"butchery" poems
Let us mine into the depths of Shakhty, and scorn the Western state of communist superintendence.
We are embroiled in a political and industrial conglomerate where cold wars lay the foundations of unstoppable monstrosities.
Converse with Andrei Romanovich Chikatilo, as you splatter milk across the surface of your psychological cereal, and raise questions around the episodic nature of criminal profiling.
I love the olfactory beauty of a railway station, whose stench is dissimilar to the pastures of raunchy and deadly opportunities which result in Rostov butchery.
Nevertheless, it is rooted in crop failure and the enforced collectivization of agriculture.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
world is a fallen butchery of meats,
spreads meat over and over
gives no names,
the meats smoke lives,
rot or dies,
other meats appear,
other meats rot and dies,
the meats spread out like a butchery,
the meats move and dies,
the meats rot,
or dies from accidents,
other meats appear,
other meats dies,
the world is a butchery of meats,
as do not know where to lean,
invents policies, policies,
is space arrangement of meats,
a place, a flesh meat dies,
there would be no policies,
many meats a place of dead,
but the world of dead meats
butcher the planet butcher dies.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 5:03 AM UTC
You don't much like me visits there
But scarce do you lament
For, I bring you home the finest cuts
To sizzle in the pan.....
The lovely ladies behind the counter there
One grin vies to meet me, all doe-eyed
If you knew she had a one-tooth denture
I guess you'd smirk away, ungreen ....
But I get the chops I want to eat
Nicely packed pink; no seeping blood
And succulent steaks indulged on me
Saucy supervisor slips me secret smiles.....
Hot and heavy glances jet my way
By sly lady-workers in the back row
When you turn your skeptic back
Regarded by none, but cautious me......
Cute cashier rises on fleshy thighs
Slow she sits; lets her skirt ride high
She eyes me hooded, lashes long
Then, downcast when you join me.....
Can feel the electric tingle from her touch
As I fumble redly, to pay the coins
Deliberate counting, her scent assails
Her hungry heartbeat..... oozing charm.....
But, for all the alluring looks and promising smiles
There's you, my love..... to grill my viands
And hardly home, I fall on you...famished;
Devour every morsel, shred and piece of you!
Star Toucher, 27 March 2013
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC
My body has begun its chorus
of holy fertile futures,
it was time to stop praying for the apocalypse,
we had begun to grow old.
This return to my oceanic blood
provokes ol' Sancho's proverbs.
I become a dreamer of goats all around
as I find our common nature
in the salty blood of the earth.
After so many years of gathering salt,
from youthful pupils
wild on becoming Oedipus,
I finally swallowed my heart,
-it had been leaping into other ribs
then panicking at the site of another cage,
and damaging the very thing that had become its home.
I decided I couldn't bear another ******
How did this need for love become butchery?
So, I recalled the ocean
the way the abyss gave life to my salty motion,
I've emptied my sorrow into the sea and became free.
Now, my heart swims in mortal infinity.
The apocalypse has come and gone.
My land has begun to sing with renewal.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
Perihelion days are here
Whale music and poison kitchens
From rainbows to shadows
This is the ripening
In a house of 1,000 rooms
A girl waved her finger to follow
But swaying her translucent dress
I saw the girl was hollow
Candles in the rain
Battles and butchery
Accidental intoxicants
Take your easel to the streets
Find another road
Avoid the body police
It’s a still world but moving mind
We all end up dead meat
I see them in a psychedelic state
But there’s no love
I met them in an overcrowded place
But it’s no home
Perihelion days are here
As the hours fill with nevers
This is the ripening
Fake flowers last forever
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC
Ask me what kind of **** I am into
And I will take you on a magical journey
To fanfiction dot com backslash Harry Potter backslash NC17
What turns me on is Ginny Weasely in the restricted section
With her skirt hiked up;
Sirius Black in a secret passage way,
Solemnly swearing that he is up to no good;
And Draco Malfoy in the room of requirement slithering in to my Chamber of Secrets;
I am an unapologetic consumer of all things Potterotica,
And the sexiest part
Is not the way Cho Chang rides that broomstick
Or the sounds of Myrtle moaning,
The sexiest part is knowing
That they are part of a bigger story;
That they exist beyond eight minutes in ***** ***** Gang Bang,
That their kegels are not the strongest thing about them,
And still I am told
That my **** is ‘unrealistic’.
Not quite as ****** as flashing ads saying 'just turned 18’
So you can fantasize about ******* the youngest girl you won’t go to jail for.
I’m told that my **** isn’t quite as lifelike
As a room full of lesbians begging for ****
Told that this is what is supposed to turn me on.
Don’t you give me raw meat
And tell me it is nourishment,
I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.
It looks like 24/7 live streaming
Reminding me that men are going to **** me whether I like it or not,
That there is one use for my mouth and it is not speaking,
That a man is at his most powerful when he’s got a woman by the hair.
The first time a man I loved held me by the wrists
And called me a *****
I did not think 'run’,
I thought 'this is just like the movies’
I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.
It looks like websites and seminars teaching you how to **** more *******
Looks like fifteen-year-old boys bullied for being virgins,
It looks like the man who did not flinch
When I said stop and he heard 'try harder’.
If you play-act at butchery long enough
You grow used to the sounds of screaming,
It is just a side effect of industry;
Everything gets cut into small, marketable pieces.
I will not practice ****** hands
I will not make believe dissected women,
My *** cannot be packaged
My *** is magic
It is part of a bigger story
I am whole
I exist when you are not ******* me
And I will not be cut into pieces any more.
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 5:42 PM UTC
The Flame of Blessing
America’s warriors face dangers untold in a country unlike our own where violent war is a way of life
In evils caldron that burns with natural order hate, teaching laced with poison and ****** is honorable
This can only thrive in a society that kills truth and then in falsehood their black robes invite all strife
Chaos butchery all manner of anarchy is used to try to subdue a people’s God given right to be free
Our troops in one way or another are set to burning Miss Liberty is in their hearts although latent
All that is needed to cause liberty’s flame to blaze is put these blessed ones in contact with tyranny
Every insult and criticism is leveled at the U.S. we need improvement but let evil show and be blatant
Ordinary kids from American streets will rise the last thing you will see is freedom blazing in their eyes
Black hearts are tuff pushing the weak and there fanaticism pretends at being brave every bully’s trait
These cannot be reasoned with madness has one cure annihilation this fight not for the faint hearted
The enemy needs a history lesson Tara, Iwo Jima; Omaha beach a brother hood reborn gun barrel strait
You posses by ideology penned by hell’s most convincing liar we come bearing truth then arms
God’s shadow first then Miss Liberty looms then the unquenchable prayers of a nation they pray for you
Peace, tranquility is worth our sacrifice you are left with a tattered rag a soiled flag marred by carnage
To bleed, true honor the making of a house of arms it will succeed in all war and conflict peace to accrue
We take God given might temper it with mercy and justice for all we are not timid in freedom’s fight
This is the my candle burning
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 3:18 PM UTC
painting is butchery
is beautification of breaths
as they bubble hastily out
sometimes mad
like suddenly breaking glass
or pond
sometimes springs
tinkling down stones
painting is thunder
slowly rising
or the perfect fury of it
I hesitate, stuck astray,
as the hues awaiting
wait
reap or harvest, must I burn or
decorate?
but, tentative, I breathe
inevitably on
and suddenly
it is all here
Mar 8, 2022
Mar 8, 2022 at 10:47 PM UTC
They squeal & shriek as they career down the hill.
Not because of adrenalin, seeking a thrill. They don't know of the impending ****
You see, they’ve never been in the back of a truck before.
Even daylight and the cool breeze is something new they regard with awe.
But prodded, pushed, poked; overwhelming! Terrifying is what it is!
Herded into the light and across the ramp with brothers, sisters, cousins.
No more the cosy family unit, they’re now just some of dozens… hundreds!
The only thing they’ve known till now is darkness warmth and a mother’s love.
And today, at just 4 months and a day…right for butchery - and suddenly a shove,
beaten… slaughtered, packaged, marketed, eaten!
There’s no realisation that this rude awakening, this beginning, is also…the end.
Their confusion is profound… No inkling… no message to receive or send,
that this first welcome breath of fresh air will also be their last.
But, having witnessed it , I’ve decided that I have a carnivorous past…
Et a partir de maintenant je suis végétarien!
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 3:06 PM UTC
Her hot breath bathes your bare chest in the warmth that nothing else can provide. One hand wrapped around the waist, legs intertwined, she sleeps, her gentle, steady heartbeat as infectious as any melody you've ever known. The only source of light is a flickering candle, casting dancing shadows upon the walls and ceiling. Discarded garments and drained bottles of wine litter the floor, the obvious aftermath of an evening quite certainly well spent.
The stage is set, and the actors are in position. The assembled crowd holds it's collective breath, both eager and fearful of how this tale is to end. As our two young lovers sleep deeply, the candle continues to fade, it's once exuberant and animated flame growing ever dimmer, until it fails in a sudden plume of smoke.
On cue, the comely lass springs to life, situating herself to straddle our poor lad. Her auburn hair falls to form a curtain around her suddenly nightmarish features. In one swift movement, she swings the dagger 'round and plunges it deep into his flailing torso. With sickening precision, she reaches in and forcefully removes his still beating heart. She makes her way to the door, the heartbeat fading to a gentle throb as she increases the distance between you, until it disappears into the cool night air.
The curtains fall. Applause. The audience departs, returning to their lives, unaffected by the passionate butchery they've just witnessed. The female lead goes on to enjoy the accolades and affection attended to shooting stars, as our unfortunate male is relegated to the role of bit player.
Oh, how I miss the days of dreamless slumber.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
The horizon lies asleep in a grey blanket
In a sea of myriad figures,
And an unimaginable silhouette.
The engineering of black feathers,
Sets ablaze hazy azure weathers.
The Art Decorates Towers,
Like giants with arms outstretched,
Look down commanding superiority
Over the volatile beauty of the wretched.
Who branded this Pandora’s Box to be garbage?
Stop turning your faces away
Like this is some butchery,
Or an abhorable carnage.
The dogs have repeatedly protested against the injustice
The heavy wind suppresses their voices and entices
A seduction of inarticulate silence.
Brothers who embrace us,
Have known nothing of such malices’.
Only the birds are left unenchanted;
Because they fly too high to be pervaded.
I hear children’s voices
And mothers’ too,
And taste the flies and insects,
And all the devils they shoo;
Because they understand not the complexities of a civilization,
They have never rendered their thoughts,
Never undergone no filtration.
The unconquerable spirit of this world,
Has made them savage,
Their claws curled.
In the heat, in the light,
In the plight
Which brings the cold night.
The sunlight here is too dense to penetrate,
Therefore it unabashedly spills over,
No opening,
Just a gateless emptiness on which to concentrate,
Lives and lives here,
Forever proliferate.
With none to remember their faces,
And no mortal soul to commemorate.
Dust settles upon the fingertips which talk.
This place is deemed unfit,
Unsuitable for a walk.
Yet birds, animals and humans alike,
Have stated their preference of what they like.
This land is perpetually theirs to ****
Passion resides here,
In this unintended landfill.
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 11:57 AM UTC
It seems, today, a peaceful place,
a sandy beach, a wine dark sea.
The grand assault, the thousand ships;
It rivals Troy in myth-story
.
Fate often hinges on one day-
the moment when the dice are tossed.
Here they breached the Atlantic wall
Here many a Mother’s son was lost.
One sixth of June was such a day.
And on that day the sea ran red.
Mine is a tale of butchery;
of many wounded , many dead.
One sixth of June, the storm now passed,
From out the fog, our fleet, they spied.
The heavy guns commenced to fire.
In a fearful rain of lead, men died.
What was in the souls of men
who breached the wall and turned the tide?
The Tommies and Americans
faced odds so close to suicide.
Some lived to tell of that longest day;
the sixth of June in forty four.
So many others fought and fell
and sleep in Normandy evermore.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
The boy-king wanted to incinerate
A fell and meretricious thryrus.
His grandfather would venerate
The same staff, terrified of curses.
His mother’d slandered the drunk god,
But regretting feckless blasphemy
She counseled them to spare the rod,
Until they heard the divine decree.
Once the summoned prophet had appeared,
Blind, and clad in a frayed, goatskin cloak,
The monarch sputtered “It’s cursed, weird,
And wrong, burn it down to ash and smoke!”
The former monarch begged, “Appease
Bromius with primeval rite,
A lord who smites his enemies
A lord too terrible to fight.”
The daughter next, “His worshipers
Run mad, and slaughter their own kin,
Even children. The god massacres
Those who dispute his origin”
The prophet lifted up the staff
And tore the ivy from its tip.
“Rites, massacres, don’t make me laugh,
And immolation’s sponsorship.”
He swung the staff to test its heft,
And said, “I need a walking stick,
The drunkard has no bacchics left,
****** the goatish lunatic.”
At this, the grandfather turned pale,
And the repentant mother winced.
Matched severity cannot avail
If fear and butchery convinced.
A proverb soothes the quondam king
And the dowager, “He frightens you,
But moderation in each thing,
And that in moderation too.”
Nov 1, 2021
Nov 1, 2021 at 3:33 PM UTC
the vivisectionist comes to call
when I am separated from you
his palsied incautious hands
removing the hours from my body
one
at
a
time
dragging his dull rusted scalpel
across my psyche
in his leaden deliberate pace
whistling
tunelessly
monotonously
in my ear
he will have no truck
with anesthetic
I am bathed
in the sanguine gore
of his butchery
which others mistake
for sadness
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 7:37 PM UTC
Ladies help define men to stride to be better,
And us men without our equal are prisoned in a soundless white room,
With sensation and voices dulled by empty cup.
The walk without the need to go places,
And the time stopped without her presence,
While searching for something tangible to grasp.
We men are mortified walkers,
Without a purpose or cause,
And lambs of the butchery robbed of shepherds.
We need our guidance,
Soul stone of our pathway.
The woman of our lives are our equal,
The voices where men can have sanctuary,
Our inner solidarity and piece of solice.
They are our inner home,
Our kingdom of fortitude,
The fortress of our essence.
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 10:22 PM UTC
you would think that to-day
was the only day to shop
there were hundreds of people
in every one of the shops
one could hardly move
up and down the supermarket aisles
because all the aisles
were crowded for miles
it was elbow to elbow
in the shoe store
one had some difficulty
getting through the doors
at Wade Street butchery
the customers were crammed in
we were like a shoal of sardines
in a John West tin
why everybody wanted
to be out shopping I'll never know
you'd thick that there no other
days of the week in which to go
from here on in shopping
on Mondays won't be happening
cause the crowds of people
made me feel like screaming
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 4:23 AM UTC
Tribute To The Fallen SAF
Woe to troops of bemedalled cops
Ill fated elite forces, they were the tops
Uniformed men, well trained and bright
Braved the stillness of the cold night
Sneaked through the forests deep
While rebels dozed off to sleep.
Heroic mission to the jaws of death
Men unfazed went in glorious treat
Walked straight to the enemies' lair
Before the break of first dawn flare
Under cover of the pitch dark night
Unbroken, unyielding, all set to fight.
Two terrorists to neutralize or slew
Anti terror raid ordered to push through
Gallant men unswerving in their pursuit
Display of valor, in dispute be resolute
Onward with brevity,victory almost at hand
Foes' enclaves were quietly overran.
Rebels alerted to sounds of gunfire
Drew up arms going haywire
In salacious and murderous frenzy,
Engaged the intruders in butchery
Moro rebels' treacherous cry
Avenge the terrorists slay try.
Valiant ones mercilessly felled by bullets
That ripped through their souls and bodies
Eyes stared up the skies to God be plead
Last dying wish be home with beloved
Heroes' blood splattered on the ground
Pain and death in glory were in rebound.
Silence pervaded the blood bathed marshland
Their sacrifice to nourish dear motherland
Woe to the gallant men who fought and died
Gave up their lives in the name of peace and pride
Woe to a people who revere, sorrow they cannot hide.
Woe to a nation that grieves over its fallen men.
Delilah Causin, Feb 3, 2015
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 2:40 AM UTC
The dogs and the men
they bleed into the fields today.
The primal is protected with tradition
for the blood magistrate and bared teeth.
For the hoards,
who’s cider ice lollies dribble into tweed.
Snuffed Wellys suffocating in Jempson’s bags
pressing their crescent moons
into ****
Iris flash, fast peristalsis of air
on both ends of the trumpet today.
Screaming brass.
War only requires one note remember.
One long note
orchestrated by children’s fingers
lifted to the butchery song
releasing the blood-cell men;
the forest’s traitorous antigens.
They are there to nit-pick the trees.
A mercy killing, without a wall.
They should have had a wall
and they tell me
my morals are sickly.
My sensibility is held up with gum.
So pound that war drum.
We’ll bite the backs, tear the scruff
like some death mother to them.
For the runners and the watchers
olympics needed prey aspects
to keep it going.
Teach your children to need that itch.
To save each and every Sunday school *****
from her husband’s boredom
and her children’s boredom
and all the things you notice when you can live and eat
this side of your living seat.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
These whispers, loud and aimless, brave in the face of these constant disgraces. I rise. I repent. I revise. I repeat. An overcast reflex, we think without thinking. We dream without blinking. Night terrors substitute the delicate playgrounds buzzing through our skulls. Empty; dull. We breathe because that’s what we’ve been told to do. Extrovert disguises; we have picked each piece from the magazines. Taped together. We don’t smile when we’re alone. We are the future of this decomposing planet; a disappointing chasm. Brain cells loosening. Reproducing in lethal amounts. Suicidal enterprise, we interpret the sunrise as nothing more. Rise and fall. Sage and menthol. We try so hard. We try too hard. Fit the pieces a part from the puzzle. We are original. We are cynical. We are the dirt that clings to the underside of your haggard boots. We are what’s left of the future. The delay of smoke, the substance crawling out of the ashtray. Images to uphold and characters to promote this reception of embarrassment. Holding hands/thoughtless/decisions. Carnage with intent. A breeding ground of meaningless *** Ride the wave and bow your head to the prisons we’ve built to enslave our inspiration. Words pour out like ***** on my bathroom floor, a little to the left, unexpected sentences tangle together. Forming fiction. Resistance is all I have left.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 2:03 PM UTC
I've gone two ways.
Not left nor right.
Split me down the middle.
I'm due pride, I'm due light.
You've cut me in ways.
The night with its tallons and teeth couldn't rip clean.
You've gutted me worse than WWII infantry on the beach.
I've been here before. It's a steep road to slaughter.
Gore immune, take me to the seven hells.
You've put me through butchery, what worse could you do?
Take me back this curse you'd undo.
With it comes demon come Craine.
This heart, trust and love.
Forever to tame.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
HIStory So White
I'm so sick and tired of hearing about HIStory and its butchery.
It's like every time I go online I'm clicking on what reveals another lie.
Another untold fact.
Another white-washed tale.
Another brother or sister's story to which they said, "What the hell, it's just another ***** Who they go'n tell?"
But that's not what they teach us ****** today
Or the rest of the world
And they smile in our face like its all okay.
History so white, man.
HIS story SO white!
But it simply doesn't add up when we all know this nation was built off the Black man's plight.
By virtue of the blood sweat and tears we poured into this land we took what we were given and molded it into minds of business and healing and growth.
But HIStory wouldn't let you know.
They saw our creativity and ingenuity and either claimed it as their own
Or conveniently failed to mention us for so long
Not giving credit where it's due until you and your whole family's dead and gone
It's 2017 and we still don't know what REALLY went on.
So no, I can't trust this place.
Not with me and my people.
This U.S.of A. That's supposed to be breaking race
Boundaries
But it seems to me we take a step forward and two steps back
Why are our prisons filled to the rim with Blacks?
I wanna trust you, America. I really do.
But you aren't giving me much to work with.
I know there are worse places to be.
Honestly.
But I don't always feel like THIS place is for me.
Like, its not always also MY land of the free.
28 days of hollow black reverence doesn't do me much of a service
Besides a reminder of how much you deserted US and OUR histories.
Cause HIStory SO white.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 1:07 AM UTC
THE JUNTA
Once, a very long time ago
You truly understood our woes
Your youthful energy burned bright
Promising to deliver us from limbo
Indeed, a welcome beacon in the dark
Maybe it was the lesser evil
For surely, the corrupt regime had to go
In crises like those, sacrifices had to be made
So we dutifully turned our backs
And let the blood flow
For a while, you were the ideal leader
Our dear and beloved liberator
The butchery forgotten, tranquility returned
Success for all was certain
The fruits of democracy as we know it
It was all too good to be true
Murmurs of discontent flared
Pertinent questions arose, zero answers came forth
The leader had lost sight of the noble goal
Democracy was a mere mirage
Injustice of all forms is meted out generously
****** and gore freely roam the streets
Empty pockets stare at us mockingly
Tears stain our cheeks
We call to the government in vain
So here we stand once again
Swearing that the correct regime must go
More than ready to sacrifice
But the blood.Oh God!the blood
Let blood not flow...
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 8:33 AM UTC
Butchery of emotions
through a lancet of
eyes,
cost a lot; promise me
that you'll never
pay the cost!
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
A bag of melancholy emotions collect
within empty features, secluded & vacant.
No tears ever weaken this collection
of barren reflections.
Only whispers escape, soundless gestures.
It collects from distressed abrasions,
to smear upon its outer visage.
Always motionless it wonders the
surroundings to celebrate the humour
of its desolate existence.
A child wonders closely, asking if
this creation of lost collections is in
need of chloroform smiles.
it looks and hands a rose,
its leafs embers of its mourning.
Smiling, this miniature silhouette,
slashes out at the one who parented it.
Cleaving what was smiles,
now carved features smear a face of
sullen smiles, as like the petals falling lifeless.
Tears flow like rivers, the contortion of
happiness fades when the last petal erodes
a motion under hidden gestures facilitate
this happiness to see such butchery of innocence.
But it is short lived like always, paper frowns collect.
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 3:51 PM UTC