"dullards" poems
My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.
My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.
A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.
A devilish ********** of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.
Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.
A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.
Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.
Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.
Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.
A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.
A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)
A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.
A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.
A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.
An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.
A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.
A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.
Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.
A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.
Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
I
Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers.
But they are troops who fade, not flowers,
For poets' tearful fooling:
Men, gaps for filling:
Losses, who might have fought
Longer; but no one bothers.
II
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
Dullness best solves
The tease and doubt of shelling,
And Chance's strange arithmetic
Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.
They keep no check on armies' decimation.
III
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Their spirit drags no pack.
Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.
Having seen all things red,
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever.
And terror's first constriction over,
Their hearts remain small-drawn.
Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle
Now long since ironed,
Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.
IV
Happy the soldier home, with not a notion
How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,
And many sighs are drained.
Happy the lad whose mind was never trained:
His days are worth forgetting more than not.
He sings along the march
Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,
The long, forlorn, relentless trend
From larger day to huger night.
V
We wise, who with a thought besmirch
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashless eyes?
Alive, he is not vital overmuch;
Dying, not mortal overmuch;
Nor sad, nor proud,
Nor curious at all.
He cannot tell
Old men's placidity from his.
VI
But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones.
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
By choice they made themselves immune
To pity and whatever mourns in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears
2.8k
Demagogues of our society; daftly delivering
disarming delusions of decrepit delights.
Dealing in powder, rock and liquid death,
demurely doled out in droves to the
willing unconscious, dysfunctional deviants
of the land.
Blindly offering devotions, flaccid devotions
to plastic, white collar deities; giving new
definition to internal deformity, through
decelerated dejection.
Desperate and emotionally dismembered,
defrauded by quick, cheap decadence,
debauchery, and mental decay in many
deliriously delicious forms...pick a flavor,
name your poison!
Delegate your defect, as those with
doctoral degrees in defunct traditions
do deviously delineate their demented
designs...for our future.
DejaVu?
Perhaps, but in fact, it is we
who sniff, inject and drink up their drivel,
decidedly and dutifully depleted of
intellect by way of dubious data.
Duplicitous dullards...sanitize and
deodorize their fiendish lies...as we,
WE do nothing!
Not enough of us dumbfounded or
dumbstruck by their deceitful smiles.
Full of dread and deep dismay, by
the statutes of the day...I, for one,
will dream of better days, when we
shall defeat these diabolical demons.
But for now, down beaten, downtrodden;
we will continue to be denigrated for
the duration.
Clever dissection; dumb as they want you
to be,
disparity of all creativity...individuality...
and all of your rights...controversially.
Our disgruntled displeasure doomed...to
fall on dormant hearts...and we,
debilitated and daunted, lives dismantled,
are now forever haunted, by our freedoms
demise...by days we could question
their smiling lies.
Demagogues; Big Brother...such delinquents
dosing up the masses with a deluge of powder,
rock sedation and liquid elation...pick your flavor,
name your poison.
At the end of the day WE are ONE...duped,
defaced, defeated...and to continue on this
road, our final denouement will come
disturbingly disguised...as DEATH!
-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
♠ ♠ ♠
Pseudo-Oriental visions
Haiku, Tanka, exotic terms
Vapid New Age vibe-transmissions
proliferating eastern germs…
Anarchistic thought collages
Existential lacerations
Nihilistic heart-massages
Incoherent lamentations,
Communism on a mission,
grievance-mongering, stewed in hate;
pounding Fascist fusion/fission
chanting harshly “ours the state”,
Hymns to Gods who choked on *****
undertaken in overdose;
rocks that never rose to comet
rolling – but ending comatose,
Hipster ironies, tongue in chic
Metro-wimps who feign the normal,
Redneck rantings up the creek
semaphoric, semi-formal,
matron’s maudlin observations,
motivational hypnosis,
(sentimental medications
offered prior to diagnosis),
coldly abstract neo-nonsense
read (by dullards) as cutting edge,
letters void of correspondence;
well-trimmed words’ linguistic hedge.
Climate whining (tried untrue)
with eco-prophecies warning doom,
Wiccans and tree-sprites trying to
undo the curse and lift the gloom,
Feministic tribal ranting,
Race-complaining, agitation,
GLBT gallivanting –
all are blights upon our nation.
Boring modernist excess,
(no longer daring – formulaic)
confounds – yet never can address
what’s wrong, and so becomes prosaic.
Lists like this are perhaps the worst;
another symptom of our times:
we who are woefully unversed
in rhythmic complaining that rhymes.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
The all faith popes were flaming atheists,
all two thousand leagues of stacked sea,
sending out their **** hole flotillas
on carillon arks stacked ten tiers deep with homing doves,
tithe teething continents of dithering dullards,
the poor mouthed succulent souls
that have so, so
over crowded a once peaceful heaven
to render this one blue ball a hell on earth.
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 10:23 PM UTC
My life is poetry and yours is prose
I can mean things nobody knows
All hidden away in my sweet sharp mind
A thousand guesses are guessed just fine
But they read you better all straight and clear
There's no scheming with rhyme all messy and queer
Though I'm simple enough to decipher and see
For minds majorly lazy nor dullards ain't free
Away, I sit where old red roses bloom
Alone, burning minutes this afternoon
My tears are stuck behind my eyes
This bitter beauty beneath grime disguised
Fumbling around while fair skin bakes
The city is quiet now, make no mistake
I think awhile and then go to wander on
These roses belong to all and so to none
One cool jet of water tries to pass for a fountain
A man in short shorts strides by unaccounted
Laughing at how I’m besotted with my own malaise
I must remind myself that a poet’s task is to praise
But it’s terribly hard to make shields without sarcasm
And loopy concerns will throw wise men toward spasms
It’s almost better to float through hydrocodone dreams wide awake
Than to sing futilely of sand and flights and smiles felt not faked
For this insult to suffering can’t end quickly enough
And the Suessical rhythm leaves much to rebuff
Despite luxurious lucidity the inconsequence falls on
Until next year’s parade and hope of less scorching suns
Because I’m not like the roses I’m not like the water
I’m not like the dude whose shorts won’t go farther
Maybe you’ll realize finally after thrice the **** crows
That my life is poetry but yours is, darling, still prose.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
She woke upon the plain, all distant and alone
Nostalgia stirred the air, an acrid smell like hope
Lofty goals and grand ambition,
To them a dullards joke
A shift to foot, and all is healed
As happy as could be
All wishes granted, all needs fulfilled
For all eternity
Wistful thoughts are stopped at source
Still before mind’s eye a question brought,
Is it heavens crèche or hell itself
Upon our kin we’ve wrought?
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 8:19 AM UTC
Archie Monroe, the swollen bell ringer of Lavender Moor,
Is looking to sell his copper claw,
His wartime Horlick’s pedals,
And his ferocious bone lick with its wet mink sheath.
He half believes in two thirds of a God every other end of the day.
He believes in St. Clank, and the spanking of the parable,
He believes in the Holy Bee and the miracle of the monocle.
He's walking all lookable
He talks about succulent;
The warm unbuttoned government;
The other worldly succubus,
And tickled sinners such as us
Who never want to make a fuss.
The curled up nurse of Russia Road is building ghosts of crimson brick,
Hurting the sick, and Christmas pale
With the poisoned tip of her sharpened nail.
She nestles by comparison with the dullards of noon.
Who would have thought it expensively cruel
To do it in the dentist froth,
Now that she's lost in Hoxton Square?
Barely able to breath;
Hairy and ****
Sticky to the last.
See the violent and widespread bed spasms of Arbuckle’s bottle,
And the lamp lit cancer of corrosive blue whining,
The ill mannered throat-goose
And the manicured miscarriage of Mendleson's twenty fourth mother.
Felix was peeling
We knew it to be true,
Even back then
In the pickled omentum.
The pompous rebuffs and the transparent gloves of yawning;
It seemed not she like.
See the museum’s scratched trumpet mask of medical sod,
And the soft dissection of the ink *****
Implements of ticking and slip with the slow itch and clop.
The anatomy doll, all green and glad;
Its uncertain internal shrinking of Crippen;
The skull’s Baron of the Intact Apparent.
She cradles her parents in terrified liver
Resembling dill with an unusual, excitable finish.
Meanwhile out in Kraków:
The idiotic London guillotine shop
Shows eight obscene operation reveals trembling on a saucer.
This, I'm unafraid to never say, is not almost uncertainly bowel pay.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 6:33 AM UTC
Sad straights and narrows,
No paths to enlightenments,
Smooth sailing dullards.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
theres a place i go,
far away from all this,
where a flicker of light,
sparks a shadow of thought,
every once in a while,
i need it,
to revive me.
nobody knows, and even less care,
so i stare straight at the daring sun,
whiling away the time,
it chooses,
to give me.
from a little peace and a little quiet,
my mind races past the days dullards,
spinning the winnings and casting the losses,
it is the moment ive waited for,
unleashing the chasm of questions,
answers flooding in, with crushing clarity,
i force it,
to stir me.
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 2:41 AM UTC
The Dallards are not hip to the fact that aging, sickness and death are pervasive
The No-Shows still have their auspicious wealth and derive their generic credence from portion control
The Dullards and No-Shows are a package deal, buy one get one free
They are deathless
Due to their coping mechanisms
They wait to swim a half hour after they eat in lieu of their over indulgent and impatient tendencies
Weak minded fools who cannot see the fine line between integrity and despair
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
With the inhalation of bullets,
as a diversion and a force to forget,
and have a neglection of
the one baptized as supreme,
then yells exigency at the pointless.
all and sundry overhead
are run by the dullards,
whose power was never absolute,
had an opportunity to resolute.
Beloved land of democracy,
whom produced kakistocracy.
To all and sundry dux:
“ad infernum apud vos”
Feb 12, 2021
Feb 12, 2021 at 6:24 PM UTC
the behemmoth distracted misanthropic lens falls wayside for a moment, i saw you beautiful in frail light as it dimmed to a dullards thoughts again, you could never catch that distracted wandering thought, never put your finger on the distant far cornered cry, bewildered you wept for it, still a blind beggar in a land of evil seers. one morning you awoke unshackled and having a drunkards clarity you spoke, but you spoke too soon, no one heard you and no one cared.
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 5:23 PM UTC
The Holy Land neath hammer blows -
is this what Jesus prophesied:
when sad-sack’s hanged like mistletoes
the sightless see a suicide;
when thousands fall like dominoes
the blind deny it’s homicide;
when women fry in thermal throes
the gents reject it’s femicide
when rockets slaughter embryos
the fools forget it’s feticide
when children die and decompose
the dullards doubt infanticide;
when bodies burn with afterglows
no one concedes it’s genocide.
Whichever way the west wind blows
leaves morals dangling, crucified…
Oct 31, 2024
Oct 31, 2024 at 1:25 PM UTC
I wonder if you would miss the little things that I do
When I'm around you.
The way I yawn in the mornings
The way I thank you in German.
Always the same.
I know I'd miss all things you do.
The way you look at me and laugh when I do those stupid little things.
Let us live as dullards do.
We can live in ignorance.
Not knowing what do.
You look at me.
I look at you.
We smile and whisper goodnight.
And we sleep
Until the morning light.
Shall I live in ignorance?
If it's to make you happy, I shall.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
****
Can't believe I'm still here
It's been a crazy couple of years
Crazy in the scene, now I'm going crazy
Innocence taste
Just as good as it once did
Just like they once did
Took some ****
Now I couldn't ******* dream of
...
It
It being above me
Somewhere
Why the hell did no one seem to care?..
So self aware
Of my brainwaves
In this cramped and damp space
Dullards are lucky
****
I wish i could pick up a sawed off
And get these kids
Of my **** lawn
Then blow my brains
All before the break of dawn
And the break of my fast
I fasted change
Turns out all i got to eat
Is beans and toast
**** I guess i'll starve then
Back to the wall
Covered in faces
mocking me
I know it
Show the rest of yourself
Then the youth you
Use as an excuse for good health
Won't do you much good
This is my neighborhood
Down here all alone
God ****
I wish this house was a home
This grass could grow
Up my ankles
I'm as thankless as angles
With big ****
Just missing some grace
Or some ****
Rest in piece, more like
(Heh)
Rust in place
I'm so alone....
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 5:46 AM UTC
I have made my own prison to live in
my verhemenous temple of distrust
I can't deal with the dullards
those whom misconstrued me
Just be thankful I write
and don't cut you with my silver knife
for my words are hers
made of silver and gold
So I stay isolated
for I grow strong
and to the glory
it will not be long
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
I want her look of unholy deliverance
that moment
Suspension In A Centrifuge:::
That perfect tunnel vision:::
My Dress rehearsal for Idolatry
bind me, a dolt, adult
Call me perpetual adolescence
deoxygenated default, setting in blue
so set me as the center of your universe
***** my temple, ego ******** edification
a dullards magnum opus, an apoplectic deity
when the script become predictive,
post or pre-mortem
predicated upon Walmart storylines
and nine live felines...
but we are bound by blue light specials to be
***** plain, vanquished vanilla
in a box store store morality, box store love, box store exsanguination
a new metric of mortality
the new math for the bloodless
Mar 11, 2021
Mar 11, 2021 at 8:17 PM UTC
its all a sham
lesser people with lesser worth
the little child who hides behind mother's skirt
and sticks out a tongue
in awe and afraid of talent and status
they could never have or reach never attainable
they hide behind skirts poking out tongues
and spewing snorts from ***** noses
and when I rile them good or hit a very raw nerve
the lily-livered drips try to produce responses
that laughably fall off the mark and show even more dullness
the duds and dullards, the pathetic unfulfilled poltroons
the lessers who can't sustain anything real, bright and worthy
The sham talent-less spine-less under-achievers
full of weaknesses and inadequacies
the women all know you are useless
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 4:40 AM UTC
Who, if not I, shall drag this weary art from the grave?
Who, if not I, shall stitch its tattered lungs and bid it breathe?
The rest of them—dullards, clowns, worshippers of hollow verse—
they scribble in their mediocrity, praising each other’s drool
as if genius were a group activity.
But I—oh, I—am the last flicker of divinity left in this sorry world.
A benevolent god, bestowing clarity where there is only fog.
My kindness—a gift—a burden, even!
For what is it to be kind, when one is so vastly beyond
the scrawling masses?
Oh, how exhausting it is to save poetry
while balancing the delicate weight of my own madness.
How tragic, how noble, how unbearably beautiful
to suffer for a world that cannot grasp my suffering.
Yes, yes—I see the whispers in their eyes,
the adoration curled in their reluctant praise.
They know, as I know, as the gods themselves must know,
that without my hand, my vision, my voice—
poetry would collapse into dust, and no one would even notice.
And yet, I persist.
I give, endlessly, despite the torment of being the only one
who truly understands.
Because if not I—who?
Mar 2, 2025
Mar 2, 2025 at 4:22 AM UTC
Who knows what is on the other side?
What monsters lie lurking beyond the stone walls and multiple doors
Perhaps long-forgotten secrets you and I have hidden away
Erasing unwanted memories from our minds forevermore
Will we find heaven the oh so sought promised golden land?
Or fires of the unspoken one waiting that scorch us and burn
Is condemnation to the netherworld our unchangeable fate?
Without us would the world continue to turn?
Take a glance and tell me what is on the other side
Is it a plane of my mind which some say does not exist
For lack of imagination, some cannot see it
Others do boring dullards but simply resist
Are their stars made of glass on the other side?
Do emotions flow like fine wine?
Do the sea waves roar with song green and salty?
Or will they die with the passing of time?
Are there precious stones strewn about the ground like sand diamonds?
While a blue moon hangs high in the sky.
Is the evil of mankind waiting and laughing?
On the other side
For a seized opportunity to overcome us all
Are all our desires fulfilled completely?
Or do the shadows reign dark and tall?
I believe will forge ahead and go around the corner
Instead a sitting like a smiling fool on a self-made shelf
I will take a look closer look at the other side
And decide if I will travel there myself
All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby December 16/2019.
All Material Stored In Author Base
Dec 17, 2019
Dec 17, 2019 at 8:41 PM UTC
You have to keep
your eyes on them,
you know
the little men with big ideas
bigger ears and
smaller minds.
They're out there
watching
what you do
willing to
run you through
with a sabre
and yet we labour for them
same men,
call them Sir
do we think they care
or have a clue?
You have to keep
your wits about you
otherwise they put
upon you
I never trust them.
And it's not just them
there are 'They'
the
Sken eyed little squints
flint hard but dullards.
Seems that Friday is the time,
when idiots
form a line to see
who is best at idiocy
it is
plain to me
as clear as day
it's them and they
that rule the roost.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 2:30 AM UTC