
Realm, and
Retrying.

Steer the
Serenity in
Sustainability, and
Slither through the
Seams of
Slumbered
Scenes.
Secrete the
Solo
Sobriety of
Sapped
Sassys,
Salivating upon a
Slew of
Stupidity,
Steadily
Supplied in
Stream,
Suitably
Slain in the
Steam of
Sanity.
Sadly, i
Still
Seem,
Salvagable.

Topple
The
Titans in
Tightened
Terror.
Torn
Territories
Turn
Turbulent in
The
Teething of
Totality.
The
Telemetry of
Time,
Tortured of
Torrent
Theories,
Told in
Turrets of
Transpiring
Terribleness, from
Tumultuous
Tikes unto
Teens,
Trading
Toys for
Tea.
Thrice
Thrusted upon by the
Tyranny of
Tanks.

Unanimous is the
Ugliness in the
Undertones of
Undreamed
Ulteriors
Undergoing the
Unclean in the
***** of
Utterly
Upset
Users,
Uplifting the
Unfitting
Ushers in
Underwear-less,
Ulcers,
Undergoing the
Ultra of
Uberness.

Venial in
Vindictive
Viciousness of
Vindicated
Venom,
Venomously
Vilifying the
Vials of
Villainy in the
Veins of
Vampires,
Validity of
Valuable
Violence, is
Valiant in the
Vaporous
Vacationing of
Vagrant
Vices.

Why
Whelp in the
Weather
When you can
Wave to the
Whirling
Wisps,
Whipping Where the
Whimsical Were
Way back in the
Wellness of
Whip its,
Wrangling my
World,
With
Waterless
Worms, as
War shouts are
Wasted in the
Wackiest
Walks of
Waking
Wonder.

Xenophobic
Xenogogue, of
Xenomorphic
Xeons, turn
Xyphoid, in the
Xenomenia of my
X, my
Xenolalia of
X, to
***. im lost in the
Xenobiotic zen of
Xerces, on a
Xebec to the
X on the map.
Xenogenesis, in the
Xesturgy of my
Xyston
Xd

Yelling
Yearned from
Yelping.
Yard
Yachts
Yielding, to the
Yodel of
Yeah
Yeahs, to the
Yapping of
******
Yuppie
Yoga
Yanks, over
Yonder.
Yucking it up with the
Yawn of a
Yocal.

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero
this is a work in progress
Noah A Baker Apr 2014
Empty bottles of coke
faithfully littering the floor around my
desk, bed, anything they can lay their hands on.
A naive combination of sleeping pills and energy drinks
On my nightstand,
patiently waiting in anticipation,
for their next chance at tempting me into submission,
the poor man's deviled eggs with a side of Hennessy.

Ah, how great it would be,
if the lonely bottles of water by my television
could possibly purge me
Or, maybe, offer a Depression-era baptismal service
So I can find my peace of mind,
as another bottle hits the floor.
Criticism is encouraged. Thanks for reading.
hm
Francie Lynch Mar 2015
The strangest dream
I've ever had,
Is when I dined
With the dead.

My skinless, boneless
Friends and foes,
Enjoyed the spread
Of Deviled Toes,
Deviled Ham,
Grapes of wrath,
Deviled eggs
And sin-namon bread.
The deviled tongue
Sang no siren's song
Marinading in
Devil's Dung.

Devils On Horseback
Washed down
Our gullets,
And ****** Mary's
Flooded the banquet
Capping the feast.
I opened eyes
To end REM sleep.

Since then
My morning meal
Has altered.
Encouraged by
The risen sun,
I butter myself
A Hot Cross Bun.
"Devil's dung" is actually called "Devil's ****" because of its smell, but the odor dissipates while cooking.
canto 1
I call her daddy my own. He felt nothing for her when the time had come for him to do something he fell and she felt nothing at all, nothing whatsoever. It is a cruel world, mateys, and the best thing you can do is curse God and die. Hard to ditch the pity act. Ditching is denying and there is much truth to the lie.

canto 2
Their eyes bubble in the open air, they fill to bursting and scrub until they scratch. **** drips. It's a sound that I will never forget. A sight that should be reserved for the dream world...a stench unrivaled.

canto 3
The Chinese bomber is persistent. One has to wonder why he bothers at all, seeing that his attempts have been futile up until the present moment. It's shoe week, so I guess he has his reasons. But this has gone on for far too long. If there were a way for me to stop him I guess it wouldn't hurt to try.

canto 4
Random parking lots and good God what have they done? I thought it was all over, these thoughts were through, these voices are mad. Usually it's not as upsetting. Your car door gets stuck, you know, it happens all the time. It happens every day, still you never get used to it, do you? You're always stuck inside that ugly mirror.

canto 5 (the "missing canto")

canto 6
I want to tell the world how good you are. Amazing and incredible. **** and *******. Talented and unrestrained. Honey nut Cheerios. You give it but I have a sneaky feeling you would rather be lost in a dream. A banal night vision. Comparably

canto 7
I want to make it better. I want to see you smile. What can I do? You are my own heart ripped from my chest and given wings to fly. Your smile is a lost treasure I would do anything to get it back to give it back to you, I didn't mean to take it away from you. You push me up against a stone wall and you don't even realize you're doing it. That my soul cries and prays for something real, for some kind of explanation or even an excuse would be fine right now. Instead I float. Not the way I like to float. I drift and crash, a dizzying spiral out of control, confused and dumbfounded by the realization that none of it means a ******* thing. What I thought was love turned out to be a jester's game, a joker's trick. You don't need me anymore.

canto 8
I hide myself behind a blanket of stone where you cannot spit fireballs at me without cracking an egg. Cold breeze tickles my news. It's not too chilly in this room. But the fireballs warm things up. "Blanket of stone"...what a stupid expression. Why do you have to be so hateful to me? How many times can a man say I'm Sorry without losing an eyeball?

canto 9
I have no right to feel the way I do. I don't think I can control it, though. This is one of the ****** up idiosyncrasies of my confused existence. Vanish without a trace and look for clues in the alphabet soup.

canto 10
Weariness is like a slug, a giant slug, a parasite infesting my body, hanging on and hanging out. A fire down below that waits for my imagination. My sleep patterns are getting ****** up but I'm not sure if I was sleeping or just dreaming I was awake. Under the impression that it doesn't matter? Well, you are a stone fool for thinking that way. You've never experienced the life-changer. Else you would know. But all I want to know is this: Why am I afraid of sleep?

canto 11
Things get slow. Patience is required, but I don't have any. Why does it have to be that way, o cruel dictator? You get a kick out of this ****, don't you?

canto 12
Spill your guts, maties, it's the only way you'll ever come out of this situation with even a shard of dignity intact. I know it's early and you haven't had time to adjust your eyes and your wrists for this delicate task. Go! Do it now before you lose confidence.

canto 13
We took a holiday and it was so nice. She stood there on that stage without a stitch of clothing on her voluptuous body. Baby, don't you let your hairdresser down

canto 14
Who doesn't love breakfast? Me, actually.

canto 15
I can't help it if I'm changing every day. Ask the question later, maybe my answer will be suitable. I don't think I can help you because I'm not like anyone you've ever known or will ever know or can ever know or would ever want to know and why do you keep wanting to know where I've been? I've been right here. Right where I've always been. Haven't moved a muscle.

canto 16
This is the 16th and I should be proud but the apathy seeps from my very pours. That little ******* was about to take a **** in the corner. When I picked him up to take him to the paper he dropped a couple of turds on the floor beneath me. I guess he couldn't wait.

canto 17
Sometimes things change so much that it's hard to tell if they're for the best or the worst. It is at these times that I enjoy a good evening on the water, enjoying my yacht and eating peanuts from another man's sack. Salted peanuts with pickled eggs and deviled ham with a side order of angel food crack.

canto 18
My wrist hurts and I've lost the will to **** socks.

canto 19
The lawn chair has been placed under extreme scrutiny. It's rocking motion is being scientifically tested and arranged for packaging. The physics of this miracle are in the process of logistical infiltration. You'd be surprised at how useful a rocking lawn chair can be in a world tangled in war. It's a good place to relax. For paranoids, that is.

canto 20
Bird feathers of a different post, it has never made a lick of sense and the promises made were broken. Who was that man in the bird suit? Why was he making all those funny noises? I'll have to investigate. Lawd have mercy I do believe I've **** my pants.

canto 21
Don't come crying to me if you feel misunderstood. I can read right through you and I know that all you're doing is fishing for a compliment. You will not receive one from me, Salty Dog, not because you don't deserve one. You probably do. But not from me. Perhaps you should take up your case with Hoda Kotbe. Who knows but that you might look really, really good on television. Just remember to feed the dog before you leave. He gets hungry. But he doesn't miss you. I don't mean to break your heart, but the rational man within me is very convincing when he tells me you are a real pickle.

canto 22
Those comments are found particularly offensive in light of the situation in the Gulf. You need to regulate your interest in beans. One day you'll fly to the Middle East looking for peace and all you will find are demons like the ones who raised so much hell in "The Exorcist". You don't want that, do you? Settle for Ranch Style and leave the diplomacy to the masters.

canto 23 (the "lost" canto)
I wouldn't wish this on a barrel full of monkeys. They say that time heals all wounds and I suppose it does. No "if"s, "and"s or "but"s. Don't believe me? Listen to 'em snarl. They're hungry for blood and sandwiches. I owe you nothing, so perhaps I'll send you a good time from New York. You gotta love a trapeze artist.

canto 24
I'm trying my best to change the world but the fact remains that the human race does not deserve the kind of tender loving care that I'm well known for. This holiday event will not include high temperatures or the kind of crap the weather people try to sell you.

canto 25
******* Valhalla. This is how it always seems to wind up, isn't it, Pinnochio? Just when you think things are getting better, BAM, ****** up again.

canto 26
You know you've reached a severe point of boredom when you switch to the Daystar Network and find yourself singing along to the bogus faith healers. Pecans on that one, please.

canto 27
Plug away, Sailor. Keep plugging away. When you get there you can say you plugged away with as much vim and vigor as a much larger man. Slough it off, O Great one. Keep sloughing it off. When you get there you can say you sloughed it off with as much skill and empathy as one might expect from a lizard. Or a monster frog.

canto 28 (the "twenty-eighth canto")
Come, look at my incredible collection of dice. Right next to my collection of mice. Next to that bowl of rice. Sugar and spice, everything nice. My head's full of lice. Don't think twice, just break the ice. Pup your puppy dog in the freezer.

canto 29
My toes are cold and so is my nose. I should be concerned with this situation but, strangely, I could care less. There are so many other, more important things to worry about. Like how many frosted flakes are in that box over there. And is there any milk left? And is it the real deal or that phony 2%? 1%? Skim milk is even worse. If it gets down to that point I'll save the money and use tap water. Don't think for a moment that I won't.

canto 30
Colored pencils expect risque answers to tame pencils. Unfortunately the quality of superior eggs is relative to the ice cream that has dripped down your shirt. You're starting to smell bad and I would highly recommend soaking in vinegar for an hour or six.

canto 31
There are times when I wish the planet would implode and **** every living thing into a void. I don't wanna die, but if I'm gonna I want everyone else to come with me. I'm tired of hearing about God's word. But even more so John Hagee's special gift for your love offering of any amount, the super duper Bible verse audio player, with selected passages read by the man himself. You can leave him behind.

canto 32 (the "same as the 31st" canto)
There are times when I wish the planet would implode and **** every living thing into a void. I don't wanna die, but if I'm gonna I want everyone else to come with me. I'm tired of hearing about God's word. But even more so John Hagee's special gift for your love offering of any amount, the super duper Bible verse audio player, with selected passages read by the man himself. You can leave him behind.

canto 33
Yazaa, yazaa, yazaa I told you I was gonna steal that car. You didn't think I had the guts, did you? But look who's laughing now! That guy with the big flower in his pocket must really feel like **** right now, realizing that his awesome vehicle is no longer in his possession. Maybe get an ice cream cone, maybe feel better.

canto 34
Come out of your hidey-hole, scurvy dog. Rat scabies be breathing down your neck and it's cold and old and you'll do as you're told. Pinch back that stray lock of hair, O Queen of Sheba. You shall spend the rest of your days parked on a green chariot overlooking Lake Erie

canto 35
You could have given me a reason for the season. Instead you had nothing to offer but a huge chunk of pepperoni that had mold growing all over it. Admittedly it was delicious but surely you could have come up with something a bit more expressive of the tender emotions I inspired within your fluttering heart.

canto 36
The prospect of a news reporter calling you a crack head based on information gleamed from your Internet social network profiles is quite terrifying, but when you tie the noose you might as well make sure it was time well spent. It's a shame you shaved your head because the painful truth is that now you bear a striking resemblance to Telly Savalas.

canto 37
Energy. That's what is required. And not just the kind of energy you can get from sugar, caffeine and butter. If it were that easy you could be **** sure that the Catholic Church would be the first in line to canonize it. They have a burning desire to fall off the wagon. "Which wagon?" you may ask. The one with the ice cream, of course. Don't be a fool.

canto 38 (a "short" canto)
If boredom is a sea in which one can easily sink into and drown in, I must be swimming the Atlantic.

canto 39
When the dog barks like that it's a sure bet that he's been neutered in the last few days. It's a sad and sorrowful sound that is only recognized by **** knockers in the deep woods.

canto 40
I could stare at the bars of this prison for the rest of my life. Okay, that's *******.

canto 41
Who was it that once said time is the only reliable concept in the universe? Oh, wait. That was me

canto 42
They tell you to wait. That's what it's all about. Wait, wait, wait, wait until I can almost feel my hair turning gray. The estimated time is currently number 7 the estimated hold time is 4 minutes, thank you for your patience. Well, you're welcome, comrade.

canto 42
I've only to surrender you to the world, lie down and wait for it to crush me.

canto 43
If I can only keep it together...if I can only hold it together this one time, I know the gravy train will come my way. Would it do any good to pray? This isn't the first time that enlightenment and illumination have reared their blessed heads. Would that I could live within them this time.

canto 44
Have I told you lately how much I hate to wait? Thinketh not that the Chair has lost it's financial imbalance, the very thread of chocolate that brought you here. It is still a very important and, some would say, a hot topic regardless of the amount of grime, sweat, blood and V8 juice is spilled on it's ivory shaped pear seat.

canto 45
The shadows turn into cloaks, dark itchy woolen capes that enfold the nothingness beneath them, the nothingness of being. You could have worked a little longer and a little harder on that one, amigo.

canto 46
It's been awhile but my wrist still hurts and I've written the word "moon" on the back of my hand with a Sharpie.

canto 47
I'm movin' this **** to WordPress. No I'm not. **** WordPress. Press WordFuck. Word FuckPress. On and on and on and on and not the least bit clever or entertaining. But I do like steaks.

canto 48
I swear to God I wish I had never taken that first hit of ****. Look what it's done to me. After so many years, I guess I was only fooling myself. Or maybe I was so dumbed down that it didn't seem to matter. But now things have changed. And I can do nothing about it. Dump a can of Campbell's Chunky Soup into a bowl, throw it into the microwave, let 'er go for three minutes, let 'er cool down in the oven for a couple more, stir in a quarter cup of Tabasco sauce, let 'er cool down for a little while longer, mix in a ****-load of Cheez-It reduced fat crackers and then go to ******* town. Go to ******* town, I say, **** the stoner days.
OnwardFlame Mar 2016
My chicken on the vegetable plate I just prepared is getting cold
I write with no music
One of the longest yet
I warned you.
Regardless of where or how you lay your head
I know. You know. We
No, no we.
You were never my we.
This past week, moments involving right now, my path
They all shook my hand, pulled me aside
To tell me that I'm headed in the right direction
That I'm the kind of person they are looking for
Went so far as to say I'm a genius, a revelation
But you had to be the first to tell me you said so
In all those other synonyms.

I think, I was right in my instinct today
My instinct of showing up, face to face
You wouldn't have dealt with it
Any other way, telephone syndrome
Little boy, lost little boy
Syndrome.

I shredded up your note, dumped out all the red wine
You love to give and take away, all of the time
Your mouth twitched tonight
You stared and looked at me
As if you may never see me again
"Your eyes look tired today"
But I looked cool, you said
I scrounged around on hot coffee and deviled eggs
I sat at the table for about 4 hours
I look back now, I made so much progress
Anxiously waiting for you to come downstairs
You couldn't even stop by to say hello
You told me I could come outside if I wanted.

We rode on the train
I stopped you a couple of times in the freezing street
Thinking maybe, weakness and your love
Filling and driving your face
But you had stayed up late in the night
Drank too much
After you stopped answering me
Told your best friend, who kissed me on the lips
Which now seems like centuries ago
And decided once again
Decided once again
Decided once again
LOOP LOOP LOOP
LOOP LOOP LOOP
LOOP LOOP LOOP
Dear God, Layne Marie
He told me he was so sorry "Layne"
On the train.
My name is *******
Layne Marie.

Can that just be it?
Can we really just be done now?
Little green jacket, your chest hair peeking out
You looked at me as if I was gone forever
"And then the swan flew away"
You said you would tell your children someday
I'm a fable, I'm a tale
And thats all I will ever really be to you.

I removed myself from the group
I cut ties like syringes filled with *******
It wasn't enough that you held my face
That one night in February.

You stopped commenting on my poetry
No matter how hard I tried, no matter how MUCH
I stapled or repainted my face, or us
I never saw another poetic thought out of you.

I knew I had to go
I knew I had to be through
As I called you on the phone one last time
And you had trained yourself to sound so removed
Another woman from your past, you intend to be around
Tonight, something may happen, something may not
You called me two days ago to reassure me
To reassure me
To reassure me
LOOP LOOP LOOP
Stuck in reverse
Stuck in reverse
Stuck in reverse.

I didn't have anything sharp enough
So I scratched myself good with some tweezers today
Before my little interview which of course went so well
Before sitting and waiting for death
For the death of us
For the death of us.

Long overdue
Me flying, and flying away
Was so long overdue
I've been here, and I've been here
And I've begged you to really see me
Your eyes looked so sad on the train
But your voice convinced us both
To walk away.

I got off the train
I didn't look back at you until right before I walked through the doors
You tried to look pleasant
Like this wasn't the end of the end
I know exactly what my face looked like
Old Hollywood sorrow mixed with swan freedom.

My mother says we will look back and laugh at this
At you and how I lost myself in the storm of newness
But I wish you all goodness
But dear Zak,
My God, I was and am Captain Hook
Thats never going to change
As I step off the train
You remain, a swan tattooed to your ankle
To remember the most romantic love of YOUR
Life.
Loop. Loop. Loop.
3 times the charm.


She flew the coop
And with fury and drive
Went her own way.
Caitie Jun 2014
infliction-
pain
could I have asked for any different?
your pierced skin and deviled eyes
rippled tears
drag across the blood on your skin
its over.
where are your scars?
you've done too much damage
or so you say-
naïve thoughts
you implanted false lies
floating in mind space.
did you think of how you would die?
your purpose
and your prose
what has it all come down to?
give me more than a reason
to spare your shriveled self
prove your worth.
but there is nothing.
Kelsi Herring Jan 2014
They always told me to be afraid
of the monsters that lay under my bed.

Years and years I spent terrified,
too afraid to walk outside,
too afraid to live my life.

“Monsters! Monsters!” they told me,
Be afraid of the monsters!

They’ll watch as you teeter the edges of insanity,
they’ll laugh as you fall into the abyss of despair.
They’ll creep closer when you’ve stumbled to never get back up,
they’ll come to take you when you’ve finally lost all hope.

“Monster! Monsters!” they told me,
They’re everywhere!

I searched in the shadows,
I ripped through the closets,
I tore down the walls,
I looked under beds,
Yet never could I find the creatures that made my tears shed!

Where?
Where are the beasts of the night?
The ones that haunt me with their deviled flight!

And finally one day,
But only years and years later,
I finally understood.
After never knowing where my monsters lay,
I found I could see right through their big display.
Right in front of me screaming,
“Monsters! Monsters!” as they giggled and crowed
the terrible creatures had finally showed.
Ugly and foul,
smiling at me as they told me to be afraid.

There were never any monsters.
There was only just us.
It had always been just us.
And when I finally got up…
I smiled.

Then with them we walked to another young child.
All alone and afraid,
I sat down next to her whispering as soft as I could …

“Monsters! Monsters!” I said,
Everywhere there are monsters!

Laughing I saw the fear creep into her eyes.
I watched as the horror began,
and even as we crowed joyfully I yelled to her:

*…always be afraid of the monsters…
january 03//--
Michael W Noland Sep 2012
Scared,  to let the words die, he hid, amid the languid luxuries of solitary structuring, lavished of the jaded and anguished lines, for lines melodrama, of the deviled days, of state, of mind, in fate, in kind, of the nether commas, devoid in honest ignorance of written words, dying on the caterpillars, cocooned, in all that's assumed, lost, in metamorphosis, never knowing this, is a dream, within a dream, of hope, clinging with stinging fingertips, ears ringing in the ripplits of a synesthesic pulse of visual signals, subliminally sounding the sirens, of solidarity, in the silent screams, of the sun rising, writhing in wanton seduction of my functions laying the heartened words of dead birds, falling from the sky, hardened in sloven cries, to justify, the means, tapping out on the screens, of a misnomer, a loner, in a coma, phoning you from the corner to warn ya, of the storm, in words prone to patience, in imaginit immaculance of the limitless limits, of livid lovers loving each-others lullabies, lolly-gagging in the illegibility, of our lucidity in the pity of leveled lofts, lovely-ly, levitating in elevating thought, fraught with passionate poetry, of ghostly words, blurred in the debilitating reasoning of reasonable reason, seasonally.
The Good Pussy Mar 2015
.
                                     h
                            o      o r       o
                         r         s d'          r
                        s          o e             s
                       d'           u               d'
                       o             v               o
                       e          r      e           e
                        u         s      h          u
                         v         o     r          v
                          r         s    d'        r
                            e        o e        e
                                s      u      s
                                        v
                      ­                  r
                                        e
   ­                                     s
Kam Yuks Sep 2013
Convent detour
Covenant deviance
Context raconteur
Sterilized meat threads
Over deviled straight legs
Sharks breath beast head
Maximize....
Left alone - best unsaid
maybe off better spread
way out
O--- Rrr - way dead

Casually
concave bird chest,
shock waved cheap threats,
threadbare leaflets,
Modern day
Old hex

Big space and cavity baking ovens full of clutter extended hand and logic tempest temporarily teetered toward a soft chair and ice cold vanity savaged manually...
Or,
Womanually,
for that matter
My meds are working for now - words are fun again!
Austin Heath Apr 2015
This fear is not that
someone is frightened by your mind,
but that they find it
both typical and mediocre.

If you live in this fear
you are slave to your own supremacy;
Create a devil and live in it's shadow.
You can't even be
the filth you sink to, fully.
Raven Feels Jul 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, inspiration: favorite book---Invisible Life In A Miserable Age version two :>


Henry
met her at the library
rasped the portrait in ancient poetry
booked her love in print of coffee calligraphy
vanished curses of September from the entire history
remembered eyes bared and fell at feet so complementary
one-eighty degrees the fine line supplementary
deviled angelic
marveled hurdled
seven freckles and stashed in memory
celebrates venus and mercury


                                                       ­                                     -----ravenfeels
Martin Narrod Sep 2014
Subatomic
Silver smoky sauntering lovelessness
Spots on arms, purple and green
Sickness and sleepless
Wow-like, wicked witchcraft catching

Tones humming zzz'ing
Screaming across elbows
Tucked into the ****
Concrete carnivalesque berserk wildness

Ferally and virily.

U U U THANK U...............Rice Krispie
ANNDD BEATS LEAP CURIOUSLY HIDING
UNDER THE SHEETS

Perfervid fervency.

Idling- white crisps
Blinding silences
Sticky fingertips and lurid looks
Tape after tape of binded irises in the pupil symposium,
Where side-by-side the seams mend together

Innards scissor sideways
Upways downways
Exteriors in rhythmic sync

Tastes like lolli-pop rocks
Watermelon- dazzling gold
Front-step excited eyes binding.
See-cells intertwined and idling-pupils
Dance and discover
Wild hypnotic trysts of skins
Twisting in cotton scenes
Hours of comfortable comforts of living
Women and men handling
Fun funds 'n' bon-bons; investing in the bond.
And going back for seconds.

The head riffs over riptides and causeways, lip-lies and kisses on Broad Way.
Two cadavers, hog-tied. Kissing longways and long ways.
Perogative oxytocin. American Express massages scented oils and lotions.
Persons of interest abetted in sweating. Heaving torsos.
Throwing legs, arms, and sparklers. Redonkulous nectars are microscopic.
Sweet flavors on taste buds or lit by recessed black light optics.
Massaging the rhinoceros husk in this 21st century sarcophagus,
Whiles of Wilders' words were spoken
Nickels of wood soaking in splintered tubs
Thumbs under surveillance. Sneaking inches of suspicion
Leaves treated with lacquer, fables beaten within inches of their lines;

Live its Friday night!
Deviled veterans draped in moon-hide rise
Defiling puerile twenty-something lives.

These wild highs in debts of purs'd thighs
Vexed by personal lies. Hexed in white-out lines.
Riled midnight rides inside this pyre of redolent pie- stroke six and nine
Intertwine in one human form supine
While quaffing nectar wine from the vine
Rancor drives the crime and anoints bold creature types to dine
At the interstice of Sublime.
*** Poem Boy Girl Sublime Love **** Crazy Insanity Madness Hypnotic tryst victim antsy hatred smoking smoke crisp sticky come scissor *** sideways eat ******* ******* ****** erotica literotica eroticliterature writing chicago chicagopoets poetboys **** ******* sadism sade ******* pain brutalpain brutal brutality humiliation 21 oldyoung eroticpoetry Puerile Lurid Nectar Wine Vine Time Dine Supine Fire Pyre Lollipop Candy Drop upways down up left right screwedup **** ****** up NSFW
David Nelson May 2010
Yankee Doodle

Yankee Doodle went to town, at least that's what they say,
I heard he never made it there, he was rolling in the hay,
with Mrs Sims fine young daughter, she had a real nice pair,
of Siamese *** Bellied Pigs, with long blond flowing hair

They sometimes referred to him, as the Doodle Meister,
he was known around this town, as the village heister,
he would steal candy bars, just stick them in his pocket,
and for young Sally Sims, he even stole a locket

The sheriff of this little berg, caught up with him one day,
made him drop his droopy drawers, put it on display,
milky ways and muskateers, tumbled to the ground,
and when he made him spread his cheeks, you won't believe what he found

A carton of cigs, a jar of olives, and some candied yams,
a pound of pasta, a TV guide, and 2 cans of deviled hams,
the sheriff put the cuffs on him, and threw him in the wagon,
somehow he managed to escape, like Puff the Magic Dragon

Gomer LePoet...
Molly Oct 2012
He was just a year older,
but I, at least three wiser.

The Gatekeeper, silently watching ***** Dancing,
assuming us at ease, slowly dozed off.

Plastic floors, feigning multi-colored concrete,
built a vivid castle around us.

And there, I found my primary-colored sanctuary,
a dungeon to others, with rubber walls.

The Giant, just a year older
and at least seven inches taller,
tore down the castle doors,
and away my Damsel flew.

No time to react,
I watched as the sly-deviled Giant ripped her from limb to limb.

My mouth wide in horror,
her tiny shoes fell to the ground,
her blonde locks not far behind them.

And I, the lonely maiden, just one year younger,
but wild beyond my years,
Let rage turn me to a vicious knight,
determined to slay the Giant-turned-Dragon.

With scales dragging between my teeth, I found his flesh
and tasted sweet victory, a tinge of iron.

The Dragon recoiled, agony escaping from his jagged teeth,
The Damsel falling from his clutch, to the cold plastic cement.

Tears reclaimed the Giant from his vicious reptilian form,
and those seven inches meant less as his wailing continued.

And I, the valiant maiden-knight, had slain the mighty Giant;
who was just one year older, seven inches taller,
and knew never to touch my Barbie dolls again.
Sia Jane Sep 2014
Perhaps gratitude;
blessed by an
all telling moon,
dragging such subconscious
thought, to the surface
could suffice.
A momentary crisis
this poet; elegiac in mood,
amour propre; a deadly
reliance upon dragons
caged by their own
circumstance.
Blowing fire,
but not until
seductively, their
deviled selves
masqueraded;
abounding self pity
virtuously disguised,
lachrymose stories.
"Come a little closer..."
she was told.
Trusted, naive girl,
bitten, burnt
touching, hand in fire.
"This time will be different."
she was told.
And,
the girl, lost, in
bubble dreams, born
of, raging storms
believed; that love was true.
This princess of,
masochistic pain,
nothing blood red,
gushing, just
invisible violence.
"Believe me when I say;
you're the best I've ever had."

she was told.
Vertigo; medicated
by love, sailing back to
shore, cutting the rope
knife in hand, promised lands.
Scenes of lamination; screams;
she forgot...
The moon dropping low,
honey dew, stars flew -
she awoke,
to the knowledge of,
all her subconscious knew;
whispering;
"The dragon resided in only you."

© Sia Jane
David Nelson Oct 2013
Yankee Doodle

Yankee Doodle went to town, at least that's what they say,
I heard he never made it there, he was rolling in the hay,
with Mrs Sims fine young daughter, she had a real nice pair,
of Siamese *** Bellied Pigs, with long blond flowing hair

They sometimes referred to him, as the Doodle Meister,
he was known around this town, as the village heister,
he would steal candy bars, just stick them in his pocket,
and for young Sally Sims, he even stole a locket

The sheriff of this little berg, caught up with him one day,
made him drop his droopy drawers, put it on display,
milky ways and muskateers, tumbled to the ground,
and when they made him spread his cheeks, you won't believe what he found

A carton of cigs, a jar of olives, and some candied yams,
a pound of pasta, a TV guide, and 2 cans of deviled hams,
the sheriff put the cuffs on him, and threw him in the wagon,
somehow he managed to escape, like Puff the Magic Dragon

Gomer LePoet...
What does that mean?
Rose L Mar 2015
One morning, I met and ate with Sappho, and
as we watched the baited ducklets come and go
described to her a calming Violet i had found
within where seeded crops of crocuses grow
who strapped the sunlight as its belle bijou
and subtle symmetry that provided words
to break the heart and warm the blush skin of you
I told her of broken morning birds
simple songs robbed by her brushed deviled tips
I cried of endless pages cast in ink
to describe her perfect purple lips
of desperate letters to help me understand how her love thinks
All other stem of Violetta fail to me
to remind of the shadow cast over flowers then
or to undermine those bright pink cheeks i could see
in its petal hues - usual rhythm couldn't convey to pen
this wild moss of a creature that heavn's sink....
a smile, and she replied
"a picked and pressed flower
for a Violet of my own", said the Girl.
Alternative title: "When I Met and Ate with Sappho in the Night"
PAGE ONE SIDE ONE

      The diffident boy’s chameleonic anguish sought to be cordial movements, only projected shaking and quivering hands while strolling along with a girl into a saunter down, down the street on a bridge hanging over a lake in a park.
      "Hold my hand" the boy said in a swoon to the girl, continuing - - "I love the shake, I love that frigid quiver, lets walk, jostle too beat, beat down the wind and jostle the street!"
       “Let us move further toward the illuminated illusions of the sun adjacent with the moon’s reflection blurred, misguiding us from shade for our eyelids, hiding,” the girl deviled, “but I know where, here,” she put out her palm, “that ****** glow is the heart of mine; take it, it is only our own warmth you will find. Let us be it. Only Be. Shade the other rays, for the other way to leave."
       She goes to hand the boy her heart, the boy abducting his hand to his side, distracted with the sun falling from the sky.
       “Oh, I must be here, here at this solemn lake, when it stills,” lightening and thunder from yonder occur, “Locomotion accompanying rain like pillars plummeting into walls capturing you and I becoming the storm’s echo. You may know where it is hiding, however, you will never go to where it is hidden.” each word pulsating from the boy’s mouth, his vision lost in the horizon of the sun burning out like a cigarette’s amber, “If I could only flick dawn into an astray and always be this high, then I would devour that glow in the palm of yours.”
       Tips of leaves sink to point to the ground, the sky begins to cry, and the boy and girl mourn.

PAGE ONE SIDE TWO

            “What the **** are we doing here, we, well I, must leave!” deep breathes in between each word as he spoke, “the air is dry, I can tear off the skin of an idol, spit up a song verbatim, ***** visceral vanity all over your tired hand.” The boy softly said, “To say that I care my dear.” Before the boy could finish all noise in the park inverted, causing sparkling wormholes splashed across the fields and meadows, slices of the moon shimmer on the rounded puddles. “I feel rested, well,” the boy paused, “the surroundings are spoken easy, calmed,” resonating, “calm, only small, smaller than the other."
          "Once… no only once I was told I was cold!  Consummate partner in your parallax! Whirlpool mirage, muddy pupils in the pits of hell, where at least? Is it scene that they are truthful devils?" The girl asked, “You must know, **** it!”

PAGE TWO SIDE ONE

The boy cried, he bellowed out killing, the sound killed,
whistles of felicity disguised in
a distant tree planted far, far over
on sides of mountains, where birds play a poet, creating, projecting the outcome of  this universe evolving, stepping-up the eardrums to shake… vibrate… create...
       "Noo…" the girl held herself under a tree with leaves stealing her. Roots absorbing her warmth, using it to darken the amassing shade, she’s dead, she’s a ghost now.
Killed while the sound killed, she's alone, holding herself, chancing upon her own to keep her memory alive.
       “Heed her advice, heed her owns. Draw pictures of her, with her face clear, photograph her face filled with tears.” The boy facetiously said.

PAGE TWO SIDE TWO

       "Oh, oh, I was a ****** fool, ******. It's graying out, the skies are dispersing, splitting into bluffs, let's go inside, forget about all of this.” The boy diverted.
    “Boy drops dead! Boy is dead!" the girl sedately said, "BOY IS DEAD BOY DROPS DEAD." She said, "lie down, grab hold of your chain, I will hold you no more, I hold only till I warm."
      "Chained? The links I combined on my own, with only you dragging me along. I'll speak easy, hang from this chain where I belong, and carve my epitaph into withering bark. I’ll starve until you deciduously leave this bright park." The boy’s eyes shutting as he fawns his final plight.
Boy dies changing his shoes.
Girl dies draped across roots.
David Nelson May 2013
Yankee Doodle

Yankee Doodle went to town, at least that's what they say,
I heard he never made it there, he was rolling in the hay,
with Mrs Sims fine young daughter, she had a real nice pair,
of Siamese *** Bellied Pigs, with long blond flowing hair

They sometimes referred to him, as the Doodle Meister,
he was known around this town, as the village heister,
he would steal candy bars, just stick them in his pocket,
and for young Sally Sims, he even stole a locket

The sheriff of this little berg, caught up with him one day,
made him drop his droopy drawers, put it on display,
milky ways and muskateers, tumbled to the ground,
and when he made him spread his cheeks, you won't believe what he found

A carton of cigs, a jar of olives, and some candied yams,
a pound of pasta, a TV guide, and 2 cans of deviled hams,
the sheriff put the cuffs on him, and threw him in the wagon,
somehow he managed to escape, like Puff the Magic Dragon

Gomer LePoet...
A MOMENT OF MADNESS
Jessica Lynne Feb 2017
I dated The Devil once
He is so full of charm
Maybe it lasted for months
There were no signs of harm

Every night I called his name
To no reply
All I felt was shame
His love I couldn't deny

I wouldn't even know
what to do with my life
When it was over where did I go
I wanted to be his wife

The Devil is full of decept
His heart wasn't mine to keep
Now that I retreat
My broken heart has no leap
Noah Vanderwerf Jul 2022
A seventy year old woman is waiting at her physician's office in a hospital gown. Her name is called by a secretary, and she calmly gets up to walk to the desk. She is told that her doctor is waiting to speak with her in his office, where he has the clothes she arrived in.

After some time, she exits the office in her dress, shawl, and shoes. She is clutching a manilla envelope. She is wide-eyed, calm, and content. Her face glistens with the fresh residue of tears.

The woman's granddaughter is waiting in her sedan, parked in an adjacent parking structure. She is listening to music on the radio. The woman shuffles to the passenger seat door and enters the car. The granddaughter instinctively starts the car and begins backing out of the parking space. As they're leaving the parking structure, the granddaughter notices the manilla envelope held by the woman. She stares at it, missing her signal to turn onto the road. She ***** her head back forward, and her lip quivers before gradually morphing to a smile. She turns off the radio before continuing their trip home.

The woman enjoys many nights with her relatives and friends, hosting dinner parties and being treated to recreational outings.

When the woman meets friendly acquaintances or loved ones in public, they always deliberately congratulate her before swiftly and gracefully continuing their conversation as normal.

One month after the previous doctor's visit, the woman is awakened by breakfast in bed, prepared by her daughter and granddaughter who are both doing their best to contain their beaming excitement.

"These deviled eggs are wonderful. I knew you would share the skills I taught your mother."

The woman's daughter asks her if she'd like some privacy.

"Oh, no. The more the merrier! I almost couldn't sleep with how much I wondered who would be standing in my kitchen right now. Feel free to let them in, just one at a time at first if you wouldn't mind."

The woman's daughter exhaled in delightful affirmation, and obliged. The daughter and granddaughter left the woman's bedroom.

A tall man named Harvey with white hair, a scully cap,  and glasses put down a mimosa that he was nursing onto the kitchen counter. He smirks when he notices the woman's daughter nodding loudly as she walks towards the crowd. Harvey turns to the rest of the small, tight-knit crowd who are enjoying each other's company in the kitchen. He pardons his interruption, asking if they mind that he go first. Empathetically, everyone in the room encourages him to proceed.

Harvey enters the woman's room.

"Oh my lord! I wish I'd finished that script!"

Harvey chuckles at the woman's remark, bending over to hug her in her bed. The woman gleefully reciprocates, with a grape still bouncing around her mouth.

"You know, I give you full permission here on out to use or adapt anything in my vault. Consider it my retirement gift. If you need to talk to any of the new people to get the rights, just call Diane about it first. She'll straighten it all out."

Harvey praises the woman's work, saying he couldn't do any of it justice. He thanks her for the gesture, but says it won't be necessary. They spend almost fifteen minutes reminiscing with one another.

He asks her how she's feeling.

"Great, actually. Now that I've had more time to process all my feelings recently, especially with everyone else, I feel more dignified. I feel ready for what's to come. I'm surprised we're one of the few cultures of this world that do this. I always knew that this is how we meant it to be, but I was still scared of the future and didn't quite trust the process. Now I'm confident since I've felt that the process is itself trusting me. Does that make any sense?"

Harvey thinks it does. He asks if the woman would like to speak to some of the others, and she agrees.

Over the course of ninety minutes, a hearty handful of relatives and close friends visit the woman in her room in small groups, thanking her for everything they've given them and receiving her own loving compliments in response.

After everyone's spoken to her individually, they all excitedly rendezvous in the kitchen with a pastor. The last of a charcuterie board is picked at by the younger attendees while the daughter speaks to the pastor, who arrived within the past half hour. The daughter is nervously trying to clarify procedural details with the pastor, but the pastor replies speedily and in a reassuring tone.

All the visitors file back into the woman's bedroom, lining the perimeter and encircling her bed. The pastor proudly strides to the center of the room, facing the woman who is practically glowing with honor.

The pastor introduces himself out of formality to the room, but with an infectious sense of levity in acknowledgement that everyone's already acquainted with him. He thanks the woman for electing him to be the officiant of this traditional meeting. He joyously espouses a soliloquy of his personal admirations for the woman, recounting their bonding memories. He acknowledges the mutual love in the room, recognizing those in attendance.

He reaches a cadence, announcing that everyone is gathered in this room today to deliver a greeting of congratulations-in regards to some landmark information-to the woman.

The pastor looks directly at the woman and calmly says "congratulations, Eve. You're dying."

"I AM?!?!"

Grape juice leaks onto her blouse from the side of her mouth.
Alexis K Dec 2017
(To the tune of the 12 Days of Christmas) *

On the first day of Christmas my mommy made me
               A batch of my favorite cookies

On the second day of Christmas my mommy made me
                                           Two apple pies

On the third day of Christmas my mommy made me
                               Three basted turkeys

On the fourth day of Christmas my mommy made me
                                  Four deviled eggs

On the fifth day of Christmas my mommy made me
                           Five pumpkin pies!!!

On the sixth day of Christmas my mommy made me
                                    Six honey hams

On the seventh day of Christmas my mommy made me
                             Seven gooey brownies

On the eighth day of Christmas my mommy made me
                         Eight malted milkshakes

On the ninth day of Christmas my mommy made me
                           Nine banana muffins

On the tenth day of Christmas my mommy made me
                                    Ten yucky yams

On the eleventh day of Christmas my mommy made me
                           Eleven pickled peppers

On the twelfth day of Christmas my mommy made me
                               Twelve ears of corn
From a couple of foodies to a couple of more! Merry Christmas / Happy holidays.
THIS WAS DONE WITH LAURA KICIELINSK it's both of our works.
messydaisy Nov 2009
Could you survive if I
Press panic
Or would you fall to your knees
Like a lackluster hero?
He was made of chimney soot
And deviled eggs,
Laid to waste upon my sheets.
His rotten body, lying close to mine.
So close I could not breathe
Myself back into me.
He wore a face of a
Hallmark clown
To hide all of his thoughts beneath.
But, I remember what it is to
Walk away
From a life that tried
to pull me under currents,
But I have always been able to
Hold on to shores.
Ronald Jones Apr 2015
I do think, darling
If you fixed me deviled eggs
Such work would show you loved me.
Katauta --ancient Japanese 3 line, 19 syllable poem, usually addressed to a lover
TheGirl Apr 2013
The leathered devils,
Who you treated as gods
Were unrelenting.
Gave us shots of whiskey out of rusted glasses.
They took you as they did i,
On their stainless chariots
To the darkest reaches
Places only they could find.
It's a wonder we ever came out alive.
Those deviled prospects pushed their words
Through us, and through us
Onto you.
You, never deserved their twisted fates.
Wack Tastic Nov 2013
Earthen desires,
these are diamonds,
that shield our veiled eyes,
trance like sheathed sward,
hidden in the mantle,
a top the mountain,
creatures lurk atop,
Deviled in the mist,
splattered in Lumios,
The crone and spit;
they really are a horrorshow,
Straggling around,
hovering,
hurtling toward,
**Unknown Territory!
Sam Hain Oct 2015
My snow-globe is more rare than rare,—
A strange antique most singular:
Crafted by one in magick skill’d,
Its contents cannot e’er be spill’d.
It started as a crystal ball
Enchanted and invincible.
A snowman now doth dwell therein,
Blasphemous, foul, and wicked as sin.
He only dons a scarf and sneer,
This angry, deviled, little dear.
He bears within the globe alone
An endless blizzard’s blast and moan.
The little thing is largely mean:
He rages still and gluts his spleen.
He rages while the storm doth blow
Alike the thunder in the snow.

O.O
Aaron LaLux Jul 2016
Reality Rap

Got another flight to catch again,
I don’t want to go,
not ready to touch down,
not ready at all,

a cracka with an attitude,
apple sauce from Adam,
Deviled eggs eaten outta the Hand of God,
and Angel food cake served by Satan,

cake cake cake debate is hardly worth a retort,
the frosting is awesome I’ll even take it on the tort,
or **** Peter Park no Spiderman,
bitten by a scorpion on my right hand,

and these aren’t just rhymes,
they’re Reality Rap,
and if you like this,
well you’re gonna love that,

fact,

no Ratpack just some facts that,
wrap their words around tangible things that seem abstract.

It’s all math,
it adds up if you can add,

exactly to the 1’s with the 0’s,
like the Matrix I don’t wait take the best first,
I’m paranoid of all my hero’s,
while these villainous nerd birds peck at my net worth,

these villains are tools for the Machine that’s cursed,
these are all facts real rhymes freestyled never rehearsed,

they’re actual reality translated into the written word rhythmically,
I’m hearing voices in my head and their songs are sung so beautifully,

I love all of those ghost with moments of present nostalgia,
this is poetry we are poetry I couldn’t’ve done it with out ya,

I love you I love you,
I know you’ve heard it before,
no love is too much,
once that love is no more,

got another flight to catch,
and I’d really love to stay and explore,
all of our everything’s together for sure,
but away in this world on another world tour,

and on that note I gotta go,

got another flight to catch again,
I don’t want to go,
not ready to touch down,
not ready at all…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

Volume 1
The H Trilogy
I just published a new book.
If you could take a moment to check it out,
and even write a review it'd be most appreciated.
All profits go to a charity that prevents ****** assault against children.
So not only are you getting an epic book of poetry,
but you're also supporting a good cause.
Thank you SO much!

Here’s the link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01I4621OE
The Life...
Nicole Benson Apr 2012
I believed that a person was a birthday wish and they robbed me
I believed a person was a saint and they be-deviled me
I believed a person was intelligent and they acted as a fool
I believed that a person knew all the answers and they now look like a tool
I believed a person was my guiding light and into darkness i was thrown
I believed that a belief was more than me
I believe its not
Only me without beliefs especially not in anything or anyone more than me
I believe in me
me is only the belief without the I
Don Bouchard Apr 2015
Across a dry plain,
Heat shimmering,
Blur-ring in my mind...
Lost track of reason, lost my rhyme...
Rhythm gone to plodding,
Clodding on the burning flats,
Dust-deviled and limping over thorns.

Mountains are my only vision,
Forcing aching feet,
Tugging creaking knees,
Coaxing lungs, air parched
To breathe, to wheeze
Toward supernal heights,
Valley-ed torrents rushing
Cool and green and clean....

Beckoned thus, my heavy pace
Lifts lightly up;
The brackish slopping
In my old canteen
Reminds me that the way
Leads on to granite glories:
Woods inhabited,
Cabins warm against the alpine chill...
So I keep walking still.
So I keep walking still.
Lexander J May 2015
Drunkards crawl through pools of *****
bruises and mascara smother stripper's eyes,
beneath stale air and drunken haze
ulterior motives and false perceptions are easily disguised

stained beauty slowly curdles
teenage morals gradually decompose, as
****** frustration ignites, burning beneath disco lights
lust blooming like sordid petals of a rose

boys eye girls bra-less and raving
vying for a flash of flesh or ******,
anticipations defy logical explanations
as juvenile love starts to tickle

alcohol brews caustic feelings
lacklustre defences and warped attractions,
some look for relationships and lifetime lovers
whilst others seek mere distractions

escaping the reality of a life
gouging its gnarled nails upon our skin,
the fact that staying weak is easier
tempting us to give in to deviled sin

for what's the point in staying strong,
only to be dragged along upon the floor?

What's the point in living,
when you just don't know what you're living for?
King Panda Apr 2019
In the place of bright dust
We ransack the sun
Back from her bed
We stretch high/baseball bat/wood
Crack in earthen shower
You are there behind the fence
Holding the baby
On easter sunday
We walk in wedding circles
Discuss the tropics, somewhere
On your back I write
Sixteen dances/crickets in tall grass/waves melting shore rocks
I pour you coffee as you squeeze the yolk in deviled eggs
And I fumble with the crepes
Halfmoon/full/french peninsula/the photograph of your riding a merry-go-round
Full, wordless smile
I search for the soothing leak that
Sleeps with frankincense
First, nameless day/nameless, silent bowl
You place the fruit in stained glass
Watch the skins reflect blurred jet-plane/kind sky
What’s left is my burning muscles
Aching for you in tiny flint
Your lips
Your thing that bleeps with breath
With the empty canteen
I leave it in the car
Reset
Cigarette kiss to your bird,
My best friend
Cuddled in croissant
You  make rain a baker’s dozen
Awake
The body inhales
bobby bielik Mar 2013
When the sudden depth of an echo

Strikes within the heart

where time has hidden it away

The wake from its sound

will not let you sleep

in the darkness which you lay

The nearer you keep to my call

the quicker you hear my words

alive..................

in the deviled night of awe

3/13
Dave Hardin Oct 2016
Dig
Dig

We were nearly back to the house
when the front end loader shattered
the silence and back filled the hole
drove off some vireos and cowbirds

amped up seven whitetail browsing
the pine break above Calusa Way.
American Spirit *******
a new moon **** of mouth

the operator feathered the lever
while gathered together we grazed
potato salad, deviled eggs, sliced ham, rain
from the Gulf over to Melbourne

soaking the operator’s boots
ducking into his pickup truck
for the long drive home to Pedro.
It hammered the tin roof shed  

out back where your tools
tarps, trouble lights, line trimmer
home brew insecticide in unmarked
milk jugs, old spark plugs

a lifetime of nuts, bolts and washers
huddled warm and dry on shelves
ball peened the tamped sand lozenge
on the ragged fringe of the silent ranks.

It’s hard to find even with a map
Calusa Way coiling through the bahia grass
flowing past stone faced theater goers
house lights up well past their final act.  

Vireos and cowbirds
even the whitetail browsing
the pine break pay me no
mind down on hands and knees

undoing the honest work
of the operator, sifting handfuls
of sandy backfill for something
I might have missed.
Jim Davis Apr 2017
Poets twist, flip, and stretch words

Into an airy jumbled kind of order

Writing with exquisitely fine care

Love in all zillion brilliant colors

Bringing life to big splashes seen

Hate shown in some deviled words

Oozing, drying, dying, real blood-spill

Arranging letters, phrases, sounds

To flow like ancient fine wines

Scrumptious laid in clear outlines

Feast for all hungry searching souls

Starving for any old spirit's lifeline

Giving a little delicate morsel of

Help for loved, lost, ripped and torn

Wringing out kinda new thoughts

From nothing as it seems to some

A mortal mind's stir of hazed ideas

Attempting match of a holy's divine

Wishing a part of life to live forever

Thought of in worlds not thine own

However, all must truly truly know

The secret of a dead poet's words

Is a twisting of a simple mind into

Strange or loose shapes and forms

Leaving space for a bigger space

To hold a guiding little white light

Gift of clearing sight for the blind

©  2017 Jim Davis
For National Poetry month, and the Hello Poetry challenge - 2nd day, 2nd poem, doubt if I'll keep it up, or want to!

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