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Jason Needham Jun 2013
I am a cannibal.
I savor men’s fine taste
and snap up scrawny skulls;
Spent bodies left to waste.

But do not hoard your children.
Their flesh is far too sweet,
Innocently tendered and
Often curdling in the heat.

Age is my marinade,
It greases flesh like wine
Soaked and smoked in scarlet
With broken, twisted spines

And I am not alone.
Though they may feel otherwise
Since though I eat your body
The heart’s their only prize.

Do you hear me weeping,
Creeping during the night?
Sigh deep when I am sleeping
But you’re always in their sight.
In the broken kitchen chair he sits
Weeping the tears of a killer
Face buried into the palms of his grisly hands
He sobs uncontrollably for he knows what these hands have done
He cries as a child might having seen his parents murdered
Gasping and struggling to draw in a full breath
Snot running from his nose, curling over the stubble of his upper lip
With a clenched fist he wipes this away
Rage building in his veins, hatred, and remorse
His face grows red as he shakes uncontrollably with anger
Unsure of what to do with himself he rises quickly to his feet
His chair crashing back to the floor behind him
He paces the kitchen back and forth
Feet padding monotonously over checkered linoleum
Suddenly, abruptly, he stops, his gaze drifting to the counter top
As he catches sight of the skinless corpse he screams
A blood curdling scream that chills to the bone
Unable to bare the sight of his disembodied victim any longer
He barrels out of the kitchen
Crashing through doors, splinters of wood marking his trail
In the bathroom he now stands
Sulking in shame before a ***** mirror, staring down at his bare feet
Slowly, he raises his head, eyes squeezed shut
Fearing to find what he might see when he opens them
He pauses here for several moments, collecting his thoughts
Breathing deeply, hoarsely, sporadically huffing
Mustering all of his courage, he makes this final leap, opening his eyes
In the mirror before him he sees all too clearly himself
Wearing a skin that is not his own
Face, hands, feet, all that are exposed
His own pale skin standing out in bold contradiction
To the beautifully bronzed hollow man that he wears
His pale and bony knuckles crash repeatedly into the face of the mirror
Over and over again the thud and the crunch
Broken skin and shattered glass
Blood now smeared across what little reflective surface remains
At last he can see himself no more
Slumping down into a ball on the floor
He sits alone and rocks
The mere shell of a man remains
With dripping hands he tears away a patch of flesh from his thigh
Groping the floor blindly his hand closes over a shard of glass
He is now far too numb to feel pain, dead inside
Gripping tightly to the broken glass this broken man begins to write
Carving his apology into his thigh
Part #2; see "Permanent Press" for Part #1. http://hellopoetry.com/poem/permanent-press-pt-1/
;\
/
,
By Ken Sanes

It is about

       a world gone mad,

               which is spread out evenly
but clumps together in the place
where there were blood curdling screams.
And it is about right now
                     in the old house
with the creaking door
that opens
                \
slowly
and the thin plane of light
that cuts into the dark entry,
landing on eyes that seem to follow you
from behind a painting.
But certainly you are being paranoid
because there are no apparitions
                  ;
and nothing is moving through the hall.
Then again, now that you’re in, you understand
it is about love and hate, and love of death
pallor,
and the first time,
when the screams are louder
the second time,
and he is mad   utterly mad
imbued with a perfect evil   purified of petty motive
reveling in the ideal of suffering
and finely tuned     not even needing flesh
but     cold       sinister      and incorporeal
laughing maniacally     unseen
in the darkness
             with a sharp blade that
                                            goes
               ­                            /
                                         in

& horrific screaming
                                 ,
I love his writing, I actually found this poem here ----> http://www.kensanes.com/it-is-about.html
just wanted to let people know. ( I do not steal peoples work) I only present others to see it if I like it (: and will always site the name and where the source was taken.
The world turns and turns
Days and nights, pages in a book
My chapters are still
In the first act
I observe and open welcomings
Life would seem to have it so

Now I cross
Into the rising action
A world ulterior objects breeds
Full of infantile inhibitions

The world twists and turns
Coiled by the challenge that engulfs us
Sprung are the few, clenched are many
By the mist we inhale
Sprayed unto all from nowhere
And everywhere

The world twists and twists
A curdling sensation
We all turn numb from
Is my plight foreign, is anyone's?
Have the roads left a place to wander?
Leave me to the space between all
Away from marks of certainty

Rewritten or not
The chapters will continue
And the twists will turn the pages
Until my tale is done
And I begin the next
Andrew Rueter Oct 2017
I live in the wilderness
The Sun shines on the trees and through the leaves
Warmth envelopes my sanctuary
Until darkness approaches like a fog
The darkness is pregnant with sounds
I hear animals snarling while bones are breaking
Whimpers turn into blood curdling gargles
As the darkness renders invisibility among predators
And the darkness engenders vulnerability among prey
I desperately want to help but there is a darkness barricade
The darkness follows everything
The darkness swallows everything

I can hear planes crash
And the passengers scream
From within the darkness
I can only see muzzle flash
And the barrel's steam
Creating hardship
The darkness converts men to shouts of agony and rage
The darkness blinds us from the writing on the page
The darkness makes us believe
That it's our reprieve

Darkness has us in it's sight
When we choose to live in light
Even when we do what is right
Darkness takes flight
Becoming our plight
We try to fight back with futility
The darkness' bite has more utility
We are engulfed by negativity
As we lose all connectivity
And our mouths begin to foam
When the darkness is our home
Martin Narrod Apr 2017
The postulate of this grief is ours. Every night in my wiry chain-mail suit, in my bed, where you have been crying for your lost hours. For a moment they came, in calamity and drudgery, to every travailing effect that pushed you down. Half of one day, you had it. You plucked your eyebrows, applied vigorously baby oil, lotion, to your pallid skin, and in two bats of your eyes, it had disappeared again. So sad you are. So sad you have been. They were only minor hours, wrapped in crimson bows, gentle happenings that you had barely grazed the tips of your fingernails into, and their symbolical sense, their nuance, wasn't perfected as you had wished just yet. And you tried so hard and it wasn't right yet. In the bed, with your fore-paws tucked neatly under the pillow, the bottom of your legs tucking their way up into your gut, tight as tight could be; I watched you sob in your maudlin ball, your sudorific tears, just peeling out of your eyes. I changed the pillow. I swapped it out. If only we could find your hours and give them back to you.But you cowered into a half-lump ball, your spirit curdling under your night-wept tears. And I too wanted your hours, for they were mine also. Our amatory hours, the fervid hours, our hours of luxe developing bliss. I felt the same urgency to recall them as you, but it was I who held to them, and clang to them that was losing my fingertip grasp on their minutes, and that is what frightened the both of us.
grief grieving sad sadness torture inimitable horror horrifying dead die dying death wicked evil depressed depression awful unghastily horrid sordid eyes spirit hours hands paws girls girl her hers him write writer writing poet poets poetry write writing writers sanfrancisco paloalto california portolavalley stanford review reviews novice nocturnal heinous fetor
Nite Mar 2016
An oppressive, heavy darkness
Stale, musty air tinged with a touch of madness
A bone chilling cold
Assaults his senses as he awakens from sleep's stranglehold

Alone in his cell
He slumps with tears making tracks of dirt down his face
In defiance of the gloom a brightly lit shrine occupies a corner
A shrine filled with mementoes of his past

He drags himself towards the shrine
Casts his eyes about till they rest upon a key
A key for a door in a cell with no doors
A key that's engraved with the words
"Freedom lies in the way forward"

He scrabbles away from the shrine and slumps against a wall
With a blood curdling keen he wails
"The future is too daunting for me!"
As he claws his face with dirt filled nails

So he is still there sitting alone in his prison
With the key mockingly bright
Waiting for him to grab it
And escape that prison of his own making
The past can be a beautiful place but to be locked in the past robs one of the opportunities and wonderment of the future. Look back with fondness and look forward with eagerness. The future is bright if you let it be
elle Mar 2012
.               When                                                             ­                     
                  175                      ­                                                              
                  met                                           ­                           At    9:59    a    blood
             ­     with                                                        ­             curdling         scream
                   77                                                                  ­      was      heard     from
to 85 the world held                                                           sea    ­ to     see.    The
their   breath.  People                                                  ­        unimaginable    had
gathered          round                                          ­                happened.          Two
town.          Strangers                                         ­                 words   .   .   .  It   fell.
held     hands.      And                                                  ­       Toppled     over   like
liberty     street    was                                                    ­       my    old   jenga   set.
ironically         named.                                                         Soot   covered    faces
I  was  so   young.  So                                                       ­   Stared       into     our
terrified.   Screaming                                           ­               hearts.  The     bright
and   crying    at    the                                              ­           colors     stained     on
newscasters   on   TV.                                                          our ­        flag         had
I  thought   of  people                                                       ­   different      meanings
who     were     there.                                                          t­han     before.      Red;
That I  knew.  Daddy?                                                 ­       for   what    we    bled.
Where are you? Why                                                        White;­  for smoke that
can't  I call  you?  This                                                 ­       fell like  a  blizzard  in
was  much  too much                                                        late January. Blue; for
For  a  wee 5  year old                                                        the   ­ tears    we   shed.

                                      But on 9/11/11, we started new.
We will never forget
R.I.P. Robert Foti and other firemen, officers, and bystanders who lost their lives on 9/11/01
forever in our hearts <3

P. S. - having trouble reading it? First tower, second tower, bottom line
Ruth Forberg Sep 2010
"Don't leave out the graphic details."
Oh, trust me. I won't.
The gruesome, disturbing, intimacies.
The bone-chilling, hair-raising fragments.
It's almost too much to bear.
But not quite.
This vulgarity is just enough to keep them on the edge of their seats.
Every tiny, twisted moral of the story.
In between the cracks, find shining slivers of redemption.
Only to immediately cover them up with rotten deception.
Good, ***** flair. Scummy additions. Sick annotations.
Keep the masses rollin' in.
Complexity, concentration, then chaos when they want more fear.
The blood-curdling, stomach-churning truths.
The disgraceful, distasteful deductions.
We've come to the conclusion they crave this coagulation of ****.
Dark disdain eating away at the corpse of wellness.
Vermin, pests, gnawing, slobbering.
Choking on the bones of prosperity.
The decomposition of this life is what they love.
Flies, gnats, swarm. Maggots clump.
Crack, rip, slurp, gag, choke, ******* die.
Jordan May 2013
Alive in a nightmare
Awake in a daydream

putred stench

blood curdling screams

We all belong here but we're dieing

horizon of salvation

road to nowhere

one last call
get your ticket
call home

Tell them you loved them
but now your free

alone and dieing

awake at nighttime
trying to dream
Waverly Aug 2012
There is some genie
in our house, curdling poisonously.

I stay in the house
with a freckled old lady;
we're roommates,
unlucky enough to meet each other as life abated.

He does not live in the attic,
like a ***** ghoul; or in some
rubbing bottle like an amnesiac.

But we call the spirit lady, because the genie is vicious.

She comes to the house and says we need to move
things
around.

Her eyes are circled by some creamy mascara
into these black, skin-tight, **** rings,
like absurdist ****** targets.

Things are moved,
the genie stays, gets more vicious.

The mongerer is blamed
for bad things:
broken pots, fights over rent,
**** on the toilet seat,
lost keys.

We call the spirit lady,
this time her fingers jingle with golden rings,
her wrists sing with wrought-iron rainbows,
and says rain will send that sucker running.

So, we build little smoke pits in our house,
and take the most important things:
bills, and alumni letters from my school,
and birthday cards for her,
and burn them until it rains.

The genie calls us falsifiers.

The spirit lady comes back,
a necklace of grimacing clams around her neck,
and knocks around dancing, dancing,
a frenzy, a wildness, a knee-knocking,
throat-throtlling, dismantingly,
limb-ecstasy,
until she poops out and,
breathing heavy,
saying finally:
"there is nothing I can do for you,
I don't think I ever could,
some things are just bad luck."

She turns,
walks away,
and one of her clams drops from her necklace,
it says made in America on the inner lip.

The genie left a few weeks later.
A written account (that incorporates some
self directed hyperbole) of this veritable stranger
now appears before your screen. Soon
after reading this message, the neighbors

might discern a blood curdling series
of (hyena-like) shrieking screams.
No worry. That would be the mating call
of the hairy Harris mama bear.

Ready! Set! Click!

A scary reflection greets me whenever
I summon up enough steely courage to take
a sneak peek into the mirror. Before
spider lines start to appear across the
shiny surface and subsequent cracks

and fissures dissolve the glassy surface
these deux hazel colored, myopic be
spectacled eyes quickly absorb a most
frightful countenance and visage.

That near legendary and trademark feature
of longish, wavy and brown straggly hair
seems to fill the entire view. Hidden among
avant garde rhapsodic bohemian, Cro-Magnon,
Neolithic, non-every-man style of un-styled
non dread full locks (interspersed with silver follicles

indicative of acquired worry fighting off
garden variety prehistoric creature) can be discerned
a brutish, nasty and short proto-human with
high forehead, which allows, enables and provides
more skin surface to bang against wall when frustrated.

My somewhat outsize ears and longish neck
(I swear exist, which contrary to popular myth
never seen by living persons) support this egg shaped
(fried or scrambled some might argue) head.

A mostly flat and hairless chest attests to a regular
regimen of light (self-concocted) chest-pounding routine.
Exercise (as well as meditation) a vital part of my
daily program to deal with the ordinary stresses
of primitive existence. Coffee happens to be the

sotto voce sole vice, which exotic brews provide
helpful jump-start. I sometimes even chump on cup
kept teeth sharp. That unproductive habit came
to a screeching halt after breaking every pearly white.

Now to that locale known as the trumpeting ****
pull stilts skin. Although the unseen forces of biology
and genetics dealt me an itsy bitsy, tiny *****
(which serves as the but for fellow Apes to taunt

and tease) such anatomical feature offers little
value as the worthiness of ****** prowess.
This palm pilot sized gluteus Maximus offers one benefit.

Ease to squeeze into tight spaces without getting stuck.
This tiny ***** accompanied by a vestigial and
teeny-weensy ****** schnitzel of a phallus, which
undersized **** a doodle do doth bulge into

an erectile state within shooting distance of
coveted warm, wet and wooly private world
property of each and every woman.
A pair of skinny (flamingo like) legs (covered in
adequate hair) now completes this general character sketch.
Adam Childs Oct 2014
I am a floating weightless rabbit
So let me bring a soft spring
As my fury pads
Softly pass like a
Silky silent stream
Still in silence you must be
If you ever wish to see me
As I am so very shy
And will soon fly
As I meet the world
With a gentle touch
While I dance and play

Many lords and land owners
Clumsily wade and trample
Over life and emotion
Colorful cars and coats
Controlling , as I am bulldozed
Out  to societies edges
Sharing land with farmed animals
Who have long since lost
Their control on fate
As we are left like
Miserly maggots just surviving

Looking up at grand stately home
A  bubbling , curdling
And Blood thirsty envy
Rises  up in me
What am I saying
Have I lost mind  
For  I am vegetarian
No jealousy in me
As I can only lightly nibble
At the great green abundance
The world always offers me

Never seeking to change
The outside world
Like stampeding ego's
Building boundary fences
I spend my time only
Seeing and understanding
As i borrow deeper and deeper
How deep can  go  
Breaking away from above
I feel as free as a dove
Sinking searching deeply
I love this hidden world
A deep internal Love
Exploring many pathways
While always feeling protected
From the clashing worlds above
As i feel the earths embrace
My heart unfolds into
An unlimited space

Very many are we
Common are we
So common you see
Wearing our grey coats
We are a mediocre day
We have such an ordinary way
As I  vanish into grey
Such a blissful way
As there is more expansion in
Grey than there is ever in
The confines of great expectation
As nothing warms my heart more
Fondly than the simple life on
The edge of town , where
The grass is green and tender
So in this blending  relaxation
How ordinary can I be

In a humble state
I pop in , pop out
Pop up , pop down
Never needing to
Challenge and conquer
As I live lightly under
Softly accepting and accepting
As the world drops my importance
I am found completely free
Listening and listening
I drop into a watchful silence
As I navigate the world
With the most delicate  foot
As I lightly tickle the world
I hear the earth's laughter

Living life like a weightless Rabbit
We find out life much easier to face
As we humbly embrace our place
Yasha Harkness Apr 2015
Footsteps outside.
The creak of an opening door.
A piercing scream.
Flashes of gleaming steel.
A sickening crunch.
Blood. Blood. Blood.
E v e r y w h e r e.
On the walls.
On the floor.
On the dead body.
On the assassin.
A cold laugh.
Footsteps.
The door opens, and closes.
Creaky floorboards sound.
The front door slams.
The assassin is gone.
The house is quiet.
Hours pass.
The body cools.
The door rattles.
A teenager enters.
Bag flung aside.
A hesitating call.
A search begins.
Blood seeps out the door.
She follows the trail.
A blood-curdling scream.
Written on the wall -
The words - Happy Birthday.

**In blood.
first poem ever :D
zebra Aug 2016
on the first date
she confided in me
i have a chromosomal disorder, disorder, disorder
i need love and pain strangely mixed together
my elixirs
i suffer reality distoooorrtions
a ghastly Vatican of ****** compulsions
my soul is black matter
my **** a seething cauldron of despicable desire
my *** cries for homicidal cruelty

mold me into a *******
fold me like a two dollar beach chair
the wrong way
tear me to bits
unwind my intestine
eat me like a blood ******* ghoul
make me squirm like an anime victim

i thought oh finally a soul mate
with soul

strange as a Dionysian mad hatter on hallucinogenics
hot girl creeping
grimacing at me
meandering conjurations by ****** contortions
stunning impersonations of a Fellini impaling
shes a famous artist
keeps broodish bowels and blood tampons in stainless vitrines
spot lighted
ready for her debut at the
Museum of Modern Art

she blows torrents of snot like ****
her beautiful desperate tongue searching the upper lip
a salty runny viscoses snack
oozy
finding it finally with her frenetic tongue
feeding her gooey ****
with wet fingers
oh yummy yum goo
up her *** too

first smiling then hideous scowls
exposed teeth
posing with a knife
wana see me cut my self bad boy, she taunts
wana see my impersonation of pizza with extra tomato sauce

blood blood *** in the be in the bed
wipe it up with ginger bread

some how she miraculously bulges her eyes out
then performs, ******* lips as if a minnow in a fish jar

pointing to her ***
giving me that **** hurt me twisted look
how about a peanut butter jelly ******* sandwich
with a side of ****** feet
**** and **** on toes
its especially prized this day of the month
as her **** tears like a vampires mouth, a torrent of blood
pouting **** with white red stained thighs that break a mans heart
*** nothing at all she quips
just a little accident
do you like it?
as she glares like an invitation
to play slip and slide bare foot in her puddle of blood

oh she made me *****
my cherry red **** having a nervous breakdown
from apoplectic horror gasms
a dose of heavens hell

i want her
she is voluptuous like a dozen venomous snakes
copulating in warm soup dark water everglades
she is slither theater

curdling screams
then muggling *******
brought on by the first belly stab
falling to her knees
looking up shocked
mouth gaping
eyes wide
grinning
glance steady
holding holding holding
the belly cut
a cacophonous modern dance of agony
followed by rapturous convulsing *******
that went on and on and on

get a bat she implored

she is a real ******* movie star
the Greta Garbo of *****
a dark jewel
a must have
a hell wife
goddess of dread
a ******* *** genius
my best girl ever

fused by desire
we kissed like **** loving catholic priests
in adoration of their savior
young boy *** castrato hitting the high notes


she looked up with desperation
eyes with glittering tears
and said
are you my black knight?
do you know how to hurt a girl
are you my
Vex Mallus
Dr Satan
Marquis De Sick
Nick Nick
Dark Officer
Remus the Werewolf
Dom Sugar Daddy
Pit Bull
Tommy the Tummy Gutter
5 o'clock Shadow
London Cabby
Amputee ******
Uncle Surgery Gone Wrong
King of the Carpathian Vampires
my sweet kissy Kitten

ooohh yes i said
i am all that for loves sake
albeit twisted
i am what you crave.. your no taboo lover boy
your ******* licking foot slave with a razor in hand
a bubble of poison between my legs
your homicidal suicidal cockealiciousness

she said good,
now that we have that settled
can we go out for dinner
ill be dressed in a jiffy
if i can find my dead skirt
of soft white gauze
with that lovely motif of dread red
and my precious toe tag jewelery
My poems remain explorations of the subconscious ******
If i where a film maker or a novelist  you  would see me telling a story, not judge me, although i admit to my paraphilias  
These poems  are lunar anamorphic streams of consciousness from the deep chaotic subterranean glitz of transgressive  impulses we all share
Read them if you dare...You might find that part of yourself that you don't want you to know about and then again  you may feel more complete some how if you do....I always loved that dark thing that sleeps with in me
Gadus Jan 2017
When I slipped into sleep
flattening the frostbitten blades
that liquify under my body
the creeping amperage of aches
distract me from exposure

When he said 'It ain't easy out there'
he didn't envision blood curdling screams
Vivid nightmares that would pop me off my cardboard mattress
The ever common theme of falling
hoping I would hit the gelid side street

The path is singular when succumb to tunnel vision
in a gritty simulation I carry light
wallet, knife, and the daunting magic meter
In the romantic beginning, I was Aristippus twice removed
sailing on an escape route, against the grain until the end (at least)
Isabella Soledad Apr 2017
The water surrounding me stings like a million Pinpricks as I get plunged back into a time that I remember as Us.

Memories flow in like a clear pool of what once was as I sit back in emotional Paralysis, wanting nothing but to crawl out the damaged abyss of my once beautiful mind, now crooked, and corrupt

I still remember the day you left me. The feelings and the fears that engulfed the entirety of my soul.

I sat there for hours trapped inside my own mind scratching violently at the walls of my very being, drawing my own blood as the weak attempts to escape my mind proved futile.

My blood curdling screams could be heard by nobody except myself as my jagged claws slashed ferociously through the flesh of my consciousness, wanting desperately to escape myself with no avail.
Devastating defeat washed over me as the warm waters of the bathtub in which I am now trapped, leaving me with nothing but a sense of loneliness and fear.

My head sinks slowly into the warm water, allowing the sweet blur of darkness to crowd my eyes, forcing them shut. My crimson locks crawl about my face, staining the water around my features a ****** hue that simulates my deepest desire.

Now having tasted the deceiving flavor of defeat my body lays alone under water, wanting no longer to crawl away from my mind,
For it is all I have left in the dark world in which I have peacefully Succumb to.
This was written a while ago when I was still suffering from a recent break. It was a hard time.
Paul Morgana Feb 2013
People held hostage, always living in fear,
The barrel of a weapon, is always near.

Riding the train, a blood curdling scream,
A deafening noise, and a bright light beam.

A violent shock wave tears open your flesh,
The lucky ones, receive skin grafts with mesh.

Your arm torn off, artery bleeding is profuse,
A dying thought is, what was the use?

What was the purpose, to **** all these people?
In the name of Allah, perched on a mosque steeple.

Radical extremists don't care about life,
By murdering people they increase human strife.

Wasting resources, bringing the Earth gloom,
Look at faces on a plane, many filled with doom.

The last thirty five years I don't understand,
Middle Eastern countries, together they band.

Bringing terror and hatred towards cultures of the west,
We accept the need to feel your ways are the best.

Pray all you like, cover up a women's face,
Stop trying to change America's philosophy and place.

Once the oil is gone, and the land again bare,
Back to living in tents, flowing robes you will wear.

Your tactics are old, soon you may feel,
The burning of skin, this inferno is real.

A nuclear explosion will end years of frustration,
No longer putting up with terrorists indignation.

Revolutions reveal, the world ending in flame,
Enough with this nonsense, put an end to this game!

Visit poemsbypaul.com
Mortuus Odio Mar 2014
It was before me
Yelling no screaming blood curdling wails
I should have never done it
I should have never walked hand in hand with my heart
It's too small
We never see eye to eye
Always on the opposite side of the train tracks
I'm the fool not my heart
I was the idiot stupid enough to think
This relationship would ever go anywhere
Was I ready?
Why did I try?
My mother was right
I am a pathtetic excuse of life
A waste of talent
A rotting corpse of emotions
Left deaf dumb blind and lost in this grave
Wondering when the sky will decide to fall
And show me
Show the world
I was always the fool
My heart was the one I blamed
I'm too weak to continue fighting
Yet I'm still clutching this sword
Like I know I'll win
Would I be the fool to let go and die
Let the anger decapitate me
Or would I be a fool
For not forgiving my own stupidity
Say I'm sorry
Hope you'll still love me the same
I know I'm the fool not my heart
But what should I think with
When both my heart and mind know
We'll both end up getting hurt
Should I think with my ****
Say I love you only when I'm trying to get in your pants
Should I think random
Start talking about the stars and say I love you out of nowhere
Should I think without thinking
Shut the **** up and be the pet
I don't want to be the fool anymore
I don't want to be domesticated
When I'll always have the instinct to hunt
The pain I feel in my chest
Every time we argue
With the razorblade you wish I would get rid of
I'm the fool not my heart
So when you break up with me
Don't target my heart
I'm the one responisble for all of this
Take aim at my forehead
My heart has seen the worst
It has the most scars
So this time I'll make my body and mind
Take the blunt force of your punches
I'm the fool
Always was and always will be
Not my heart
Never was
I told you I didn't deserve your love and I'll understand if we break up, I ****** up, I know I hurt you.
Eleni Jun 2017
She's gone-
My medicine had thus enchanted her.
Her darkened brain becomes a slave
To the hot pangs of hysteria
And those violet tears hang on her face, like vines of Wisteria.

But, alack!
The bogey man is coming to sweep the streets
And with his blood-curdling presence
He brings his seven princes;
Heosphoros leads the way and severs
My lady's vagus with his impale morning star.

I hear weeping- is something emerging, from the molten sea of infierno? Pish! She now kneels before
The shrine of Mammon and pleads
'Heavens forfend! I must seek the ash
Path to prosperity and pretend!'

My lady's face no longer beholds
That youthful dew and that
Ethereal pigmentation of her visage.
No, no she has become achromic,
Anaemic, artic...

...I embosomed her in my arms
Tried minerals, drugs, spirits; hymns
Yet she has exchanged mortality with
Immortality: and has pleased only the Night Deity.
1 'seven princes' refers to the seven princes of Hell
2 'Heosphoros' is an alternative name for Lucifer or the Devil
3 'Vagus' refers to the vagus nerve, responsible emotional stress and speech movements in the mouth. Thus the suffering woman has become corrupted.
4 'Morning star' as in the spiked club weapon
5 'Infierno' Spanish for 'Hell'
6 'Mammon' referring to one of the seven princes of hell associated with greed of money
7 'Night Deity' one of them is Phobetor, the Night Deity of nightmares.

NB. I am solely using these references for the enjoyment of writing poetry and imagination and not because of my religious or personal beliefs.
Alan Maguire Feb 2013
I should have said no
But maybe it was fear
Or maybe the fact
that he's a Polar bear

He's got polar bear attitude
with polar bear teeth
And stands ten foot tall  
on his polar bear feet

He's the Killer King of the polar bear tribe
And he fully demanded, that I must subscribe

Subscribe to his annual magazine full of poems
edited by his famous brother, Jackson Holmes

Jackson is the one with artistic skill
While King Romero takes pleasure in the ****

He's threatened to devour people,
and haunted their dreams

then fed off of their, blood curdling,
Gruesome screams

But The magazine ain't so bad
And costs just eight bucks
But between you and me
It's written by some imprisoned ducks
Poetic T Mar 2021
This is mostly based on the true-ish happenings of
Beth Huges was born in the 80s, her parents
called her Lizzy for short well that would explain
a few things. Her upbringing was more in the 70s
then the 80s. Her parents were new-age hippies but
with the chemical abuse of the 80s.

They were vegans, nothing on land was to be sacrificed
for the fulfillment of their needing only organic substitutes.
  They'd eat from the Ocean as that was the well of life
and always giving and in a continuous replenishment cycle.

Not knowing, she was repeatedly dosed with LSD.
to open the spiritual aspects. But Daddy had a bad trip.
            And wore mummies face saying she was
talking through him.

The cops didn't see that way and vented his body with
                           at least nine new breathing holes...
She was still high as daddies blood spayed over her and
she finger painted on the floor.

She'd lived with relatives but this didn't last long as they
were meat-eaters and she had a vast disdain for all who
murdered and disfigured the life of the land.
   Her auntie was a vegan, so realized the pressures.
   But as she got into her older years having episodes.
of repressed trips. Glaring at the walls and painting in
her own blood.
It hit a moment in her twenties when she caught
her auntie giving head to her new boyfriend..

She was disgusted as she heard her call it "the meat,
             distrustful of her auntie and she'd desecrated
the law of her body, after she pleaded no meat.

While her auntie was being contaminated she put
sleeping tablets into their drinks after the *****
inducing acts had finished and she came out of
the room wiping her mouth.

                     "Here guys I made you a drink,

She played it cool reading a book until they
fell unconscious. She was reprehensible that
                   what was being done was right.
Pulling down his joggers she got some
scissors and grabbed it, momentary she put
it in her mouth, it was soft and she felt a sturring
and gagged... with one fatal swipe she cut it off.
throwing this maggot in the fire, Burn filth...
Her auntie lied there silent, her breath deep.

"How could you,

Even though she has momentarily engaged in
                pleasures of the flesh.

She went into the cupboard and found a cleaner,
             the warning on the side said corrosive
wear gloves.

She stroked her aunties hair and then tipped the
entire bottle down her throat to clean the desecration
from her.
All that was heard was a curdling and then froth
expelling from her nostrils and mouth...
She got a cloth and wiped her mouth, even though
doing this had murdered her auntie, she still loved her.
Now she was clean from the manmade contamination.
    Pure once more, the acid mixed with her stomach acid
creating a pungent smell as it was eating through her side.

A pool of blood and partly digested food bubbled
on the floor, it started to eat through the laminate flooring.
At that very moment, she heard screaming incoming on
her kneeled position.
As she turned she saw the half-naked bleeding profusely boyfriend. In his anger, he never saw the pool of corrosive remanence of his departed girlfriend.

Scissors raised and ready for vengeance, he lurched
losing his balance and landed face down in the
bubbling maroon stench.
Lizy scrambled to her feet, ready to run.
Instead, she screamed as he got up and turned around.
The flesh was peeling off, as he grabbed at his now dissolving
features. The shock was too much as she passed out.
A while had passed and as she awoke she went to move
but the scissors were interred in her hair.
Her scalp felt wet, as she touched the area, red liquid coated
shaking hands. She put her fingers in her mouth and tasted,
yes, it was her blood. she pulled at the scissors and they
wouldn't dislodge as they were firmly embedded in the
laminate flooring.

She had no other option but to yank her hair out,
******* that hurt, she had a blad patch where
the hair follicles had pulled away.
Her head spinning, but as she turned around there
he was still, his face no more just white, with patches
of blood his hands around his throat.

She got a hand towel and threw it over his featureless
remanence, and then saw the disemboweled auntie.
If it wasn't for the middle missing dissolved all over the
floor, you'd think she was sleeping.

Lizzy had to think fast, how could she get out of this?
But it was easy, she'd heard shouting and saw her
auntie come out with scissors, soon after her boyfriend
came out blooded, she saw me and told me to hide.
As I watched he grabbed her dragging her to the
cupboard unscrewing a bottle with his mouth,
then pouring it down the struggling auties mouth
at that moment I ran at him pushing him away as her  
auntie convulsing. We struggled but he was too strong.

It was at that moment he grabbed the scissors lifting me up,
he lost his balance and that the last I remember before waking
up with my hair pinned to the floor by the scissors.

The flashing lights were so bright in the darkness as I was huddling it to the waiting ambulance.
Crocodile tears poured from my eyes.
I told my story, it was worthy of an Oscar.
There on the stage, thanking the gullible audience.

As I walked from the courthouse, tears flowing thanking
everyone for their condolences and wishing me well.

I looked in the mirror as I saw my aunties face,
wearing it like my daddy wore mummies.
sprinting at the policeman at the door I got him
in the neck. Shots echoing out into the dark night.

They must have been alerted by the screaming,
can't people just die quietly? I ran into the night.
Not been found yet, but I kept the scissors.

I go after men now, I'm quite pretty for being so
crazy. I offer them ****** favours for drinks,
I always make sure they have a car, that's a must.
My favourite trick is getting them to drive to a secluded
spot offering them head-on their bonnet.
somewhere we will not be disturbed.

It's amazing how gullible men are when they think with
there meat instead of there brain.
I found this awesome pen that's a tasar, telling them
I'm leaving my signature and number, so if they liked it
they knew where to look if they wanted more fun.
Its quite funny the gurgling scream they make when
you zap their ball bags, they crumble like wet paper.

Kind of pathetic really.  Now we alone and there quite,
snip, snip some do take two chops you know.
Then into the woods or the dirt side of the road.
But I learnt from my first time, cut the femoral attire
in the leg, that way they stay down some did come to
but a was driving away by then I heard their
screams and I smiled. Of to the next town now I think
Driving while its dark is better I sell their belongings
in a pawn shop to raise money the dead cant report
their belongings stolen after all. I just tell them there
my ex. They don't really care about where it came from.

I like my new  hobby, at last count I'd snipped fourteen
of them and I still have my auntie with me I wear her
sometimes just to feel close to her.
her pa
" IT is like there are these two Dogs
that I hold inside of me.
One wants to sit in my lap and lick the hand
and play and dance and go for long walks.

THEN there is the other, it wants to grimace and growl
and bare its teeth
and rip off the face of this world
and of everything that it sees."

HERE,
in the mechanics of the mind, as it matters,
halfway from heaven, half way from hell,

SOME just aren't mechanically inclined,
and while most move forward
others get left behind.

A BOOK talks about this big war of Spirit
an its stress is that it is no game,
no politics physical or not can steer it,
there will be no passing of the buck,
no pointing the finger in blame.

NO LONGER
am I walking with my head
up in the stars,
my feet are  flat  right  on  the  ground.

I PUT MY EAR
to the track and hear
that heavy chunk of metal
with its painfully mournful sound,

THAT
painful whistle
with
its mournful sound.

I AM
walking on earth, that half way place,

I AM
being tugged

AND I
don't want to dig a hole,
I don't want to go back down.

I TELL YOU WELL,
the universe is saying
in no uncertain terms
that I had better hold back,
that I had better take heed,
it isn't just me that gets cut,
no it isn't, no, all others bleed.

ALL those **** good loving deeds
that hath spawned better life
and don't know that I don't know about!

WHAT ABOUT
all those hurtfully hostile things,
those things
that gave Hell for many to carry,
Those things that gave Hell for many to tell.

THEN
a breeze broke the solid heat
and quelled the sweat
and quenched the thirst,
you can toast the twisted souls
or you can have them cursed.

MY MINDS EYE,
for one brief moment,
no longer enveloped and inflamed,
nor will I ever see things quite the same.

NEVER
is it one cause, one reaction,
and Oh
my thoughts and my actions,
my
shame that comes
in fractions of degrees.

I CAN say there are other planes,
I can think that if I please,
though with every breath that I breathe
I'd rather announce to the world
that I'm not out just to feed.

BUT THEN
there is that sleeping dog,
that one sick soul,

AND
out of some emotional need
to make it better,
some need to make it easy,

LIKE it had some pain or purpose,
or a point of some need
of something that just had to be said.

THAT dog that you kicked
only had a snack of grass
before he laid himself down to take his bed.

YOU have been nudging him
with your boot and now he is awake
and he is going to open his yap
and ***** on you shoes
before he commences to growl

AND that godawful hell... will be back
and its going to extract

ONE BLOOD CURDLING HOWL.

You may as well just throw in the towel
because it can't be tamed, no your mind is trained,
this devil goes by so many names.

end


Al Rights Reserved@1997
Claire Waters Sep 2012
the preacher never wrote a poem
about dahmer's baptism:

1.

he leaned across
the jail cell table
and his eyes were honest
when he said he believed in god
deeply
his eyes were honest
when he said goodnight honey
and gently draped his body
in a tub of sulfuric acid
his open jaw glistening in the moon
dissolving in the dusty noontime soliloquy
of crickets outside his apartment window

2.

can an honest man
bathe in those kind of wounds
and be allowed to ask
for a penance?

3.

for two weeks they left
his baptismal robes in storage
they asked if he really believed it
if he could believe in all this

4.

“when i was a kid
i was just like anybody else”
he had said
he seemed to think
being like anybody else
could dull the bloodstains
reduce the skeletons
still tucked into his closet
to powder
make his wishes into holy water

5.

yes jeffrey, anyone can drink it
but getting drunk on holiness
isn’t enough to repent
all of their fingers are wrapped around
your heart
doesn’t forgetting seem foolish
to the brains in your refrigerator
isn’t it just useless
to the spare ribs, in your bureau
drink all the holy water you want
you will always carry their bodies
on your chest
have you ever had a heart
other than the ones you collected
and did you ever know
what a soul feels like?

6.

and that day
they took him to a prison tub
and his body
glistened under the water
like a drowning animal or a martyr
jeffrey doesn’t float

7.

as he opens his eyes
his mouth wide
he looks just like him
suspended in white
ripples curdling in currents across his pale skin
a solar eclipse
covers the sun
as he comes up
for air
Julius Dec 2012
(Act 1)*
As I lay there among the trees and the shrubbery
Spread before me were fields of gold
Weeds, flowers and twigs tickle my face
And above me an azure sky
Shining upon me by some heavenly divinity
Light streams through gaps in clouds
The sun beyond is impenetrable, a fortress of energy, and the clouds seem in awe
For miles visible, grass twinkles with morning dew,
So that I see flashes of reflection when I stare out across the horizon
A chorus of starry wonder brought to this ground;
When I try hard, I can calm the pulses of light in my eyes.
The sea of glittering droplets seems to fade,
But is never out of reach of my concentration.
And I perceive rolling mists
Hills that seem to swim to and fro and warp in and out of the skyline,
And the wind silently brushes the grass,
Gently moving the blades in a swaying rhythm
Like the rhythm of my heart beating, yet time stands still
And I can only absorb the pinks, greens and blues.
All the gold, seeming like visions of eternity
Momentarily I think all is boundless
My transient thoughts alone may speak a thousand stagnant words,
But that indescribable epiphany brought a river of speech and thought,
With which I felt I could transcend the inhibitions and degradations that afflicted my mind,
Soar above fields marked by fences and enclosed by vision and space
As if I were to find a boundless pattern, to speak aloud words of wisdom,
That I had been in this world for longer than that flash of inspiration that had brought me here.
I am, and therefore I think about what I am.
With all the force of crashing mountain-tops,
Or the bolt of lightning splitting the air
I am emancipated, as I ascend, beyond the negligent frontier of chaos
Below me that gurgling pit of utter curdling mire,
That entrenched the soul in fear,
And its walls reached and leaned, unassailable, around me
And now in golden fields, no restrictions placed on thought or speech,
Logic or discourse still grip or rule me.
Dee Oct 2020
❝ a bright light you once were
   filled with the radiance of your raging red;

   you illuminated through a flowering future
   but then the dark clouds sought you out
   and rendered your light invisible

   the land roared for your pastel orange of peace
   but the darkness has swallowed everything

   your sons and daughters walked blindly,
   trapped and lost within the dark woods of chaos
   they sought out for you and your warmth
   only to be greeted by the harsh cold
   and blood curdling gargles

   eventually the clouds rolled away and left you tainted
   but as you struggle to reclaim your lost kindle
   we bask in your greyish faint light
   and hope that your waltz to the symphony of change
   will soon take you to the path of a glorious self recreation ❞
after enough charred inhaling and stuttered swallowing
and after the invincibility of the act evaporates
your biceps begins to sag and your mind stops moving
it’s you suddenly find yourself hovering through the days
and time is subjective and all things are subjective
and so what if you don’t do that because everything’s just particles in your brain
slapping against one another to make the flickering pictures of this world

and then once every few days you shake your head and stand up
and say I’m gonna do something! but keep the same diet
and revert to the same state of synthetic zen-like denial.

you sit on a silent conveyer belt as hours pass
and things happen around you but you see them through a lens
a film onscreen, pleasurably cathartic, but your soul’s still in the theater
watching from a stained, sticky seat some dimensions away
and the heckler’s behind you won’t shut up
and they keep you from focusing on the movie itself
and your peripheral vision becomes distinct
and you find yourself aware of the speakers and exit signs
and the slight dust and film grains splashing in front of your view
and you think of this as an ephiphany
instead of Brechtian distanciation at its most curdling.

then your brain starts feeling like a frisbee
and your body is the monkey in the middle
trying to grab at it but it tires out
and the bullies run away with it
and your left with a black hole in the head
laying in complacency in front of a shimmering cube
sounds and images with no correlation or relevance
pondering your higher knowledge of all things around it, around you
and giggling to the echoing cobwebbed corners of the room
about the ignorance of those not privileged to the same diet.
© David Clifford Turner, 2010

For more scrawls, head to: www.ramblingbastard.blogspot.com
Simon Soane Feb 2016
Between me and her there were lots of fireworks
and that is to name but one of the lovely perks
we created and ran through by being together
feeling warm and secure, whatever the weather,
we felt heated and glowing in every single trot
but there is one day in particular we were both very hot.
We’d spent a lazy Sunday  watching the television
eradicating our hangovers after a ***** collision,
didn’t move from the sofa unless to go to the loo
lay in each other arms, we knew love was true,
looking into eyes with synchronicity’s kiss
knowing full well the meaning of bliss.
As time went on we started to feel lewd
but before those fleshy moves we thought  we’d get food.
I sauntered off to the takeaway with both our requests
for me kebab and chips for her fried chicken breast,
I was in a spicy mood as later I knew later we’d get course
so I asked for my meal to be smothered in strong chilli sauce.
When I got back we scoffed our purchases down fast
the thought of our steamy coupling already had me at half mast,
we dabbed away the remnants of our grub with serene care,
“right now you, get up them stairs!”
We tore off our clothes with the speed of a cheetah,
I licked my lips, I couldn’t wait to eat her,
down south I went and started lapping away
“baby are you in for a sweet treat today!”
My jaw was working hard, I had drool from jowls
when suddenly from her came a blood curdling howl,
she screamed, “have you poured lava on my ******, it’s burning like flames
If this carries on I’m going to go lame,
I’m all for red hot passion but this is too much
my ***** feels too volcanic to touch,
It’s like on a Bunsen burner I sit
I’ve got Mount Vesuvius bursting out of my ****.”
I thought what could be the cause of this fiery malaise,
I pondered and mused as in pain she was glazed,
then I found the root of the problem as she shouted her self horse,
I didn’t wash my mouth out after that hot chilli sauce!
I said, I’m sorry, I’m sorry we should have waited until the heat had died down!”
She writhed around and hit me with a furious frown,
“well think about that next time, you ******* clown!”
An hour later when her agony had subsided
we sat on the couch and stroked each other’s eyelids,
she said, “although that hurt, I suppose it’s quite apt.”
surprised I remarked, “how do you figure that?”
She looked and me and smiled thru her winning smirk,
“because between you and me baby always fireworks!”
A little riff on memory, good times!
spysgrandson May 2017
he poured the remaining Cheerios
into the bowl, then covered them with milk
he need not sniff to know was old,
stale, curdling

still he ate, for he knew without
this sour meal, he would tire on his
mile journey to the bus stop, and
not concentrate in school

his red brick haven, where there
was always running water, porcelain
toilets, adults who didn't reek of
of moonshine, **** and smoke

there he could read under electric
lights, watch movies about the moon
and strange rockets that would one day
blast a man all the way there

another cleaner world he imagined:
a sterile, silent white orb, pocked by boulders
bigger than mountains, craters with names
like Mare Serenitatis, a sea of serenity

that is where he wanted to be
on the dark side of the moon, where
grave gravity looses its reins a bit, hidden
from earth's billions of eyes

and when he dared reveal this
wish in the ears of his elders, they
would whisper among themselves,
saying he was an old soul

but barely double digits, he knew
this could not be so--for his body was only
tired from toil, and as far as his soul,
he knew it had no age, not in years

not here on this wretched third stone
from the sun, nor in a crater as old as time
waiting for him to escape the bounds of earth,
and the bitter milk of morning

Bell County, Kentucky, 1964

— The End —