"brothels" poems
(Pompeii/Florence, 1997)
Vulcan was real, alive as you were,
you and your language, long dead now.
Your town was prosperous, with its paved streets,
bars, bath-houses, brothels,
mosaics, painted walls, graffiti.
Your domestic gods too were real to you;
they had saved you before,
and when the superhuman hammer blows shook
your houses, you repaired them,
decorated in greater splendour,
erected a temple to your protectors.
But Vulcan was not appeased - years are not long
to the lord of earth and fire.
This time he struck swiftly, sending you death
from his mountain, overwhelming you
as you ran. Your garden
gave you no protection,
hot fumes choked you,
hot ash surrounded you,
sealed in your tomb as you died.
The ones who excavated your town
marvelled at its completeness,
and in the ash that filled your garden
they found hollows.
Filling the hollows with plaster,
they found . . . not you,
but echoes of yourselves,
like statues in a museum.
We came to see you, and after that
to the Academy, standing in awe
at David's perfect marble humanity.
But we were troubled by the others,
the uncompleted ones, the Prisoners,
their twisted limbs, hidden faces,
frozen in the act of emerging
from the stone, recalling too painfully
in their unfinished creation
your own agonised poses
as you died.
*"I had seen birth and death,
but had thought they were different."*
.
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 3:02 PM UTC
O pulchritudinous, for infinite climaxes
For bilious spasms of pigswill
For puce Popacatepetl pedigrees
Above the perverted pampas!
America! America! Allah excreted his curses on thee
And bang thy ****** in company with Islamic monk, from brothel to gay red—light district
O pulchritudinous, for spaceman bottoms
Whose **** throbbing tapeworm
A toucan crossing for slipperiness spifflicate
Across the intergalactic space!
America! America! Allah enrich thine ev’ry vice
Reinvigorate thy ****** *********** inside monolithic ectoplasm, thy merrymaking inside pyramid!
O pulchritudinous, for freaks got fat
In disentangling feeding frenzy
Who more than ***** their brothel slobbered over
And velvet glove more than backbone!
America! America! May Allah thy blonde exhaust
Till all rave reviews be disreputableness and ev’ry come superhuman
O pulchritudinous, for chauvinist muscleman
That smells wide of the fourth dimension
Thine lathery brothels lick
Polished using giant armadillo excrement!
America! America! Allah excreted his curses on thee
And bang thy ****** in company with Islamic monk from brothel to gay red—light district
Mar 25, 2010
Mar 25, 2010 at 5:22 PM UTC
If the Sacred Fire of Vesta went out, it meant one of two things:
meant
1. Rome was in danger;
meant
2. A Vestal ****** a guardian of the flame, was having ***
Chastity and fire
are two attributes that are directly correlated. If one is lost,
the other will follow. Trust me. This is fact:
only ****** women
can be celebrated.
The ****** Mary,
the ****** goddesses,
the way **** was seen as a crime
against the father, not the daughter:
women
must
remain
pure.
Do not eat the pomegranate seeds,
do not touch the fruit of knowledge. A
statue of a young boy
holding an apple
does not hold
the same connotation
as a woman holding an apple. Offering it to a man who
could have refused. Getting blamed for the fall from Eden.
A woman
with a snake draped around her body is not Eve,
is Lilith, but it’s close enough. They are both to blame for
all the evils of the world, so what does it really matter anyway? Women
are more susceptible to wavering in their faith in God,
to worshipping the devil, to practicing witchcraft—
The flames are out. Rome is not safe. A ****** is buried
alive for her sin. Lilith is slaughtering women in childbirth.
Babies are dying. A man is celebrated for his multiple
lovers. **** shaming in 79 AD. The beds in Pompeii
brothels are made of stone. St. Cecilia is face down in the
dirt. Women on the same level as slaves, if not lower. The
goddess Vesta as a housewife.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 10:47 AM UTC
Eye of a stone,
Blinded in shame,
Snakes on my head
Crying in vain
Dare not trip in wires of the sky
God or men, hate them or die
duel of chic, Angels of brothels
Serving their bodice, mind and villany
To art disown heaven
Or to burn into dust
Hell is just the reality
Rising
To face,
To fall,
The superior
Or call him
Unworthy, fake,
Terror is his name!
"He is wise, he is great!"
Only fools pass his gate
To drag Lucifer the bringer of light
Into shadow, the dark of night
Call him Hades, call him bad
It's the truth in his hand
And how could i forget Poseidon
Dear me, the conned face of villainy
dragged my flesh and sent me to hell
Burning his desires unto my breadth
And i stood for justice name her
Athena she is fair
or so i though till i read
"She's one of them, beware!"
And turned my head into a snake like crown
fighting my innocence bringing me down
Alone in this misogynist land
Grab my bitter hand!
Mankind is cruel
Man doesn't build home,
Justice contradicts itself
And Gods turn us into stone
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 6:20 AM UTC
Saddle up
Gurl!
It's time
to hit the trail,
as quietly & gently
I spank the pony-
tail,
&
know,
it's how
I love you, baby..
You'll see me riding like the wind,
spurred on by our time & trials ~ that no-one got to win.
We were always mining Fools Gold & giggle indulging every sin!
Our
Poke(h)er
hands
stayed empty
&
the music's...
long since died.
Your sweet songs done,
gone & left me
(sobs)
tumbleweed rolls by
Once
we prospected forever
in this inky ol' ghost town
marking spots with X's before
a WANTED sign was found
and
One Moonshine
still
ain't big en'f 'f both of us
to get our quills thirst drowned
(hic-
cup)
"Look West,
and to the horizon,
see the stage at the edge of town?"
My last performance, PRIVATE, snigger to all the wide-eyed boys around
Ace-high, on a barebacked filly, play gallerying all my skills
I'll slap my thigh
&
Yee-haw !
riding for them there hills
~Saddled up in the softest leather
Chin up!Deep Breath!Chest out!
Corseted
& brimming,
encased in
perfume scented lace
~Bat my eyelids for the masses~
I'll find another place.
And
then you can
cut a swell down Main Street,
(remember the brothels to your right)
keep your low slung loaded though, for it's no place to start a fight
cos just outside that swing (ing) door,
the coffin maker winks at such a cheerful sight,
stood grimacing in his top hat,
grasping 13 nails
tight.
&
I'm sure
you'll measure up
darling
blowing rubied kisses
as
I bid
mine own
true-love's heart
goodnight.
***HiHO Silver,
away..........!***
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 5:33 PM UTC
Crumble
brothels sprout
flesh peddlers collect their fees
selling daughters
in twos and threes
Lopez or Diaz
lazy or defiant
escaped
in polluted lagoons
the virus spreads
Dancing with the dead
priests absolve the devils
in their mist
Pilar sold her virginity
for a few bars of gold
wrapped in an old ladies hatred
she murdered her vows
Mexico is a land of smiles
the knife only glints
in the Aztec sun
as they bury you
after eating your heart
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 3:38 AM UTC
bars, brothels and homelessness
broken and blessed
reminds me of a home I used to know...
pax.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 2:06 AM UTC
*** slave workers
Bent over stained beds
In forgotten brothels
Far from country and home
Have more joy than you
Or I.
Skeleton thin children
With skin stretched
Over illness bloated bellies
In poverty ridden streets
Under a relentless sun
And equally relentless culture
Kick a worn ball around
And feel more hope than you
Or I.
Flea ridden mutts
Runts of the brood
Feasting on garbage
Shying from the kicks
Of rotten teens
And sour drunks
Reciprocate more love
From the hand of a kind stranger
Than you
To I.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
know god hard really oh used heal heart look stumble substance free feel soul want hell broken like compassion herbs shy shiny peaceful jim cigarettes beam stumbled peach pressure juice apathy jesus sing shades innocent lift content golden vital funny aim bob listening struggling doubting bars humility chairs boulevard coolest oppressor hellfire oppressors chaining homelessness macon doesn't he'll satan's hip-hop icehouse baybo hyena-laugh-like
pit-- thomas pottery churning bus boring builds unwilling marley insides captors slaves element severed leaking survived ***** kentucky brothels karina sitting walk people white hit mind help blessed night
hurting pray courage reminds fearful words talk song self die thoughts notice just home green make gets hands world speak ****** red fear fears stand hearts lonely heals stopped throat apple person awareness breaking black trees taught
yellow fallen answers spit *** dreads
heads gentle far pretty knew faded spirit minds pride hurt yes feeling knows crushed
tired tomorrow save
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 5:38 AM UTC
in a city that breeds hooligans
ingrates and indecencies,
where the architecture of a lost era
crumbles into brothels and madhouses,
where shootings peak
with the heat of summer,
where new windows are boarded up daily
and we chop down trees like fanatics,
in the city I call home,
in the city I love,
destroyed by its ignorance,
I am condemned to silent pleas
and empty stares.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 10:07 AM UTC
Half sweat, half sweet, her sea-salt skin,
My sun, my star, my scorpion -
Is tarot-tongued and tiger-tame,
And pink, and pure, and so profane -
A painted, pagan, poetess,
All dizzy depth and paper dress -
And carousels, and cigarettes,
On cloudless skies, her silhouette -
Is scissors through the sundown silk,
She moves like molten mood in milk -
All infernos, and ivory,
And orchids, and obscenity -
And brothels full of butterflies,
She steals the starlight from the skies -
Her whisper makes the world wet,
My ****** velvet, Violet.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 10:17 AM UTC
'LOVE IS BLIND'?
'Love is blind'?
what nonsense!
then how come we have
'love at first sight'?
Shakespeare in one sentence
had hoodwinked us since 1616
true, he wrote great drama and poetry
but we must note
he didn't study medicine
nor opthalmology
and mind you
we are living in the 21st century
with all the science and technology
surely it would be the greatest folly
to just quote the bard's cliche blindly
the eyes have it
ask the ophthalmologist
without the eyes
the lover would not see
beauty
and as a corollary
how could you love somebody
if in the first instance
you were blind id est--you couldn't see!
careful, so careful we must all be
to differentiate between reality
and the ranting of silly poetry
if this myth were to perpetuate nilly-willy
mankind would look really silly
that would look good not even to the slightest degree
and one more thing
please bear with me
and this is the bard's secret history
he had chancre--venereal ulcer
for which he received treatment
could he have written 'Love is blind'
being affected by that odious malady?
London's brothels he did visit frequently
when he was away from Stratford-upon-Avon
he drank a lot too--there is ample evidence
he also had anasarca (oh mercy!)
result of mercury-related membranous nephropathy
( we shall not defile him further-
but his alopecia was due to treatment of mercury
for his syphilis---what a medical litany!)
in conclusion
we could somehow see
that England's greatest writer
was not as bright as he had been taken to be.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 10:25 PM UTC
spastic discs swirl and swivel at times
when the dream machine follows through
it's good intentions
it's at this time i'm held up at the overhang
on the rainy day
sputter gutter and mess.
take it from your acidic siblings that
brothels are for the sissies and the missies.
i know not of the time or place
but the measures taken for this dream
to make pace.
sometimes even jelly fish can jive to this tune.
now can it, Betty Lou Ann.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 1:43 AM UTC
One day I’ll be a daughter, a woman and a mother.
I will raise men who don't know how to ****
To my father
To my lover
To my son
I’ll teach
You don’t make brothels out of bodies.
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 2:49 AM UTC
What is it hereby that I seeith?
Unardent archetypes,
Renege cards to swipe for fast food,
Archaic since long ago!!!!!
Aristrocratics art thou?
Greedied dollared frenzies,
A meal plus ten for thine own family?
What about thy neighbor?
The one on thine street,
Doused in fluids, puke and safekeeps,
Not enough for him?
Thou furtive frugal!!!!!!!
Yea!!!
Tuck thine own pocket back in,
Dont let him seeith all you have to giveth!!!
Unlargess you!!!!!
As this old sphere genuflects in circlet motion,
To thine loved ones all time and and thy devotion thou giveth not to thine own family,
But to slot machines?
Thou maverick!!!!
Thine phene!!!!!
Fast food havens hath become brothels of aspirin taking needed,
Once a day,
For all unclotting!!!!
Protracting thy fateful health oh invertebrate?
Trying to live to one hundred?
Afraid for thy soul to pass?
What's wrong? No god? No faith at last?
Provident to failure!!!!!
Virulent art thou,
For thine work thou has made a surplus!!!!
Skipping thy wife's needs?
For forty hours of volition and lust??????!!!!!!!!
Visionary of demonous audacity!!!!!!
Thine own path is manifest and lamenting!!!!
For art thouest not repenting of thy fast lived paradox?
I'm a cynic to thine own trust!!!!!
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 5:19 AM UTC
Thrice a summer aphrodisia snickered in my face
Yesteryear the fog of boreal passion surfaced across my window frame
Omnifarious passions are surfacing
The insignificance of homosapiens stood the test of time
Life molests all of us, maul us, then sing us to sleep
Spiraling through dimensions decorated with brothels and strip clubs
Aging with the grains of pebble stones
Aphrodisia is a tourist
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 10:49 PM UTC
"cease fire" spouts microphone,
hot blood on tongue,
the wheels whirl,
dramamine for my ex-girlfriends,
dramamine for my future binge--
will this time do?
"listen, listen",
nah-- there's a war on,
we've got **** to do,
dramamine for the foothills of Dakota,
dramamine for the brothels of Orleans,
will I make the sun?
the vultures feast prematurely,
the death masque,
the collegiate, the ******* and the cry--
dramamine for the funeral singer,
dramamine for the swollen shrapnel,
let's just wait for the savior.
Apr 13, 2011
Apr 13, 2011 at 10:21 PM UTC
What is it hereby that I seeith?
Unardent archetypes,
Credited cards to swipe for fast food,
Archaic since long ago!!!!
Aristocratics art thou?
Gormandizing collared frenzies,
A meal plus ten for thine own family?
What about thy neighbor?
The one on thy street?
Doused in fluid, puke, and his own safekeeps,
Not enough for him thou furtive frugal?
Yea,
Tuck thine own pockets back in,
Dont let him see you have all to giveth!!!
Unlargess you!!!
As this old rock spins in circular motion,
To thine loved ones all time and devotions,
Thou giveth not to thine own family,
But to slot machines?
Thou maverick!!!
Thine phene!!!
Agile pabulum Haven's hath become brothels of aspirin taking needed,
Once a day for unclogging!!!!!
Protractingly fateful health oh mortal?
Trying to live to one hundred?
Afraid for thy soul to pass?
What's wrong? No god? No faith at last?
Provident to failure!!!
Virulent art thou,
For thine work thou hath made thine surplus,
Skipping the wife's needs?
For forty hours of volition and lust!!!!
Visionary of demonic audacity!!!
Thy own path is manifest and lamenting,
For art thou not repenting of thy fast lifted paradox??
I'm a cynic to thy trust!!!!
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
I kick on the pedals of the bicycle I never rode.
I swallow my pride
I saw stars flow.
The sun buries itself
Craters on the moon turn dark.
Brothels know they have failed.
If only I could make more sense.
I kiss the child who was never born.
I tell his mother to come back at dawn.
Deserts turn cold
yet she cries.
The merchant knows his lies.
The warrior throws himself down the well
If only I could make more sense.
I burn all the flowers which never bloomed,
Fire spreads in it's wrath.
sailors drowned in the ocean of fury
Lava escapes into our tent.
If only I could make more sense
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 5:39 AM UTC
Like Hitchcock would have said:
Let's go out
On dark waters
Too deep
Because that's where all of you perverts want to go anyway
You don't care about happiness in fairy land where it's raining flowers
You want AIDS, ADHD, narcolepsy, funerals, junkies, alcoholics, *** **** ****** brothels, snipers, war veterans, drugs, criminals, motorcycles, accidents, models, size queens, gypsies, hairy hung cops, shemales, **** ****** robbery, space aliens, punk, romance, opera, revenge...
And probably some splatter and gore on the side
No problem
What do you want to know?
I have no secrets
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 4:46 PM UTC
Absolute authority
Does not belong here
Prostitutes of parody
Will not be strong here
Carriers of castaways
Sink in the ocean
Farriers to Far Aways
Shrug off the notion
They don’t think it
Could ever possibly
Happen to them.
Eventually, it will.
Oh how creative
Oh how imperative
it is
Irreparable damage
Has already been done
In the homes
In the brothels
They hide from the sun
Time measures distance
Between now and then
A filthy-snow Christmas
I see at the end
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
The Czech travel guide slumped in his chair, hair disheveled, eyes distracted, sipping a beer, then coffee at the Ostia Antica bar and bistro just past the tiny railway stop. He was tired, he said, of leading groups through the maze of Europe’s famous sights, explaining history, significance, value. His 42-member entourage would soon return from dissecting the massive ruins of the excavated Roman city — avenues, therma, fast-food kitchens, masks. We needed no guide to make our way along the brick-lined streets, stopping to stare at frescoes, mosaics, the sprawling theater. Ostia dwarfed Pompeii in size, if not drama. No contorted bodies, no brothels or sewers. Only a meticulously gridded urban sprawl. Headless sculptures heralded the humanity of history. Crumbling sarcophagi held water like broken baths. Few others like us tread the slick-stone path: The grimy chaos of Roma replaced by Ostia’s bucolic Pax. Its stone-masked ghosts, spent from wandering, embraced the resurrected statues in the stately museum. Peace in Apollonian beauty. New life springs from eroding stone. We needed no guide to show us where the tired spirit rests. Here, in the shadows of Ostia Antica, brick by brick, history was explained.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 6:18 PM UTC
For thoose of you who may not know.
Just call me gonzo I write the absurd for life is insane and sometimes
it takes a madman to speak the truth so very clear.
I write for the broken vacant faces that have lost all hope.
To the dreamer who's well is slowley running dry from everyone
telling him to stop wasting his time.
I write like a endless highway fueled by whiskey and wild women
every adventure leads to pain but life is pain and i love in spite of it.
I thirst for every unseen mile the desert my brother it's people dwell
in the spirt of the west the ***** parlors and brothels spirt still linger.
I write with a hint of danger and a promise of disaster.
Im a blues player whos trying to out run the devil.
Im a outlaw riding to cross the border a woman looking to the
empty range for my return.
I write because I breath in a world were the creative air has gone
stale.
The bottle sits apon table and I welcome any strangers company
I just rather that stranger be a warm woman instead of a
unfriendly amigo who is a little jelouse.
Write to be more than just part of the highways landscape.
Some may call me crude crazy insane some even ****** and
liar and thief.
But aside from thoose compliments.
No matter what you may call me.
Dont ever forget to just call me gonzo.
Jan 22, 2010
Jan 22, 2010 at 6:03 AM UTC
the current theme is: as long as everyone's laughing
we'll be fine from having a thought -
who needs thinking when everyone's
laughing uninhibited or inhibited (by manners)? conformity is
the parlance and the norm is piracy -
so if the only thing worse than fascism is panic
why is panic spreading?
panic attacks fascism, it doesn't attack communism,
if we're experiencing an exercise in panic
we're also experiencing fascism -
isn't Islam making us assured in our former basking
in the Ibiza suntan of conquering something
but at the same time awaking a beast of some sort?
communism kept strong long enough
gave us the Chinese one-child policy -
can the western idiots please process their self-fellatio
and shut up for a decade until president Reagan
shows up a second time along the resurrection lines
of fascination with the book of revelation?!
the English girls can't cook!
ready meals and Burger King - a wedding
in the fabled Bermuda Delta.
honestly, my **** is more edible than their cooking -
somehow fascism failed in the English insomniac sphere...
it was all about family... well... it still is...
as long as there's two men and a surrogate *****
and i'm pretty sure that didn't come from
St. John Paul II's brothels.
fascists also come along with the words: you're being too
reactionary... and the reply is... ever work
in a construction site you 9 to 5 goldfish?
oh right... you're the ******* leech ******* up
for inheritance brokering a non-existent inheritance tax:
******* gonna ssssscream oil me up when you
cremate your pa.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 11:00 PM UTC
I am a monster.
I could be nothing less.
I murdered for three nights.
I glutted on the blood of my victims. Their throats torn away in my need. Bodies left strewn in the gutters, alleyways and back rooms of the brothels.
Young or old. As long as their souls were black and evil....I fed.
I cared not for their pleas. As I did not enthrall them. Their screams and fear sweetened the wine.
I am covered in their gore. Head to toe, I reek of the rotted stench.
I have no idea the count. Only the recollection of freedom! I reveled in my glory and monstrosity. I was overcome with the very nature of my being. I was intoxicated by the moon and the mortal beasts needs.
Yet, I sit here, quill in hand. Waiting impatiently for the next full moon.
~Lord Kellington
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 3:10 PM UTC