"blasphemies" poems
Flesh so soothing, a depression so strong,
A life so short, a misery so long.
A heart that's pure, with a touch of decay,
Words of slaughter, bitter blasphemies to say.
A God of the throne, a God in the dirt,
The evil of humanity, the supremacy of hurt.
A whisper of agony, a stench of audacious,
A corpse to taste in all your forged graces.
It is what it can't be, its not what you've said,
I take no blame for the nine inch nails in the dead.
The rope to devour, I refuse his blood,
To catch in the mouth, and swallow the mud.
Worship the gruesome sight with fear,
Wait for your judgment as it treads itself near.
Scream of the Hollow, shutter of harrow,
Lets worship a creature without a better tomorrow.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC
The female temple.
Hollow shell in the minds of men.
An autoclave
for a belly, a copy-and-paste mind
of blasphemies. A page
in man's contradictive bible. Just blondes and brunettes.
Just virgins and non-virgins.
Nothing more than breathing incubators.
I am a person, I have a brain, I say.
They smile at me with a condescending
wink. A nod. Good girl, well done.
They tousle my hair. Well fine, boys.
Watch me climb the ladder with one hand,
backwards, in heels. When I reach the top
I'll ram these six inch Louboutins
straight through your hearts.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
So what if I have squint
Or money I don’t mint
I know my eyes blink a lot
Or most of the tasks I just forgot
What is the matter if I am a buffoon
Or my life is much more doomed
I know I hue and cry
Or talking to chicks I’m a bit too shy
To those who understand
I extend my hand
To the doubtful I demand
take me as I am
not under your control
I know where I stand
Won’t change to suit your plan
Take me as I am
From childhood I did what you said
From waking up to going to bed
I am sorry I missed that one mark for DU'
Now don’t look down at me in dread
I deserve that seat more than that OBC" guy
Or the seat that rich dad did buy
Sorry I could not prove your expectation
Courses are full, don’t worry ill do animation
I’m facing blasphemies of life
I’ll write satires on Modi or the wife
To those who understand
I extend my hand
To the doubtful I demand
take me as I am
not under your control
I know where I stand
Won’t change to suit your plan
Take me as I am
Sitting in the dark I forget,
Sweetness, sourness is all I get
Everyday having the bitter pills of fate
Missing the time we chatted till late
We bunked periods to find solitary places to sit
You asked me to love you and I did
Traded my emotions for a counteract to commit
Now you know my faults and have gone so far
Your confessions in my name
Now just give you fame
What all we dreamt now and then
Now you have got someone to blame
To those who understand
I extend my hand
To the doubtful I demand
take me as I am
not under your control
I know where I stand
Won’t change to suit your plan
Take me as I am
I keep my secrets in my skin
What all I did with innocence and ignorance
Now dealing with my sins
What all is left of me is in a cage
To protect death from dying from my carnage
I have done much, don’t expect anything from my life
Let me be me, done enough truce and strife
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 3:59 AM UTC
I have run out of words
Here I am on my very own
Nothing to say
A lot to observe
Trying to make sense of the nonsense
Struggling to locate the symmetry of the self
Promiscuous feelings confusing everything
Provocative thoughts tempting the heart
Pretentious blasphemies insulting the soul
Overwhelming ego’s cacophony
Forcing the slow brewing of mixed feelings
One big *** to mix them all
Quietly observing and appreciating what it is
Attentive to the Universe messages
Resisting the resistance to what it is
Making a conscious effort to go with the flow
Getting deep into the being
Silently conversing with the soul
Free of pretends and inflexible principles
At peace with what it is
Unconditionally loving the self
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 12:22 PM UTC
They said that the breeze
Told them nothing but miseries
They said that the grass
Inhaled nothing but nurseries
They said, “We seek you for tragedies,
And we want our tears to pick your lyers;
we made you dreams of catastrophic allegories,
and we want our grief to mourn over your prejudice
of undesired futures.”
They claimed that they were conjured of
Passion and mysteries
Of knowledge other than blasphemies
They said, “We chant you for the last morning tea
We desire you for your ever-after evening satires,
Stay, and keep us for the crystal wires
Of your undying lyres.”
They said so as desired and as deprived,
Yet if they are so afraid to lose
Why do they seek in the first place?
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 6:46 AM UTC
I still walk with my religion
As I walk away from you
I still walk away with my religion
despite you
despite the waves of your oceanic body splashing on my world
despite that twitch you get, wired on anger and ready to blow
despite the same bolt that travels my spine at the thought of you in pain
despite the bittersweet way your voice sings as you yell blasphemies
despite the phantom burn i get after our lips part
despite the feeling of my hands climbing up your legs, straight and high
despite the confused grip of your body on mine with aggressive nails
despite the way my mind seeks out air away from yours
despite the smeared plastic of your cup hurled with lust and fear
despite my minds eye finding every possible lucy in my sky with diamonds
despite the fire searing in my blood as he finds you from afar
despite the way you sometimes refuse to turn me on and I instead just turn
despite the way you think your bigger than Jesus, bigger than cigarettes
despite the way I can never shake my feelings of aloneness
despite my churning gut when your promises always fall through like a polar bear on ice
despite all the visions I have of our wrinkled hands interlocked
despite the rose colored glasses your presence always generates
despite the suicidal eyes as I bluff, turning the ****
because you always question the one true most basic feeling I have all confidence in
all I can say,
“I love you.
Don’t ever ******* question that.”
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 3:07 PM UTC
My soul is sad, and much dismay'd;
See, Lord, what legions of my foes,
With fierce Apollyon at their head,
My heavenly pilgrimage oppose.
See, from the ever-burning lake,
How like a smoky cloud they rise!
With horrid blasts my soul they shake,
With storms of blasphemies and lies.
Their fiery arrows reach the mark,
My throbbing heart with anguish tear;
Each lights upon a kindred spark,
And finds abundant fuel there.
I hate the thought that wrongs the Lord;
Oh! I would drive it from my breast,
With Thy own sharp two-edged sword,
Far as the east is from the west.
Come, then, and chase the cruel host,
Heal the deep wounds I have received!
Nor let the power of darkness boast
That I am foil'd, and Thou art grieved!
929
Master Piece
To get to the level of mastery
A must urgency
Needed necessities
a master fee/
master time master weakness master craft
mastering/
all the short comings
over come
catastrophe blasphemies/
master strength master length
The duration it takes to overtake
It's important
master these/
the nay Sayers
what they say?
Correct this too takes mastering/
convey compute portray transmute
No further dispute
Now that's masterly/
listen... First priority
the highest form of a master fee/
pay attention to their actions
the feel... tension?
If it's the last thing
master these/
Observe you'll already
be ahead of the curve
massively/
Master the little things/
Every inch you give is a mile gone
Turn those inches in to millstones
Master fully/
never to be locked down or in always a way to win
Now thats a master key/
They laughed at first now no jokes
Master stroke master-ease/
Within the master class
Enrolled contemplate
Confine till you find
That's master mine or mind/
Eventually/
you will be
A master of ceremony/
The silence will increase
When you piece
it all together
Now that's a master peace
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 3:46 PM UTC
down the stairs, where the creak-feet of descent
will silence a cricket in the room; there with couch
and the bookstand, oak and glass....
sedate features; the odd bust of an Inuit matriarch-
staring at your blouse like it were forged
in blasphemies and trade winds.
down there, where we keep the cat riveted to the headlights
of our armored car.
in the seam
the coffee table is strewn, right down the middle
with old magazines and straw placemats.
a stain that never fades,
stands in the garden of cigarette butts and dog-eared -
post-it notes
to a glass scarecrow.
a mound of bric-a-brac
and fingerprints.
it's sticky
where two people
made the love
that made the mess...
but it's hollow where they never met.
and you can see the carpet through the permafrost.
our lens
immune to domain.
free to see the whimsy
in a spot of bother
about a broken
heart.
down where the television skin is the thickest. our ironic muse.
just a spritz of cultured sabotage,
and the good sense to go mad
without disturbing the peace....
the same peace that almost -
cost us the war.
at the very least.
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 11:08 PM UTC
There is a part of us
that isn't quite alive
until hollow-starved lunacy is sated
while showing the bright side
her hidden darkness emerged
when i tricked her into hurting herself
she would say come on trick me, trick me, trick me
and i would tell her
Count Dragool with ****** tube fingers
would take her slow
if she hit her self hard across the mouth
and she would scream to Eden
bash mashley thrash me
i want the men with red tridents
and ding **** tails too
while she watched my eyes
like surveillance drones
as if a great confederation of *****
marched towards her
certainly not painless
but the pain of an addict
who knows all to well the pleasure of the needle
first the little sting and then the great oooow
she is butter on the stove
im the rare drug
a Do Do bird beaking flesh
a cold hard ***********
she a yielding intricacy of complications
a bald Rapunzel
feeling under abused till now
with black crow lips and bangled earings
like a long jangling math problem that ends
with a big O
O popping blood berries
like pink flower hysterical *******
shooting bullets from tattooed
hip belted pistols
on a singing red bed
her limbs a yawing stretch
a torn zipper
being yanked up and down
a frenzy of crying blasphemies and raw kisses
dancing the bend over
on knotted knees
incised a writhing dance cha cha
creel of blood
cha cha cha
May 20, 2019
May 20, 2019 at 2:57 PM UTC
Set me on fire
Insanity is what ran through me
Intensity plunging into me
Breathing is not wheezing but coming easily
Tingling reawakening
Space vacating me
I’m a vortex of for ever waiting
Playing on words, hoping to be heard
Spinning on this earth that is worth…
Nothing? Something? Maybe
Say to me the words that send guilt
Through sensations I have yet to word
Liking is a fighting, loving is despising
Wanting to be curious, how could I not with the words of his
Blister me with sincerity
Sending burning regret through every vain
Every way, in each new light
I fight and twist new perspective
To yell at me, to say to me everything is all right
And believe its true.
That me and you collided for some kind of real
Reeling going wild
My heart beats with the laughter of a child
Happiness is your contagious energy
I take it in and let it live in me
Your sweet scenic imagery
Watercolor paintings reflecting back at me
Beauty is something new and founding
Whirl pool of commonalities
Blasphemies of morals and value
But I cant help how my happiness swells
How you a smile into me
Chilling water not nearly as refreshing
Retesting, rethinking my boundaries
Seeing new towers, higher mountains and walls
Longer tunnels and halls
To walk, climb and crawl
How far the journey to a wanting place
To a unsure space in any case I hope your happy
That my presence is half as enchanting
Because your words they leave me panting
How can I not, with no words forgot?
Blister me with guilt’s hot iron
Set me on fire.
Or should we not?
I forgot the binding power of
A forever real friend ship
Set my ship on fire
And drown all hopes and desires
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 5:32 PM UTC
With the past me meet the past me I eat blasphemies.
The inner me with no energy so I took a drink.
Where science be?
Where does science lead it use to hangout with me.
But where it leads
Tell me where it leads I love to show you please,
Take my hand and walk with me.
We **** it!!!
Call it society!!!
Refill it!!
Now that's philosophy !!!!
Repented??
Theology.
The gemics are just a soccer team
That kicks around the kid in me....
That made me think people like you and me are better on the out courts of what were remembering.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 2:59 AM UTC
The crying notes tear my soul, the wailing of babes
crying without comfort, abandoned and alone on the
desolate emptiness of the plain imagined, stretching on
into emptiness and infinity, while the plaintive shrieks
of the dying infants, innocent in this world of simplicities,
life and death, heat and frost, summer and winter, kindness
and cruelty, they rise in the thin air, cutting across the silence
like jagged knives, while the demons scream in the tortured
vaults of hell, the spirits condemned groaning in their agony,
while above the vultures circle, lowering, lowering, down into
the screams of the innocent, newly cast onto the flat plain of
mortality and death, down, their great wings cutting off the sun
as their claws reach down, down to rend and grasp and tear and
clutch; to spill the fresh blood to gush and stream, and feed the hunger
of the earth, beaks rising and falling and rising again, rising and falling,
till there is nothing. Nothing, and nothing and nothing and nothing!!
And yet. Though visions such as these terror my thoughts and whisper
to me in my dreams of the inevitability of death and of the abundance of
pain, of the rightness of grief, yet I continue and yet am I strong, unbroken
by myself, unbowed by myself. And yet. The walls are crumbling. Stones
fall to be devoured by the empty night, while the eroding wind of pain tears
through my mind and casts down the towers of impregnability while the wall
groans and buckles. Soon it will fall. The pain will become reality, blood will
spill out from the black depths of my mind to stain the world, and the vultures will
begin to circle, to fall, to tear. To **** I will fall. Unless I contain these blasphemies of
thought, these profanities of my mind, I will fall. And death will claim me, and cast
me screaming into the black void of the empty night. And I will cease. That is all.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
there's strange fruit hanging from the tree
we planted in the garden
those giant eggplants i can see
in cloth wrapped, burnt and hardened
the white ghosts cooked them on the vine
while chanting blasphemies in time
to metered prose of Tennyson's E. Arden
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
This loneliness
Is like empty walls
An echo of silence
Bouncing back and forth
Reminding me of the
Darkness of my soul
Paranoia and the voices mocking me
Persisting and alluring
Showing me that ropes
Are of a Purple Velvet matter
Seducing ****** they are
Death by a wet kiss
Drowning in this glorious liquid and fluids
Tight ******* with profanities
Right against my sore body
Erecting me high
Deflowering my innocence
******* me off of any sanity
How can I resist?
Seductive words in glamorous blasphemies
Tingling all my senses
And then, with no mercy
Showing me a reflection
Of a hideous and grotesque monster
It is me
It has always been me
And in my despair
In my loneliness
In my own tribulations
Self-destruction
Might be the only way
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 6:16 AM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
please let the
author'd
man
take heed!
let his steps
hold firm and
emboldened
by his only
Father
and
*let him
compose a
life worth
reading!*
﹊
for
ev'ry
man is
given a gift,
the quill of choice
and the inkwell of his
own will and reason,
and should he take
care to fill it with
his col'r—the
onliest brand
of his deepening
desire—then let him.
and, let him strike at the
pages with precision—as a
surgeon of the parchment for
he never wastes a page and
should he always have
a word to say,
then
*let him
compose a
life worth
reading!*
﹊
may
he teach
his children well
and may their choices
be a song—sweet lyrics
of their compassion
and innocence.
and let them
cherish
their
gifts and
practice proper
penmanship that their
choices in life may encourage
those both young and old and that
they may inspire those that misuse
their only gift not to author
their filthy obscenities
and blasphemies
and curses
against
both
Father and
fellow man. and
should any man advise
his own to embrace the
expressions of pace
and of repetition
or should he
encourage
them to
speak
once,
then
*let him
compose a
life worth
reading!*
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC
******* up souls and spitting out spells
from tentacles with lips at the tips that talk.
Belching out blasphemies from the birth of filth,
that causes the blood to boil from within.
One single eye to pierce the fear filled mind;
a glare that bores - gray matter hungry probe.
The color of wretched bile, with a similar scent.
An oozing beast that has haunted the aeons;
speaking through nightmares and whispering
a supply of chilly lies into the ears of brittle men.
Karzak Gordra on high
Dwell within the murky depths
of man's rotten mind
Swim to your meal, Karzak Gordra
Make home in the dark
and pass over the young
Karzak Gordra on high
Fear naught, filthy lad
Weep for me in days to come
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 11:18 AM UTC
The problem with people nowadays
Is they demand too much
a dollar and a daydream nowadays is never enough
Everyone wants to be ******* rich
but they just sit around looking at trees
How the **** can that happen
I see virgins wishing they were ******
But when in the moment, chicken out
If that wasn't enough to **** things up
Then why do you want it?
Why do you want something you're not sure of?
Why do I want you?
With all your blasphemies and *********
From day till night
I ******* want you
My mind is set on pursuing you
but nowadays, that's not enough
wanting you will never be the same as having you
I will even take a bullet for you
but that ******** will never be enough
To win you over
Nothing is ever enough
Not even the universe
There is such thing called
Man's never-ending need for perfection
How irritating
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 9:39 PM UTC
There is a myth
Allied to moonlight
Chased into darkness
Morning rising too soon
Smelling delicate dew
Cupped in newly opened blooms
A million micro worlds
Falling and crawling
Within the vast and yearning
Rolling and turning
Moralities and madness
Beliefs and blasphemies
Who says which is life?
But for myself I doubt
Purity disturbs me and
Righteousness makes me nervous
For all life is truth
Whether in sky or on earth
And in each myth
We live and die
By Phil Roberts
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 10:56 AM UTC
Backspace means nobody will see
Paper tears bit by bit with erasures
but on MS Word there are no consequences
My poems are full of backspaces
There was one right when I types backsapce
When you don[t backspqace notjng makes sense
Bu t what is life withoiut mistakes?
Silence is a life without any sound
Did I stutter? Then sing with me
Beautiful babies are something mistaken
Mother's are sometimes mistaken
Blasphemies are sometimes mistaken
The flat earth is something mistaken
I can be mistaken
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 10:46 AM UTC
is it my age-old blasphemies
that keep you at arm's length?
screaming for life
begging for bread
i sit by the silence
wrapped in the shade
the glories of youthful dreams
beautifully fade
my name in lights
my name tonight
forgotten
if for a moment
if i could hold it tight
if i could only make love to my demise
open to skies
swim in your eyes
with the rest of the teeming sea
of humanity
lost
Aug 14, 2019
Aug 14, 2019 at 12:18 PM UTC
Not against any good philosophy -
But religion is disgusting.
What's it yous worship anyway?
Superstition - nonsense.
Thinly veiled is your philosophy;
Dogma about me, me, me, me!
Proudly wearin' your mark of beasts.
This the symbol, crucifix;
Nailed up "our" "prophet," we did!
This is the ritual, wine & bread it is;
Cannibal feast of "blood & body."
This the symbolism, con𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯;
Reductionism from philosophies stolen.
This the comedy, tragedy;
Bastardizations from destruction & butcheries.
Like orphan children what livin' off charity;
What's me mother's name? Who's my daddy?
Eschewing everything
Cause you refuse to see, nor to hear.
You worship only yourselves;
This that your balderdash?
Nay. You are your own blasphemies!
There's your "divine" "comedy."
Joke's on you lot
For not just havin' "forgot,"
But for stealin'
And sayin' yous didn't.
Crimes enough
To fill sheets yous call scripture.
No such miracles
For those believers.
Those who worship, only worship nothing -
They will be outside of everything,
"Existing" as nothing.
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 11:55 AM UTC
Jerusalem, Jerusalem,
I would that I could walk again
Amid your streets ablaze with life,
And breathe the lively scents of spice.
Jerusalem, Jerusalem,
I would that I could hear again
The sound of prayer in your mosques,
The silent knolling of the bells,
The clangour of patrolling knights
Who solemnly in armour tread
Your dusty paths and stony ways
When sun ascends at break of day,
And noises of returning feet
To simple homes at fall of night,
The closing of your iron gates
Beneath the lustre of the moon.
Jerusalem, Jerusalem,
With blasphemies your cross is stained,
With agonies of sacrifice,
The long and sordid tale of blood,
Of warring nations long embroiled
In vain discord and endless strife;
When God’s own name is used to slay
The blameless children of His land.
Jerusalem, Jerusalem,
Long have you bathed in the rivers of tears,
Amid the glistening seas of blood;
Let the silence have its day,
Embittered in its irony,
And let the night of horror pass.
Unspoken prayers will be heard.
Jerusalem, Jerusalem,
Now draw again your living breath,
For in your defeat is your victory;
And rally forth your strong to sing
The joyous paeans of the dawn.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 6:22 AM UTC