"acerbic" poems
The American said: let's drink the words.
She was so right.
A loquacious gin & tonic
An acerbic Darwinian daiquiri on ice
A French martini disrupted not stirred
A mojito muddled in abstinence
A Belfast bomber & brimstone
Love on the Rocks with perpetual dissent
*** on the Beach with a dash of chilli & lime
***** scorpion splashed in ironic ascension
Dark *** stifled by the sting of a disturbance
Love scented petals infused with tequila worms
Salubrious shots of Sambuca
Absinthe toasted in lunacy flakes
This is my bar.
Choose your poison wisely
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
Acerbic antagonist alliterates agonizing accusations,
blasting ******* backbiter butting beautiful bombastic brainy blond bomb.
Cumulative cranial casualties cease caveman's cognitive coherence.
Doom digger derides Daddy's dangling dire dreary ****
Eclectic esoteric eccentric egotistical estranger;
Forthcoming fathoms fetch faithless fleeting father.
God given goblins gather gossamer ganglions;
Hell's hairy harlot harpies hover heeding Hyperion.
Ignatius imbibes irrevocably insisting,
"Jesus juggles justice's joy jarring jams."
Kindness kindles Kilimanjaro;
Malicious mountains melt, Mmm, morning marjoram.
Nothing negates Neanderthal ninnying.
Overt obsessions obfuscate original object of
purest passions, paltry past pinings,
quickly quieted, quelled,
resisted, relinquished, readily, ruefully, roundly
saturated, suffocated; surreptitiously silenced,
terribly torturing the thrashed tamed tormentor:
Ugly, ungrateful, unapologetic,
Vanity,
woefully wallowing, wailing, "Where's
Xanadu's
zeitgeist!?"
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 12:09 AM UTC
"Are you mad at me?"
"I wouldn't say 'mad.'"
I'd say
captious
petulant
furious
acrimonious
irritable
querulous
sour
acerbic
peevish
ornery
livid
vicious.
No, of course I'm not mad at you.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC
Your use of words
of late, I have noticed,
seize the cold light of day
snowball the pack ice
send a shudder down the spine
hail the dawn of an audible ice age
lest if only
One would listen
that loquacious nature
left to stew in the freezer
the embodiment of toxic wine
your preferred after taste;
the sediment of choice
demands a selective palate
we have bulldozed
The Garden of Eden
now only the Snake remains
offering the bitter-sweet apple
to those who oblige
pave the way for emotions
to argue their objections
a subjective nature
in acerbic tones
fierce and unwavering;
the adulation of the Other
A raised eyebrow
denotes a self-centred assuredness
that anyone else
with a deft hand for art or language
is clearly a copy of the blueprint
your ingenious creation;
such is the intellect you abide by
that of your own reckoning
Your argument
is the passing of an iceberg
perhaps fleeting
the early evening;
the disingenuous melt
of your carbon-cloaked temper
My riposte
will be your undoing
defeat by the warmth
of the passing Sun;
embrace that which you chase
see what you dont see
agree to disagree
is the sympathy
for your antipathy
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 1:52 PM UTC
All is well in the World;
except for a
storm in a teacup
it brewed too long,
a scathing taste of
bitter,
a scalded tongue
leaving
feelings of acerbic
numbness.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
Time to stop judging
Best to confess
Hiding behind your SOS
Feelings of others you ignore
Drama and chaos you adore
With your moralistic writes
Acerbic word fights
Sarcastic bites...
Why can't you be nice?
Instead, you play the part fully
As the intellectual bully
Disregarding the tears
Throwing misspelled word spears
Wielding grammar hammers
Pouncing when someone stammers
Hey, Bro! Don't you even know
What time it is?
Time to stop judging
Best to confess
Hiding behind your SOS
Feelings of others you ignore
Drama and chaos you adore
With your moralistic writes
Acerbic word fights
Sarcastic bites...
Why can't you be nice?
You say you're a godly player
But you're really a Sibboleth slayer,
An ill will conveyor,
Grand total naysayer,
Once you went away but then came back
Unbelievable, you're even more whack!
Hey, Bro! Don't you really know
What time it is?
Time to stop judging
Best to confess
Hiding behind your SOS
Feelings of others you ignore
Drama and chaos you adore
With your moralistic writes
Acerbic word fights
Sarcastic bites...
Why can't you be nice?
TONEY OUT - BOOM!
Nov 7, 2019
Nov 7, 2019 at 11:21 AM UTC
A man named Skinner came to dinner,
with knife poised to attack any so-called sinner,
where did his acerbic attitude come from I wonder,
it was not fair that he should cast any man asunder.
To be frank, he was the one who should work harder,
then, there may be more pleasantries stocked in his larder,
perhaps a change of heart is beyond some of us,
but if you don't - we won't let you on the bus.
We won't let you have any credibility,
until you gain some compassion and humility,
put your silly knife away described as fun,
otherwise we'll lock you up in the Tower of London.
You don't deserve accolades with your set of blades,
We won't waste our time as your pathetic memory fades.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 2:39 PM UTC
I despise names and
call them the false handle-
that they are.
A grip of pre-molded proportions,
framed in impertinent memory.
An acerbic peremptory command of character
stamped neatly at birth,
a great girth of foreshadowing
left pregnant by passing humanity. Crystallized now,
dutifully,
by the willful populace,
which we the children- bear in baleful ignorance.
You cannot help but have an altered perception and
unconsciously define,
as if,
a title was the crux of my character.
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 7:23 PM UTC
Pharmacopoeias
Pseudo psychedelic phantasms
Kaleidoscopic deliriums
Mushroom acerbic cloud igniting
Truth denying exposition
Chemical makeup
Dressed to ****
From seed
To harvest
To market
To dinner plate
To grave
In wooden box decaying
Infatuations with infrastructures in frustration
Genetically modified bullets
BT Corn ripping organs
Exposing the explosion
Imploding on a sunny afternoon in March
Ants on the streets
Trampled by elephants’ ***** in the parade
Rats in slavery’s maze
Corporations’ corporate mandates
Sold out government conspiracy
To cover up the conspiracy of conspiracies
TV eyes ratted out you and yours
A fist-full of dollar bills
Some odd change to clink in the wishing well
Monsanto seeds die at plantation
Reincarnation of a deadly virus
Sow the soil and reap rewards of petulance pestilence
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 7:18 PM UTC
Once upon a time was I a prodigy,
Wandering and drifting to find a phrontistery,
A fantasy beyond thinking,
I was a child of precocious virtuosity.
But now time has liberated from my corpsic avatar,
And to God, I was announced a groom to a bride called progeria,
Not only I but now the entire human race seems to undergo ephemera,
A phenomena not to be taken dilemma,
Death do us part dear poet
Though through our good deeds our work serves eviternal, sempiternal-and eternal.
I know not who I am,
But the tombstone that is scarred with my name cements a legacy that
Buries everybody's histories.
Death is but void and will lead me to become a martyr,
For I deeply believe that poetry is the finest art And not a literature,
I am certain that a spiritual minister on the day of my burial will fail to point out that I was a sinister,
They will all say great things about me-
Where is the wrong, where is the perfect picture?
I once decapitated a seraph for I but thought it was a boobook,
Look!
Now I can be pseudocodenymic numerical, alphabetic artist.
Yet, what am I rather than being a poet?
For the reason that death will deprive me of my rights and belongings,
I don't wish to fall in love but sometimes I get caught up that she might be the daughter of Jesus,
Because I can't get my mind off her celestrial features.
Who else but her makes my story worth telling?
But yet I was in bedlam because of her,
Yelling like a certified lunatic playing,
I however can't forget the asylum's floors and ceilings,
The horrible medicine that got me to be always day dreaming.
Is this the same "cycle of psychopathic love that all these poets failed to describe?"
Affirmatively! This is something they will never outmatch,
Sadly, this all seeing sun never saw
That me and her were a match since this world begun,
Hence, I had to give her up to win everybody's heart,
I gained a voice of thunder to be crowned the darkness author alive,
So I ask, where are the poets of yesteryear? The nail biting, acerbic, alcoholic nighthawk ******** who truly knew how to write?
WHERE IS WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE? WHERE IS EMILY DICKINSON? WHERE IS EDGAR ALLAN POE?
indeed I outmatch them all, do you know why?
It's because I am still alive!
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 11:18 AM UTC
A waxy, dimpled orb in my hand,
A tiny sunrise, sweet and sharp.
One nail-blade incision and the
Peel tears away when you find the foothold,
Then coursing acid fires through your cuts and bruises,
Burning and tasting wounds with sharp recoil taste,
An acerbic spark.
Pith lodges under my nails,
Tang cloys beneath my nose.
The fruit now pulled apart, the ceremony over,
Segments of the sun lie exposed.
Eat half and half a year you'll remain.
The stringy web of white
Latticing the fruit-flesh
Is a pain to unentwine
What with the juice.
An explosion when you pierce the pocket,
And the gamble of what the burst will be.
Hedge your bets by eating the tasteless ones too.
Then the bathos of a pip
(the pebble inside the fruit, too small to be a stone)
Punctuates the sweetness you'd been enjoying.
Now the fumbling spat to get it out.
And after all the effort it's flavourless,
And you ask was it worth it?
Wasn't even really orange.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
Ronnie couldn’t talk
And be rhymless at all.
He could barely walk,
I'm pretty sure he'd fall,
Unless he was rhyming.
He said to me, “You see
The thing is with me
It all has to do with timing.
The cadence when I walk
Become words I hear,
The beat when someone talks
Makes a poem in my ear,
Then the rhyming begins
And seems to make good sense.
The words like magic appear
Poetic possibilities immense.”
All of the time I knew him
It seemed to be the truth
He rhymed almost constantly
From his very verbal youth.
He was like a Hallmark card
Sometimes saying pithy things
That fit the moment exactly
And had that ***** ring.
But other times his utterances
Were acerbic and very witty.
When it came to sarcastic tilt
He was the Mayor of Snark City.
Or he could rhyme endearingly
And paint pictures with his words
Saying some of the nicest things
That were ever put into words.
Yes, he was Rhyming Ronnie,
A poem for any current thought.
You couldn’t stump him even once.
At least not that I ever caught.
Ryan was amazing for sure
And some found it rather vexing.
But oh boy in the internet age
It came in handy when texting!
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 4:30 PM UTC
Remembering, when...
occasions, weekends were eagerly celebrated
even weekdays...any day was met with enthusiasm
but, how did all these special days become so ordinary?
how...why, did these red-marked dates become unimportant?
why are we here now, in this phase? at this point?
existing...standing on a plateau...where,
life offers no changes...no alternatives...
it's like...a storm decides to stop at midstream
chooses to stay...not just passing through
no swerving, no immediate changes in its direction.
the adventurous soul in us, hides...its spark, dies
sunlight looks dim...the moon is without a glow
clear sea water seems muddy...wading, becomes
so tiresome...legs and feet hurt so much,
from swimming...day by day
...away...from cacophony...
it gets to be weary,
to be reminded of a wrong choice,
or a wrong decision made,
to always rise...from a restless sea
most times, we taste impure water
contaminated...and adulterated
where acerbic, detrimental words float,
further aggravating
existing emotional sores,
creating more lesions in the mind.
what's worse,
the ears that choose to be deaf, are further pierced
the already wounded heart and dashed ego, are further stabbed
they all could one day, be numbed
.......by more of these ordinary days....
I wonder if it's better...to linger on a plateau
or to be on the cusp...of a fall...
Sally
Copyright April 17, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 2:59 AM UTC
Great Britain, fantastic Britain, incredible Britain
You're making me sad
How many lives in the name, and religion how do you fare
When parliament crumbles, like fantastic hash
And the heroes are on ******
Dying in the street
But are they heroes?
Poor Britain, lonely Britain, disparaging Britain
Your lights are all dim
Atheist populace, defending Christian beliefs
and shaming Islam with wild generalisations
The BNP are a joke or a Greek tragedy
and I laugh through acerbic tears
It's pitiable
Bleak Britain, brisk Britain, despairing Britain
Are you happy with yourself?
Fight in foreign lands, maim those trivial children
and keep that payola rolling, we depend on death
Complex industry, the military it is, and we follow
Always follow, follow follow, follow
Britain, Britain, Britain
Blindly patriotic
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
I thought it is just between us, a man woman game
which i would play with finesse, a play, life is any time.
and she has a yen to be on top, i am game,
what the **** I thought let her have her time,
but every which time, it was a ***** game,
something of a wrestle with the demon that
comes to bask in your neighborhood park, without fail,
a **** and a game..ha ha, fun prime time!
we use our fire power to shoot at the demon
that never came, except in the dark pits of time.
my shrink was appalled, when i poured my heart out--
'dark birds with dark pits for eyes threaten me'
"Don't smoke grass any more, don't eat your words,
blast, blast, till you are a cannon without aim"
we still endure, the world will be fine, she gives that disarming smile-
i miss a heart beat, such misses accumulate,
i am sure the dark pit of the night would frighten again,
still everything will be fine, hopefully, meanwhile -
she bites me, she hits me, put her nails to good use,
gives love a go, with an acerbic accent,
such a kind only, she could grow, somehow.
In ******** frenzy she claws my ****
and make it look like a war zone, blood splatterd,
and the moment she exploded, and the frenzy ebbed,
she becomes a lamb, sweet and understanding,
asking the wind and waters forgiving.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
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Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 5:42 AM UTC
My mother dearly wanted
to be Dorothy Parker.
She yearned for a taste of the power that comes
from a truly witty response.
She craved to deliver
A statement so powerful
and sardonic that it would terminate
all argument or discussion.
My proximity made me an easy target to practice on
as each of our arguments ended with a bon mot
delivered with the all the acerbic flourish of Bette Davis.
As I listened to her footsteps receding down the hallway
I had only to take one more breath
before the footsteps reversed direction
and - standing at the doorway to my room -
She would deliver another culminating witticism
turn, leave and repeat.
In the fifties and sixties an intelligent woman –
a single mother of three
with no high school diploma,
but a surfeit of imagination –
Savoured what little power she could find
even if it was a fiction, a delusion
or just a punchline sharp enough to draw blood.
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 3:28 PM UTC
** Collaboration with Morrissey Smith**
Come forward young poet
and teIl me your tales
of youthful existence,
let your words flow forth
with freedom your call
let eyes see new meaning
in the world that you know
My music's my heartbeat
my camera my friend
I've no room for ego
swag isn't my trend.
I sit in my bedroom
as vinyl spins round
I walk through this life
with both feet on the ground.
So tell me dear poet
what moves you to write
as you sit in your chamber
late into the night?
My hero writes lyrics
like none have before,
one man, now my namesake
did open the door.
He writes of depression
and bitterness strong
I subscribe to his outlook
I'm sure we'd get along.
Some say he's acerbic
judgemental, a *****
But I really love him and think he's the ****
Then take inspiration,
as it comes to you
As last night I dreamt somebody loved me too.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 10:12 AM UTC
Pain shall not cease
That grips the soul
Barbed memories
Will always bleed
With touch
Serrated words
Slices through
All the intent
Comes to naught
Love transforms to dissent
And tenets become acerbic
Eroding peace
Suffering in silence
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC
She thought of it once
over the edge, sand stung cheeks
feel a chill and a thrill
and inch a way into dark.
She tried it once
glass
glints of excitement
painting stucco relief
on marble arms.
She ****** it up twice
rising through fog
coming to rest on a cold plated bed
shatter spines and splinters that drip on the floor,
leave more behind and
flirt with a pharmacist's smile.
Pity is empty and love is a chore.
She looks at you with eyes that
question your motives, sarcastic, acerbic
though you're not at fault.
Shake her if you feel the need,
by the shoulders, wrench the anguish
from your broken chest, smother her with it,
knot it into her hair and make her wear it,
a chewed up straw hat that makes summertime choke.
You can't do this anymore.
She likes it too much.
Dec 15, 2010
Dec 15, 2010 at 12:22 AM UTC
The stylus is more potent than the dirk they say
You don't fail to make a mark even when picked up by a dilettante everyday
Esoteric idioms your masters make you write
While the poignant sentences you write come only late in the night
Someday you are in the hands of the who's who of the town
The other days you spend in the hands of a clown
You come clad in plastic,platinum,silver and gold
With different coloured lifelines-blue,black,red,green and pink
And a plethora of stories you keep clandestine and untold
A travesty you make of the fools and to the prudent you make think
With every word you write, you pant for breath
And when your heart stops beating, they mark it as your death(end of a refill)
You can be cryptic, there's no one stopping
You can be acerbic even with beauty on the outside(the beauty of the letters)
From the Treaty of Versailles to the varied pompous constitutions penned, you've always left me shocking
Blessed be the hands that cradle you and take the ride(ride of the writing)
You take them through the best roller-coaster journey of words
Bringing out the inexplicable happiness be it just the lyre of the birds
A predilection i have for you, for you engender the best in me
I know I'd always have you in the middle of a dark chilled night come what may be
Its you whom i turn to with my querulous platitudes
And you furnish me the answers with a benevolent smile and gratitude
Its you who defines me, for i am nothing but an amorphous mould
Still learning when to be bold and when to feel cold.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
Something about gunfire.
Somebody says religion.
It’s an opportunity for the TV
to screen the same scenes,
the blinking blue and reds
of a bevy of cop cars
and the spooling headline
that assumes, then confirms
the worst.
And so strangers from all corners
spew their pennies’ worth
like bees fumbling for honey,
thousands of hypotheses
replete with exclamation marks,
the name of a Floridian city
swelling as a violet bruise
in the aftershock,
plunged into uninvited limelight.
The chief claims a ‘lone-wolf’ attack,
a man who loathed rainbows
then wiped his own life.
Talk swiftly turns to guns,
the increasing frequency
of wicked bloodshed,
the how, the why, the ‘this day and age’
and ‘the world isn’t safe’
and the nothing, still nothing is done.
Just one night before,
another tragedy,
a young singer shot
while signing their name,
fans left to clasp
the musical remnants
of a life snatched away,
the acerbic word ******
in a nonsensical second.
Something so horrid
became something so common.
How many more gunshots
must shatter a night?
How many more families
must crumple like newspapers
peppered with headlines of the recently lost?
They are asking for answers.
We wait for them to come.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
I don't have a gag reflex anymore
Because I've shoved my fist down my throat
Far too many times
Just trying to pull out the words I cannot conjure
They all taste acerbic
And sound as bitter and damaging as they taste
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
“How much for Sardine?”
My query.
“The name is Madonna,”
Her Response.
“Choose ten big,”
My demand.
“Will turn nineteen
Next month,” snaps she.
Wrapped half in half out,
With Madonna-smile string,
Waves she, the packet.
Did it slip?
Wife cleanses,
Tosses to cat, those
With rotten gills.
Tongue, acerbic chops
The man who regrets not,
The wasted bucks.
Swear I, to stop
Eating fish,
Fried without oil
And spice, in the
Microwave mind.
Swear, be vegetarian
From tomorrow,
To be true.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC