"clucking" poems
How can my eyes hunger for tormentors bodies
where in my soul can I find desires for sadists
Eves threw on fitted coats of Marquis de Sade
borrowed his manuals and added even more pages
pierced the heart of a Dove defending his nest with lethal pins
And in joyous indignities with devilment aplomp
they reclined and crackled in wanton doltishness
He thinks of and desires us and wants to make amor with us
How can a heart marinated in love truely sincere
a soul ready to die rather than any harm to Eves
Be mother or sister or perchance even a stranger
alas in utter ********** and grotesque situation dire
Come undone with healthy pristine heart ripped to pieces
hung drawn and quartered and sliced in tiny morsels
Like fish baits for mice and minnows or hens clucking
All at the hands of Sirens who worshipped in Satan's cravens
How can a soul with only the spark of Salvation aglow
where it once housed his heart and enduring humanity
With brimful joy and devotions in fitting measures true
as all Eves where to him nowt but sisters and earth angels
Now his burning blood runs cold like rivelets in the Arctic
their words ring hollow and smiles shows rapiers of snakes
Nothing stirs desires for all Eves now seem and look like wicked corpses
Delilahs' wrecking vengeance on Samsons in wickedness supreme
[email protected] rights reserved
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 4:31 AM UTC
Part I
The house is as haunted as its name,
The house really isn’t the same!
The people in it are dead and gone,
The trees and bushes are not cut;
There is a graveyard past the woodshed hut.
The graveyard is covered with leaves and moss,
Leaves that the wind has tossed,
To be tossed again no more;
One day like them in the sky I’ll soar;
Only to be known as them no more.
The rain is streaming down,
And there they are lying safe and sound,
While the rain beside them pours all around.
Low! A car pulls up to the house,
Yet there they are still lying as quiet as a mouse,
The lightning flashes and hits the ground;
With a loud and bellowing sound;
Yet the still it do not hear;
Even though it is loud and clear.
Why can’t you it hear?
Don’t you know its loud and clear?
We are the dead do you expect us to hear,
The things that to you sound loud and clear?
We are the dead and you are alive and you can hear things we can’t,
Don’t you know you’re waking the dead? Go away you little scant.
The rain is coming down in torrents,
Yet there they are lying dormant;
I thought this house would look better in Spring,
But no, not even when the birds begin to sing.
Part II
There is darkness everywhere,
There is lightning in the air;
There the lady ghost sits in her chair,
Look at the car sitting by the house over there.
The skeleton in the locked trunk,
By now hath stunk,
Until he could stink no more. . .
In that trunk sitting by the attic door.
Is he the dead that must be respected like the others,
Fathers, daughters, husbands, wives, and Mothers?
Must we be so quiet as a mouse,
That we aren’t heard in that dark old house?
Must we so soon go away?
And never again here we stay?
There is an air of creepiness about the place,
And they that are buried there do not run the humane race.
They were cold ever since that night,
When their family saw and told the sight.
Yet they so alive alive seem,
To me it is but a dream,
While I sit beside the clogged up stream
This place is haunted, I could scream!
Yet I keep it all in,
I can hear that dead old hen,
Still clucking her evening song,
Almost all the night long.
And while she’s dead I know she’s not,
It was her I loved a lot!
The big old rooster isn’t here though to scare her anymore,
Perching up on his perch behind the door,
He was a Rode Island Red,
And he isn’t here because the butcher cut his head
"I am so sorry," now I said.
*** _________Marian_________***
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 5:59 PM UTC
The rooster swivels on its axis returning
coarse wind into the pyre of mad, mad tongues
raving alongside charred ivory. Lifted by sorry hands
from dying embers’ embrace and eased with foreign pity,
ceremoniously, into a cardboard crate wheeled against
the traffic, stumbling backwards through yellow canvases,
between my family dressed in black, to dress the void (deck),
mourners spitting soda into their cups, as word paddle upstream,
onto a thin futon within four walls stained with unfinished ghosts.
The doctor removes the white shroud like God coaxing pink light
on the first day and wine oozes through elastic veins to the far corners of my skin thin ventricular walls. One crack, in the doors and in my chest, paramedics in white blur in, heel first,
Pan-island couriers on reverse gear to the corner
of a numbered street, where I am delivered like a gladiator
thrown into the arena of nosy gazes, with the urgency of
hens clucking away from premeditated slaughter:
deep Christmas red on the tessellated parking lot.
Clumsy thumbs dialing 599, I moan inwardly
to the concentric circles of strangers retreating, erasing
me from cell-phone cameras. Then like a flip animation I
snap backwards, up 21 floors,
pause for about an hour on the ledge before smashing
backwards, back down, past kids scratching graffiti off the cement
and growing cigarettes in their mouths. The rain ascends and I take
wet cash from the driver while I fidget on the leather and throw up
mediocre coffee into my cup. I dig into my throat and return the bread
to its plastic bag and when the cab stops I fall left out onto another parking lot,
moonwalk up the stairs to where I unwrite my name in the
annals of failure and
shove the Fs of my past back
then
I take the bus instead.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC
Not so far away girl
still so impossibly far
why must we wait until sunrise
to fall asleep?
Why is this beauty only conceivable
after the bottle dripdrips empty?
sinking deeper and deeper into saturn's orbit
youthful vibrant fluffed up peacocks
clucking on about research chemicals
and music festivals and last night and 6 days before
about banking and obamacare
and oh, my they're all talking
all at once
talktalktalking about this this this and that
not even asking for audience
soundwaves echo into nothingness
screaming lungs void of substance
fleeting purposes
failed courtships
unheard unimportant words
and oh, my, what a tedious thing
the night has become
but to stay at home alone
would be even more unspeakable.
Outside the party across the street
there is a tree
splayed out overhead and undergound
soaking up carbon growing tall still growing
slightly sad tree breathing in the silence of our sighs
dancing fallen leaves wrapping up the deadspace around us
deadworld space where we two sit under the edge
of revelry and absurdity
laughing, drunk, with the moon and the stars and
for just a second
feeling
slightly less impossible.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 8:20 PM UTC
This strange egg you've incubated
has sprouted skinny chicken legs.
It follows you around clucking at
every throaty word you nasty-utter.
Pointing and pecking at your guilt
borne by some years ago sin which
all others hatch from and you keep feeding,
Remorseful grains of misdeed shell grit
to harden its anxious green shell.
With no law outside itself the taint faint
heartbeat of your reproof I hear beating
like fear's unglued false eyelashes
You soft swaddle it with empty gestures.
It gestates in every grimace of piety.
I watch it govern your vocation of drab
and undramatic mastery of feathered illusion.
I want to tear shreds in your black satin cape,
To avalanche your fears into frosty exile.
Burn them screaming in the blinding white of
anemic unconscious,
the blacking out.
Hang a trophy **** of your winged demon
taxidermied with glass eyes above my bed.
My compass needle has lost your polarity
there's just a crude representation of pain
I will plant this seed you gave me, in Lethe;
The River of Forgetfulness on its grey shore.
A watery landscape without vanishing point.
Where a white heron will weep tears of sorrow,
like a human to feed hope's tender shoots.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 4:31 AM UTC
In the jungle, green and lush,
a familiar cry breaks the hush,
A sound,
Of foot falls that trample dry leaves,
Low figures strutting amongst the trees.
Then a feral cat on the prowl, for a meal,
shadowed, perched looking for a life to steal,
listens, looks, waits without a sound,
closer...closer...measuring the distance in a bound.
And it had been so long since she had hunted,
had a good feed, at the memory she grunted,
the flurry of feathers and a beak, in her face,
caused
her to recoil, reeling backwards in disgrace.
The rooster stepped to where she had been,
perching crowed loudly and just looked mean,
A speckled hen emerged, from the shrubbery
clucking with timidity,
the orphan cat skulked away in the humidity.
The rooster with white wings, black back, red comb topped head,
crowed loudly again, the rooster announced, their rights instead,
they would rather chase on foot and protect their hens,
as they are the wild chickens of Maui, without coops or pens!!
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
There in the air, it hung, muted yet palpable,
like the inebriating scent of new rain on earth
with this signal morning alluded something,
as if challenging anyone there to swiftly respond.
