"breeder" poems
How pretty the skin on the worthless *******
With hair that caged the essence of strawberries
What a soul that burns electric in the common neon night!
But all he can see are her legs.
I guess those are good too.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 12:24 AM UTC
THE TRUE STORY OF THE EASTER BUNNY
you see, way back in the 1300s, there was this man who bred rabbits, and he was dedicated to his job, so much in fact,
he would go about starting to dress up as a colourful bunny around April every year, around the full moon, and on the
evening of easter Saturday, this man, would take off in his rundown jet plane to deliver hand painted eggs, painted by himself
to all the boys and girls of this land, and if each kid was very good, he will give the one of the kids a very rare chocolate bunny
which was very hard to find in these times, every kid pushed each other over to be the chosen one for this delicious bunny, and
the man dresses all the rabbits of the land, in colourful clothes and a easter bell around their necks, to warn the foxes that
can lurk about, you see on this man’s route were 345 houses to deliver each egg to, and some of the kids were still up, and he was
nice to them, giving them 3 eggs instead of 2, you see he always over-packs, because each kid wanted to stay up for the
arrival of the easter bunny-man, as he arrived at their houses, and maybe, that is the reason why it was a nightmare to get
the kids to go to bed now, well they do go to bed, but the easter bunny-man made the kids so happy, the kids went to bed
when he left, after that he dropped in at various inns around the town to deliver the painted eggs to each patron drinking in the inns
and mind you, he had a lot of great stories to tell each patron in the inn, about his wonderful adventures. then he drove off toward
the two farms of the town, and in the 1300s, the farms housed mostly poor people, ya know people doing it tough, so to speak, and
he dropped his easter eggs to the farmers and their kids and performed a few songs for the farmers like “candyman” and a rhyme which was
easter easter what’ll we do
give an egg to me and i will give one rot you
you see i am happy to really make you
the happiest farmer this easter will produce
you see these are painted eggs, i like them yeah
the colours are beautiful, really, i swear
come on kiddies try and grab more
easter easter how are you
and he played many many more easter related songs and rhymes, and the farmers liked to call him the rabbit ******* and he had a great night
as he did this every easter saturday, and at 5 am on easter Sunday morning, he finished his route and and spent easter sunday with his family,
and whether you believe this story or not, this is how easter started in my eyes
HAPPY EASTER FELLAS
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 4:47 AM UTC
Cocoa. My mom's whole world. Her pride and joy. She's in real trouble folks. Last night she consumed over an ounce of dark chocolate. She also got into chicken bones. She needs divine intervention. We can't afford to take her to the veterinarian again. All prayers and good thoughts are appreciated. I am weeping. She's an important member of our family. She may only be a dog. The she is as important to God has anyone else. And my mother would be devastated by her loss.
I may not be able to read this morning. I'm going to be in My Sanctuary on the front porch praying. I'm not going to church because my job now is to watch after the dog. She is a beautiful little animal. A deer head chihuahua. The original breed of that dog. She was the companion animal to the Toltec. Very rare because she is also a brindle brown. I saved her from an abusive puppy mill ******* and raised her all on my own. I love her. I have no children. She's my baby. Please help. Thank you.
PLEASE REPOST THIS SO OTHERS SEE IT! I don't care about stats. But Cocoa needs all the good thoughts and prayers she can get! ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
Catherine :')
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 12:20 PM UTC
She was Calamity Jane,
and, he, a ******* of pedigree pain,
not all were lost, a gloomy sunshine was born
out of that stormy liaison.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 9:45 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
It baffles me how
Many who preach
Pro-life choose
To eat a ham sandwich
For lunch,
Or buy a "pet"
From a *******
Thus taking a
Life from the shelter.
Then there are those sad clowns
Who think it's funny to say
"Yum, bacon!" when you expose the
Torture and bloodshed
Of some poor animal
Produced for food.
And, we mustn't forget
The good ol’ “humane" farmers
Who raise trusting animals
From birth only to
Hang them up, slit their throats, and
Slowly bleed them out to
Turn
A
Profit.
How can we be so disconnected?
How do we not see the
Magic in every fetus?
The wondrous exchange of
Seed to soil - just as humans -
Creating a precious being
Who also deserves a life
Of liberty and justice?
Whether two legs or four,
Wings or extremities,
Fur or skin, fins or scales,
How can we not see their
Inherent worth?
Such dire disconnect!
We were created the same
Dear human and non-human
Animal friends, out of
Magic and dreams.
We both hunger and thirst,
Bleed and seek shelter, cry out
In pain, shiver in the cold,
Fear, and fight for survival.
We all begin by breathing in Life,
And we shall all leave this earth with
One
Final
Breath.
How is that not proof of our connectedness?
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
Egotist, the master of the ego mist
or some ego antagonist
he is so much there
in the center of a web
of regurgitated fears
recycling pointless
the old cycles of
night after day
life after chaos
but no death
after ego inflation
just a rusty song
of imprisoned moments
or undeciphered gnashing
all character is just the dust
you cannot grasp
grey ruminations
curses wiggling
in times devoid of innocence
the cruelty of a ****
refusing to wither
at the end of his cigarettes
a speck of self
is threading a stratagem
to severe the ties
for the ******* of distance
so that he can continue
uninterrupted
to mutilate his heart
no one can persuade the night
into whitening
like you clean your teeth
of curses
the rest is sadness
the dew would know it.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
Once on the kind of day called “weather *******
When the heat slowly hazes and the sun
By its own power seems to be undone,
I was half boring through, half climbing through
A swamp of cedar. Choked with oil of cedar
And scurf of plants, and weary and over-heated,
And sorry I ever left the road I knew,
I paused and rested on a sort of hook
That had me by the coat as good as seated,
And since there was no other way to look,
Looked up toward heaven, and there against the blue,
Stood over me a resurrected tree,
A tree that had been down and raised again—
A barkless spectre. He had halted too,
As if for fear of treading upon me.
I saw the strange position of his hands—
Up at his shoulders, dragging yellow strands
Of wire with something in it from men to men.
“You here?” I said. “Where aren’t you nowadays
And what’s the news you carry—if you know?
And tell me where you’re off for—Montreal?
Me? I’m not off for anywhere at all.
Sometimes I wander out of beaten ways
Half looking for the orchid Calypso.”
1.8k
Thinking back to Thomas creek and sneaking a peak at the freaky little tweaker
in blown out sneakers a toothless mistress second guessing ******
thrift dressed house guest ******* up my speakers blown out woofer
wolfing down dinner mad slurping curry a beginner at twister
her sister, disaster, got caught ******* the Doberman.. unable to find sobriety
got gang ***** at the sorority doing an impression of Brad Dougherty
shoes to tall falling all wobbly knees knocking hostilely like a rasta in Montgomery
racially outcast Big Boi with a skin tare lash with passion unfashionable bastions
with rashes wear red sashes like Communist fascists I‘m a pacifist with a speeding fist
ready to dis any resistor to this transistor radio I eat filet-minion with boxers on
my mind be gone, like, no one’s home and this body roams all alone
with a ***** I’m a stoner, a postponer, ***** donor, out on loan
bought and paid for, caught with a lawnmower, impersonating a horn blower
like I was Gillespie at the Filmore, or Apollo theatre as a greater Walmart style
wearing a wife beater, not a reader, sort of a ******* not like Kim, more like
a mosquit-er drinking blood like it’s from a hummingbird feeder.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
cross-eyed puppy rottwieler
our bond of love is deep
because of his affliction
the ******* sold him cheap
visited the local vet
took the time and trouble
to make my doggy better
and stop him seeing double
i'll have to put him down at once
said dr fronconstevi
why? just because he's cross-eyed?
no,.... he's ******* heavy
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 1:08 PM UTC
Even if I never
write another piece
of my garbage that I call
Poetry
I'm still a reader of such
and stagnant pieces
are just a *******
for contemptuous lust
and soul *******
forms part of the Universe
as such
I absolutely refuse
to read something
Untitled
It ***** me completely
that you can sit down
and completely unload
Emotions uncontainable
Not just on a page
Ink veins open and dripping
but by making your fingers move
making your brain communicate
with extremities can be
exhausting
and still you lay bare
-
all your nakedness
and angst
and your happiness
wrapped inside sadness
and refuse it a name?
What?
You think after you've aired
all your ***** laundry,
hung your intestines
out to dry, as you stitch together
the cavity that once held your heart
It's okay to simply expel your breath
take a look at what you wrote
and call it Art?
Even though its nameless?
I call it irresponsible
to that which you gave birth
and left it rotting in the ether
with no title to ground it to earth
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 3:41 AM UTC
To the ladies who, thinking there to cute to break a sweat. A man gonna marry the worker, he'll just take your *** The one thats grinding in the perfect timing, he needs her. Pretty hair, nice skin, your just a ******* And she wants a man not a boy. If she wanted to play guys she woulda got a toy. She'll sit and listen, she ******* with your ambition, but ain't no accomplishing a mission, if you the ***** acting moody. Because your on the couch with the homie playing call of duty. Never neglect your she, use your patience remember not to lie. Men to the ladies, ladies to your guy, everything is about consistency, communication, and compromise.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
I walked down for my daily meal,
probably spinach salad
and yesterdays pork in a soup
and flesh on the brain stopped me
dead in my pace
when I saw this striated sack of bones
a greyhound, kept thin as ribs
by the genes she was bred to express
collapsed on the end of chain, tail-tucked
dead weight where once was thoroughbred speed
built for speed, life on the fast-track
chasing a mechanical sheep
a lure she’ll never catch
kept hungry
for the good chance she’d run faster
winning some beer-belly’s bets
but at least she was given a wage—
a crate, and all the food she’d need
to stay thin. when genes turned her
speed to the slip and sag of age
one ******* was human enough
instead of a quick slug pulling out her brain
through a new hole and pinning it to the dirt
behind the trailers, Beer-bellied *******
let her retire to an old-dog’s crate
plastic walls and one gate
Isn’t she beautiful??
I raise my gaze from the hound’s caramel eye
and find the thing clutching the chain,
grinning like hooks pulling cheeks
far too wide, with too much skin on her thighs,
a squat pile of woman bred on fatty beef and pecan pies
We rescued her, she’s our mascot!
and she hands me a flyer:
EDUCATION INTERNSHIPS
PUT YOUR LIFE ON THE FAST-TRACK!!
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:41 AM UTC
I live inside a small glass cage,
With plastic limbs and leaves.
There is no sun,
There is no rain,
There is no cooling breeze.
I'd love to go a courting,
But there's no one here like me.
My life began in a breeder's tank,
Never seen a real tree.
Probably wouldn't recognize one,
If it fell on top of me.
I spend my hours motionless,
Wishing I was free.
When I came here from the pet store,
There was another in poor health,
But he passed away the second day,
On an overheated shelf.
The Big Hand took his body off,
And left me by myself.
Huge faces many times my size,
Peer into my prison flask.
How nice for them; they're entertained,
But I am fading fast.
I'm just some human's knick-knack,
Inside my cage of glass.
I could have lived in a forest,
And climbed the tallest tree.
I could have had a girlfriend,
And made other frogs like me.
I could have eaten tasty bugs,
But it was not meant to be.
And come the day I breathe my last,
Inside this glassy wall,
They'll take my body out of here,
To the bathroom down the hall.
The toilet lid's my funeral bier,
And I will float in state.
The Big Hand will pull the chain,
And flush me to my fate.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
They say God’s got a girl for every man,
But where are You?
Will I meet you when I’m old and frail?
If so a dreadful waste.
Or maybe I’ve already let you slip
Between my fingers.
Fear of Commitment
Might have done its worst.
Ever the Lone Wolf
I seem to be.
A confirmed Bachelor
Running free.
My love of Star Trek says it all,
I’ll not be going to the ball.
The only ball I want to see
Is on Match of The Day: on my TV.
Seems I’ll never be a *******
Too busy being a reader.
More to the point I’m one of those Writers,
No time for those little blighters.
So I’ll soldier on each day,
Living comfortably on my retirement pay.
Writing my stuff and drinking my whisky,
Good luck to those who’d rather get frisky.
Paul Butters
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 9:02 AM UTC
Malik Maxwell: The leader of the Black Crime Syndicate. Malik owns a scrapyard. He is the love interest for Kenya.
The Black Crime Syndicate: A black criminal organization led by Malik. They are allies with the Jade Dragons.
Kenya Ayanna Night: An employee at the BNB Bank. Kenya is best friends with Jewel.
Jade: The leader of the Jade Dragons.
The Jade Dragons: A criminal organization. The Jade Dragons are allies with the Black Crime Syndicate.
Jewel Stonewall: She is best friends with Kenya. Jewel is the owner of The Golden Scissors hair salon.
The Golden Scissors: A hair salon owned by Jewel Stonewall.
BNB Bank: The bank where Kenya is employed at.
Edward: The owner of Club Envy.
Club Envy: A strip club owned by Edward.
Amber: The second in command of the Black Crime Syndicate.
Mecca: A high ranking member of the Black Crime Syndicate.
Phil: A high ranking member of the Black Crime Syndicate. Phil is a dog *******
Cherish City: The name of the city where the story takes place.
written by Keith Edward Baucum
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
any two people coming together can be a game/life changer
but without intimacy they are only like
a fish without water a bird without air
leaves without roots dreams without a dreamer
this dazzling carousel of constant stimuli
this attack of never-ending newness
that spins the world is the ******* of void
I dissapear from thought I dissapear from heart
I am just a message an unresponded voice
a poor sign without the depth of symbol
an avoided truth an impossible commitment
there is no time there is no space for giving and receiving
the most precious substance, our deeply lonely selves
the tears are helpless, here it is, have some void
it evacuates itself in language, oh, language games
played with much innocence, and eagerness
I contemplate the void in mesmerizing eyes voices words
taking responsibility for illusions the hardest bit
the body knows first about the danger left behind
by a theoretical love
only by entering the void I can feel it, oh yes
the ******* of emptiness is inside me, too
Jul 11, 2023
Jul 11, 2023 at 5:48 AM UTC
for the midnight reader
the bottom feeder
alien *******
that harvests anew
hybrids born in silent scorn
dna run askew
replicant son has artificial recall
dreams of freefall
into abyss
kiss me Rachel
hold me like you would
a lover
discover
that we are faded copies
of a once proud thought
a once original dream
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 12:49 AM UTC
Memory lane,
Why has thine own self been stripped from me?
Ripped from me as a lover to a train!
Kept a captor,
A Dreamweaver of a non believer of all your shame!!
Dissarayed unspoken vows go silent,
Displeasing displays of dreadful day's unfortunately stay violent.
A concentration camp for the next man ahead,
For the boisterous instead,
They save segregated seats!!!
No brocade to be handled,
No martyr's near by to that, that ride of fine scandal's!!!!!
A bonfire lit for criminal's,
Maximum turns to minimum,
Nothing stays clean,
All messages subliminal!!!!!
Restraints of rusted clasp,
Afraid of death,
That I am......
No newspapers, no printings,no blueprints,no plans,
How scandalized art thou type? A-way finger's!!!!
Where star crunches fill for Zinger's in a box of kited complaints.
Soo little seems faint in these computer ******* mammals!
You would swear their from below,
Diseased they breedeth, unfortunately grow!!!!!
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 8:09 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Across the front pages
It drizzled
He launched a big missile
That fizzled
From the repressed country
He’s chiseled
Down to the bone
Or the gristle
And it became a headline
Feeder
The man who they called
The Great leader
Who’s a half pack short
Of a *******
Finally has tottled
And teetered
Perhaps because of
His haircut
Some think of him as
A nut
Be that as it may
He’s the ****
International jokes told
You say what?
And were he ever to
Shed a tear
Many more would follow
I fear
From his frightened people
Am I clear
Even if they were being
Insincere
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2017. All rights reserved.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 10:37 AM UTC
Right handed
Adapting myself to the preferences
Heterosexual
Mate
*******
I prefer clockwise
I can get in tune easily
But I thought I had a rebel soul
I guess I shouldnt feel sad
for being in tune
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
I love to touch her, feel her heat,
Thick swollen lips, a velvet treat.
Wetness drips, her desire flows,
A plump peach ripe, her passion shows.
My fingers trace her warmth, her weight,
A grounding moment, a timeless state.
Hard as stone, my body yearns,
For her embrace, where pleasure burns.
Her **** glistens, kissed by spit,
A spark ignites, a perfect fit.
My tongue explores, her hips collide,
She rides the waves, a shifting tide.
Tiny circles, electric, divine,
Our bodies melt, our souls align.
Mesmerized by this blazing fire,
A moment of heat, raw and entire.
Jan 2, 2025
Jan 2, 2025 at 5:02 PM UTC
Bohemia
When will you be angelic?
When will you empty your graveyards and let your cities fill with the music of the ******
When will you sing for me, for you, for us?
For your children looking for God in the halo of a street lit drug deal gone bad?
For your forlorn lovers shooting up with sub-par sadness off the street?
For your crying, bleeding masses that scrape their knees ****** at rock bottom?
Bohemia
I'm addressing you, directly
Devourer of culture, ******* of pretense
Let they among you without sin be the first to burn
Hold you nothing sacred?
Have you not the decency to scatter your ashes somewhere clean?
Somewhere beautiful?
Somewhere perfect?
Bohemia
When will you learn?
Is there no context to your suffering?
Is there no reason for your guilt?
Is there no honor among street rats?
Where are you going with this, anyway?
Bohemia
I am not your prophet
Not your God or your king
I am your vessel
Speak your will through me
Bohemia
I need to feel it
I need to see it
I need to HEAR IT
For the mind destroyed by madness
For the heart shattered by shame
For the spirit, for the blessed ******* spirit
I need to HEAR IT
Bohemia,
Let me hear you
If you are outcast drawing the curtains on your insecurity
Let me hear you
If you are restless heart itching for the next sunset
Let me hear you
If you are just barely scraping by
If you are waiting for God to explain himself
If you are sick of sacrificing your mind to television screens
If you are just trying to make it in America without selling your soul
If you are broken, beaten, or damaged irreparably
Let me hear you
Let them hear you in the streets
Let them hear you in the grave
Bohemia
You are angelic enough
For me
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 11:23 PM UTC
Replaying what their saying praying they bring light to this white uptight insightful wannabe rapper
Cracking the code attacking the slackers taking wack swings trying to use the Clapper dressed dapper
Like Versace shoestrings singing like ODB making sure my breaths clean, it’s my upbringing two parent
Household got no gold but I make you mind blown rocking rhymes about frog and toad I’m road worn
And born weary love oregon’s rain, dreary love to read Beverly Cleary like Ramona wasn’t cheerleading
A future bare back ******* posing as a children’s reader more like a chicken head feeder yet sweeter
Cold toes in the morning gotta find a slipper pull up my cargo pants, can’t find the zipper feeling like
Jack Tripper …. its slipperier the slope to attacking Iraq with most black troops a whole new set of roots
The truth is uncouth like jerking off in a telephone booth *** shooting on yellow pages gobs coating
Everyones names strangers in cages with rage faces and misplaced hate…fucking ingrates –
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC