"besmirch" poems
i was there with the locked up free
they stared straight through the bars at me
the gate was open
no one had to stay
they spoke of church in exchange for food
lights out with 50 smelly-ass bad moods
i saw it superseded rude
so, i walked down and ate the trash
i had no church
no shame
no cash
the garlic bread was free
the sweet rolls weren't for me
so, i walked back down to the dead-soul church
to find a name i could besmirch
with lust, debauch, an empty purse
she told me she had her own room and bath
we tried to pull one on the *****
said that we were legal hitched
she asked for proof and I.D.
we didn't have a thing
that ended our sad little fling
goody gumdrops ain't gonna get my ring
grab my gear as i walk i sing
i know the words to everything
if i happen to forget
i'll make up better ones you'll bet
raised my sign and i raised my thumb
hoped a car was gonna come
sat there in the Yakima heat
sign propped up next to my feet
a nice redneck stopped and said
"have a seat"
he was welfare office bound
i was just a broke road-hound
waited for him in the shade
told him jokes for smokes
he made a good trade
got dropped off at an angry sunning truck-stop
flew my sign
one eye out for cops
a white guy in a small red car
pulled up and said
"i'll go that far"
soon we broke down on the road
i was sure my luck would soon implode
instead we put our heads on think
we woulda fixed the kitchen sink
but waters last to beer when i drink
we got some bolts and ******* 'em on
before we knew it we were gone
he got a smile
i got this song
then we hit Seattle like a ****
nothins' right if ya don't know wrong
NOTHINS' RIGHT IF YA DON'T KNOW WRONG
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 1:30 AM UTC
I
Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers.
But they are troops who fade, not flowers,
For poets' tearful fooling:
Men, gaps for filling:
Losses, who might have fought
Longer; but no one bothers.
II
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
Dullness best solves
The tease and doubt of shelling,
And Chance's strange arithmetic
Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.
They keep no check on armies' decimation.
III
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Their spirit drags no pack.
Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.
Having seen all things red,
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever.
And terror's first constriction over,
Their hearts remain small-drawn.
Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle
Now long since ironed,
Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.
IV
Happy the soldier home, with not a notion
How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,
And many sighs are drained.
Happy the lad whose mind was never trained:
His days are worth forgetting more than not.
He sings along the march
Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,
The long, forlorn, relentless trend
From larger day to huger night.
V
We wise, who with a thought besmirch
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashless eyes?
Alive, he is not vital overmuch;
Dying, not mortal overmuch;
Nor sad, nor proud,
Nor curious at all.
He cannot tell
Old men's placidity from his.
VI
But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones.
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
By choice they made themselves immune
To pity and whatever mourns in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears
2.8k
...Here a man stands accused--the pellucid jury
of his peers come to themselves in their life's arms
through him.
He wails upright...a shadow continent wedging
The Flood.
Timekeeping horseflies besmirch his chest cavity
with due kisses...par for par movements consume
time till the singular advocacy of he withstood.
The imperturbable essence captured itself, as so
at the height of its powers there's interplay.
Ease culled from tribulation...countenance slackened
by degrees...overwhelmed by awareness.
Kingdom come Kingdom--shoring space of grace
that is freedom.
As if Everything centering of itself, fawning over itself...
polar opposites in conjugal bliss.
Here a man stands accused...of being--fit for steely
juxtaposition...the murderous implement of will, or
salvation.
Envision him post-Flood, waist-deep, the living Face
of the Deep...look upon him!
Timekeeping horseflies besmirching his chest cavity
with due kisses...par for par movements consuming
time till the Singular advocacy of thee...look upon
him!
An encounter of pitless ramification: fear or love...be
it the last man upon the earth.
Look upon him--O jury of his peers boasting billions...
pellucid unto one another...look...The Hour is radiant!
Won't thee come to thine life's arms through him?
For he is Everyman.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
A leitmotif of your average smug **** is a proverb here and there.
Spouting them off like the receptor has no care.
Their evidential naivety is blatant and almost impossible to bear.
As an audience member you can do nothing but hide your malevolence and stare.
******* in maxims that are apparently laced with benevolence and care.
You know the kind of oxygen waster I’m referring to.
The type of person that watches BBC 4 and likes tofu.
The kind that does the Financial Times So-fucking-Do-Ku.
Look I’m just saying that clichés annoy me.
I’m not asking you to love me, give me a reach around or employ me.
In fact you don’t even have to enjoy me as I tell you of things that matter not.
Suture yourself hypothetically to a geographically different mind. That mind being mine, oh that maverick-esque mischievous mind of mine, looking at this from my perspective.
In my transcendental endeavours to rid the clichéd ridden world of the afore mentioned adjective.
In the opposite of anachronistic times, we might successfully, surreptitiously rid the world of moral coated rhymes.
We can do this; all it takes is a few. One of which needs to be you.
Break out from being solipsistic, even the blind, the meek, the autistic, those that besmirch the edge of coffee cups with their lipstick.
Yes, I mean you. Here is what to do…
The next time someone spouts off a cliché, punish them, make them listen to an album by “Hearsay.”
If someone says “An Apple a day keeps the doctor away.” Then simply say, Steve Jobs had thousands and the here’s the definite answer, that consumerism inducer still died of cancer.
If a woman says “When I say jump. You say how high!” Don’t even cogitate to pardon her.
If the grass is always greener on the other side – shoot your ******* gardener.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 8:03 PM UTC
The dainty feathers all knew their perch,
As the leaves changed their hue, and again.
Until a fire, born of green lust, did besmirch,
The order of the forest held in timeless reign.
The delicate birds were all forced to flight,
Only some sought within, midst fiery storm,
For an uncharted course in misty sight,
Most of a feather banded together to a swarm.
But where does that feathery flock aim to go?
In the clasp of perfidious smoke quick to smother
Does every or any in that confident band know?
That absolutely everyone in a swarm follows another!
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
#…a threefold cord is not quickly broken.
(Ecclesiastes 4:12)
A pastoress once bore a name
which merits neither guilt nor shame;
Pentecosta Charismania
(biblical in megalomania).
Worthy of poetic fame,
a brilliant if unstable flame.
Sincere she was, yet volatile,
she brought it down, revival-style.
At altar calls, she could inspire
tongues of glossolalian fire.
The Devil she would oft rebuke
with lines from John, or Paul, or Luke;
a prophetess on holy crack
was Pentecosta on the attack…
Her nemesis was prudent, able
doctrinally dull—but stable:
Patriciana Presbyteria.
Less given to divine hysteria,
wisdom did adorn her table.
And her soul bore well the label.
No prophecies escaped her lips
nor prone to divinating slips;
this sensible reformed young maid
was made to have and have it made
Elect, correct in doctrine, wit
invested in no counterfeit
her pop’s portfolio lent her worth:
not less than heaven cashed on earth.
Mocking these unseemly heretics
swayed by neither sects nor politics
was Maria Della Romana
Faithful matron, primadonna,
loyal to her Papal rite,
she grieved her sisters by candlelight;
fingered furious rosaries
stormed the gates with St. Peter’s keys
beseeching Jesus that they turn
from devil’s doctrines fit to burn,
rejoin the holy Mother Church
rather than their souls besmirch
with further Antichristian sin.
(She genuflected fit to win.)
God is known in Trinity
but less through femininity:
His three adherents, flamed by One
like braided gold reflecting sun
are Christian fates: three tendencies
or triplicate analyses,
tripartite in judgemental grace
each one assumed, with zealous face
that the other two could not be saved
as sure as Heaven’s roads are paved
with wisdom’s gold and Christ’s pure light.
(They made a most amusing sight.)
Since threefold cords cannot be broken,
let my punchline rest, unspoken.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
For a modest subscription -
say, £100 a month -
you can receive my weekly newsletter
outlining the manner in which I undertake
to steal your jobs,
besmirch your womenfolk
(or menfolk, if you like),
impose my religion upon you,
undermine your financial system,
eat the swans in your local park,
raise/lower house prices (as your current need dictates),
contribute to a nameless sense of dread,
dilute your cherished national identity
and produce more illiterate children than the welfare state
can reasonably support.
I will do you this service
on the understanding
that you will stop attributing blame
to your undeserving neighbours
and get on with your life
like a decent human being.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 3:28 PM UTC
*Deliver me from the folly of jealous men . From the mirth of mischievous demons that long to traduce and besmirch , remove all thought of appeasement toward the rancorous and ill intended serpents that crawl the Earth . Shelter me from the disingenuous , the naysayers of good intent and those that portend lies as benefaction , seeking my friendship through groundless merit and frivolous actions ..
Guide my feet across the perilous river of treachery toward my fellow man , directing my ears to the benefits of silence , gravitate my persona into the light of Dharma ..
Bind my arms from receiving poisonous bounty , render my tongue stillborn to boastful atrocity ..
Sharpen my eyes in the confusion of night , grace the helm of life's vehicle with the Angelic aura of pure white light* ..
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
The dawn of October
stains my palms
how the nicotine stains your teeth.
The cinnamon leaves
storm about
raking your dusty lashes, like stalks of fruit.
Ocher crumbs and cocoa seeds
besmirch the damp soil,
clumsily.
You are defined with:
pulpy cider hues
my slow, chemical solstice.
A cornflower symphony
hummed by the trees, bare and trembling,
the fruitful pining of their inner bark,
the ****** that lines my pumpkin patch.
I squint at the flaxen sun
that drips golden beyond my shoulder,
where the sinuous maple tree, gnarled branches and all
will breathe your name.
Your body is a coal mine
me, an irrelevant dilettante
I cannot winnow you out like the flame of a match
or peel you from my sole.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 12:23 PM UTC
A flicker of sapphire gems,
A flash of pearls,
The gleaming ivory beckons me near.
The smooth touch sings sweet melodies,
softly whispering sweet nothings
as I am overtaken with adornment.
The crisp blue shines bright onto ***** skin,
teasing and prodding emotions,
pulling them from deep murky waters.
The pearls have disappeared now,
enclosed behind a faux cave,
trapped in darkness.
A tear dampens her cheek,
mistaken words had been uttered
with no way of retrieval.
All I do, I do for
the glistening of sapphires,
the glint of pearls, and to feel the immaculate ivory.
If I besmirch these precious gems,
If I cause them to be tarnished,
why live at all?
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
I am slowly learning to use my words—
allowing the ink to besmirch these immaculate fingers
as I weave out my sloppy cursives around feint rules
like hydrangeas climbing lattices in the early summer;
spelling out vulnerability with every bit of hope
left glistening in these swollen, tear-stained eyes,
and unfaltering love with all five letters of his name.
I am slowly learning to use my voice—
heaving out the dust that’s settled over things left unsaid,
and rolling out my tongue to intimately slip off naked truths
my throat has been choking on in the silence of fear;
drawing constellations between the kisses of my lips
to faithfully concede to the phonetics of needs and wants,
and articulate every syllable with the intonation of desire.
So read between the lines, and listen closely—
pick apart my words and unravel the candor in my stutter,
unzip and unbutton every unsent letter I’ve ever written,
and watch me strip down on these pages in poetry-laced lingerie.
I am no longer that bashful submissive sprawled across the bed,
softly moaning for the pleasure of attention and the pain of neglect
under the crippling fear of loss firmly taped over my mouth.
I am slowly learning to ask for what I still and have always wanted—
I'm sorry it took me so long.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 7:26 AM UTC
on cloudless days we besmirch the suns reign
the spirit hankers for Autumn
the baltic coast apposite
launches thy being by the northern skies,
a trinity of light leds to the caucasus plains
to reveal Edens gardens
and locate cultivars of apple
and vine
to graft onto our dying seasons
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Saw Robert Zimmerman Again
After way too many years Now
Can’t stop my brain from singin’ But
It’s not what it appears See
I’ve always loved his poems And
The way he bends his words Into
Pictures I can see out loud, Illustrations
That I’ve heard.
Forgive me Mr. Zimmerman
If I besmirch your name
I’m not tryin’ to steal your songs from you
And I wouldn’t want your fame
I could never be your equal
Wouldn’t even want to try
Forgive me Mr. Zimmerman
Cross my heart and hope to die.
On the Day the Music died, Guess
That I had just turned five, Then
Five more years slid past me When
The Beatles sang on TV - LIVE. And
Rock and Roll was pushing all the Folks
To center stage, Seems
Viet Nam and Woodstock Were
Currently the rage.
Somewhere we got sidetracked While
The Disco Ball was turnin’ But
I put on a Cowboy Hat, Helped
Johnny sing ‘bout burnin’. So I
Been blowin’ in the wind for Over
Sixty years; Now I’m Tryin’
To write some Poems, ‘Bout my Life and
It appears That my poems Sound
Like all the songs I’ve heard throughout
The Years.
Come and Listen to a Story
‘Bout a guy named Phil
Tried to grab some Glory
But I guess he never will.
For as he fired up his pencil
Over hot and blazing coals
Granny loaded up her shotgun
Shot his poems full of holes.
Good shot, Granny. Right in the heart. Make it Bleed girl.
Y’all Come Back Now, Y’Hear?
PwL 5/5/15
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 3:48 AM UTC
What eerie Mists, and Mysterious frosts
lay waste to this lively heart, that all its aspects
beauteous they may be, subjected to the rigorous
threats and faults of sinful life. They hope to besmirch
this lively heart.
The stormy gales, the warm clear skied vales,
all apart of this world twisted routines,
"Good Cop, Bad Cop' as it were, flawed.
When it is ridden on this routine, it soared.
The winter has subsided, the Summer has blossomed,
and all this vale does is resemble the good nature of the heart.
No matter what it is subjected too, it shall eventually be returned
and all this world will not thrive till hate is removes from the heart.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
Caught red-handed,
You reach for the first thing
Your grubby metacarpus can find,
Be it a sabre or quill.
You ****** and parry away
In your journal,
All in the hopes you might
Besmirch me,
And strike it rich
At the same time.
But like Dido, Queen of Carthage,
Your bags of gold
Contain only sand.
This is your hapless undoing,
Mr. Hamilton,
Despicably so.
Don't use me as a crutch,
Fall on your own sword!
Talk about a fair amount
Of revisionist's history,
But we'll save that for
Another day...
Suffice to say:
History is in the eyes of the beholder.
Feb 11, 2020
Feb 11, 2020 at 4:37 PM UTC
*"For the name of The Answer is...
Mercy.
His divine name is...
Love.
Say...
He
is the One,
the Forever
&
Eternal.
To Him
we will all
one day
forever return.
To love
Him
is to know
Him,
To know
Him
is to believe
Him,
and to believe
Him
is to know
Him.
This is the universal love
at the true beating
heart of
Salema:
Peace and Purity,
Submission and Obedience.
Rejoice in it,
Recite it,
Proclaim it,
Reclaim it
and free it from the
****** clawed talons
of
the evil cloaked ones,
These false prophets soaked in patriotic flags,
They dare to besmirch
the towering name
of the pure Almighty
across morning’s burning sky,
The name of Illustrious God hijacked
and daily attacked
by these fanatical suicidal firebrands.
Come my people,
You lost tribes of the world,
Let us all hold our hands
and lean towards
Al-’Islām’s pearled valley of the divine,
Let us all drink from this precious cup overflowing with
Love
&
Peace
&
Tranquillity,
Mercy too.
Listen to this,
My plea of
Compassion
&
Reason,
Let us to Eden once again
and there plant the rose tree
of our Beloved
Al-Karīm, Al-'Azīm, Al-Khāliq, Al-Mujīb."*
©Rangzeb Hussain
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 3:17 PM UTC
Our alabaster skeletons,
our framework of ancient spires
arching to the heavens and
hung with multicolored glass
sunlight pours through as visitors gasp
and kneel and besmirch and knock over
Muscadine,
the Eucharist and Time.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 9:35 AM UTC
On the corner of Pine and Box
Stood a shop all dark and disheveled.
I peeked through the window,
Though covered in grime,
And saw an old man, Mr. Knox,
Twisted and bent over with time.
I pass through rusted hinges and faded teal wood,
To enter the shop where Mr. Knox stood.
Much to my pain, my shock, and my horror,
The scream of a young maiden
Rang through the store.
But no woman was present, save only memory,
And the scream was but the bell above the door.
I ventured still, past potted plants, long since death,
Through the cold corner store with steamed breath.
At once, a strange animal, four legged and fanged,
Ran past me, unknowing, and I was dismayed.
He aimed to besmirch, sat with a crooked smirk,
But the creature was only a statue.
Once again I saw the store a-stirring,
A child of five years waved weapons
But the youth was myth, sat in painting,
And had nothing to disarm me with.
Deep in the back, there was no returning,
I spotted a beast that contented my yearnings.
88 keys, no locks and no doors,
All of a sudden, I had found what I was looking for!
With further inspection, my eyes, pray did not deceive,
Saw 88 fingers as piano keys.
What a twisted contraption
And without further action,
I watched as the piano shifted.
From my feet I was lifted by
A crimson tongue through gnarled teeth,
I was swallowed whole before I could speak.
Mr. Knox approaches with a laugh on his lips,
He reaches for the skeleton keys, too far Gone from his wits.
And his melancholy melodies
Still ring from where he sits.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
Is life just one long sick practical joke.
Angels seek the living.
Just to choke them with their holy smoke.
Get born.
Be reliant.
In growth so defiant.
Marriage is an institution.
Leads to mental institutions.
When as parent strict.
Raise them with rods of iron.
Or maybe kid gloves.
But abuse them not.
Financially amuse them!
You work to chuck them all your dosh.
As if you always have enough.
Then when your money.
That you earned.
You have the audacity to spend.
They make you feel floods of guilt.
You feel like you're not their friend.
In a lifetime game of let's pretend.
Start to ache as you grow old.
Besmirch your comments as you write.
Believing youth.
Gives them the right.
To laugh at she of poetry.
Who once bounced them upon her knee.
Now decried for gifted brains.
Jotted in eccentricity.
And then how dare she.
She goes and dies.
Oh well, save your tears.
As no-one cries!~
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 6:05 AM UTC
Been reading these
Incredibly morbid
Love/hate "poems"
Written as if to ones
Corpse/lovers
And wondering why said poets think
Anyone would be interested
In listening into the
Meaningless psycho-babble
Of this inane worship
Of mere form-without-substance
---
---
The in-your-face
Declaration
Of ones right to be miserable
Stupid
And
Unenlighted and uninformed
------
(Although
To be fair
Sometimes the rhyme schemes are okay)
---
I DONT FEEL GUILTY!
--
It's your life!
Degrade and besmirch it all you want!
---
If you'd rather be real
That
Too
Is possible
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
I can not call myself a poet
with any good faith
I respect it too much
the raw words which shred out of me
come from a place
which I don't know
I didn't put them there
and though you don't know it
I'm pretty sure
that you wrote all of my poems
it just so happens
that the pen was clutched in my hand
the keyboard just happened
to be within my reach
but you're more than a muse
transcending language
you are a well
of emotional explanations
my guardian angel
pulling my strings from behind the scenes
if my poems are beautiful
it is only because you are too
if they are ugly, pointless, obscene, *****
it is because that's how you make me feel
you are a cathedral
which I can't besmirch
I hesitate to attach my name to this
what's a name anyway?
you are a poet
and you don't know it
you wrote this
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 1:38 PM UTC
Maintenance man she's needing
From her high-rise condo perch
With its view of the lake.
I stood still as she's feeding
insults to besmirch
me without a break
"I shouldn't be pleading
do you know what I'm worth
for heaven sake"
Even in the Garden of Eden
a paradise on earth
lived the snake.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 2:24 PM UTC
We're reaching the top of the hill, you and I
but on opposite sides, unable to see where
either of us are, and so I start to cry
unbeknowst of you standing there.
I am not the courageous child
only soft-spoken and contained
hoping, wishing to be wild
in truth, still soft and tame.
Being the stronger one of two
you clamber to the top
wide-eyed nature opens to you
for a moment, the world stops.
Gleaming down from atop your perch
a grin answers my calls
without bad feelings to besmirch
the words echo without pause.
"Come on, silly! You're falling far behind.
The night is surely near.
If you reach the top, and grab my hand in time
you'll forever have me hear."
"So, pull your way up and reach the peak
and our shaking hands entwined
so, come on, silly, climb to what you seek
and you will forever be mine."
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
The questions sit
Inside
Rattling about
Rocks in a can
Disturbing the peace
They have to come out
Doesn't matter who
Doesn't matter when
In front of who
The recklessness
Of your curiosity
Shakes the world
People walk by
They listen and shake their heads
The internet laughs
They point to the trolls
Corporations listen
Equal mixture curious and afraid
Governments listen
In abject terror
And besmirch your character
Doesn't matter who
Doesn't matter when
In front of who
The recklessness
Of your curiosity
Shakes the world
Rattle cages and
Rattle minds
Wonder at the imperfection
Of the world's so called sanity
Question it all
Always ask
Discomfort breeds truth
Truth makes things happen
Doesn't matter who
Doesn't matter when
In front of who
The recklessness
Of your curiosity
Changes the world
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 6:33 PM UTC