"debaucheries" poems
Satanic anthems are bold, as they carry their message across undefined boundaries where infinity spreads her wanton features across the generations of history.
Boston reminds me of my historical roots, where Anglican tragedy submits her fornications in submissive rebellion.
With this in mind, let us use our fallible wills to travel together, across astral vistas where timeless plantations of hallucinogenic acceptance join hands around the mistress of the dark and her tantalising secretions.
Can we please communicate into the depths of the dawn in our debaucheries?
Feel the rhythm of unspeakable energies, as the pulse ripples through your eternal lusts.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
Deep down
Down the steps
Step into the underground club
Club of jazz greats
Great Gatsby happens nightly
Nightly partake in raucous debauchery
Debaucheries of heathen heat
Heat exuding from the beat
Beat of drum and bass of hearts
Hearts of lovers in the dark
Dark corners hidden
Hidden from all eyes
Eyes who spy their kiss
Kiss of true love's wish
Wish made on fallen stars
Stars that bedazzle and awe
Awe and wonder romancing the night
Night that finds two in love
Love in / is / a speakeasy
Speak easy with love....
*(Deep down
Where great Gatsby happens)*
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
**Ah! City of bloodshed,
utterly deceitful , full of booty --
no end to the plunder!
The crack of whip and rumble of wheel,
galloping horse and bounding chariot!
Horsemen charging , flashing sword and glittering spear,
piles of dead, heaps of corpses,
dead bodies without end --- they stumble over the bodies!
Because of the countless debaucheries of the **********
gracefully alluring , mistress of sorcery, who enslaves ! nations
through her debaucheries, and peoples through her sorcery,
I am against you,says the Lord of hosts,
and will lift up your skirts over your face;
and I will let nations look on your nakedness.
and kingdoms on your shame.
I will throw filth at you and treat you with contempt,
and make you a spectacle.
Then all who see you will shrink from you and say,
"Nineveh is devastated, who will bemoan her?"
Where shall I seek comforters for you?**
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 6:53 AM UTC
What a blessing to realize
That the gynecologist in my dream
Is not real, that his diagnosis about my ****** are not real
And that my ****** is not real,
And really was just bits of subconscious particles, cerebral filaments shuffling up
My cortex and flowing through my pathways
To my post-memory. And that her reports
About my venereal disease was only a screenshot I saw two days ago while perusing
The internet; I opened a new browser and still was without a ****** And my ex-girlfriend
Curled like lumpy milk in the backseat of the car I don’t own was also without venereal disease, but that she wasn’t also driving this
Dream that I was driving. This dream built of syntax and broken promises.
Though I wish the publisher that put my book into print had been real. That the newspaper with its four-star review had been real. That the gorgeous woman at the party who assumed I was some famous poet and lead my hand up her panty-less dress had too been real,
But was in fact an explosion of Azeroth, as was her twin succubus kissing my neck passionately when my wife approached from behind. And her lips fell off of me like autumn leaves onto. Pond, and her twin shriveled into a scrap of paper,
And the wind took them out into the sky,
Far above my eyes. Her taste dissolving heavily Into my mouth with only an inky taste of her
Dulciloquent compliments to remember her
And the way she tasted like my 20-something
Debaucheries. I’m already forgetting them, and forgetting what it felt like to have men only Want me for the ****** I’m already
Forgetting that I had. I’ve already forgot their Names and the words they used to address me.
I’m already minutes away from the days of that,
That inky dream where they undressed me
Sticking their tongues into my throat. And I had four throats and twelve Eyes. I was an idiot to believe that I was the only one in the world
Worth never forgetting. Which for that moment
Was worth having venereal diseases and doctors
Calling me during parties on weekends. It was worth all of it, and the disgraces, and now
Now it has all vanished, along with all of them in it, and this short blurb of words is all of their existence that remains
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 4:04 PM UTC
*atypical,
in conclusive
after conviction
once enough--
all-sufficiency
independent of
popular priorities
is to Be or Not
perhaps apart
from partying
to debaucheries
atypical
this love
begottenness from above
alights anew, like a dove
heaven-sourced repatriation
vile, in estimation
clouded vision, rejected
by inutile estimation
until a singular day
glistens in the sky
put on your headphones and listen*
●○
°
#life #hope #salvation #relationship #thoughts #thought #redemption
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 1:53 AM UTC
Celestial Sodomites, decant your debaucheries carefully. Here Dionysus lies -- 1969-1969. Summer sunshine sexcapades. I have been sent by the true Khalifa, supreme placeholder, perpetual nihil to sever defunct neurological pathways and lead to the pearly gates of emotional wounding. Please, open your hearts and pray with me.
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 6:56 AM UTC
*atypical,
in conclusive
after conviction
once enough--
all-sufficiency
independent of
popular priorities
is to Be or Not
perhaps apart
from partying
to debaucheries
atypical
this love
begottenness from above
alights anew, like a dove
heaven-sourced repatriation
vile, in estimation
clouded vision, rejected
by inutile estimation
until a singular day
glistens in the sky
put on your headphones and listen*
●○
°
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 7:24 PM UTC
------ Lack of moderation,/ so I've created sensation,/ Debaucheries ,/ the world's mocking me/ Stalking me/ Remixing/ Poisoning Elixirs/ The pictures i've painted /Will not be famous/ Filter out the strangest
Dichotomies started the economies / there's no third eye/ I learn the truth off the third lie/ bird eye's view of prey/They artificial with the Self sacrificial/ the fake spiritual/ instead of logically solving the issue/
seal your fate for being fake/
with one shot of the arrow/
ignore christmas carols /
got bored with the correlations of cows /
experienced the highs then said how,
NOT why, understood the lows, to flows like a shadow, my failures became the saddle /
negative energy/
the beams from the grid make it easy to walk through walls and **** ya bitch!/have you stuck with my kids, at night i abduct and then sell for the highest bid but i cloned em before i sold em, so you're stuck on the poem on HOW you don't notice/ i reflect G /the better me/, the setting me up to die, so i rolled A SEVEN with one die, then sold the lie
/the (die-oh-knee-sis) dionysus, got you to be obsequious/
rhymes don't need a technique ***** i mean at least you can make money off thesis/Jesus code, natures story resold
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death ,
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rebirth,
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value
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no worth
stress
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no work
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 10:43 PM UTC
children of death and settlement
by the tired, busy mouth
of the evening;
where the only
art is entering
you squat, bare
in the corner of darkness
suffering and smiling;
searching for the love
of another darkness
there! i mistook you
for a lost shadow, for i let you go
let you go.
before now, i slept
into the is same darkness
waiting to be ferry into tomorrow;
thinking the large body
of retrospect past
is immutable
but can't convince my pen
that the only poetry in nigeria
is her present —messed-up
by the same gone, ageless people
we revered, we have to let them go
let them go.
into the red dark
past nigeria, there
is a labyrinth tree
whose ripe fruits are love
and poetry
but was intentionally
neglected; we let it go, let it go.
looking through this tree
i can see
into the future;
above and beneath —
the ****** hatred
of death and grave's
settlement, that we can't let it go, let it go.
gently —gently and gently
i want to sink the deepest borehole
of poetry
into this tasty period
where the only water is not
only bullets; but
nepotism, tribalism
neglecting naked reality
that brewed the wine that we can't let it go
let it go.
the largest wound
in our hearts
where the past bullets
pierced our comforts
i want to heal it before i let it go, let it go.
i sauntered
through this discomforting pain;
climbing through —
the disagreements
betrayals, backbiting
debaucheries and raw selfishness —
minds who don't want to let it go, let it go
i enter the past
the way good poetry
entered the indolent
through its untied roads and
whispering potholes
with the hope
that not all nigerians are stupid
through this silent
tired, busy mouth
where the only poetry
is entering
you must broad
your search;
night is also an unemployed
graduate, wanting to let to go, let it go.
© umar yogiza jr
abuja, nigeria.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 11:33 PM UTC
One thousand dogs laugh
while the innocent and the condemned
share simultaneous dance.
They worship the rattle of the snake
beyond the frontier of human decency,
which poses the question,
"is god's love above the navel
or somewhere below"?
Though still a saint, I am the enemy of the common public
implicated during this sordid scandal.
I arrive promptly at the hour of the counter clock,
because same as you, I am in the midst
of the struggle for love, and I am suffering.
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 11:57 PM UTC