"bogs" poems
The Christmas rush has started, and the countdown has begun
Advent doors are opened, but look what you have done
You've ridiculed the Bounty bar, and your spoiling all the fun
Why buy a Celebration, if your not happy after one ?
What's behind the cardboard doors, what did you all expect
A gold ring perhaps, or the keys for a corvette?
Why bother with an advent, when you have no respect
There's no need for chocolate genocide, or coconut neglect
You shouldn't be so outraged, with your Christmas Celebrations
I don't understand the malice, or the advent hesitations
If you don't want a bounty, buy heroes or sensations
It's hardly a matter for Interpol, or the united nations
Celebrations are your choice, there's no cause for your regret
The outcome is quite obvious, why are you so upset
Are the pictures not a clue, to what your gonna get ?
No rarity of Bounty hunters, so don't mess with Boba Fett
Are Maltesers that much lighter, in a Galaxy far away
Maybe you will find Mars, in between the Milky Way
A Twix or Galaxy Caramel, they we're for a different day
But you've dissed your celebrations, and no longer want to play
Some YouTube clips have surfaced, and I have read the blogs
I think it's just pathetic, seeing chocolate thrown down bogs
Your creating your own misery, as well as yule time logs
You won't be very happy, when your toilet blocks and clogs
On day two you still complained, and you wanted to resist
Is that because the chocolate, was not on your Christmas list
Would you be pleased with mistletoe, if you never did get kissed
Christmas spirit has been lost, with your Snickers in a twist
Some people are just morons, that's the message that they've sent
Their expectations are to high, and cruel jokes are never meant
Why is Bounty not as good, to start of an event
A Snickers in your calendar, doesn't mean a ruined advent
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
they danced in a dream
of bending shadows
face down
begging ***
all hungry back door paradise
ankles strapped on a foot worn floor
paint faced in whorey nights
with pin needle eyes
beded
blood crimson neon's
cut curtains
like kissing claws
so their bodies wouldn't forget
dark pleasures lightening
and biting tantra tantrums
they swallowed mad ***** blossoms of hell candy
breathing the others inhalations
foot sniffing ballet arch
in fastened Japanese melting red slippers
gazing upwards rectums prayer
solar eyed insurrection
finger by finger
clutching wrists like the grave
for bloods salty cove
an injured landscape
a dire pink desert
like bogs hold bones
a rave for a slave
covered in yellow ocher rubber sheets
soft on the feet
x rated amputee costume
made of blood and spit
look mommy no arms
a bellied tattoo
of hennaed homunculi
burning Candomblé Jejé, skull
black eyed beauty hissing
while accordion throated
rip tie tighten
another notch please
a dizzy *******
down silver fluted gullet
in a steamed up bath house
party of blotted sockets
*** kitten
kissed dead girls thighs
tremulous and stretched
a shimmering serum
like wide tubular channels
as pontoon edges slit
through midnight howls for velvet skinned girl
who thrills
her head a veiled Jehovah
saliva wagging tongue ****
a stuttering ****** dance
a hula hot momma in rubble
slapping hot lipped kisses
over starved darkness
along telegraphs avenue
melting eyes like butter
a globed pudding spill
******* drool drops of gold
and black river gladiators
slaughter lies
with every long stroke
between cascading squeals
paraphilias mausoleum
like tumbling eels
a scapegoat pulp fiction
chiseled in cement
******* rips
drip drip drip
babbling **** bubbles
**** spasms ooze like a hot glue gun
fire spats soil cherry clover
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
the choir grows with the barks of dogs,
the rumble of cars, the fusion of bogs
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
Siya si Bogs
Minsan ay malibogs
Kahit buhok nya kulot na
Siguradong mapapahuling kayo sa kanya
Dahil si Bogs ay napakagwapo
Medyo kulot pero hindi *****
Palaging nakasumbrero
Para hindi halatang gwapo
Pagdating sa mga kalokohan
Siya ay isang hokage ng petmaluhan
Kanyang mga ini-isip ay iyong matatawanan
Dahil ito'y punong-puno ng kababalaghan
Mapapawerpa ka sa kanyang mga hugot lines
Dahil siya ay admin ng UKQ hugot lines
Mga hugot na may laman
Puso mo'y mabubusog at yayaman
Loding-lodi siya ng kanyang mga kagrupo
Dahil sa pagkamasunurin at mapagmahal na tao
Siya ay isang kaibigan
Kaibigan na maasahan
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 6:16 AM UTC
229
A Burdock—clawed my Gown—
Not Burdock’s—blame—
But mine—
Who went too near
The Burdock’s Den—
A Bog—affronts my shoe—
What else have Bogs—to do—
The only Trade they know—
The splashing Men!
Ah, pity—then!
’Tis Minnows can despise!
The Elephant’s—calm eyes
Look further on!
4.7k
Do not eat of Faerie food
And do not drink of Faerie wine
Or when you leave Faerie at last
The home you seek's no longer thine.
Do not step in Faerie rings
Do not enter the Faerie Mound
Or when rescue comes for thee
Your sanity will ne'er be found.
Do not lie to Faerie folk
And don't insult the Faerie Queen
Or for all of eternity
You and yours will not be seen.
Do not enter Faerie woods
And do not walk the Faerie trod
Or, though you come back to hearth,
Your heart will ne'er again be thawed.
Don't listen when Faeries sing
And ignore the Banshee wail
Or you will have the dubious fame
Of becoming a Faerie tale.
Do not look through Faerie stones
That you find on the Faerie ground
Or they will put out your eye
So you can't see when they're around.
Do not enter Faerieland
But if you do, don't leave the path
Or you'll be lost for ever more
In darkness where the monsters laugh.
Do not ask for Faerie help
If it comes take care how you pay
Some want clothes or milk for it
Some are insulted and betray.
Do not accept Faerie gold
From captured elf or leprechaun
For it will turn to moss and leaves
And when you look up they'll be gone.
Don't swim in the Faerie stream
Where nixies and kelpie play
Banshee wash dead men's ****** clothes
In that water, so stay away.
Do not believe what Faeries say
Though it's true that they cannot lie
They never say quite what they mean
Honestly they will truth deny.
Don't even taste Faerie repast
No goblin fruits from elven trees
They're addictive beyond belief
A wise man offered such food flees.
'Ware giving thanks for Faerie gifts
Though they save you from all pain
Or else you may be in their debt
And lose more than you stood to gain.
Beware lights off Faerie shores
And lanterns seen in wild bogs
For wisps will lead folks off of cliffs
And laugh as corpses float like logs.
And buy naught from Faerie markets
They sell goblin fruits, curses, lies
The price your dreams, your past, your soul
Your voice, the color of your eyes.
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC
by
rgpage
In this quiet time of night, I lie alone and prey to the bitter pain of
joy's absence. Lost in my mind's shallow thoughts the sharp fragments of
happy memories since shattered ***** at the sensitive fringes of my sleep.
Sleep: Nature's sanctuary
A quiet haven, an island set apart
from the daily consciousness of life
where my thoughts may at last run free.
An island with white sandy shores as
far as the eye can see. Blemished only
by my solitary figure walking the blue
water's edge.
And the forests of my paradise, their
deep green density gives substance to
my world. Often I stop to ponder their
far reaching greenness.
The warm subtle breeze carrying the
fragrance of this foliage across my
face, fills my nostrils with the pleasures
of nature.
And occasionally a gull overhead,
drifting unchallenged on the soft
warm currents of the azure, as free
in his world as I in mine; lends companionship.
All of the sudden in the beat of a heart,
from no where a large black cloud appears
to smother the sun's warm light, turning
the blue sky and green foliage black
and the white sand that I once walked
upon a cold gray.
And just ahead of me lying there in
death's humiliation, my winged companion;
soaked and scorned at the dark water's
edge.
I awaken:
This cold room and bed the greatest part of my conscious moment, and the sound of a distant train bell mocking the destruction of my comfort; its havoc upon my sleep done it now moves on. Saddened I once again wade through the shallow bogs of my loneliness, and the pains of memories of the love and life i'd wasted return. This painful sleepless night a most cruel retribution for my past. So firmly entrenched it seems I may never return to my paradise; yet remain in this cold room to suffer the long night's tortures.
Returning:
The warm sunlight, and gentle caress
of the water's pulse upon the white
sand.
And overhead my pure white friend
again drifts on the warm currents of
air, heralding not my return
but praising my presence....
...for my presence alone, gives
life to this warm yet oh so precariously
balanced paradise.
The white beach with its warm sand
leads me on my journey to the morning,
as I walk the blue water’s edge.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
Rainy day people and frogs
Packed New York streets, mossy bogs
Umbrella or bumbershoot
In quagmire and crowded route
Splashing masses, polliwogs
Precipitation, cascade
The alley or everglade
Plebeians and ***** toads
Wetlands, winding back roads
Holding brolly or sunshade
Mobs, croaker in the wallow
Soggy marsh, bypass below
A sprinkle, pitter-patter
Parasol, doesn't matter
Your bullfrog and average Joe
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 3:30 AM UTC
**** this coffee's really sour
I've been drinking it for half an hour
Wanna hear a poem
Wanna hear a poem
Wanna hear a poem about a cauliflower
[Cauliflower's foolish
It doesn't fit the theme
I'm sick of all your nonsense
I'm tired of your memes]
Woman selling knickknacks
I'm not eating tic-tacs™
Your words were put in brackets
Check out my rhyming tactics
I see that you're not one for fun
Your a cloudy day, I'm the shining sun
My absurdity
Is the key
To happy for eternity
[You're clearly deeply broken
And only you can cure
Your fundamental problems
But really I'm not sure
The only one who conquers
Is one who really tries
So stop with the gorillas
Since everything will die]
Maybe you don't understand
My foolishness goes hand in hand
With making things that are the best
Like giant squids and turnip fests
Order, chaos, streets and bogs
Them, White, Color, Talking Frog
Odd on top but clear below
From ash and fire life will grow
Then again I see it's true
I am right and so are you
Maybe we both have a claim
In this crazy poet game
**
Okay]
That didn't rhyme!
[It doesn't have to]
I love you
[Mmm hmm]
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC
In early eighteen-forty-four,
In Cornwall’s heart; on Bodmin Moor,
Charlotte Dymond, a young farm maid,
Had her throat slit with a steel blade,
She crossed fast streams and deadly bogs,
Found her way through mists and fogs,
But couldn’t stop that fatal blow,
That stole her life and laid her low,
She walked to meet someone that day,
Just who that was ... no one would say,
Found days later beside a track,
Laid on a cart; her shroud a sack,
The surgeon, Thomas Good, was fetched,
Had in his mind, her white face etched,
Charlotte untouched by fox or crow,
Had she been moved ... he did not know,
No evidence was ever found,
But her young boyfriend had gone to ground,
Fingers so quick to point his way,
Matthew Weeks panicked; ran away,
The hapless ******* was soon caught,
No other culprit was ever sought,
The judge was just a rubber-stamp,
Bodmin Gaol was dark and damp,
The scaffold built, the crowds arrived,
Matthew swore he had not lied,
The floor gave way, the rope drew tight,
Was justice done ... the verdict right?
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 2:34 AM UTC
Unanswered uncertainties limber up
Unwanted confrontations cumulate
Passion deliquescing over unexplored reason
Unacknowledged, ignored, overwritten and dismissed
Without consideration for his fragile heart
The answers flow broiling him, wearing him down
Scorn rejection,
When trust is misplaced,
And she exfoliates to true skin
Hatred smothers over her love act
Bogs him down by the shoulders
All seems empty, all is empty
Toyed with, lied to and used up
He is a clock rigged for self destruction
With no actions that lead to consequences
The reason seems bleak and obvious
His respect for her dies, His respect for her other doesn't exist
She is not the one he loved, she is not the one that he knew
A younger him he sees in her other
Making the same mistake he did, mislaid trust
The multifaceted chameleon that she is
The other doesn't see
Pouring his heart out and defending her wrongs
The other starts to undermine and ignore him
Move on they say,
Only his heart is too heavy
Forget her they say,
Only she was a perennial settlement in my memory, he thought
Hate her they say,
Only he hates himself more for trying
No one understands him
Everyone tries, but no one understands
He loved, he was back stabbed
He suffered and suffocated under the blanket of secrets
Lighten your heart brother, the mascot of a good soul
You will be alright.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
moving inland far away from
the coast temptation doth bring
deeper in land the head seems consumed by everything
nearing the coast it's the heart that sings
though inland, my love, you will find me
away from the bogs or the shoals o' herring
holding you at bay with *****
keeping me next to me
wanting tomorrow to be the better day
my mind, an island for tromping shores
different from desert sands
when the tide of your concern reprimands
on this island the shells
are smaller and there are no dollars,
the sea, a shrunken plastic expanse of
syringes and lip balm containers,
soft fluid-filled bodies turned into
sopping brown-bag skeletons,
revenges
of modern life.
there is a rivulet further up shore
do you feel it?
follow the inlet wind
near a candescent pond
there is a house
open the door
if you fall in
a home can be found.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 1:37 AM UTC
Well, Gypsy Guy would rather die than hunker down in chains,
be ridden south with bit in mouth, or heed the hold of reins.
The ruling lot are in a spot, the boss man he complains:
“The gypsies’ soul, I can’t control, my patience wears and wanes;
they will not cede to common greed, which conquers far domains
and furtive spies and news that lies have barely baked their brains.
“But in the court of last resort the final fix remains:
in boxcar bins with violins we’ll freight them out in trains
(should one ask why, a quick reply: ‘It’s that which God ordains!’),
and in the bogs, they’ll die like dogs, and everybody gains.”
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
You hear those saint fainted swines? Slopping around ****** in muck. For hogs seeking bogs, bespatter the pink with thick mire. Dull sluggish foul smelled trolls, basking a bridges under cove, feasting on distant mare. But old boar’s belly’s’ under grown, he has not self meat to spare. Go elsewhere wise butcher. Go elsewhere. Grieve not thy ******* of purification, instead satisfactory of sales. He has not the soul to touch rare blood of a bessy hung by hook. Sars covered hands, sars drenched the feet. Not here butcher, elsewhere lay menial meat.
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 6:16 PM UTC
I love to sit in the bogs
and listen to the frogs
I love to hear the sound
as they hop upon the ground
Their croaks "music to my ears"
it always brings me to tears
The place I like to romp
inside the darkened swamp
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 8:21 PM UTC
It is not to be thought of that the flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flow’d, ‘with pomp of waters, unwithstood,’
Roused though it be full often to a mood
Which spurns the check of salutary bands,—
That this most famous stream in bogs and sands
Should perish; and to evil and to good
Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung
Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.—In everything we are sprung
Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.
2.3k
In the cloudy evenings with strong hints of rain
You heard them once and you heard them again
The air would rend with their cacophony
The torrents would send them in ecstatic glee.
Even a few years back you could find them around
The harbinger of monsoon with harsh croaking sound
On your yard and garden in quite large packs
Frolicking for insects, the great jumping Jacks.
They scoured the marshland in search for food
Calling in monotone and setting you to brood
With your mind gnawed by the incessant rains
That rattled your thoughts and the glass window panes.
But then lands were devoured by the human sharks
Soon disappeared open spaces and parks
Came up apartments and rows of house
Urban growth you accept without grouse.
Now in the lonely evenings with fair hints of rain
The rains will be back but you won’t hear them again
Their habitats are gone there aren’t left any bogs
And with these are gone your neighborhood frogs.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 4:58 AM UTC
a butterfly caked with dust
a cathedral black as rust
an **** of satanic lust
but who, O fool, can you entrust?
you prance and sneer, put on a frown
call Believing people stupid clowns
in moors with bogs to drag you down
a place of darkness where you drown.
Marilyn Manson had his kicks
devil's music, Satan's licks
laugh, say Jesus is for hicks
ignore the goads, ignore the ******
we're all worked up? in a stew?
while you scream like skewered shrews?
kohl your eyes with blackest goo
party's in hell?
**THE JOKE'S ON YOU.**
SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/13/2015
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
It is not to be thought of that the Flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flowed, “with pomp of waters, unwithstood,”
Roused though it be full often to a mood
Which spurns the check of salutary bands,
That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands
Should perish; and to evil and to good
Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung
Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.—In every thing we are sprung
Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.
2.1k
This dot kami’s ‘Nam when I see you’re all neutral
To futile lords still passin’ Acts of Removal
Pretentious performers as if upon stages
Of casting call characters caught up in cages
Like ****** who off-shore **** the poor on vacations
I’m diggin’ up dirt on the founders’ plantations
When bail-outs are ballots and bullets are mallets
Why not be a rabbit hole in Hefner’s palace?
And dare call it talent, a gift or a passion
Just model behavior for slaves to a fashion
Show running the breadlines when crimes are a dime
In the dozens of ***** Weinsteins on your minds
Instead of the felons when court is in Sessions
Instead of the under-oath treason confessions
In rapid succession they feed you the buzz
Until nobody cares what the debt ceiling was
When the roof has been raised for the privatize party
The right wants us dead and the left shows up tardy
I’m sorry “you people” are making me sick
Guess I’ll just pop a pill from the cabinet pick
Like has-been Michael Flynn’s and these Ex-Tillersons
Resource hogs cloggin’ bogs up with smogs of odd jobs
They’re the slEASIEST Slytherins still seemin’ Jesus
Pro-life until *** aid is the fetus
Egregious excesses of who the **** needs this
Huge 2nd place trophy wife ivory tower
Big guns for a stickless diplomacy coward
Here’s my golden shower tricklin’ down your faces
You blatantly ****** repeal and replacists
You war-profiteering, grand **** of old Racists and fakers, uranium cacres
Still stuffing the stockings of doomsday clock-makers
With melting North Pole lumps of coal-hearted cash
‘Till every last Christmas trees nothing but ash
As the fascist machine builds its pyramid scheme
On the dreams of the themes of your Disney World screen
But the credits will roll as the talking heads stroll in
The shoe bombs of Terrorist’s livelihoods stolen
But I leave ‘em spinnin’ like Christopher Nolan
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 2:27 PM UTC
Has shame dried
Cranberry bogs
On cotton
Have hormones peaked
Or have the eggs spoiled,
Turned rotten
Is there more to a woman
Than her ****** functions
Or will she do as she's told
And remain in her place
On the bottom
May 1, 2023
May 1, 2023 at 9:13 AM UTC
I strolled, awhile, down by that bog
Through thick, astringent, swirling fog....
Perchance, perhaps, in circumstance
I fancied that the reeds did dance,
Swayed in time to pulsing beat
Expanding in round ripples, neat,
To radiate across the pond
In league with moss of ferny frond.
Causing spider webs to sway
Through which the dewdrops came to play
In iridescent beams of light
Illuminating shards of night
Which cast a most unearthly glow
That only frogs in bogs, would know.....
And know they did from ancient time
Where bullfrogs ruled in slippery slime
When incandescence filled the glade
Whilst time stood still and mayflies played.
Dancing in the fantasy of Patty's Pond.
With love M.
Jun 29, 2023
Jun 29, 2023 at 5:51 AM UTC
I don’t know who I would be, without the darker side of my personality.
The painted desert of night allows me to explore the eternal moonlit forest of my life.
The beating compass of my heart, points in no particular direction.
I pace my steps on its rhythm, though the deeper I venture, the less I can rely on its repetition.
Neatly trimmed hedges devolve into bogs, witches to the west, sirens sing to me through the midnight fog.
The road less traveled stained with blood, a path beaten with hurried footsteps and battered love.
I take to the tress; beneath the wind-strained leaves, the monsters are now stalked by me.
Demons by day evade my pleas. Now, stuck in a dream, they can’t leave.
May 29, 2021
May 29, 2021 at 7:18 PM UTC