"bastardly" poems
I'm watching my life be spit back to me, through gods mouth, God threw me away into the swamps of the ugliest parts of Louisiana, where mosquitos don't dare lay their eggs. This is where the bodies of eagles rot and pedophiles and racists scrape up road **** for what it's worth and I am left searing on the road in the shimmering heat, waves from tar, crows circle in black masses, mass proceeds as the church burns, burn me with it, gracious god. I'm begging you to make my ashes worth something.
God sings out "Dastardly bastardly catastrophe girl, downing whole pill bottle model girl, where are you?" You called? I'm sitting in a parking lot, thinking how the man in front of me lot drinks a lot. He thinks he should quit a lot for his wife and kids who he loves a lot. That man from the parking lot, he bought himself another bottle of liquor with his wife's credit card. Life spins around me and I don't have time to keep up. I see you in front of me. I think of that a lot.
Beast of skipping stones, slip over me like the snake you are, wait for that Saint to catch you, hit the nail on the head and let it crucify you.
December gray makes its way into your old house, the one which you know which walls you were slammed against. Your mom sits sipping coffee in a chair.
She whispers, "I could **** you with kindness but let's see what's laying around first." She wants to make blood soup out of you. She'll tell you to quit whining as she wrings your crooked spine. She wants all survivor, no guilt.
Hey, I heard if you get high enough you can forgive yourself. I heard if you drink a lot you stop thinking. A mobs a mob all the same even if they're with you so let's make it like this, an army of drug addicts that sympathize with you. Holding needles and spoons and blunts and razor blades with you.
We sit under the stars and look at the sky a lot. Does the night sky ever look like it does in photographs?
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 2:16 PM UTC
I'm watching my life be spit back to me, through God's mouth, God threw me away into the swamps of the ugliest parts of Louisiana, where mosquitoes don't dare lay their eggs. This is where the bodies of eagles rot and pedophiles and racists scrape up road **** for what it's worth and I am left searing on the road in the shimmering heat, waves from tar, crows circle in black masses, mass proceeds as the church burns, burn me with it, gracious God. I'm begging you to make my ashes worth something.
God sings out "Dastardly bastardly catastrophe girl, downing whole pill bottle model girl, where are you?" You called? I'm sitting in a parking lot, thinking how the man in front of ocean state job lot drinks a lot, I'm waiting for my mom and nothing in the world's more scary than waiting for what you call protection. The man drinks a lot. He thinks he should quit a lot for his wife and kids who he loves a lot. I knew a guy who smoked *** quit because he used to do it a lot. That man from the parking lot, he bought himself another bottle of liquor with his wife's credit card. Life spins around me and I don't have time to keep up. I think of that a lot.
Beast of skipping stones, slip over me like the snake you are, wait for that Saint to catch you, hit the nail on the head and let it crucify you.
December gray makes its way into your old house, the one which you know which walls you were slammed against. Your mom sits sipping coffee in a chair.
She whispers, "I could **** you with kindness but let's see what's laying around first." She wants to make blood soup out of you, she'll make it so you have a chipped spine, tell you to quit whining. She wants all survivor, no guilt.
Hey, I heard if you get high enough you can forgive yourself. I heard if you drink a lot you stop thinking. A mob's a mob all the same even if they're with you so let's make it like this, an army of drug addicts that sympathize with you. Holding needles and spoons and blunts and razor blades with you.
We sit under the stars and look at the sky a lot. Does the night sky ever look like it does in photographs?
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 1:29 PM UTC
Here I am: angry man.
**** yo' thoughts, **** yo' stance.
Hide my fears, 'tween my ears,
what you say, I don't hear.
Tear your seems, actin' mean,
bastardly, that's my scene.
Got my gait, heart I ate,
cut you down, left my wake.
Here I am: simple man.
**** my thoughts, **** my stance.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
Words are my alcohol
I am the drunk fool
On a bastardly night with no restraint
I must write, until my hands are satisfied
And if it kills me, so be it
At least my words will live forever
As pure, holy ink on a page
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 8:52 PM UTC
*My love! How sweet, how prosperous!
He lives within my heart~!
Nurtures, Oh, He cherishes –
Oh, never shall we part!
Though I may beauty and elegance lack,
My heart strung with sorrow’s strings,
My love, His soul does sing for me –
In perfect melody~!
And I do love, with all my heart,
With fiber, mind, and soul,
My perfect man, Oh, man of dreams –
My sweetest dreams unfold.
His flaws are seamless, seams are flawless –
Imperfections perfect –
My darkness His light, His bright my sun –
My blight, His love confesses none –
All this, except for only one.
A single state which rattles my commitment,
A flaw which overlooking may not come.
Bastardly, it prevents my love’s fulfilment.
Though He should love me in all my ignorance –
My shame, and clumsy arrogance –
That I should question Him is deplorable –
Yet, Oh, this flaw, it’s un-ignorable!
For He is a dream, Oh, not to be!
In my mind it’s Him I see, but –
Among the living, out in the world,
He does not exist but in my words.
What sorrow indeed, sweet imaginings bring!
His rose-petal scent – His eyes blue and green –
His mystical magical magnificence –
A figment of my imagination.
In what cruel world do I live where no one accepts?
His love so extensive, mine potent, and yet –
Because He is fake, in only my mind,
My love is doomed, empty, lonely, and blind?