Gazing at the far away mountains, waking up,
pulling away slowly the blanket of darkness
a purple sun above making a symphony of colors
she is caught in the waves of the mood, it's cadence
captures the spirit in a poem; it blooms on it's own.
Zestfully she reads it in her resounding voice,as if
to the chickens clucking around in the cluttered barn
there wasn't any audience other than the birds and the cattle;
a sudden change the chickens,strange, till the moment before
they were looking for a worm or two in the black earth.
As if forgotten all other things the chicken stood
their head held high, beaks open as if to peck
in an attentive posture, they stood listening to her,
the moment they got the tune right,started reciting it.
The cows in the shed turned to the direction of her voice,
as if it's a song, and it's for them she was singing .
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
S3
Sleepless, Shuffling In Stockholm
Somewhere in my body,
A bifurcated clock ticks,
Two clock faces,
White on black,
Vice versa.
Mixed media messages,
Crazy train station internal,
Brain activity fevered,
Arrive/depart according to
Somebody else's schedule,
Somebody else occupying,
Every street of my body
Lying asleep,
Typing these words,
It is the middle of the night,
Bright daylight suffuses the room
What part of my metaphysical schema,
Ain't jet lagged legally,
And poetically entitled to be
Stockholm Syndrome Confused?
Times have really changed,
Oh my, when you propose,
Let's go to Stockholm,
Anything goes!
So my schedule reordered
In the land of either all
Light or Dark, twenty hours four,
I turn to my boon companion,
Who soothes at any hour,
My music, my Nano,
And I find myself, musically,
Shuffling in Stockholm.
Meatloaf and Piazzolla,
Muddy Waters and Purple Rain,
Marvin Gaye and Pink Martini,
Beethoven, Straight No Chaser,
Beatles, Stones, Bennett vs. Buble,
The lack of sleep a permanent fixture,
Courtesy of this Bach-us admixture,
So should you see a gappy, khaki, clad tourist,
Meandering o'er the islands of this charming city,
In Ingmar Bergman fashion,
Black and white erratic,
Alternating, swaying and shuffling,
No tongue clucking,
Nah, he's not drunken,
Just dancing while sight seeing,
In a sleep deprived manner,
Someday a movie to be,
Sleepless, Shuffling In Stockholm
A/K/A
S3
June 30 ~ July 2, 2012
Stockholm, Sweden
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
Chickens
clucking
white
feathered
pantaloons
Cute
I don't want to eat you
cute chickens
in crisp pantaloons
Not hungry
Drumsticks
Wings
Two ******* please
Cole slaw
Biscuits and honey
Mashed potatoes and gravy
Confused
I don't want to eat you
Chickens
clucking
white
feathered
pantaloons
Cute
I don't want to eat you
Popeyes,Lee’s, KFC-
Are your chickens this pretty?
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
don't be afraid you're already dead
for he was not lucky enough for the train to take the other track
the pills were not vitamin C
the gun did not shoot water
and it was not, instead of him, me.
we are no longer the kids with capes crinkled in knots around our necks
but in their place are the rope burns of our selfish regrets
only attempting to rid myself of the crushing weight of confused sorrow
the dreams in my head have fallen to the floor
he placed his in patterns there
searching for adjectives inside a dictionary
where only nouns are found
lonely, the adjective being
the one word to describe this
is trapped in the moldy basement of a frat house
he taps at the window
sliding through its confinements
back where he was days ago
a silhouette of the clock
plucking at your hairs
chickens clucking that their scared
they keep changing this cyclorama
but it's always ripped and torn
walking into the abyss
singing his cares away
thinking himself sick
will we feel like this for the rest of our lives?
who owns this beating heart,
it seems to have been misplaced
you'd written horror stories on the sides of elementary schools
superfluous thoughts were rays of sunshine
that only cast shadows in your head
don't be afraid you're still alive
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 7:10 PM UTC
To be alone
Is to be complete
They say
No man is an island,
But isn't everyone?
We're all stranded on islands of self-interest
Connected to others
Through flimsy bridges of temporary alliances
Mutual interests and gain
The more connected we are
The more isolated we become
Pictures and blog posts
Nothing more than facades
Anomie is the word of the decade
The individualistic
The self-sufficient
Is reviled
For refusing to play the game
To participate
In the masquerade
To jump through the hoops
Of social niceties
Somehow
To sit and squirm
Through ******* contests and gossip
To flap and flutter
In the howling gales of hysteria and contrived laughter
Is preferred over
Sitting alone
Revelations and epiphanies
Splayed out before oneself
Playing solitaire with one's reflections
In peace
Baby showers and mixers
Celebrated
The impenetrable silence
Of one's hermitage
Eschewed
The people-pleaser
Preferred
Over the lone wolf
The team player
Over the independent agent
I suppose
In an age of open doors
A locked one
Raises a few eyebrows
They'd knock and rattle
Then bang and kick and shout
Before leaving in a huff
Authenticity is now the rarest commodity
Valued over saffron and platinum
So people settle instead
For knockoffs
Alcohol-plied sincerity is better than nothing
A China-made Rolex still looks better --
Flashier, if nothing else --
Than a Timex
No man is an island,
They say,
Smirking
Frowning
Clucking with disapproval
Peering behind perfectly schooled masks
Nary a hair out of place
Looking at me
In all my artless imperfection
Paper, pen, and cigarettes for company
Well
Which of us here
Is truly alone?
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
*Peacocks taking bows
Clucking by puddle mirror
Lost in feather pens*
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 12:26 AM UTC
Summer heat, cool relief
Clucking sounds, juice dripping down
Sticky dirt, no more thirst
Put the wrapper in the bin, wipe the sticky off your skin
Merry walking down the beach, paddling back in the foamy sea
Chilly wind, sun going down
Time to get a cardi on
To the car, set off home
Lovely soak, wash off sticky and foam!
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC
They must not hear of
things that have gone on,
under this roof,
during these hours,
they would scream at the top of their lungs,
You do not want to know,
pressing intentions
why his waist bulges over his belt,
why his face is so red,
a murky sky,
eyes slits in ebony stone.
she is gone,
someone must know why,
others are left to guess and to gossip,
hens clucking,
you must not know,
what they whisper with thickened tongues,
There is a kind of pride,
in being the one that sees and knows,
nervous,
menaced by petty stimulants,
Events become like a sepsis,
webbed,
sickness multiplying,
years kind pass like temporary paralysis,
fear is a currency,
sometimes.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
Ode to a Hen
A Prose by Corset
Just yesterday I contemplated
never to pick up a pen again,
then I realized,
In a different reality
I could be a hen,
and I began imagining life
as a chicken.
A huge **** would wake me
long before the frost burned off,
climb on my back
pull out my neck feathers
make me birth a football
every **** day,
only to have cold human hands
steal it away while it's warming,
frying up my unborn child
and having it for breakfast.
Inevitably, a fox will show up
during the dead of night and
steal my clucking sisters,
but never
the **** bird that wakes me
before the sun rise; and I
having no sleep at all;
will birth another football.
now, I feel better,
don't you?
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 6:00 PM UTC
So there's a new kid in the classroom
and the other kids all stare
as he comes and sits right next to me
"Why's he sitting there?"
He's not your average schoolboy
he has the darkest stare
that threatens all who see it
thundering through his messed up hair.
He glares at all the others
as his choice they mock with glee
the pretty ones all clucking
as to why he would choose me.
But here he sits, unmoving
solid stone with stormy eyes
while I control my longing
for his hand upon my thigh.
He really is quite dreamy
in his own peculiar way
so I'm scribbling in my notebook
trying to find words to say.
Now he's staring at my notebook
I'm exposed, I want to die
as he reads these words I'm writing
and puts his hand upon my thigh!!!
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 4:39 AM UTC
>¡<
^¡^
^¡^
>¡<
Mourning doves
lament the dawn
The air is filled
with clucking song
Mockingbirds
sing sweet and high
Pigeons reach
to touch the sky
Gamble Quail
swoop low to ground
Cactus wrens
make chuckling sounds
Desert Thrashers
go "tsk, tsk, TSK!"
Flickers pound
the satellite discs
Feathered finches
search the stones
Light as clouds
with hollow bones
I wake up
to symphonic calls
Desert birds...
I love them ALL!
SøułSurvivør
(C) 6/11/2016
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 11:03 AM UTC
The old farmer hung back,
as rickety and battered as the
‘50s Allis-Chalmers tractor upon
which he leaned, hunched,
clung, as if the auctioneer's words
and the wind might carry him off
like the implements he'd treasured
much of his life, machines with
which he had toiled and sweated
and which had helped him chisel
out a meager existence in his
40 years on the farm. His wife was
dead now, his children scattered
like the clucking chickens and hissing
geese, all he had left were memories
and the old homestead, and it was
leaving him bit by bit on the backs
of creaking pickups and low boys
and stuffed into the cavities of shiny
new Cadillacs and Buicks. The cruel
wind had driven in from the southwest,
stealing a little more topsoil from the
threadbare farm, swirling and *******
at tattered curtains still hanging in
the mouths of grimy windows left ajar.
With each piece of his life leaving
down that gravel road, a draining
of his dreams and energies followed.
A few more raps of the gavel and he
too would be as dust in the wind.
--
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 9:39 PM UTC
Eating toast in bed.
The tasty crumbs never leaving my lips.
Savoring the buttery taste.
After breakfast I went to stand outside,
in the morning heat.
So strange.
A light rap on the door.
My mother goes to answer it,
Oblivious to the strangers news.
The young ones are in the front room.
Their clucking kept me up.
She came back crying.
My father had fallen.
GRAHAM MURPHY
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 6:29 PM UTC
We sat up high, we mighty kings
Gnarled branches our throne
Our sun kissed skin muddy
with tales of treasure to be found
and wild lands to be discovered.
We three, with grit grazed knees
and sweet strawberry breath,
hiding from the home-time calls of
clucking mothers with spit-wet handkerchiefs
our hand muffled giggles rising to the faded sky
in appreciation of a perfect day.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 4:35 AM UTC
There's a monster
that's made my dreams
into her haunt.
She's spilling into days where I wonder;
How does a creature like you exist?
You are
unreal.
I mean, the way you toss your head to the side
whenever you say something contrary
plagues me.
Following me like some gorgeous features that wont let me go
and a smile
that fills me with holes
opening me up
in ways I'm terrified to show
but what tugs at me worse
are all the ways this ghost could be known
I knew thunder that rolled off
electric lips
every time
pink
lighting
bolts
mo
ve
Speaking unafraid she's free in that way
a kind of free that makes liberty ashamed
and me calmly sm ile while my insides are
gawking wide open down the middle with
clucking of a single coo coo clock keeping time
in this game of chicken I've made out of looking
you
in the eyes.
Shaky hands swerve yet hope to collide
sweet demon
rattle me no more
come closer
hold me still
show me how
a ghost can be felt.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
sometimes, i sense myself spilling
my youth from a fragile glass jar.
other times, i conclude it's just me storing
up for frantic spending in its decaying days.
but mostly, my duties occupy the space -
this intangible commodity squeezes for place.
such metaphors would have been absurd and
bizzare to the shrieking children of the kampong days
my grandparents talked about: climbing trees that rusted
with rambutans, ankles dipped in mud burgeoning with
self-invented games, a bedlam of clucking chickens fleeing
unsuccessfully, dinner for a hut bursting with extended family.
nothing i can identify with: neither a similar event, nor
a familiar atmosphere of wild abandonment of youth.
i exist in a time where parents knock on rooms to bring their
students nutritious chicken essence, with a stack of expectations.
what's so good about progress: when our roots are saliva-speak,
when our youth and beyond are spent before it's expiry?
much like acclimatisation, i am ashamed to reveal that,
many times i can feel alive only when i adhere to the routines in
this city of expectations.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 5:02 AM UTC
In the thinly spindly Glen
Resides a lonely clucking hen.
Strut and peck, flutter and fluff
The bugs she eats are never enough.
Leaves ripple with the sound
Whispered quiet a question resounds,
"Why not fly South this year?
Freezing frost will soon be here."
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 9:40 PM UTC