Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
"castrated" poems
Municipal Gum was written by Oodjeroo Noonecaal. Municipal Gum is about the changes in society and the tendency of people to want to control everything. Oodjeroo uses various techniques to convey this idea. At the beginning of the poem Oodjeroo is addressing the tree. This immediately creates empathy for both the tree and her people. By the last line she has emphasised this with the pronoun “us” to show that they suffer a similar fate. This poem expresses how life in Australia has changes especially for Aboriginal people. In the first half of the poem Oodjeroo is talking about how life was for her and others. It explores the changes in society and the displacement of the Aboriginal people from their land. “Whose head hung…Its hopelessness”, the author uses this as further re-iteration of the immorality of the situation and by the use of analogy comparing the tree to her people to further emphasise the shame and lack control of that the Europeans have inflicted upon her and the environment. Oodjeroo uses extended metaphor technique in the very first line of the poem ‘Hard bitumen around your feet’. This means that the gumtree has been placed in the city scape where it is suppressed and not allowed to spread out and be unique in its own way. This is clear and immanently direct link to the pain and suffering endured by the Aborigines post European settlement. Oodjeroo uses vivid language to present these ideas. For example the use of the word castrated is very effective. The connotation of the word is very demeaning. With castration often comes a sense of a loss of pride and power. The word castration is symbolic of how Oodjeroo feels the European have treated Aboriginal people and the environment. Castration also refers to the fact that what is done is done. Nothing can undo what they did and the damaged they have caused. Other symbolism includes the title “Municipal Gum”, municipal meaning community, implies that the gumtree belongs to the community. One of the vast differences between European and Aboriginal law is that Aboriginal people did not believe in the ownership of land or of animals and plants. Municipal Gum is a reference to the Europeans assumptions that everything is theirs to own and control. The rhetorical question, “O fellow citizen, What have they done to us?” is the conclusion of the implications that have been made throughout the poem. Oodjeroo, is advocating for her people and all things wronged by the controlling behaviour of the Europeans. Rhetorical questions are used to provoke thought and to stimulate a pre-determined response. “What have they done to us?” They have “castrated, broken… strapped and buckled” and ultimately changed things to a point that they cannot be fixed. In conclusion, Municipal Gum is a poem about the constrictions and change that the European invaders forced upon the Aboriginal community and the environment she believes that the Europeans have deemed themselves ever powerful and practice their power in a manner that is immoral.
0
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
Municipal Gum
Municipal Gum was written by Oodjeroo Noonecaal. Municipal Gum is about the changes in society and the tendency of people to want to control everything. Oodjeroo uses various techniques to convey this idea. At the beginning of the poem Oodjeroo is addressing the tree. This immediately creates empathy for both the tree and her people. By the last line she has emphasised this with the pronoun “us” to show that they suffer a similar fate. This poem expresses how life in Australia has changes especially for Aboriginal people. In the first half of the poem Oodjeroo is talking about how life was for her and others. It explores the changes in society and the displacement of the Aboriginal people from their land. “Whose head hung…Its hopelessness”, the author uses this as further re-iteration of the immorality of the situation and by the use of analogy comparing the tree to her people to further emphasise the shame and lack control of that the Europeans have inflicted upon her and the environment. Oodjeroo uses extended metaphor technique in the very first line of the poem ‘Hard bitumen around your feet’. This means that the gumtree has been placed in the city scape where it is suppressed and not allowed to spread out and be unique in its own way. This is clear and immanently direct link to the pain and suffering endured by the Aborigines post European settlement. Oodjeroo uses vivid language to present these ideas. For example the use of the word castrated is very effective. The connotation of the word is very demeaning. With castration often comes a sense of a loss of pride and power. The word castration is symbolic of how Oodjeroo feels the European have treated Aboriginal people and the environment. Castration also refers to the fact that what is done is done. Nothing can undo what they did and the damaged they have caused. Other symbolism includes the title “Municipal Gum”, municipal meaning community, implies that the gumtree belongs to the community. One of the vast differences between European and Aboriginal law is that Aboriginal people did not believe in the ownership of land or of animals and plants. Municipal Gum is a reference to the Europeans assumptions that everything is theirs to own and control. The rhetorical question, “O fellow citizen, What have they done to us?” is the conclusion of the implications that have been made throughout the poem. Oodjeroo, is advocating for her people and all things wronged by the controlling behaviour of the Europeans. Rhetorical questions are used to provoke thought and to stimulate a pre-determined response. “What have they done to us?” They have “castrated, broken… strapped and buckled” and ultimately changed things to a point that they cannot be fixed. In conclusion, Municipal Gum is a poem about the constrictions and change that the European invaders forced upon the Aboriginal community and the environment she believes that the Europeans have deemed themselves ever powerful and practice their power in a manner that is immoral.
Continue reading...
9
Original French Dictes moy ou, n'en quel pays, Est Flora la belle Rommaine, Archipiades ne Thaïs, Qui fut sa cousine germaine, Echo parlant quant bruyt on maine Dessus riviere ou sus estan, Qui beaulté ot trop plus q'humaine. Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? Ou est la tres sage Helloïs, Pour qui chastré fut et puis moyne Pierre Esbaillart a Saint Denis? Pour son amour ot ceste essoyne. Semblablement, ou est la royne Qui commanda que Buridan Fust geté en ung sac en Saine? Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? La royne Blanche comme lis Qui chantoit a voix de seraine, Berte au grand pié, Beatris, Alis, Haremburgis qui tint le Maine, Et Jehanne la bonne Lorraine Qu'Englois brulerent a Rouan; Ou sont ilz, ou, Vierge souvraine? Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? Prince, n'enquerez de sepmaine Ou elles sont, ne de cest an, Qu'a ce reffrain ne vous remaine: Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? English Translation Ballad Of The Ladies Of Yore Tell me where, in what country, Is Flora the beautiful Roman, Archipiada or Thais Who was first cousin to her once, Echo who speaks when there's a sound On a pond or a river Whose beauty was more than human? But where are the snows of yesteryear? Where is the leamed Heloise For whom they castrated Pierre Abelard And made him a monk at Saint-Denis, For his love he took this pain, Likewise where is the queen Who commanded that Buridan Be thrown in a sack into the Seine? But where are the snows of yesteryear? The queen white as a lily Who sang with a siren's voice, Big-footed Bertha, Beatrice, Alice, Haremburgis who held Maine And Jeanne the good maid of Lorraine Whom the English bumt at Rouen, where, Where are they, sovereign ****** But where are the snows of yesteryear? Prince, don't ask me in a week or in a year what place they are; I can only give you this refrain: Where are the snows of yesteryear?
0
9.4k
Ballade Des Dames De Temps Jadis (Ballad Of The Ladies Of Yore)
Original French Dictes moy ou, n'en quel pays, Est Flora la belle Rommaine, Archipiades ne Thaïs, Qui fut sa cousine germaine, Echo parlant quant bruyt on maine Dessus riviere ou sus estan, Qui beaulté ot trop plus q'humaine. Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? Ou est la tres sage Helloïs, Pour qui chastré fut et puis moyne Pierre Esbaillart a Saint Denis? Pour son amour ot ceste essoyne. Semblablement, ou est la royne Qui commanda que Buridan Fust geté en ung sac en Saine? Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? La royne Blanche comme lis Qui chantoit a voix de seraine, Berte au grand pié, Beatris, Alis, Haremburgis qui tint le Maine, Et Jehanne la bonne Lorraine Qu'Englois brulerent a Rouan; Ou sont ilz, ou, Vierge souvraine? Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? Prince, n'enquerez de sepmaine Ou elles sont, ne de cest an, Qu'a ce reffrain ne vous remaine: Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? English Translation Ballad Of The Ladies Of Yore Tell me where, in what country, Is Flora the beautiful Roman, Archipiada or Thais Who was first cousin to her once, Echo who speaks when there's a sound On a pond or a river Whose beauty was more than human? But where are the snows of yesteryear? Where is the leamed Heloise For whom they castrated Pierre Abelard And made him a monk at Saint-Denis, For his love he took this pain, Likewise where is the queen Who commanded that Buridan Be thrown in a sack into the Seine? But where are the snows of yesteryear? The queen white as a lily Who sang with a siren's voice, Big-footed Bertha, Beatrice, Alice, Haremburgis who held Maine And Jeanne the good maid of Lorraine Whom the English bumt at Rouen, where, Where are they, sovereign ****** But where are the snows of yesteryear? Prince, don't ask me in a week or in a year what place they are; I can only give you this refrain: Where are the snows of yesteryear?
Continue reading...
59
Paul Johnson was a mad psychopath. He had killed hundreds of women in his life all by himself. He never used any tools to **** He barehandedly killed those women. His ex-girlfriend was the reason why he killed. She had ran away with his brother leaving him hurt so bad like crazy. His ex-girlfriend was a beautiful blonde. He chased them for years. When he found them he brutally killed them. He mutilated the poor girl into little slices. He beheaded and castrated his brother. Then he cast their remains into fire. Ever since then he had never stopped killing. His victims were always women aged between 25 and 30. They're always blonde and blue-eyed. He strangled them all with his hands before he buried them in his basement. One day he mistakenly killed a brunette who was wearing a blonde wig and . He was so startled that he stopped killing and soon after hanged himself His mother was a beautiful brunette.
0
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 8:09 AM UTC
The Psychopath's Atonement
when i want inspiration to write poetry i watch a heaving tempest of kisses they have a better flavor than cooking shows what's prettier than pretty pretty in pigtails shaking her delicious derriere whipped Soufflé? i'm kissing butter princess witchy ****  spread lickity splits eating her with a big wide **** eating grin like an open face dagwood whats more poetic than that hopeful glaring of Adonis's plumper in paradise filling Cleopatra's slathered meringue? ga-ga-ga-gag me, daddy merciless, pa-leazze fluttered big wet talking eyes like pools of blue honey getting it zigged zagged hard against a redraw mouth throttling fluted gullet while eager throat gasps a symphonic music of the spheres in relentless staccato chokes lovin her big devil **** splashing all gym built wonder-boy a litter of ****** and tongues licking pig greedy rapturous milkshake waterfalls whimpering mmmmmm oooh big daddy oh my ****** god pillar of colossus you Tunisian donut you pierce me like a spoon through summer guava who screams like that eating lunch but a half ate apricot? better than a football game I'd rather take her greek more fun than math or small talk preferable to a pat on the back at work or a ridged procession at a funeral oh beautiful dark fig squatting crotch candy bubbling tapioca *** queen of spun sugar ****  all pyrotechnics and fluttering sinews if you asked most do they watch **** they'd grow smug like a senator or punch you in the mouth outwardly high-minded refusing the blessing of a video **** parade of pirouetting vaginas and glistening areolas for the glory of the secret ************ ceremony the *** moralists only good for a secret ****** living their lives with passions submerged and nothing to confess except for guilty offerings as they wander through dreamland shopping malls wanting to know Victorias ***** little secret seduced but not caressed by a mouthpiece for castrated dreams
0
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
****
when i want inspiration to write poetry i watch a heaving tempest of kisses they have a better flavor than cooking shows what's prettier than pretty pretty in pigtails shaking her delicious derriere whipped Soufflé? i'm kissing butter princess witchy ****  spread lickity splits eating her with a big wide **** eating grin like an open face dagwood whats more poetic than that hopeful glaring of Adonis's plumper in paradise filling Cleopatra's slathered meringue? ga-ga-ga-gag me, daddy merciless, pa-leazze fluttered big wet talking eyes like pools of blue honey getting it zigged zagged hard against a redraw mouth throttling fluted gullet while eager throat gasps a symphonic music of the spheres in relentless staccato chokes lovin her big devil **** splashing all gym built wonder-boy a litter of ****** and tongues licking pig greedy rapturous milkshake waterfalls whimpering mmmmmm oooh big daddy oh my ****** god pillar of colossus you Tunisian donut you pierce me like a spoon through summer guava who screams like that eating lunch but a half ate apricot? better than a football game I'd rather take her greek more fun than math or small talk preferable to a pat on the back at work or a ridged procession at a funeral oh beautiful dark fig squatting crotch candy bubbling tapioca *** queen of spun sugar ****  all pyrotechnics and fluttering sinews if you asked most do they watch **** they'd grow smug like a senator or punch you in the mouth outwardly high-minded refusing the blessing of a video **** parade of pirouetting vaginas and glistening areolas for the glory of the secret ************ ceremony the *** moralists only good for a secret ****** living their lives with passions submerged and nothing to confess except for guilty offerings as they wander through dreamland shopping malls wanting to know Victorias ***** little secret seduced but not caressed by a mouthpiece for castrated dreams
Continue reading...
79
What’s more depressing than darkness, More shameful than a golden fool, As hopeless as a castrated bull, As frustrating, as a stalemate, in chess?
0
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
Outcast.
I am a lovesick puppy. Wanting so badly, to let my nose rest on someone's *** and stick my tongue in their stinker. Aren't we all lovesick puppies? don't all our fingers smell like the unloading dock where we were first castrated?
0
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 9:32 PM UTC
Women. Love. Puppies.
Teasing the beast Looking for a feast Hounds barking at our ears Vultures flying up ahead Circling a bald eagle's fresh corpse Compartmentalizing symptom after symptom To hide the great systematic sickness Labeling the suffering, outcome from desire We, wholeheartedly accepting being Appropriated, labeled, discarded As construing our own oppression and sadness Enduring the **** of our minds Being castrated of our consciousness Before we reap the products Of its bold liberation and grandness Its the belly of the beast And its hungry Insatiable, amoral entrails Hoping to salvage a feast From the casualties of d(e)moc(ratic) wars Hoping we feed our monstrous fear Thirsting for the greed Dripping off of accumulating wealths Impatiently waiting, we keep parceling out grudges Disfiguring our minds, our souls, and our bodies Its misanthropic nature lashes out without conscience Knowing we'll never realize we are masses Disappearing the individuals who realize their suffering Ensuring there's no collective opposition or action Trying to reassure we are weak Knowing at some point or another We all act mute, deaf, and blind when anyone experiences: Oppression Pain Silencing **** Hunger Fear Violence Repression Retaliation Discrimination Torture Negation Alienation All forms of mental, psychological, physical, and spiritual mutilation Fearing death more than fighting for necessary abolishment Preferring to live out our veiled miseries Endorsing their continuance Instead of risking our lives for everyone's liberation Always ensuring the feast of the beast By its very efforts trying to decree our very human nature Ingraining greed, fear, animosity, and weakness as if inherent of us All parts of its most damaging weapon: the seed of discord Its implantation, a socialized deep desire for self-preservation Sheep bleating painfully toward our ears Vultures flying up ahead Circling a bald eagle's fresh corpse Signifying the impending recapturing Of our true transformative desires
0
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
Rescuing Our True Transformative Desires
Teasing the beast Looking for a feast Hounds barking at our ears Vultures flying up ahead Circling a bald eagle's fresh corpse Compartmentalizing symptom after symptom To hide the great systematic sickness Labeling the suffering, outcome from desire We, wholeheartedly accepting being Appropriated, labeled, discarded As construing our own oppression and sadness Enduring the **** of our minds Being castrated of our consciousness Before we reap the products Of its bold liberation and grandness Its the belly of the beast And its hungry Insatiable, amoral entrails Hoping to salvage a feast From the casualties of d(e)moc(ratic) wars Hoping we feed our monstrous fear Thirsting for the greed Dripping off of accumulating wealths Impatiently waiting, we keep parceling out grudges Disfiguring our minds, our souls, and our bodies Its misanthropic nature lashes out without conscience Knowing we'll never realize we are masses Disappearing the individuals who realize their suffering Ensuring there's no collective opposition or action Trying to reassure we are weak Knowing at some point or another We all act mute, deaf, and blind when anyone experiences: Oppression Pain Silencing **** Hunger Fear Violence Repression Retaliation Discrimination Torture Negation Alienation All forms of mental, psychological, physical, and spiritual mutilation Fearing death more than fighting for necessary abolishment Preferring to live out our veiled miseries Endorsing their continuance Instead of risking our lives for everyone's liberation Always ensuring the feast of the beast By its very efforts trying to decree our very human nature Ingraining greed, fear, animosity, and weakness as if inherent of us All parts of its most damaging weapon: the seed of discord Its implantation, a socialized deep desire for self-preservation Sheep bleating painfully toward our ears Vultures flying up ahead Circling a bald eagle's fresh corpse Signifying the impending recapturing Of our true transformative desires
Continue reading...
60
If only I could write you  a poem From a music perspective I'd scream all day that I hate that I love you. I'd smoke **** get really  high Numb my days with morphine and totally blackout If only I could write you a poem From a death perspective I'd remind you of dreams Strive for what you believe in give a **** and for as long as you are alive never say I wish i knew If I write you a poem From a poet perspective I won't tell you that my heart is broken I'd say Its been wrenched Castrated, It's an empty weight It has been ruthlessly devoured If only I could write you a poem From a love perspective I'd argue that it's only a feeling that needs more analysis It's the only acceptable form of insanity globally
0
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 1:32 PM UTC
If
Priti Patel's quote on EU migration - whatever it was... list of common surnames: cropper, cross, crouch, dabney, dalton, daniels, eads, easton, eccleston, fairclough, farnham, fay, gardner, garey, garfield, haight, hanes, hailey, ibbott, irvin, isaacson, jack, jackson, jacobs, kay, keen, kelsey, lacey, lacy, lamar, macey, mann, marchand, neal, nelson, neville... sure pati japati patel - i'll be an albino in Gujarat if your play the sitar in a sari; but your name sounds a bit migrant revealing, what a weird 'back of the bus' you seem to stand on - you want the Mongolians resurrected? i swear we were being ousted in line of what Queen Sheba said to Solomon: 'olive skinned throughout the geography and the unwelcome green men on sponged-knickers creaming for an ****** a french dessert...' yes pretty prior, you found home on a continent when half of the european nations didn't practice colonial antics - i guess it's easier to pick on them. but with a Patel surname you sound british already, the great experiment worked the anaesthetic of former colonialism numbed via recreational Ketamine use really numbed the skull and jaw mandibles - i hate, i hate being conscripted into post-colonial affairs of "why it all failed" what a waste of the urban hubs of Manchester or Liverpool - where once artistic expression thrived - i hate these post-colonial societies, it's as if they were castrated en masse, and they're wondering why no one has a permanent suntan in scandinavia - maybe the raw herring diet - cinnamon up your *** magician's trick with space between fudge of digestion, disappearing trick but then the cough that blinds you sweetly - i guess post-colonial nationalism wanted to listen to non-colonial nationalism - a former migrant like pretty plated smell olive skinned exploited inversion of angers but dunked a footstep into a trip-up with non-colonial nations - a bit like the greek bail-out - pretty patel is a name least likely associated with migration; you teasing the beast out?
0
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
hey pretty plated smell!
Priti Patel's quote on EU migration - whatever it was... list of common surnames: cropper, cross, crouch, dabney, dalton, daniels, eads, easton, eccleston, fairclough, farnham, fay, gardner, garey, garfield, haight, hanes, hailey, ibbott, irvin, isaacson, jack, jackson, jacobs, kay, keen, kelsey, lacey, lacy, lamar, macey, mann, marchand, neal, nelson, neville... sure pati japati patel - i'll be an albino in Gujarat if your play the sitar in a sari; but your name sounds a bit migrant revealing, what a weird 'back of the bus' you seem to stand on - you want the Mongolians resurrected? i swear we were being ousted in line of what Queen Sheba said to Solomon: 'olive skinned throughout the geography and the unwelcome green men on sponged-knickers creaming for an ****** a french dessert...' yes pretty prior, you found home on a continent when half of the european nations didn't practice colonial antics - i guess it's easier to pick on them. but with a Patel surname you sound british already, the great experiment worked the anaesthetic of former colonialism numbed via recreational Ketamine use really numbed the skull and jaw mandibles - i hate, i hate being conscripted into post-colonial affairs of "why it all failed" what a waste of the urban hubs of Manchester or Liverpool - where once artistic expression thrived - i hate these post-colonial societies, it's as if they were castrated en masse, and they're wondering why no one has a permanent suntan in scandinavia - maybe the raw herring diet - cinnamon up your *** magician's trick with space between fudge of digestion, disappearing trick but then the cough that blinds you sweetly - i guess post-colonial nationalism wanted to listen to non-colonial nationalism - a former migrant like pretty plated smell olive skinned exploited inversion of angers but dunked a footstep into a trip-up with non-colonial nations - a bit like the greek bail-out - pretty patel is a name least likely associated with migration; you teasing the beast out?
Continue reading...
50
I heard my song on the twisted radio. It sent me on a path that I didn't want to go. It rang up my past of hate and deceit. Sad song of yesterday gone down in defeat. It ***** through the straw of castrated demands. The beat of the drum plays in the band. Put in my place from every note played. It's the last song I hear, I don't want to stay.
0
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
Twisted Radio
Forty days and Forty nights Kachina dolls danced pounding deer skin drums rattling snake gourds whistling circles of flustered chicken feathers and totem poles around the drooping firmament here and there wisps of sunken chested, shrunken breasted castrated clouds dragging their empty rain barrels could be seen straggling across heat infested waves at times I swear I could hear the wind cussing through dry crackling branches Pine wearing wide brimmed straw hats squabbling with over bleached blond Palms How we languished and thirsted for the dulcet, pure, pellucid taste of Your crystal kisses lavender squeaky clean smell of rain-bells oh! to feel those torrents gushing down our upturned faces, slicked back hair, engulfing our flowering ***** drenching us to the bone then this morning we heard an unfamiliar sound fairy feet tap-dancing on rooftops excited I ran outside crowing the Gayatri mantra flapping prema pink wings waddling like a duck in slap happy puddles Yes, Dear God a grateful, thankful swan, gossamer reflection glistening fervently up at You from diaphanous depths inexhaustible wellspring diamond spa of Your Love Hari Om Visit my author's page: https://www.facebook.com/sairapture amazon.com/author/sonyatomlinson and my website: sairapture.com
0
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
Raindance
Scars will be scars, the ones left untouched, the ones left unharmed. The wound has healed, the time has sealed, yet the remnants remain still. The broken past: fraction, fragment, fabricated; solemn, dark, barren. captured, cultivated, castrated. emotionally torn, physically torn, psychologically sworn. (When will the bird fly, up to the sky, freedom beneath the size of the azure limitless dye). We find comfort in sorrow, fulfillment in hollow, but emptiness continues and follow. When will the shadows ever stop linger, slipping and interweaving between my finger. (One day maybe good news will come from a harbinger). Light is what I need, smile is what I seek. Happiness is what I have to lead, even with this little heart which is meek. (One day) I will fly, the cages will stop stifling me by, although it is hard to try, (One day) I will survive.
0
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 11:20 AM UTC
Timetravel
Nightfall, through the door, Bedsprawl, a ritualistic bore. Movements, they're oppressive. Actions, they're aggressive but his eyes, they're depressive. Our synthetic connection and self-hatred is created with projection and misplaced indignation. There is no love in our heads, no lust in our beds. The fear of emasculation and eternal damnation hides all self-loathing with boasting and congruent clothing. My Y was castrated. I'm a ****** from the womb. I'm Female, for unsated gloom  my X is berated. I'm named a disgusting mutation as he projects his deveation onto the population. When his shameful "pride" has diminished, I know our joyless formality has finished. He doesn't sit in the pew, yet he stands in the aisle, locked in a prison of denial. Tough and brisant, trying to be what he isn't. He walks out like a ragdoll, his steps aneurysmal with alcohol. Beside myself, salty tears act as an anaesthetic, the antonym of emotion. An apathetic ocean. I clutch my centre, the daunting tormentor. Impregnation is a STD, an infection, an infestation. Glue for our miseries to undo our joys. Merriment induced torment, fidelity induced gaiety
0
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 8:03 AM UTC
An (Ex)-Friend of Dorothy.
Unmanned, like a bull bereft of all; a flaccid decoration without use; at least if thee had what I have thou could be a woman; ****** hiding your treasure for marriage and hypocrisy. And leave me with empty decoration; rings without sense, dresses without purpose. Go about your business thou say I want nothing to do with thee now; yet not a month ago it was all Peggy this, Peggy that; such are the changes of the seasons. I do not want to give birth to an empty ache; wet nurse it; teach it its father's worth; I cannot tell the ache how we loved, how we met, how we joyed. I cannot sit round this mughouse days and months I must out into the world roll in the smell of Man again with a jug of ale in one hand and earning a stony crust from some wight with a jangling purse. And forget the bull that was castrated.
0
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 1:23 PM UTC
The Quaker Bear
To the other guy I only have five things to say to you. 1. The ring on her left hand doesn't mean she was playing hard to get. You thought you were winning her heart yet you're just a champion of second place. You gave your whole heart to a woman who only finds you good enough to give you half of hers. 2. If her love was a diet, you would be nothing but the cheat meal. You're like the slice of chocolate cake in the fridge; she has to sneak around at midnight to indulge, but wouldn't dare eat it in broad daylight. 3. Her daughter now looks at her with the same teeth-gritting, gut wrenching disgusted look that a Muslim has towards a pig. You came in like a wrecking ball and wrecked the first home she was proud of building. And you weren't even there to help pick up the pieces. A man like that should be castrated, but you'd need to grow a pair first. 4. If something is broken, you fix it. You don't destroy it. 5. I'm talking to you, because I wanted you to realize all that you destroyed without even thinking twice. I wanted you, the man in the mirror, to see what your selfishness selfishly took.
0
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC
The Other Guy
All those little trinkets, bracelets, rings and even a boombox, that he had others bring to me, They were all stolen goods that vexed people would come and claim back time after time. I never had the heart to tell him to stop. He reminded me too much of a stray cat who’d finally found a temporary home, where he would bring tributes to his mistress feet. When I asked him what he was doing sleeping outside my front door. He blushed and mumbled, that he would protect me from bad guys who could break in and steal me away. How crazy and scary of a notion was that? And yet.... He made me think of a dancing bear who finally could scent freedom without chains. The day when they came to take him away. ... I tried to tell them that he would never hurt me. That he merely collected broken shards of scattered treasures that deep inside him spoke about who he really was, before the drugs castrated his future self. Later... When going through the rubble he left behind, I found the glimmer of a hauberk forged for an Avalonian knight.
0
Jun 26, 2022
Jun 26, 2022 at 10:56 AM UTC
Avalon (k)night
I sit here Desperately soaking up Whatever information I can find I can dig up I know that I am not meant To be doing this right here, right now Yet I continue I hope that I can take in all of this That I can find whatever Little bit That will help to stop the slight shake *Take away the coldness Of my fingers* In desperation, I look up similar incidents That have occurred and I try To figure out If there is any end to this sheer insanity A reason for which This cursed world doesn't deserve To end tomorrow I search, I search, I surf Trying to find some information That tells me this world Is not as cursed as it appears to be *My fingers are still cold They're still shaking a bit* I am still shocked I might just be panicking a bit All I want right now Is some solution Some answer To these rapes that have occurred I want to be blind again I don't want to know That these dumbfoolishdisgusting men (creatures) felt that that woman deserved it I need to know that this isn't some god-complex I need to know that deep inside no one wants to protect them I want to see them castrated, locked up, executed I need them to be done away Because they need to be made an example of Women cannot step out of their houses Without being terrified I am tired of controlling my fist When someone suggests it was the clothes they wore That that is what attracted them I can't stop the shaking That is attributed more towards anger Than anything else I need something done Our pity won't bring her shattered sanity back It won't make her ready to trust Any man ever again Our pity marches With candles and tears in our (her) eyes Will not make her feel anything but disgust (hatred) Towards herself **A shattered mind, An injured body, A broken trust** She has lost these things And they They just seem bent On blaming it On scraps of cloth *(are you ******* kidding me?)*
0
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 4:34 AM UTC
Anger (inspired by the rapes that occurred in Delhi, India)
I sit here Desperately soaking up Whatever information I can find I can dig up I know that I am not meant To be doing this right here, right now Yet I continue I hope that I can take in all of this That I can find whatever Little bit That will help to stop the slight shake *Take away the coldness Of my fingers* In desperation, I look up similar incidents That have occurred and I try To figure out If there is any end to this sheer insanity A reason for which This cursed world doesn't deserve To end tomorrow I search, I search, I surf Trying to find some information That tells me this world Is not as cursed as it appears to be *My fingers are still cold They're still shaking a bit* I am still shocked I might just be panicking a bit All I want right now Is some solution Some answer To these rapes that have occurred I want to be blind again I don't want to know That these dumbfoolishdisgusting men (creatures) felt that that woman deserved it I need to know that this isn't some god-complex I need to know that deep inside no one wants to protect them I want to see them castrated, locked up, executed I need them to be done away Because they need to be made an example of Women cannot step out of their houses Without being terrified I am tired of controlling my fist When someone suggests it was the clothes they wore That that is what attracted them I can't stop the shaking That is attributed more towards anger Than anything else I need something done Our pity won't bring her shattered sanity back It won't make her ready to trust Any man ever again Our pity marches With candles and tears in our (her) eyes Will not make her feel anything but disgust (hatred) Towards herself **A shattered mind, An injured body, A broken trust** She has lost these things And they They just seem bent On blaming it On scraps of cloth *(are you ******* kidding me?)*
Continue reading...
67
Whenever people see that dog, they think of drooling, hunger and boredom, that dog bit a few people so they castrated him, and he lays in the corner all day, licking at fur, nuzzling out his pink **** with his tongue, and he's bored of being a dog, he's just bored of being alive. That dog comes to his bowl like a ward of the state, like he has to and doesn't want to. That dog plops down at the back door staring at himself in the glass and the world outside all day, and sometimes they rub his head, most times they just let him lie. That dog won't bark for anything, even when he sees that ***** across the street, he doesn't have it any more. That dog wants something now more than anything else. That dog with his ability to make you think of ropes of saliva, belly's bloated with malnutrition, and watching tv all day; that dog wants to love something the way he used to love everything. What'll happen when they finally give that dog a bone?
0
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 10:14 PM UTC
That dog.
I want to be a dog's growl:   as rough as bark. As I ruff and I bark   until my throat bleeds, down my tongue,   and clots, choking me. Strangling my anger.   I want to bite God's hand and taste the scars and lines.   I want to run alongside the downfall of man   like I'm chasing cars. Waiting to be run over. I want to be castrated,   neutered, so I can fall in line,   so I can conform, so I can be me in a sea   of nobody else. I want to be beaten   with a chain attached to my neck.   I want to be on t-v. I want to be saved.   I want to betray trust. Generic. Generic.   I want to be like this poem:   generic, you martyr. You genocidal ****   You deadbeat. You racist.   You sexist. You intolerant ****   I want to chew off my trapped leg. I want to be a dog's growl.
0
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
I Want to Be a Dog's Growl
Through the centuries, ecclesiastical types have called poets deviants and inferred we would burn in Hell for our heresy. I've often wondered what the rhymes of a condemned poet might look like... #1 The serpent got a ***** wrap as well as did the Jews And if you read between the lines you won't believe The news #2 As I'm not a Christian I think it quite odd That I should be punished by a biblical God #3 God the father and his boy appear to find the greatest joy deciding who will sing or fry in pits of Hell or Heaven’s sky Me thinks I’d rather burn in Hell for truth be told I don't sing well Besides in Heaven’s realm I hear they’ve put a ban on wine and beer #4 Scribbled notes on wrinkled pages offer up my rants and rages To the gods both big and small who really don't exist at all #5 Going to Hell is not my intention For Hell I believe is your little invention Ingeniously Crafted for scaring the masses By threatening Flame if they don't kiss your ***** #6 Such a simple happenstance No books to study true No condemning sermons from the everlasting Jew And since His love is only for the chosen and the few I think I'll pass on Sunday Mass I've better things to do #7 Galileo’s castrated brilliance shackled to an empty cross as demonic paramours burn in the city square #8 Rest assured the herd will follow the absurd proclamations’ and the institution's philosophical solution to the daily grind that binds us all to this stalled morality we have mistaken for God #9 'Peace on earth and love thy neighbor' Cried the man with cross and saber Even as he slaughtered millions for the crime of pagan birth #10 Cups and saucers filled with gold but not a cent may we behold for we are not among the few selected by the ancient Jew
0
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
Ditties from Hell
Through the centuries, ecclesiastical types have called poets deviants and inferred we would burn in Hell for our heresy. I've often wondered what the rhymes of a condemned poet might look like... #1 The serpent got a ***** wrap as well as did the Jews And if you read between the lines you won't believe The news #2 As I'm not a Christian I think it quite odd That I should be punished by a biblical God #3 God the father and his boy appear to find the greatest joy deciding who will sing or fry in pits of Hell or Heaven’s sky Me thinks I’d rather burn in Hell for truth be told I don't sing well Besides in Heaven’s realm I hear they’ve put a ban on wine and beer #4 Scribbled notes on wrinkled pages offer up my rants and rages To the gods both big and small who really don't exist at all #5 Going to Hell is not my intention For Hell I believe is your little invention Ingeniously Crafted for scaring the masses By threatening Flame if they don't kiss your ***** #6 Such a simple happenstance No books to study true No condemning sermons from the everlasting Jew And since His love is only for the chosen and the few I think I'll pass on Sunday Mass I've better things to do #7 Galileo’s castrated brilliance shackled to an empty cross as demonic paramours burn in the city square #8 Rest assured the herd will follow the absurd proclamations’ and the institution's philosophical solution to the daily grind that binds us all to this stalled morality we have mistaken for God #9 'Peace on earth and love thy neighbor' Cried the man with cross and saber Even as he slaughtered millions for the crime of pagan birth #10 Cups and saucers filled with gold but not a cent may we behold for we are not among the few selected by the ancient Jew
Continue reading...
115
White Man! White Man! You dare come and conquer this country? This corner of the continent Construct your castles with crystal windows Looking out on a foaming sea Model your marble walls, polished and pristine On your porcelain teeth: terrible and tough Paint clouds on the ceiling with paper fingers Papyrus skin crumpling with age Your knights galloped in on young geldings Castrated to keep them clean Like the sterile white cloths draped across their clavicles You’d scar this landscape With a squat whitewashed town Matt and peeling Dishevelled and overgrown Black Man! Black Man! You dare come and claim this country? My corner of the continent Behind boulders and barren hills Coalfires choke the burned sky I’m breathing in your smoke but at night Your bullet-holes in the firmament glint As stars glimpse the belching flame Of your volcanic pride Your bearded bishops bludgeoning The bloodied populace of pockets of resistance Scorched brown eyes smouldering From here to the horizon Of mournful ashen mountains, blunt and black You’d build your walls of black onyx Cold, hard and brutal So let the battle-lines be drawn Let us duel to the death until we mix Into that emotional grey area between man and man: Peace
0
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Chess
Political policies; panhandled; purchased Options? Opinions? Opted out Like lemming lightly leaping Instead interested in intre$t Taken totally to the top Individuals internally interrupted Casually castrated, cautiously captured Some sad sadistic soul
0
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 8:43 PM UTC
American republic
in the Land of Zanzibar are the Black souls with bruises and scars chopped heads and castrated bodies buried beneath the planted magnolia trees are the severed heads and bodies of African slaves who dared to look at the Arab Women are the planted magnolia seeds for we weep what we sow in the Land of Zanzibar that we still know
0
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
In The Land of Zanzibar
Everything I heard amazed me, The treasure fleet's sixty two ships, commanded by a powerful ******   Gone, he was captured, he was castrated, three jewels, from a dying Prince.   The Cheng ** had sailed from Malaku Island; sight of flags, sound of bells, guided them to Calicut.   Deny the social scientist, cultural baggage prevails, abstract freedom, kindling of change.   Moaning monsoon winds linger, the allure of sparkling moons wax, and dormant black seas swell.   The noble adventure of death begins, where the legacy of leadership ends, and stars trust him with their thoughts. © christhamF 2011
0
Jul 3, 2011
Jul 3, 2011 at 11:22 AM UTC
Fallen Fantasy II