"femur" 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
I could have gone to the cemetery,
or back to my high school lab,
find him lecturing from a podium,
bony finger raised,
demagogue of the dead.
I could break him down piece by piece,
cram him in a duffle,
a femur jutting the zipper.
Ignore the groan-
Skeletons are
by nature
never satisfied.
Instead I found myself
in the carnival lot,
The dog was long dead,
the sign kept guard.
Rusty rides slouched like tumbleweeds.
Cotton candy in memory-
blue tack crunching my teeth.
Lewd.
Skeletons fixed on poles,
spiked up through pelvis and spine.
Use ****
Grip shoulders. twist. lift.
When one slid free,
he collapsed into my arms
all bone-light, lovely,
mine at last.
I just brought him home.
Sat at the kitchen table.
Named him Curly.
Zoom howled: WAG’s gone weird!
What’s his name? What’s his name?
His name is Curly,
I said, but I knew
his name was You.
We drink wine by the pool.
He never sips.
Sometimes I pour a second glass for the glint.
Sometimes he tells me Danny Elfman
wants to play his ribs like a xylophone.
Sometimes he sighs,
he hates Oingo Boingo.
I laugh. Obliging.
So do I.
When the wind kicks up
he smells of sugar and rust.
Sometimes he rattles the glassware.
Sometimes he won’t sit still.
Skeletons are
by nature
never satisfied.
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 12:11 PM UTC
*there is a tourniquet on his tongue.
he is a risqué bloke
with alkaloid fingers,
they are wearing
yellow asylum jackets
yet he calls me
mad-
emoiselle, his, in between the lines
he cuts with razorblades and mirrors.
i find myself in between legs
of a stanza (not standing),
pale femurs and inner thighs
french-kissing into
surpine ampersands
where the first word
is a proclaimed ugly disease -- perhaps 'love.'
and the other, its escapade -- perhaps 'tuberculosis.'
but i must be the period:
oxidised bones.
within the eyes
of a stanza (still not standing)
abides no fancy lines
no avarice for contemplative meanings
there is but space and void
and i've filled his femur marrows
with metaphors
to the verge of the patella.
he writes poetry for me
with a needle
and an eight-ball.
there is a tourniquet on his tongue
and his spine fits my stocking
seamlessly.*
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 5:12 AM UTC
if we must die,
let it be known that
you're only as great as yesterday lets you.
that the leader of men carries the hope of all men.
that the world is never the final destination of life.
that man is only a photograph of heaven.
if we must die.
let it be known that eternity lives in every face.
that the mind is all but a femur of the unspoken soul.
that you are only a footstep ---
and every footstep must wash so to leave room for other footsteps.
since we must all die,
let it be known that you once stood--
let that be known.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 1:32 PM UTC
disconnected daydreamer,
party lights and streamers,
blockin' out the screamers,
grasping onto my femur.
i'm really real,
still alive & kickin'
not eatin' chicken
i'm strong as steel.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 4:58 PM UTC
Revenge for her parents death the drive
that became her passion.
The story began when she was a child
witnessing their killing!
Every detail taken in by her big eyes
to get the killer the prize.
Seventeen years painfully trickled by her
becoming an assassin.
As the hatred coursed through her veins
revenge drove her on.
Though wanting to seek the love she craved
retribution on her soul engraved!
She had found a man making it complicated
her fine tuning distorted.
This new friend had found her mobile phone
saving her photo image.
Trying to find out about this mystery female
allowing others to find her trail.
Gangs had lost foot soldiers to her expertise
who acted like a shadow.
For the first time had to be far more aware
her parents murderer alerted.
The last pages of her diary soon completed
could this evil be defeated?
Knowing he would catch up with her soon
she prepared to strike first.
Entering his mansion in a covert manner
dispatching silently his crew.
Until he was there without support alone
recognising his arrogant tone.
From a hidden point confronted head on
glaring with a cold stare.
Going to fire the gun held in sweaty hand
diving found a hidden weapon.
A bullet went right through her shoulder
he was quick though much older.
Her shot caught him in a main thigh artery
shattering the femur to.
There before her the man she hated so much
was now at her mercy.
She had prayed for years to see him die
openly then did she cry!
One more deep breath she shot him in the head
cruelly on his face a smile as he lay dead!
Knowing she would be a target vanished from sight
revenge in the end did not feel right!
The Foureyed Poet.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 8:20 AM UTC
straight through my spine the desert winds blow flute,
before my burial under the sand,
my skull an empty can, whistle and hoot,
my ribs a xylophone, femur in hand,
the dissonant cacophany--my taps,
a song for funerals devoid of men,
the vultures took my flesh in neat-sized scraps,
efficiently disposed in nature's den,
oh, once a garden, lush with greenery,
our love, abandoned by my rib's dear Eve,
now with her heart removed, the scenery
decayed, and to the burning sand i cleave,
my covering completes with eve's new dusk,
out of her sight, this old forgotten husk
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 8:33 PM UTC
In eighty four,
when I was eighteen.
I joined the Navy,
so proud and so lean.
First day aboard,
my ship I laid footed.
An accident happened,
this guy was beheaded.
I witnessed it all,
a faint scream, now gone.
Blood everywhere,
I was shocked in stone.
Life is but different,
floating on the sea.
But darkness still lurks,
coming out of the deep.
They called it traditions,
it brought back my past.
The name callings, the torture,
How long will it last?
Hours turns days,
days into years.
Counting my time,
holding back tears.
We had risen the Shield,
another accident happened,
lost twenty one shipmates,
Never forgotten.
At one in the 'morn,
the ferry went down.
In the Bay of Haifa,
twenty one did drown.
They finally came home,
in a flag draped box,
Hearing taps on corner,
Home but not lost.
My demons continue,
to many deaf ear,
bring sadness and sorrow,
bring heartache and tears
One final vision,
that I can not erase.
my friend screamed horror
and the look on his face
The wheel of an aircraft,
rolled over his femur,
crushing and smashing,
Lost in a fever.
Blood and bones,
I'll never forget.
His piercing screams,
still gets me upset.
Twenty long years,
I lived on the sea.
Lost many great men
and their pain is still with me.
Onto my next step,
But what do I do?
These demons keep chasing me,
Can I **** them off too?
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
A famous "Barry Hodges" poem!
I was strolling along the Normandy beaches
In the close vicinity of Caen one day
With a very tasty piece of arm-candy to hand
When I found a bleached human femur on the beach.
Oh dear me, what thoughts this conjured up in my brain
As I imagined whose bone it might have been!
Perhaps some pathetic soldier boy landing in forty-four
Who got slotted by a gallant German gunner,
His eyes feasting on the sacrificial cannon fodder
So foolishly supplied for his target practice.
Then, as I grabbed my lady friend's juicy ****
Causing her to turn and sink her tongue into my earhole,
We sank onto the sands in order to sate our lusts,
(enflamed by a very delicious meal of moules marinières
and a bucket or two of well-chilled Muscadet sur Lie)
I thought, what the **** does it all matter?
This is now, and that was then, and this old world
Has become a much nicer place nowadays;
But how mistaken I was in that fond thought;
Oh what an idealist I am in a world of woe.
For, all of a sudden, a contingent of fat dwarfs appeared,
Totally naked apart from their luminous Uncle Sam hats
And the Stars and Stripes hanging from their arseholes;
How I marvelled at their disgusting shapes
(and how surprised was I to find their genitals
were of normal measurements and thus
rather intrusively large by comparison
with the rest of their miniature bodies).
O dear Lord and alleged Father of Mankind
Forgive their horrid ways verily and forsooth.
With a whoop, those demented military retards, [see note below]
The famous 118th battalion ****** Marine veterans,
A contingent of whom emerged from a portable toilet
(which must have been a bit of a tight squeeze),
Chopped my girl-friend up with their bayonets,
Whereupon I crapped myself in terror and pity,
Before retrieving the purse from the eviscerated corpse,
Realizing that her PIN number was still useable
Until 'les flics' discovered her unfortunate remains
After the shore ***** had partaken thereof.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
'Tis heartbreaking to see you marvel so at children's play.
Do you not remember that you were once a child?
Have you lost the sweet ring-a-ding-dings of fairytale teachings?
Each day you fall further into The Man
And away from Peter Pan, Sara Crewe, Alice, and The Great Baron Munchausen himself.
I have not forgotten the road to where they go.
Begin where you are,
Sitting mundane, in your realm of logic and laws, tasteless office cubicle.
Now close your eyes and count to ten!
One Mississippi, two Mississippi...
When your eyes creak open you'll have to think fast!
You've no weapon against that smelly pirate with his dagger to your throat!
Give a good kick and a hard shove and you'll see the blade has changed hands, AVAST!
One good ****** and you slice through his thieving guts like butter!
Abandon ship! And SPLASH! into a garden surrounded by stone.
All you've to do is turn your head to see the peonies, the morning glories, the honeysuckle dripping in dew.
Now straighten up and grab hold of your bearings; that's it!
What was that?!
It blew by you, fast as lightning and just as bright.
A fairy! It must have been!
You run off after it but your foot catches a mangled root and you
SLAM! Face first into...WHAT IS THAT?!
Bones?! Now scramble to your feet and dash to the opening of the damp cave,
Round the corner and AH! crash into a giant gray ogre! GRRAAAGGHGHH!
Quick! Pick up that femur at your feet and pitch it into his eye! Ha! You big brute!
Duck between his great tree trunk legs and RRRRRIIIINNNNGGGG!
There goes the office phone.
But you're still out of breath and desperate for more.
Silly, don't you know? It's not something I can teach you.
You just have to REMEMBER.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
you are not delicate.
when your flesh bruises, when your bones break, when your head aches, when your lover leaves, you will carry on.
there is a reason tears do not burn skin.
your muscles were made to lift your heavy heart and leaden legs.
you were made to carry on.
so when he tells you "i don't love you anymore," your bones will not allow you to collapse, your muscles will carry you forward. there is a reason your eyes are in the front of your head. don't look back.
you will not break.
you are not a cheap manufactured toy.
you are an exquisite human being hand-crafted by the likes of god.
your weak joints cannot be snapped.
you are made of blood, sweat, and tears and you are resilient.
your heart will not break. the average human heart heart has over 2 billion beats in it. until you are old and wrinkled, your heart will be there, ba-thum, ba-thum, reminding you that yes, you are alive, you are so alive.
your bones don't break on a nightly basis.
a force of 1,700 pounds per square inch is required to fracture a femur, and yes, i know his words felt like punches, but your ribs are quite alright.
i know that your past sits on your shoulders, i promise that you were made to bear its weight.
your heart strings are made of solid steel and though you may not have an iron grip, you learn to catch the curveballs. i promise.
so no, you will not break.
you are not delicate. you are strong, you are beautiful, you are unique.
you will not break.
you will endure
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
Before air became gas
And water waste;
Before light became lasers
And fireworks cannons;
Before cars got wings
And trucks got tracks;
Before rafts were raiding ships
And we breathed underwater;
Before sticks were arrows and spears
And we exalted ourselves;
Before Empires rose and fell
And rose and fell,
A femur crushed Cro magnon's skull.
It's a marvel
How any of us
Are here
At all.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
My tongue is leathered
vvith glory
an oral j u m p r o p e
in the darkness!
Joy!!!
might you trip
&& break a femur
to make a meal of yourself?
Once prepared
alongside the parsnips && carrots
I relish your eyes
&& make no apologies
for being
Don't be sad
to be svvallowed
Some
are not as lucky
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 2:09 AM UTC
I was there the day the sun
was a ****** embryo & you
finally awoke under sick blue
mist.
Do you recall when Nell’s femur
fractured and she cried the way a cow
bawls when it is realized the calf will be
someone’s veal dinner.
Do you think of these times
or has a lardy mealworm crawled within
your nasal cavity & inched into your brain
to erase memories?
Gathering atop our 100 year old
dogwood, blackbirds beckon you daily
to return to your home of devastating
trauma.
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 6:28 AM UTC
A pocket of dreams
A locket of screams
A whole ******* feeling tattooed in inseams
A machine of emotion
Run on ******* and devotion
A potion of souls smoked up through bowls
Blasted through time and spines
Cranial cavities and eyes
Children's cries fuel the high
Seeping through femur bones and tailored suits
This suit isn't suited for those who weep,
Just those who keep up with underworld Joneses
Who revel in dark tones and
Worship the devil
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
rooster crow.
goat horns clash.
sudden sutured glow
for what is left
of
this
soul,
comes forward
into thought.
soon i'll know
what it feels like to find roots;
or i won't,
idk.
afternoon slow
blue sky flies
off the tips of treetops;
old-growths,
ancienter than dragon bone femur,
scraping aged skylines.
im
earthing
in
my
mind.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
We’re the salty dogs of mo-der-ni-ty,
Robot starfish programmed so expertly
(And we’d like to state most em-phat-ic-ly
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)
As we sail the blue waters virtually,
There’s a thigh for you and a femur for me
(Just a wee little joke, as you can plainly see;
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)
We sing along to Yanni and John Tesh
Though we’d prefer to have them in the flesh
(It’s their haunting tunes we find quite tasty;
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)
We serve the nation and prove our worth,
Map the sewers of Brixton, gnaw on Colin Firth
(He treads the boards in-spi-ray-shun-ly;
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)
When our duty’s done and the day is through
We have a most proper naval bar-be-cue
(Though we replace officers most fre-quent-ly
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 7:39 PM UTC
I sleep.
Hanging.
From a chan.
Delier.
I ***
To the chorus
Of fornicate
Voices
I pose
myself
At the mannequins
Femur
I sit
Inside
The emp.
Ty mall.
And watch
You ****
And slip.
It all.
Away.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
i am slipshod Monty
wonking the gossamer lust of ill fortunes
strewn to all winds
a lisp of beacon
churning in the midriff of your titan virus
crumbs of ore
bejewel the wet femur
of our last corpse.
your merry Shelly
is morose
than less
god.
bending runes; you nip tink and **** from odd drums
summoning the haven of your wrong
repenting in the
pent up
down.
just 'cause.
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC
sternum (n.)
a bone extending along the middle line of the ventral portion of the body consisting of a flat, narrow bone connected with the clavicles and the true ribs.
I remember taking an anatomy class in high school, we had to memorize the bones of the body - the skeletal system. Scapula, humerus, mandible all favorable to the tongue, but I never liked the word sternum, it sounds far too angry, nothing like the supple it actually is. Years later I would still find myself walking to work and naming them off. Bones on my mind. Tibia, ulna, femur, breastbone.
Breastbone rolls around my mouth, lulls my anxiety towards its twin like a boat in calm waters. I think of your breastbone as a platform to profess my fascination. I am surprisingly amazed every time I count the steady rhythm of your heart, it's sound conducted as though your breastbone is a soundboard. I feel the slight ridges of your ribs when my head lays in the valley of your chest. There's not a day that I wouldn't love to get lost in the formations of your bones, each crevice a new place to hide - lounging in the curve of your collar bone, plucking the muscles of your fingers like guitar strings, getting lost to the soft scent of skin, and memorizing the plush roundness of your ******* each sensation leaves me with a new obsession. I look for replicas in everyday life, the hunt almost as intoxicating as smoke from campfires, or plucking wishbones from hens.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
Some things I cannot resist; I blame my own self worth.
I got shot in a dream once...it didn't hurt.
The apple is never as sweet
as the whispered words that slither out of your mouth.
Still moonstruck, still insane,
You throw me straight into the flame.,
and I like the burn
enough to go back for seconds.
Because even though I don't owe you anything,
I feel an obligation, like muscle memory
it falls out my open mouth, gasping
to remember the last few fragments
of the nightmare you woke me from.
So here's to biting off more than you can chew,
and having no regrets about finding yourself
cracked beneath the covers, and disarrayed
among the reflections of mistakes already made.
Maybe I needed this
reality check. I'm on my own, I know.
The temporal frustrates me, the birds
fly south for the winter, I fly...nowhere.
Permanence is a dream as fleeting as
its own contradiction.
It makes no sense, but what did I
expect from you?
Do you remember the nights
we laid across each others ankles
to see if either would break under
the weight of the other?
These fractured bones
don't mean a thing. (promise)
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
I awoke from pseudo-sleep to frigid sweats and an unhealthy heartbeat
my mind snowy as the television opposite me, morning, half past three.
I dreamt up a personal narrative, reflecting on dreams forgone
time deferred, potential memories collecting dust on a suburban lawn.
Similar to that of books gifted to me, never read, and currently locked,
Vonnegut converses with Hemingway within a cavernous box.
Tucked neatly beside the dehumidifier, bottom level of my fortress
My once-manicured front yard so overgrown, you'd expect wild horses
galloping about like I once did before my femur weathered like sea glass,
leaving me like my alabaster figurines, just more stationary mass.
I've grown accustomed to drawn curtains and opening them at nightfall,
my eyeballs have grown to love staring contests with my blankest wall.
Not-quite-yet-discarded alcohol bottles have become my closest fellows,
kind enough to let me grasp them as action figures between my yellowed fingertips. We'd make dates to watch Local on the 8's together,
humming along blissfully to the muzak without regard to the weather.
Since my everyday life now remains a comfy 72 degrees, accompanied
by a soundtrack of leaky faucets and turning pages of AARP magazines.
Now completely alone I float, clinging to life in a sea of unknown
Clawing a barely buoyant lifevest filled with styrofoam and rhinestones
If I were still as spry as a spring chicken, I'd walk ten paces in the kitchen,
I'd draw my nine and snipe a mirror for displaying an unpleasant image.
If my eyes had less cataracts I'd be in the process of shredding them to bits
because I never wanted to peer through lenses so dull and spiritless.
If my ears were better, I'd hear fewer phantom telephone rings,
answer every telemarketer, hear more synthetic voices advertising things.
I'd never touch my college sweaters for the regrets they would conjure,
But now I'm finally grown up, wasn't that what I always wanted?
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 6:57 PM UTC
Slop
in the trough.
Poison cough.
Shattered femur.
No dreamer.
In a world of crime
It is
Time
Oct 5, 2024
Oct 5, 2024 at 4:18 PM UTC
I do not know what become of
Frank’s biological right leg,
whether it was severed
and incinerated or he
was born with only one
and crutch bound until
fitted with his first
artificial leg.
I do understand the look on
on his face after he unlocks
the prosthetic from his
femur and massages
the foot pain on
his stump.
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC