"caligula" poems
Jesus Christ, Lord Almighty
Expel my demons and watch them die with me
Satan Lord, Leviathan
Give my demons an interesting origin
Plague me with poets smoking joints rolled with rejected poems
Fill my thoughts with cockney accented thespians
Let them hold Academy award nominations from films long forgotten
Enthuse my self-destruction
Bring me goth kids brought up in wholesome homes
Bring me Art school students choosing to abandon their degrees
Bring me women aroused by smashed clocks
Bring me men aroused by awkward teenagers
Bring me Christians questioning their faith
Lord Almighty, God, Yahweh, Jehovah
Tell me the story of your disagreements with Vishnu
Let me see Moloch's disgruntlement and subsequent drunk and disorderly
Show me when Hera was seducing your nephew
Bring me into the world of the soap opera battles
Write to me Paris
Write to me Paris
I want to read your poetry
I want to read your mind
Sing to me Helen
Embrace me and we shall escape from torments
Heavenly and humane
We shall watch hipsters walk past us
Smoking Spirits and drinking poison berry teas
Let Adam grow disgruntled
Let children laugh
If, Lord Jesus, you grant me my wish
Send me a djinn with evil in his heart
Who's bound to be annoyed by my desires
Send me an ent to lift me above my world
Send me an elf to love me for all my time
Send me a mountain to travel over home
Transport me to Germany
Transport me to Spain
Transport me to New Zealand
Give me a free pass, one-way ticket to Darwin's islands
Write my story so that I collect new, unprecedented species
And devour the flesh of my find
Hide me in Antarctica with a monstrous creation of my own mind
Let me eat
Let me gorge
Then starve me
Show me Caligula
Show me Marilyn Monroe
Then leave me with Ed Wood
And force me to watch his films so that I may inherit my grandfather's fortune in comic books
Which, of course, will bring her to love me again
Oh Lord Jesus
Lord of Hosts
Possess me so that I may live again
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 4:56 PM UTC
.the moral obligation, to be cognitively dissident; which has to align with Heiddeger's da-sein at some point... a piquant fervor for reality as: static, yet at the same time moving in the realm of the Titans / orbs - time, is a concept that has to match up to the orbs... otherwise all this space... whatever the wind, the clouds... is just static... inanimate... time could only be derived from animate objects, which became subjects which became momentum... the rest, the rest is just space, and its excesses of the vacuous night... space became a probing mechanism, an investigative vector, posit, charge.
now you call me a germanophile...
like a Caligula or some
odd ****
kennts ihr selbst:
know your self...
which is a reflective form of
the reflexive Anglo
counterpart: yourself.
so i noticed...
whenever i become, really,
and i mean really reactionary
(not angry)
i tend to drift into
writing in my native tongue...
funny...
mother tongue,
fatherland...
but it's the opposite in Moscow...
motherland...
and the epitome
of the Cyrillic?
well... there was
a St. Cyrill...
but father-tongue just
sounds so ****** stupid
in English...
maybe in German?
vaterzunge...
well... sure as **** that
sounds better than mutterzunge...
but hey,
preferences preference preferences,
not everyone says: om, om,
ooh, chocolate,
when taking a bite of a ****
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
*oh you
body of a woman
you've cried in the dark to long
with your enormous thrilling charm
you
under my skin
with your blood thirsty neurosis
like a queer moon
begging to be hollowed out
slow and cruel, you begged
calling me sir, like that
your mouth gleaming wet
your eyes piercing like flashing cleavers
you groan wild
like a hyena on fire
leaving all sense behind
saying yes to my darkest of whims
and weeping echoes
darker
darker and darker yet
twist me in circles
and circles in circles
my soul a rioting expectation
she eats the backward apple
God knew you would
the sadist
good destroys
evil heals
you eat apples of sin galore
your **** puffs
a fluttering gate drooling
madness, all Adamite
an iron jawed angel
tides of panic in the dark
kisses that ground you down
paralyzed by the black pit
true will of desire
atavistic compulsions torrential
pain that makes beauty stunning
pain that hums
like needles and tongues
sliding curves
milk and blood
doomed by carnal opportunity
under leaves of darkening green
depth charge
shifting flesh
towards a swift arrow
i am a sudden storm
like Caligula's kisses
and you are absolute sacrifice
draped drooling
in heavens arms
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 12:24 PM UTC
I had just came
out of an AA meeting.
I looked to the
west, and spied a
mother cat with
a litter of kittens.
Little ***** of fluff,
running and jumping in
the tall grass,
unaware of the
danger that lurked.
A large black and white
Tomcat eased his way
up on one of
the kittens.
The tiny one arched its
back and hissed,
trying to be brave.
Male cats **** the
kittens so that
the female will go into
heat sooner,
and then he can
mate again.
He's a born killer,
living to ****
As I walked towards him,
I thought to
myself, why can't cats
be like penguins?
The father helps raise the
little ones, and they
mate for life.
Why can't nature
have morals?
He was nose to nose
with the baby, when I said,
"Go on, get out of here."
He walked slowly, and then
turned and tried to come
back toward the kitten.
I put my hand on
his side and pushed him.
I stomped my feet and he
sulked away for
the time being.
He'll be back.
It ****** me off
and made me sad.
I thought of Caligula and
Roman empires,
and felines of all breeds.
The *** drive,
human and animal,
has its brutal side.
May 17, 2021
May 17, 2021 at 9:31 AM UTC
Baby boy in baby boots
Ruddy reddened caligae
On ruby crowned Caligula
He fills the shoes
Red shoes, blood shoes
Blood boots, blood red
(Too red) too well
Grow into your boots
Blood boots, blood shoes
Silk shoes, soft sheets
My sweetest son in soldier’s clothes
In army boots, with baby’s blood
In baby veins, in baby boots
My starlit son the demon king
In purple robes, stained amaranthine
Laurel crowned on merlot hair
On baby's head with baby's boots
My withered king, my sweetest son
In little boots with a baby's sword
Made Rome as red as his merlot hair
And amaranthine robes
And ruddy boots
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
---
poetry. folded into my back
pocket dark garnet pages are
left frayed and friable like
leaves on the bottom
of a teacup
poetry. stancion of
formed glass emptied of
its torch by breakage
each shard a grain
of obsidian
sand
poetry. lamp of a great
beast structure struggling to
find its way through the labyrinth
Minotaur myths blackness
camera obscura to a feast of souls
who's meat is dusty tomes
skeletons in tombs
choking on their crusts of
parchment owls
poetry. oil of anointing
for to wrap the Christian
alive as he burns in
the garden of
Caligula
i am poetry. all of these
am i. a paper soul clipped
from an origami bird's wing
frayed like a homemade
leaf but never
empty
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
Perfidy and perfume,
Wars and well-being,
Caligula and Beethoven,
Buckenwald and the benign,
Slavery and Stars and Stripes,
Flags and fireworks and Jim Crow,
Lynchings and liberty,
MAGA and magnanimity,
Hate and love.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jul 15, 2023
Jul 15, 2023 at 10:20 PM UTC
Caligula, wise man of course,
Sought due promotion for his horse:
With no prerequisite debate,
The beast became a magistrate.
And then one day, without a groom,
He clopped into the Senate Room,
Followed beastly intuition,
Became an instant politician.
Without regard for poll or slate,
He soon demolished all debate.
And senators called out for more
When he did wonders on the floor.
With misdemeanor as the rule
He was a true unbridled fool,
Guided by a brute suspicion,
Stamping out all opposition.
He was reviled by common folk,
Democracy was deemed a joke;
To quote the ancient anecdotes,
He once said, "Let them all eat oats!"
Now that he's passed beyond declension
His legacy deserves attention:
Some politicians to this day
Still emulate the equine way:
They clop and neigh, they snort and roar,
There's always something on the floor;
They pound their desks, they're downright corny
Making all the issues thorny.
Don't wonder when they clown around
And seem so shockingly unsound;
Just trace the madness to its source:
Caligula adored his horse.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 5:50 PM UTC
there is much to remind yourself
of other's dazed concepts
like coming to terms
with your own madness;
The Smiths
and this cigarette
reading Life Alone
by R. de Ungria smashing
my head blood sprawling
across the page
blasting in my ear a fecund dark.
what am i to do
with a hand,
the spindrift by the sea
blowing against the windows,
with a thigh,
this palpable quietude
all mornings arrive
with a hatful of shadows
vulgarly obtrusive
with the night,
a den of thieves.
Caligula rearing the ******
to Nero, and I to myself
in front of the mirror
still
clawed by the same
beast maimed
behind the bush.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
no
I did not need a mirror to see my blood
deserting its own artery for another
nor did I need my flesh flaking
in the view of the public
at the sound of this name
or that
the quest?
I need it
to give my soldiers their Caligula
someone to follow to their death
with eyes tightly shut
and fingers clenched to their swords
a pair of cracked lips to sip wine with
from rusty pateras
in the early hours of dawn
before the enemy strikes
my hands?
oh, my hands are innocent
the left will caress young Jew hair
the right will carry on
playing Bach
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 7:18 AM UTC
patriarchy? am i really having this "talk"
in a bingo hall with the old ladies
and laddies?
i must be: something terrible has happened
and i don't want to stop the bleeding
of the punctured artery,
i'd prefer air-piano or air-drumming...
but from what i've seen,
and it was coming like a bowling bowl
in caligula's bowling alley of severed heads...
can i please wish denzel washington
the same illustrious career as a film
director as that, which awaited clint eastwood?
can i? patriarchy... hmm...
the society where man is the head
of the household...
oddly enough i share mutual respect
with my father, over nothing but him
allowing me to train the alcoholic,
he says: don't mind you drinking,
well, i do, but better you drinking than
smoking dope...
mind you: i'm functioning in my addition
and in what i subsequently do...
it must reveal me as a very stable drunk,
given that i can do household chores,
cook dinner, and keep my mouth shut...
and sometimes a mutation happens,
esp. if you've been raised by an alcoholic
grandfather from the ages of 4 til 8...
seeing your grandmother thrown through
a glass door with a broken arm...
what did i do in revenge?
puncture his bicycle wheel...
and there was this common thug-to-be
who deserved much attention
by the nick: ukraine...
thug of thugs, or there was hubert -
who's mother who drank enough white
vinegar till her stomach shrank and
she died from stomach shrinking contractions...
i trusted even the most vile of polish thugs,
but it was part of the tribe...
then came england and multicultural *****
whipping, sentenced to be among egyptians...
i don't exactly know who i am not
going to forgive, the society that made the ****
the way it made him, or whether the ****
himself...
nonetheless, you want a depiction of
patriarchy, i'd tell you to watch denzel's first
directorial effort in the film fences:
may he have the same illustrious career as
a film director, akin to clint eastwood...
pucker up with that plum shadow the next
time you attempt to "understand" man.
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 12:26 PM UTC
they say scents are the greatest mystery
that man leaves behind
that cannot rekindle a familiar nasal palette:
the slum scents of london in the 19th century
i can equate with a moscow-st.petersburg train
where a girl tried to worm-wriggle-out
of being designated serf beds near the toilets
with a pregnancy that didn't happen..
indeed the scents, the sardine choking
congregation of humanity in a crowded
underground train, where sweaty oil vapours
to clock the glutton of bulimia announcing
midday with regurgitation...
make each word an instrument, the vocabulary
an orchestra and each word a different tuning
to zigzag intentions not intended intentionally,
a noun acting as a verb, but esp. an adjective, etc.
indeed make your voice as mysterious
as scent... make it: vox est similis odor (notation
of the double emphasis, colon and italics
are a single ditto - " - make that doubly dittoed
and i turn to quadruple minding the worded affair);
and it wasn't because of the crucifixion
that a belshazzar moment didn't happened with nero
or caligula... it was the original musicology of
the roman notation that spared the keeping of the
letters and the loss of the numerals by invoking
arabic digitalisation akin of B and 8 that, simply
congregated... nonetheless...
let my voice be like a perfume, worn by those who
heard it, and a fetish for those who haven't,
not for some saintly or angelic ordinance,
but as a reason for who i once was among those
who wear it... and know the familiar humbling appreciation,
not this demoniac laughter with the foxes i had to
choose as home.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
Eat your Eton Mess
and all the rest
of the fattening food
you can fit into
your gluttonous guts
Make a display
in front of us
in front of them
in front of me
so we can clearly see
the greed of the aristocracy
Caligula would be proud
to join the ‘Hunt’
to find the fox
to feed the hounds
spattering blood
on red coats
all around
This ‘tradition’
is sedition
to the king of reason
and the queen of hearts
who rule these parts
Jul 4, 2019
Jul 4, 2019 at 7:17 AM UTC
It's in words, my masters' glory
Yet many think it's just a story
Inherit I, the sins of man
It's all a part of my masters' plan
To get the things I think I need
I'll cultivate the serpents seed
Caligula, the king of mayhem
Seek the good man, go and slay him
**** and ****** endless plunder
The righteous frown, they start to wonder
Is He there? Faith can weaken
That's the dark mans' flashing beacon
He works magic through the winds
Do you wonder how the madness ends?
It's in words, my masters' glory
Yet many think it's just a story
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
****
Just a word like any other,
you spew it into the dark air
and hope that it will stick.
After all, shouldn't we all
be marrying our high school sweethearts
and ********** in the dark
to settle into bone numbing
missionary pleasure,
just like the good book says?
And if you're not married,
shouldn't you be knitting
or biding your time
silently ************
in an empty house,
willing God to shut the **** up
as you ******
I'd rather be **********
in the moonlight,
in dimly lit offices,
on cliche sunset strewn beaches;
dancing naked in rivers
and sprawling over
sun-streaked sheets
ripe with leftover love.
Radiant heat seeps
from my wide eyes
to my long fingers
to my small *******
to the arch of my spine
to my uneven toes,
and, my god, isn't this
what it feels like
to be alive?
You can take your Sunday best
and your mewling children,
your whitewashed walls
and your plastic sofas.
I'd rather
be wholly, phenomenally
woman- shedding eons
of contempt,
laughing like Caligula
over the power that something
as simple as this body
that I carry around
can wield.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 12:49 AM UTC
I survived K-12 schooling
I read and researched a lot
I went to political meetings
I investigated social ***
I met with some politicians
And then sterilized my hands.
Anyone who has ever met them
Will instantly understand.
Then an idiot ran for office
And I told myself he wouldn’t win
And that was when I wanted
The Big Do-Over to begin.
Because that idiot was picked
To be the Mutton In Chief
When it was widely known
He was a serial adulterer, liar,
Cheater, embezzler and thief.
He immediately set about
Instilling high dollar nepotism
By using his offsprings as proxies
And promulgating social schism.
He thinks he is the role model
Everyone else should follow
When someone else talks like that,
He finds them hard to swallow.
All he really wants is worship
Because he thinks he’s a god.
He doesn’t recognize he is crazy,
He can’t see his behavior as odd.
He’s the modern-day Caligula,
But he won't accept that of course,
Even though he has appointed
Crooks that are the back of a horse.
So, let’s have a do-over now!
Let's put someone trained in place
Of an overdress orangutan
With an big fat orange face.
Let’s put someone in there
That is and intelligent human.
Oh, I have an idea, everyone.
Let’s elect to the job a woman!
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 1:48 PM UTC
When reality holds me, vice-like it
controls me,
I try to imagine I'm free of the bonds
like skimming stones on mill ponds
I skip,
stripping clear of some ego,
an ogre that only I know
I throw caution to the night and
take a trip through a limbo
that only I know.
Light flakes around me, like dandruff it
hounds me but it's part of the tour and
as the light dwindles it kindles another,
somewhere or other a butterfly dies.
My sanity slips out to scout up ahead,
better to be safe than be dead, although
I'm sure that will come in a tour for some
but not me.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 9:13 PM UTC
I try to take down my day
In a journal.
I used to use a
Purple book,
But that ran out of pages
So now I use my goldfish one.
It has a hard cover
Cerulean blue sea of fabric backing
And a goldfish
Embroidered on the front.
It has a drawing of a
Statue of Caligula
And an illustration of
A Terra Cotta Warrior.
But it has so much more.
If you flip to the end
turn a few pages
you’ll get to the start of
my second journal.
It’s written in black ink
Messy handwriting
And crunched form.
But it’s my own
And I treasure it beyond all others
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 9:22 PM UTC
i found a draft of a letter i wrote 5/2015
an embittered ugly facade covering a deeply hurting human. in this facade the wall looked like apathy and one day a crack appaered. she figured the best repair was debauchery- her hair was shorn and she lived like caligula. this only created more cracks among the buttresses. then you came. you knew how to fix the cracks and then
[fragment]
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 10:39 PM UTC
An extreme hedonist
Pleasure is the point
In all things
Be they love
Be they life
Be they war
It has a certain charm
And a certain grotesqueness
Or so I'm told
To seek pleasure
Over enlightenment
Over duty
Over all
So little pain
Except the fun kind
And
You can have all the starburst
You can keep down.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
What do I do now? I don't even want to think about it, think about
How my life is splitting apart at the seams and all of my panicked
Outcries are doing nothing to stop it.
Amazing, I think, that I've lasted as long as I have.
Maybe this is for the better?
I tell myself, but it tastes like a lie in my mouth.
If I cease to be Caligula, what do I have left
For myself. I am nothing, nothing!
Nobody truly understands that I am losing everything and am
Out of my mind with pain and fury. I can't stop
Thinking, why me? Why is it always me?
Can't I have good luck just one time? I'm not
Asking for much. I'm scared, no, terrified that my
Life is ending quicker than I ever anticipated. I wanted to die
Grandly, in a wild blaze of glory. Not with my whole life
Upturned, sinking slowly, suffering wildly,
Losing what I worked so hard to achieve,
And wishing I could go back and be great one more time.
Jan 4, 2025
Jan 4, 2025 at 10:36 PM UTC
We are numb in our tenements, the thick soot
Of prophesy makes a witch-hunt of the heart,
Shell-shocked by absurdity, while a Caligula tweets
That the empire is fully restored in his name;
We have only learned the sorrow of repentance.
The children of No Kingdom are seduced,
Their spirits hang in the citadel of limbo;
The elders are shattered by the state of siege,
As the edicts to the whispering fear
Make hysterical headlines of the idiotic.
Mobs praise the counterfeit messiah;
I pass these days in a monotone of tomorrows
Watching their parade to No Kingdom;
The angry kin of weary conquerors,
The worshipers of necromantic America.
Town bells of freedom rust in their towers,
To Bezer will swarm the great nation;
Pitiless slays the pitiful, the whole country
"A smoking, stinking garbage dump-
The fires burning day and night..."*
The eyes of my soul behold the native soil-
How they now cry with foul tears.
Exiled are the children of sad immigrants
From the gardens in the promised land,
Obese hatred scorns the starving refugees.
Citizen, our tribe is from the genesis of slaves,
Blood brothers from famine and persecution;
It is not enough to build a pillared temple
Just to hide in a sewer of dampness and worms-
Are we but the scavengers who remain?
How the spirits of the lofty statues
Are now homeless on jagged pavements;
The daily lies spread as the vultures feast!
What vengeance claims the coming age of man?
What vain electric offering to our empty land?
To those who **** with words and hateful ways,
In drunkenness they scuff the word of their god.
See them hoist their fascist salutes as the mongrel
Tweets from his rotten bowels to No Kingdom;
While burns our lineage to a poverty of ruins
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 2:05 PM UTC
Grannies backside in dark cloak
is always sweeter than the ripest
strawberries; got mayo on my chin
when the Irish girl walked in; she had
to *** I can smell her from here
where I sit eating her triple
fudge brownie & dreaming
it is her **** - - - I wish she were Jewish
& punk rock
so she could **** my ****
while nodding out in the restroom;
O so familiar a scene repeats itself
throughout history;
Nero had his **** ******
at regular intervals
& so did Caligula;
I wish she were Jewish & a beauty
like Queen Esther of Old;
Let's begin dancing & maybe,
maybe she'll saunter alongside our sway;
Now I know the mother of all identities ||
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 3:58 PM UTC
We are controlled by what we create
A vexing tool from a creator?--
I found my death-note in a bottle
Then, silently stabbed at Caligula's sea
Obscurity has founded me
All night, we danced with Death and all their friends
We reserved our table: Misfortune and I
To crawl, ever-lovingly into self-destruction
What fevered, feckless filth are we:
A brood of virulent vipers--
With cordial smiles masking our true nature
We stumble, backwards, into our very own traps
Volition is dead to us
Indulgent indifference will lead to our violent destruction
I have the mindset of 1,000 fools--
And, I deserve this...
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 10:59 PM UTC