My love feels so real; I weep and I laugh,
My emotions run rampant for Him, and still yet –
Is it not real? Only a lie?
A lie which is felt – but still not alive?
My love, it is real, but fake just alike.*
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 2:50 PM UTC
I’m not ready to leave unless they are.
You don’t understand my place; Standing stiff. Eyes stricken with fear. Hands clutching the top of my thighs. Looking into the abyss of my unknown future.
I can’t tell where Reality is, and I’m not happy playing these hide and seek games with her.
I need solace; comfort like the smell of my blankets; like the familiar eyes of my kin; like the sound of beautiful laughter.
Rock begins to titter off the weakened cliff I’ve come so use to standing on.
My back bends forward from the lack of stability and I see the clear and foreign face of Reality. Her friendly hands open wide, ready to take me off of this crumbling rocky divide.
“You deserve so much better then this.”
My tears say it all and my legs depart from my body, ready to jump without another debated thought.
I look back and see my Past; waiting.
Bastardly
appearance Bruised
body ******
nose Weary
smile Mouth
filled with tortured tale after tortured tale
Smiling; I jump.
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 7:23 AM UTC
The Distant Angry Dragon and
The Mostly Odious Monster
Circled the Crazy Heroic Isolated Lonely Demon
In the kitchen.
Give me more cheese!
It said.
***** you, you
Degenerative Ugly Moronic Bastardly Ogre!
They said.
Hell Emanates Lonely People, Most Excitedly.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
Most times I think I did something wrong
As I pretend to sleep
I only focus on
the shallow breaths that hold me
I am hollow.
Eyes closed as my teeth grind
Helpless, I am
And careless, you
When you're not around
I pick specs of you off the ground
Like a fiend
And what's left of you now
Staggering into the memories
when I know they'll float away
like sailboats and getaways
Piece by piece
Into the skyline
grey and weak
But clean and porous
The waste, the mess
And I’m keeping this
you and my collapsed lungs
Ill treasure my bleeding soul
As if I couldn’t feel anything
Anything at all
They’re all keepsakes
To remind me of
Cruel You and earth and
the cold universe
And it’s buckets and baggage
Ill lie underneath just to catch
Raindrops of grief
And glass slivers of rue
And they drown
And they stick me
And I’m empty and I’m bare
But I’m full of you
And your bastardly hopes
Up to the brim, I’m spilling out
But could you please spare me,
At least,
A poor excuse for a vacuous
Clenching, desperate mettle
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
you are not an impostor
**** those bastardly sons of ******* you are not an impostor
i know that you curl your toes under your shoes
hold your breath before you speak
check your laces twice before you step
out on tightrope 8 miles above ground
when you swallow a sentence and chase it with whiskey
trying not to choke on the sharp edges of “not enough”
your stomach bile will vault through your esophagus
in perfect lingual trapeze
stick the landing with ease and say ta da
say everything except what you need
when you rise from your knees
those itchy words will drop
into the soul of your shoes
with which you curl your toes
hold your breath
and check your laces twice before you remember
that you are not an impostor
in front of you are jesters and clowns
and a circus of whistles, bells, and frozen sounds
your shoes will grow three ******* sizes
because a) the grinch ain’t got **** on you and
b) you can do the Charlie Brown to space funk and
see(c) that you have all the room in the world to move your feet
tumble from your tight rope
let the people around you string together bridges and safety nets
go out to the carnival and win some bottle caps
take the stuffed version of you from the prize rack
and sleep well with it at night
Jul 17, 2020
Jul 17, 2020 at 2:08 PM UTC
My heart is a flower
Pollinated by electric bees
The pulsating weather
The vagabond soil
Creates oh! A dangerous vine
My soul is a bastardly garden
Tomorrow brings more life
But what life is there for me?
Dead butterflies surround me
My body is a sick country
Oh my heart! Find God! Find God!
What is your precious?
Do you smell corpses around?
Or will you not curse the ground?
Nov 20, 2021
Nov 20, 2021 at 3:13 AM UTC
A thousand stories I never read and no one would ever read. With a writer for ever one taken by the ocean sea so I... With every current a million waves that crash if ever we could count them all. Gone. With the time. Gone with the tide. No moon that glows off the pages so that the last light could mourn them. To the sea with assuring forever gone. Have you ever felt as easily gone with the current of a breeze. Well my longevity seems wasted and open doors I've seen that they are only visible if you can see where no one can but God. If you can see the invisible. Shorelines to chase back the only window to my past and its desired much more than anyone person can note for themselves. If only to take sure steps toward what it is i dont want that would leave me numb feeling and then I'd take away the scars too. To move my hands like constellations over the sky. I would retire old feelings some and rehearse my words better and dot my i's. as they say as to not forget. There's a thousand writers I aim to read. With tired hands and No way back from holding secrets of the divine. The sea is bastardly sometimes. Or maybe the frailty of us in fear and the oceans are our account in tears. As humanity searchs we rehearse the mass of us. The forgotten hurt ones leaves to the grave and the rest in smiles. Lets forget and pray and not panic. The Fallen of us will remember the scars and shame. we put them there. On paper. On paper. In Ink and pencil. If they could only stay on paper as journalist hoaxes. But theres an article for small percentages of ghost seen ones and ones that won't live until the morning. And we won't have to know. Because tides change and so does times. We hide behind the mask
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC