"bloodily" poems
In conversation about
the realities of War
a salient observation
surfaced again and
yet again - that current
creators of film or TV
images favour clean,
so fail the filth test
that for troops and those
who tend them once
bullets & shells have
wrought their harm
scar everywhere with
muck & misery - such
crisp white pinafores
and hair so carefully
coiffeured just never
figured - real warfare
harrows like The Victors
& D-Day scenes which
open Saving Private Ryan
as bloodily as any wound.
(c) C J Heyworth June 2014
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 8:19 AM UTC
Yes! It's another Barry Hodges "Memories" poem!"
I shall never forget our first date together,
How we wandered through the streets of Soho,
Gazing into the **** shop windows,
Laughing at the giant vibrators on display...
And later, a romantic meal in a French bistro,
Where the rules of hygiene were not
As strictly observed as might have been hoped for,
Promising a regurgitatory treat in store...
You ignored the startled eyes of our fellow diners
And brutally shoved your tongue in my mouth;
O how fiercely I slurped on it enthusiastically
Caressing it with my own mouth sausage...
I ****** and ****** and ****** and ******
And (oh joy!) I could taste the garlicky bits
'Twixt your gorgeous unwashed choppers;
How my underwear damply stretched out of shape...
I withdrew my probing tongue and kissed your cheek
Affectionately, yet trembling with rampant desire;
And I boldly licked a firm yellow-topped spot
With its previously observed black centre...
My huge uncontrollable lust conquered
The demands of demodé bourgeois good manners
And I sunk my incisors into that zitty beauty
Relishing the hard core waiting just for me therein...
The waiting staff were deeply impressed as I chewed
In rapturous sensual joyous contemplation
And you spluttered bloodily in loving agony
Your own mighty ****** fast approaching...
Oh what a foretaste of what was to come
When we repaired to my convenient bedsit
For an immensely gratifying triple bonk
Prior to a staggering mutual diarrhoea session...
And now I lie back in sweet recollection
Of the many nights we spent in copulation
But how sad I am as, looking at the deserted bed,
I can still make out the stains of your dying turds.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
A "Memories" Poem from the great Barry Hodges' pen
I shall never forget our first date together,
How we wandered through the streets of Soho,
Gazing into the **** shop windows,
Laughing at the giant vibrators on display...
And later, a romantic meal in a French bistro,
Where the rules of hygiene were not
As strictly observed as might have been hoped for,
Promising a regurgitatory treat in store...
You ignored the startled eyes of our fellow diners
And brutally shoved your tongue in my mouth;
O how fiercely I slurped on it enthusiastically
Caressing it with my own mouth sausage...
I ****** and ****** and ****** and ******
And (oh joy!) I could taste the garlicky bits
'Twixt your gorgeous unwashed choppers;
How my underwear damply stretched out of shape...
I withdrew my probing tongue and kissed your cheek
Affectionately, yet trembling with rampant desire;
And I boldly licked a firm yellow-topped spot
With its previously observed black centre...
My huge uncontrollable lust conquered
The demands of demodé bourgeois good manners
And I sunk my incisors into that zitty beauty
Relishing the hard core waiting just for me therein...
The waiting staff were deeply impressed as I chewed
In rapturous sensual joyous contemplation
And you spluttered bloodily in loving agony
Your own mighty ****** fast approaching...
Oh what a foretaste of what was to come
When we repaired to my convenient bedsit
For an immensely gratifying triple bonk
Prior to a staggering mutual diarrhoea session.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
without any warning he burst into my life. delicate, detailed yet deranged. I was in awe and he was hung up on the idea that he could make me his. love never last as long as they say. He tore my heart out and smashed it into little pieces and im standing, shaking bloodily in my own pile of broken ***** The remaining sound of the distant beating is barely audible any more. he made me mindless and I grew stoic over the years. damaged, derailed yet dignified, with all the warning I could muster, I burst out of his life.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 5:14 AM UTC
Rustling among his odds and ends of knowledge
Suddenly, to his wonder, Senlin finds
How Cleopatra and Senebtisi
Were dug by many hands from ancient tombs.
Cloth after scented cloth the sage unwinds:
Delicious to see our futile modern sunlight
Dance like a harlot among these Dogs and Dooms!
First, the huge pyramid, with rock on rock
Bloodily piled to heaven; and under this
A gilded cavern, bat festooned;
And here in rows on rows, with gods about them,
Cloudily lustrous, dim, the sacred coffins,
Silver starred and crimson mooned.
What holy secret shall we now uncover?
Inside the outer coffin is a second;
Inside the second, smaller, lies a third.
This one is carved, and like a human body;
And painted over with fish and bull and bird.
Here are men walking stiffly in procession,
Blowing horns or lifting spears.
Where do they march to? Where do they come from?
Soft whine of horns is in our ears.
Inside, the third, a fourth . . . and this the artist,--
A priest, perhaps--did most to make resemble
The flesh of her who lies within.
The brown eyes widely stare at the bat-hung ceiling.
The hair is black, The mouth is thin.
Princess! Secret of life! We come to praise you!
The torch is lowered, this coffin too we open,
And the dark air is drunk with musk and myrrh.
Here are the thousand white and scented wrappings,
The gilded mask, and jeweled eyes, of her.
And now the body itself, brown, gaunt, and ugly,
And the hollow scull, in which the brains are withered,
Lie bare before us. Princess, is this all?
Something there was we asked that is not answered.
Soft bats, in rows, hang on the lustered wall.
And all we hear is a whisper sound of music,
Of brass horns dustily raised and briefly blown,
And a cry of grief; and men in a stiff procession
Marching away and softly gone.
1.1k
"It wasn't your fault"
The words follow me wherever I go;
inked into the many pages of a torn journal,
etched bloodily into the flesh of my arms.
Haunting me endlessly and echoing inside my mind in bursts of staining black.
"Why do you hurt yourself?"
I want to scream an answer to this question,
yet I never do, I never will.
I don't have the answer they want.
Yet my mouth wants to spit the venomous words out at them.
My tongue, however, is empty of the truth.
I smile condescendingly at their horrified faces, doing whatever I can to escape.
"Just be a good girl and everything will be fine"
Can you not understand?
I'm not good.
I'm bad, tainted,
my very essence
poisoned and corrupted.
Don't touch me.
I'll contaminate you.
Just stay away, keep an image in your head of me, smiling, happy, innocent.
Never come close enough to look past my mask, and then everything will be okay.
I don't want anyone to put me back together again, I deserve to be shattered.
"You don't understand!"
How many times have I heard that?
Too many to count.
Being misunderstood is part of me,
when people finally understand
, their empathy will eventually turn to pity
I can't stand it, hate would be easier to tolerate than sadness.
Don't be sad for me, be sad for yourself,
you're much more important than I'll ever be.
Just leave me alone, if you get too close to me I'll hurt you.
Somehow, I will.
I will kick my way around you,
until you have no other option but to loathe me.
But I deserve it.
I always break everything,
it's now my turn to be broken.
"It's not your fault."
Sure, keep saying that while you're 'holding' me.
I know you don't mean it.
But I'll nod my head like the doll I should be,
as if I believed you. I'll just go along with it.
The need to make me feel pure, good…
shut out all the other signs.
My hands can't stop shaking,
the cuts I inflict upon myself are pale white yet swollen.
The scars are reminders of how I deserve pain,
and the hideous ecstasy that comes along with it.
But just ignore them, I don't want you to know anyway.
Keep repeating those words to yourself, over and over again, trying to reassure me
I'll just sit there and nod soundlessly.
Watch me smile the way you want me to as I repeat it back to you.
I'm blameless. It’s not my fault.
You won't even notice the lie behind the words………
blameless…
shameless…
faultless….
guiltless…
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 9:40 PM UTC
Sorry to tell you,
but we are not one in the same.
Bloodily tied by our fully extended limbs,
we hold onto different blame.
Attached by cordial hellos
and torn apart by distance,
we should never have to try this hard to find consistence.
Although time has become just a number, and hurt has become my armour
I will never forget your choices.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 6:36 PM UTC
"It wasn't your fault” The words follow me wherever I go; inked into the many pages of a torn journal, etched bloodily into the flesh of my arms. Haunting me endlessly and echoing inside my mind in bursts of staining black.
"Why do you hurt yourself?" I want to scream an answer to this question, yet I never do, I never will. I don't have the answer they want. Yet my mouth wants to spit the venomous words out at them. My tongue, however, is empty of the truth. I smile condescendingly at their horrified faces, doing whatever I can to escape.
"Just be a good girl and everything will be fine” Can you not understand? I'm not good. I'm bad, tainted, my very essence poisoned and corrupted. Don't touch me. I'll contaminate you. Just stay away, keep an image in your head of me, smiling, happy, innocent. Never come close enough to look past my mask, and then everything will be okay. I don't want anyone to put me back together again, I deserve to be shattered.
"You don't understand!" How many times have I heard that? Too many to count. Being misunderstood is part of me, when people finally understand, their empathy will eventually turn to pity. I can't stand it, hate would be easier to tolerate than sadness. Don't be sad for me, be sad for yourself, you're much more important than I'll ever be. Just leave me alone, if you get to close to me I'll hurt you. Somehow, I will. I will kick my way around you, until you have no other option but to loathe me. But I deserve it. I always break everything, it's now my turn to be broken.
"It's not your fault." Sure, keep saying that while you're 'holding' me. I know you don't mean it. But I'll nod my head like the doll I should be, as if I believed you. I'll just go along with it. The need to make me feel pure, good… shut out all the other signs. My hands can't stop shaking, the cuts I inflict upon myself are pale white yet swollen. The scars are reminders of how I deserve pain, and the hideous ecstasy that comes along with it. But just ignore them, I don't want you to know anyway. Keep repeating those words to yourself, over and over again, trying to reassure me I'll just sit there and nod soundlessly. Watch me smile the way you want me to as I repeat it back to you. I'm blameless. It’s not my fault.
You won't even notice the lie behind the words………
Blameless…shameless…faultless….guiltless…
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
The singing of chimes
Depicts an untold story
I've not committed a crime
But am still, very sorry
I have a lot to tell
But this place,
has a weary clime
*Can you wait, till am well
I sure, witnessed a crime*
*"Detective", I'll spit out all
Just let me breathe for a while-
Tomorrow I'll give you a call
And then we'll go to "Half Mile"*
"The crime scene", Detective
At the corner of the Half Mile road
I am not being introspective
But two guys were carrying a load
They asked me for a lift
But I grew suspicious
So I took a race through swift
Coz they looked insidious
With the head flash light
I could see something dripping
They dropped it and ran for their plight
On the other side, running and tripping
I gathered courage and went to look
My breath weakened, suddenly
And what I saw, made me puke
A body or two smeared bloodily
I then ran back to my car and sped
Next morning, I read the horrible news
And became more scared
I should've reported without any excuse
That's all I know, "Officer Sam"
But I do remember their face
I will definitely help to nail them
And be a witness, in this case...
©sim
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 8:58 PM UTC
Let me crush you to pieces
with the burning power of my hatred;
let me feel your pain
and I don't mean emotions
I mean the hot physical pain
as your body screams out
for merciful death's release.
Let me relish your suffering
oh dear God, bring your thunderbolts down
and blind and ******* you tonight;
how I want to hear you shrieking
like a crucified dervish
impaled on the burning cross of infidelity
Let me listen to your richly deserved agony
as you writhe helplessly
nailed bloodily hanging helplessly
dying in the glorious sunset
as I laugh and go on my way
leaving you spatchcocked like a dead rat .
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 7:44 AM UTC
In the midnight cold I'll be the hand that closes
the shades 'cause now it's just a chilly stale air coming through the window
And when you're fast asleep under the sheets I'll be the
far away breath from thinking of how I'll say
Goodmorning not to the beautiful
but to the breath taking simplicity which
Spills from your veins to illuminate my aching smile
Because I would give my all for you
to be more than just in love with you
So
In the July dawns as the concrete begins to waver under our feet
I will be the cool on the back of your neck
For when you walk down those steps I'll be that
railing that reminds you of home when you
float not just through space, but through the door of my heart
but like a tide, you and I together ebb and flow in
Over the rocks we've been bloodily beaten, though we continue our strides
There is nothing I wouldn't do to gaze at your
blue eyes as if they were only the entire night sky
As I am home nowhere but within hearing distance of your soft breathing
For I am truly more than in love with you.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
There are slivers of
my heart
Which fly and soar high
Only to crash and bloodily weep
As they land,
On that stage
Where I will never be
Or that page
Where my words will never speak
Or the summer
lost from sight by tears of silly endeavours
Or the sweet little spring
in between the desert which dries faster
than I can run
Oh this emptiness
like between the vase and
the shrivelled flowers within
Dried now, a thing of past
but which once came
from someone as
a beautiful present.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
despair not
put
what words in the air
most resemble hammers smashing aloud the renderable vulnerable tender
massacre bloodily what would keep you broken forgetting your imprisoners gladly swiftly
more oft than not the misdirected hurt is their own hammers
not sounding like the scary stuff courage is made of
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
"And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile"
So let's not reduce him to metaphor
Let's not make allegories of the resurrection
If he was not tortured
If he did not hang
If he did not die bloodily and tearfully
If he was not buried in darkness
If he did not physically rise,
with a 2 ton rock rolled away to reveal the truth,
with 2 full size, hard-to-miss Angels
to angel-splain what the disciples saw,
If he did not reveal himself and walk and touch
and eat and speak with them,
If he did not ascend
as they watched open mouthed
If he is not now sitting with the Father,
"we are of all people most to be pitied...
"but Christ has indeed been raised from the dead.
"Thanks be to God! He gives us the victory."
Mar 2, 2022
Mar 2, 2022 at 9:02 AM UTC
crawling creatures find their way
between lost memories and the light of day
creeping little creatures with a million legs
squeezing under sanity and over old kegs
full of things packed away to forget
things in the dark that pulls the seams and lets
in scorching light that burns my skin
and the cracks where the light can't get in
lie in wait my creatures of lunacy
the monsters that eat away bloodily
at my inner rationality
let me be, the pills will get them out of me
no, don't touch me, it hurts
i'm fine, they say, they're fine let it burn
i don't know if anyone can here me
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 8:41 AM UTC
The Damascus Road
St Paul’s spiritual way
Now bloodily paved
© Robert Porteus
Oct 4, 2022
Oct 4, 2022 at 6:16 AM UTC