"crones" poems
the witches
they don't take no ****
feminists with a wand
made from a femur
wrapped in ***** hair,
fingernails, and spit
no
not good little passive girls
although amused by a good spanking
for laughs that titillate
from a red wicked dicked old man
with slippery fireballs
like a spicy cherry pepper
that slurps filths coves
through a black tongue
and open-mawed bite
Femdom's queens
oiled torsos and bond fires
drenched ornaments for laughing snakes
that spread like spider webs
while the whips flash licks
hells tender blood kiss
insatiable prayers
and
************ rituals
mixed like bones in broth
with intricate sigils and saliva red
menstruum her holy sacrament
that shapeshift crones into young girls prancing
and bind water to stones
her spell can crack your skull
like a mules kick
and melt your eyes
like nuclear skies
no
the witches
they don't take no ****
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 2:15 PM UTC
*Dust on the ledge, before me, magnified
Smell of gun oil in my nostrils and cramp in the calves
The boredom of the wait intensifies,
Stale air in my loft is full of must
With the failing light I’m grateful it is almost time to stand down.
Through the cross hair sprints a target
An ordinary, everyday, running target,
I know not who this target is,
I know not why it runs across my sights,
But because it is, where it is,
It becomes my enemy.
In a microcosm of time
the loud bang alters things forever.
The buck of the rifle’s recoil,
The immediate sour stench of the shot washes back across my face.
The intoxication felt, in being the one who caresses the trigger.
The satisfaction earned in deservedly making the ****
My target spirals in mid stride,
Contorts in agony
And collapses to the rough tarmac
To lie dishevelled, an insignificant, dishevelled item.
Checking the **** through the telescopic sight
I see the rough stubble of the chin,
The nicotine stain on the fingers,
I see the colour of the eyes are pale blue.
…I know well, it will breathe no more.
With descending twilight
I trudge from my tower perch
With the long ****** rifle slung across my weary shoulders
The crones in the street glare as I walk by
There is a loathing in their aged eyes, It is a tangible thing.
I know they have no knowledge of the target,
But they know, however, that there has been a killing made for the cause.
A cold beer would be nice.
God! how I hate these young punks with purple hair.*
Marshalg
Gaza, Palestine/Mogadishu, Somalia/Kabul, Afghanistan/Tehran, Iran/Cairo, Egypt/Islamabad, Pakistan/Soweto, South Africa/Dier El Zour Province, Syria/Beirut, Lebanon/Baghdad, Iraq/Tripoli, Libya/Pristina, Kosovo/Grozny,Chechen Republic/Veracruz, Mexico/Guatemala City, Guatemala/Sao Paulo, Brazil/Moscow, Russia.
27 November 2012
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC
We stood in a circle in the parlor,
Jim was chatting with his golfing crones;
Her body was there for the viewing,
But we're keen on his hole-in-one.
We gave him our proud approval,
We chorused, Jim, well-done!
Then Jim took his turn on the kneeler,
To ponder before her coffin.
We all know the cold humility,
That an ace needs a load full of luck;
Yet we're pleased to hear all his details,
From the crack off the tee,
To the flag in the cup.
I waited for my turn behind Jim,
I overheard his solemn words:
*... an eight iron... bounced once, then straight in...
Oh, and may you rest in peace too, Mrs. Hobin*.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 9:41 PM UTC
It started in Dublin before I was born
Crossing the Irish Sea to weather a storm.
London called through the wind and rain
Big city lights and a country's flame.
To Manchester then, a city united
At least to outsiders.
But to those within it's somewhat
Divided.
Summers in France.
Dining in Provence
Time in Toulouse
And along the Loire.
But Paris! Paris has that
Je ne sais quoi
Fine wine, fine company
It's a fine philosophy.
A German exchange
*in einer stadt namens
Bad Bentheim.*
Exposed to a culture
And the work of Rammstein.
A few days in Berlin
A fantastic city with much
History within.
Gondolas in Vienna if only for a day
Sailing down the Danube
Water wants us on our way.
We stay for a while
Within the walls of Budapest,
My first shot of Absinthe
Puts my liver to the test.
No rest for the wicked
That wanderlust I long.
Settled for a while by the lights of
Hong Kong,
A place I felt for a while at peace
High in the Monastery of Lantau's peeks.
I went once and I went again.
When wizened crones speak of golden devils,
Stroking my blonde hair on the streets of
Shenzhen.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
*Intricately laid by a master mason centuries ago,
the cobbles have become shiny and worn through use.
If we listen closely at the echoes contained within,
what would we hear? The din of old, the clatter of hooves,
the patois of tradesmen, the fisher wives bellows?
Or, just life as it was, moving along at a pace we today find slow?
The sun beats down on the Spanish stone, firing them hot and
languid, pace has slowed, need has slowed, greed has slowed.
Dusty cobbles leading to cool houses, siesta has called and all obey.
The midday sun beats down, only tourists looking for quaint shops
remain, decrying the heat, ready to swoon.
Sweat drips onto the dusty cobbles, and is soon boiled away.
Blood has dripped on these cobbles, human and beasts.
Only to be scrubbed by the crow black crones that sit and watch the day.
Afternoon lull, boats bobbing slowly up and down,
babies rocked by a quiet lullaby.
The sun lowers bathing the cobbles in a pink, orange glow,
quiet now, Spain is sleeping, forgetting her past, the Moors are long gone,
the Armada been and gone, bullfights are frowned upon,
their Kings and Dictator laid to rest, only foolish tourists throng the
dusty cobbles, oblivious to their history, looking for that awful gift.
Spain's pain is echoed in her cobbles, few hear it, but know this,
if you listen you'll hear the heat, the pain, civil war,
pride and flamenco feet*.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
Music fills her soul
as different
melodies capture her moods
who hasn't yearned
for that country
somebody did somebody wrong song
or just feeling
crazy
or want to jazz it up with
a little of the Latino explosion
visiting Birdland when all else fails
dancing the night away to Donna
saving that last dance for someone special
chilling to the smooth blues' riff
as Michael Grimm crones
how you don't know him
every now and then
when the mood is
right
moonlight sonata calls
and romance and roses win the night
who can resist
when a gal's
in the mood
or sitting before a campfire
signing of the harvest moon
sometimes a body just feels lost
looking for a way to get "closer to god
and f#@*%ing like an animal
to feel alive
or banging it out
to AC/DC
beebooping to Madonna or Lady Gaga,
or justifying that
bad love
trying to convince
yourself
that you like the way he lies
maybe relaxing and
using your imagination
while you talk about stupid girls
and all that garbage
listening to the B52s
and
doing the rock lobster
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
Freya
Shield-Maiden, Lover
Sister, Mother
Embraces owing
Life unfolding
Blessings upon the fiery hearth
Tears above
Love below: relieve our toil
Darkness ebbing
Rhyme unending
Listen to my bold tale!
Freya
Red hair flowing
Sunlight growing
Rising upon the hill
A song of springtime
Complete this bold rhyme
Hear now my tale!
Set out into the dark forest with newly picked flowers for the hearth, grasped within a meager coat. Clutched in bare hands and protected against her chest from the cold wind which blew so insistent. She was not far from the village when she met a woman on the road.
"A penny for your thought? A purpose for your soul?”
“I do not think so.”
Mysterious crones on a lonely road.
“Perhaps mittens to keep an old woman’s hands warm?” scratched the voice of the Crone.
The girl who wished to be on her way produced one flower from her coat,
“May the thorns keep your hands warm as they do mine.”
Fresh blood dripping from the open wound,
the Crone graciously accepted the rose.
“For this trouble” she said “I will return a favor of my choosing...for you did not give me what I asked... I give a warning. You may not know of such things, but on this night, in these hills is a crone not unlike me. When she asks a favor of someone, and they do not give it to her...she takes them, then buries them in her garden to make the spring come faster. She always asks for that which cannot be given. The snow cover and the full moon coming will sneak night upon you. Wherever you are heading you must stay the night. For if you travel back you will surely lose your way and find yourself food for the flowers.”
The girl who had been taught to be polite even to witches nodded and replied,
"Thank you for your gift.”
She headed on her way not believing a word of what the old Crone said.
Still this dread loom is woven with defeat. Even for the gods who would keep us safe from evil, and guard us from death 'till the end of days was determined.
I say for us all in this song that after light had dropped, the first of the frost did melt.
Sep 15, 2021
Sep 15, 2021 at 8:31 PM UTC
I've opened one too many doors inside this labyrinth of my mind
I've seen the birth and death of light in endless dark I will reside
I see the truth as sharpened knives to bleed the eyes from shameless pigs
I see the coffins filled to brims and all the graves we have to dig
I watched the heavens turn to ash and gazed upon the empty throne and as the burning angels fell I realized I felt at home a fitting end to holy tomes a burning city kin to Rome and as through concrete flowers grow the seeds of chaos will be sown
The sea it turns from red to black the sky applauds its thunders clap from whence we came we shall go back into our saviors endless trap
Pursuit of peace no shame be known as wisely told by three blind crones and all the secrets we'd be shown to break the cage we've much outgrown
And now upon the lofty sands we stand together hand in hand and to sing of battles long and gory remembering our hard fought glory
The venom seeps, the fangs that shred, the warm embrace of those thought dead, the sons of evil took their toll, the sun is dark, the jester folds
And when the end has had its run we flee to halls and fill with *** and give the praise to those we've lost to see this day but at what cost
For now they leave but never gone the tale of Gods will still live on they said our God's have met their end but see they lied they rise again
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 10:03 AM UTC
small flock of doves in velvet sky
seven sisters in the crisp night air
these old girls are hot, blue, luminous
ancient constellation between the bull's horns
a parallax of stars.
the sisters are crones at last
huddled together for warmth
their pale aura a dime-store
blueing trick. their wise eyes
wrinkled as elephants, their
expanding memories ascending
the cosmic ladder
into oblivion
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 11:28 AM UTC
mismanaged prostitution
barbed wire kisses
telephone breathing
hands on white thighs
digging fingers
hardened
crows feet
crones cry
another drink
something hard to drown a sorrow
to **** a cigarrette in
lick my lips
taste my revulsion..
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 2:26 AM UTC
I.
brewing and brawling, bronzing
she cries
the mighty blue-tailed
golden hawk of the skies
she screeches and crones
for the souls in her bones
that she hides away
bides away, flies away, souls.
souls she collects,
to tinker and check
to see if their wailing is loud-
loud as it goes
proud as it goes
an ego as big as is tall:
a square of dementia
and a sprinkle of manic
lead you to think she is largely just panic
frantic and tied
the souls she must hide,
to tide away, bind away,
find a way free -
free from the earth,
its land and its girth,
free from the sea,
its waters and needs,
free from the fire,
burning desire,
loosed to the air,
its wings without care
fighting and lighting
the sky in her path
the soul-binding hawk
slowly wanders back
II.
one by one
faintly they come
daintily and faintly
quaintly, they come;
the souls, how they tremble,
quiver and weep
through the slightest of all tiniest cracks do they creep
whining, entwining, smiling they float
burning passion and love,
all on one music note:
dripping and dropping
they dangle and sway
floating, just floating, ever slightly away
III.
souls having *** and souls bemoaning love
wailing and flailing, as soft as a dove;
perfect, he says, are the shape of your *******
lovely, she responds, i'm sick of taking tests -
no one will know, they like to pretend,
but obvious was their means to an end;
switching and curling, lipping they smack
the man over the head, whose head is on crack
and sad they all are, demented instead,
inside of their heads they are missing a *****
brightly, tightly, they hold on to their due
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 8:14 PM UTC
nine … dark angels to herald my passing,
eight … lost souls to guide my spirit,
seven … robed priests to intone my story,
six … pallbearers to shoulder my coffin,
five … old crones to wail and moan,
four … gravediggers to prepare my tomb,
three … black cats to ward off evil,
two … black crows my spirit to bear,
one heart broken: love unbound …
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 12:12 PM UTC
It's the twilight of December
early dark
And the Mother Goddess
In her slumber sleeps
and dreams,
Like the fog
she moves stealthy
on tip toe
Across the sky
The Moon
like a swollen belly
drifting silent and alone
in frozen space
smiles
in her watchfulness
of Earth Mother
and laughs
a Crones laugh
December 21 2013, Raven
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
i brush the dust
from darkened leather seat
there, spun-out on my fingers
find a pale spider's thread
a silver strand newly shed
from someone's wintry head
so long and fine and womanly
tangled there_ i wonder
whose grey hair, old friends?
yours or mine or yours?
which silvered sister left behind
this single strand
of our common winter-web
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 10:24 AM UTC
Beware the fleeting expressions of Man!
Allah’who Akbar is easier to shout than
an explicit examination of rights and wrongs
Honor! shouts the honorless; Shout! Sings the songs
A Fire of Men and Stones!
stoked by honor and broken bones
fleeting the expression upon the face
under the blood tears leave no trace.
Beware the sleeting excoriations of Men!
In the name of god is so easy to sing, then
the stonings and the burnings can begin.
Love! Shouts the loveless; hating the sinner, loving the sin
A Fire of Men and Stones!
Lovingly born by staring crones!
Fleeing the expression upon the face!
Gaining Pride! Losing the Race.
“Please God help me,” the sinner begs.
Shaitan smiles and stirs the dregs.
The soul of Man spits down like stones
thrown without mercy at mercy overthrown.
A Fire of Men and Stones!
The flames a’crackle; the ground, she groans.
Fleeting, the expression, ‘Please save me!’
Shaitan names the mob; mommy.
Men and Stones afire!
Souls burn bright upon the funeral pyre!
But not as bright as truth overthrown
Virgins tremble! Whores groan!
“Please God! Are you there?”
Nothing answers, not even the air
that rises high in a silent sneer
from the pyre that draws all so near.
Pray not for men; they will not hear or atone
for they are the fire of Men and Stone.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
I'm here they yell
Constantly yelling
It's the voices shouting
Shouting I say!
Always telling me that they're there
I only want the quite
I only need to sleep
But the voices screaming
Screaming I say!
They won't stop
I must be out of my mind
A madman I say!
They're always telling me
At the edge of the bridge
There you will find the cure
Why?
I don't want to go
I'm scared
Scared I say!
They might pull me over
Into the dark
Where I can't move
Where I'm bound
But they are screeching
Screeching I say!
They won't stop
They're pulling me from sleeps clutches
I'm going insane!
Insomnia is setting in
What's real?
Are these doors real?
Or when I open them will they pop out
Yelling at me
To go to the bridge
Where it all started
The rooms spinning
Spinning I say!
And I'm crashing
Crashing to the floor
The voices are raving
Raving I say!
Make them stop
Please I'm losing grip
Curses to those ungodly voices
Roaring in my head
Beating at my skull
Fleeting in my head
You'd think I was dead
But no the dark has no mind
To save me the ache of those voices
Trembling like a shaky note
Sang from a crones lips
This madness is setting in
It's been let in
The rest can go to hell
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 11:12 PM UTC
Leslie Howard
as the Scarlet Pimpernel
is a pure joy
to watch,
all big-collared foppish
tight-trousered dandy
& dainty eyeglass
peering,
& there’s scheming
from the glum & slightly
hunch-backed Robespierre,
weeping aristocrats,
in tumbrils,
& innocent playing
children,
oh so-tailored families
all huge-coiffured hair,
cravats & handkerchiefs
& cocky young jackanapes
playing chess,
the cheering crowds
all coarse & ugly,
with knitting bonneted-crones
anticipating as the drums roll,
& the blade falls,
to a mighty
cheer,
we can see
our own bewitching
Marie Antoinette,
our own sly & whispering
Rasputin,
our gold-folly Sun King,
but I cannot say
I want Madame
La Guillotine
to be set up,
in the square
this time,
no …
no that,
but a victorious
cheering mob,
does sometimes
haunt my dreams,
I confess
to say.
“I send them to the guillotine for the future happiness of the human race, but I do not allow torture.”
Robespierre
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 3:22 PM UTC
Follow me through the trees unto a forest of crones, we'll sit and wait, deliberate, about the world's unknowns.
And down through the rabbit hole will the two of we fall, until we come upon a perfect little hall.
The we two be of this I see a perfect matching pair, a girl set in her little green dress and her tiny pet hare.
Through the land of under we, do we solidly trot to find the crimes and treasured times of a land forgot.
The you and I, we do decline, a courting with the queen, though she insists we make a break and do not cause a scene.
The walrus and the carpenter do bring us many clams, but we partake and only break, the bread with many hams.
Our venture sought is cut short by a cat of multicolor, this we do outwit, the little twit, and make him seem all the duller.
Once and twice through the looking glass do the two of us stay, though the rain my pound overhead, we live to venture another day.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
Eye, I and I
The first telling me
Never to think
But to be
And the latter
Screaming, taunting
Appropriation!
Opprobrious little thing!
The middle cowering
Shaking as she
Soars through
Calmest winds
And brushing
Turbulent ocean
She hurts and
Radiates the suns spit
Permeable gooseflesh
Absorbing any confusion
Processing and mulling it over
With plastic hands
Caressing her feathers
Pulling her into
The stormy cold of Id
While she meditates on
The notion that she is
To be absent of thought
Translucent and hollow
A reflection of skies and seas
Beating her wings
Desperately to catch the
Sinking sun or
Hook the rising moon
Alas she is lost
Manufactured materials
Clogging her pores
Infecting her eyes
*Trying to trick her
Into being but one*
But three she will be,
Three I's with
Three Eyes
To see the maidens yesterday The mothers today The crones tomorrow
Wholly
Never to
Cease or halt or falter
Or question the reality
Of the intrinsic
And never
To trust, to touch
The grand illusion
Of material worth
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 9:30 AM UTC
In a faraway place and faraway time
stood square a cabin rotted pine and bramble flue.
Once haven for old crones craven - their skins thin-skinned slivers of brine;
now nary a soot line marked a witches' brew.
In the dark, swirling silver stark and creatures would quiver
held over pot-stew thither, along hymns of damning chanted.
Waggled tongues with an evil glaze would slither,
cursing in eye, toe, and liver the bubbling broth decanted.
Oh a malkin giggled and a paddock piggled;
sniggled in a mirth-marked cauldron's rubble double bubble.
With a whoosh and a swish a bony finger had wiggled,
as papery skin withered the drubble swuddle brubble.
On those blackest of nights, when wolves would fear the moon,
howls held loomed, choked on down the throat of dusk.
Hatred uttered its sleepy breath, pitch-entombed
and justice marooned under a tar most brusque.
Shadows danced incantation
for an occultish creation, oh the devil's bidding be done!
Flamed carnation, neither here nor there god-fearing,
cackling a primrose coronation; the stirring spoon spun!
Death-catcher chimes hung close upon the entry;
a dust since turn of century marred bone;
witches’ wart-encrusted noses crinkled at gentry;
chenille voices sung with celerity a hellish praise: Divinum Occultum.
A little duende ran down the cauldron,
gloom chanting a chant come out with a hurl.
Burnt feet chasing away all ghosts ‘n goblins,
unfurling like whisper from the concoction:
Doom upon all the world.
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 6:26 AM UTC
Vlad's favorite soup
was such a treat
eyeballs and skin slabs
and fingers and feet
he loved to ****
on the sockets and bones
and chew on the ears
and noses of crones
eyelids were good
on bread made with blood
but only if pureed
to look just like mud
Oct 23, 2021
Oct 23, 2021 at 10:13 AM UTC
Beware the fleeting expressions of Man!
Allah’who Akbar is easier to shout than
an explicit examination of rights and wrongs
Honor! shouts the honorless; Shout! Sings the songs
A Fire of Men and Stones!
stoked by honor and broken bones
fleeting the expression upon the face
under the blood, tears leave no trace.
Beware the sleeting excoriations of Men!
In the name of god is so easy to sing, then
the stonings and the burnings can begin.
Love! Shouts the loveless; hating the sinner, loving the sin
A Fire of Men and Stones!
Lovingly born by staring crones!
Fleeing the expression upon the face!
Gaining Pride! Losing the Race.
“Please God help me,” the sinner begs.
Shaitan smiles and stirs the dregs.
The soul of Man spits down like stones
thrown without mercy at mercy overthrown.
A Fire of Men and Stones!
The flames a’crackle; the ground, she groans.
Fleeting, the expression, ‘Please save me!’
Shaitan names the mob; mommy.
Men and Stones afire!
Souls burn bright upon the funeral pyre!
But not as bright as truth overthrown
Virgins tremble! Whores groan!
“Please God! Are you there?”
Nothing answers, not even the air
that rises high in a silent sneer
from the pyre that draws all so near.
Pray not for men; they will not hear or atone
for they are the fire of Men and Stone.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
*Grab Your ***** And Hide The Starch!*
Begin the day with a lean and hungry cook. Seize her.
Catch the tide or lose your dentures. Vault of jars.
Cry "Amuck!" and let slip the hogs of yore.
Bid me done, and I will thrive on the impossible.
This foul **** shall stink above the hearth.
Pardon me, you breeding piece of worth.
You crocks, you crones, you worse than senseless things!
Consider the I'd's and beware of scam.
Perhaps by dusk you can say: This was a yam!
~mce
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
Dress them fabulous!
Line their eyes black, dramatic;
Teach the young mermaids to walk in cigarettes
with eyes of starved predators (like they are)
unflinching at the flashes as they sashay
To let ***** sons imagine what’s under the bespoke.
Make their tresses wet for greater effects
Let my mermaids walk with pearl-choked necks!
Cut off the ducklings! Matrons like swans
--nymphs that glide on runway as if on ice
Have the witches lust for the sea green dress
Even if it makes them look like fat caterpillars
Make them forget that they’re no longer young
And that these girls are the newest brand of beautiful.
For the sequin-scales, have the crones battle with cheques.
Let my mermaids walk with pearl-choked necks!
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 10:03 AM UTC
She used to wield her power,
turning every mans head,
believing in her own whims.
Now she walks the street,
anonymous.
Watching younger women
and men's foolish faces
on craning rubber necks.
She is laughing merrily
in her Wisdom
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC