"fermented" poems
deadbeat
by Natalie Elizabeth (Notes) on Thursday, April 7, 2011 at 10:42am
the knowledge i hold
neatly stacked inside my head
makes me want to *****
and laugh my *** off
disgusted
smells nasty like moonshine
fermented
rotten
taste bites the back of my throat
pulling up unwillingly, bile
clear bitter bile
turn my head and casually spit
**** kid you make me sick
but all i can do is laugh
pitiful
it came down to this
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
You are my dear, decadent desert,
My summer-thyme delight; Starlight.
Tonight’s your night, for you I write.
Radiant glow, fuzzed herbal hue.
My dear butterscotch icecream.
Sore arms churn thick, slick froth - Sauterne butter.
Gentle spread melts, dowsed in sweet, sugared innocence,
rich scents, then sits.
6 years pass quickly, youthhood gone;
My black swan, a third complete.
You, sauterne butter, mix with scotch -
Fermented, demented, invented to inebriate.
Golden brew dissociates reality -
Spinny, fuzzy, dizzy, funny… gone.
Go on again, dear fawn, 6 years pass,
Pant for the water, two-thirds complete.
12 years as toll to adolescence;
Icy, creamy, dreamy, element prepared.
Scoops of soft serve mix with years past - Angsty era.
Seductive spirits, beautiful brew.
At last, my summer-thyme delight dances with rhyme.
The lime-light shines; ten and eight.
Todays the date, stuff immaturity away.
Make room for the adulthoods’ good,
Scooped generously into a bowl
Shuttled and entrapped by me,
Melting, streaming, gleaming and freezing.
You awesome angel!
My pleasure supreme -
My dear butterscotch icecream.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 6:43 PM UTC
only an idiot like me, the rain poured down, my socks were wetted, and i looked at the pavement for glory, instead i found a £10 note and imagined my right shoe on my left leg, and my left shoe on my right leg... just to prove the luck.
it came from listening to rotting christ's kata
ton daimona...
i wrote the poem on two tesco receipts
numbering them no. 1 - .4,
it made sense to just give it a narrative...
the naturally apparent lisp of greek is due to...
lies between theta (θ) and phi (φ)...
check feta cheese... it might be less morbidly fermented...
that's why the greeks have a natural lisp...
it's theta and it's phi...
in english it's like chinese.... w & r...
something's rolling something's waving,
something's trigonometric...
harrison fowd was almost jonathan woss if i care...
the chinese in english debate with chin-chin-wanker
scissors piece of paper stone good luck on the handshake:
lost the price of interest being gained for excavation
purposes of dinosaur bones and inflation via the
ptertodactyl of the extended mohawk shave...
english dicionary makes me confused...
it places theta alongside the, than... but then
it's therapy... thermometer...
too many unique examples i'd have said...
that's the lisp there... sidelined phew and engaged in phew
in byzantine...
english linguistics is filled with too many "unique" examples
of expression... coupled with the celebrity culture...
i farted and a person took hold of a *** squeeze...
how's that?! english language in summary?
pleasing on the eye... but the spelling? a burden on the tongue.
i know that slavic linguistics would make enlgish that's written
ugly...
it wouldn't be pharmacology but farmacology...
then it made sense, i stopped asking the english dicta
written down, the greek θ wasn't a couple of th & etc...
a few athenains in death metal said it like i said it... the 2nd f...
it was απηθανoν - because it was simply athens - fern fence...
and not d... defence, or anything easily acquired as a prescription
of zee wee point of german scottish.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
While the flames of passion freeze in your mind,
I’ll be wrapped behind you, cloaked in the sins of the flesh.
Jaded whispers of lustful promises filled with deceitful gazes,
I offer you not sanity, but madness.
Always beside you but never there,
my presence is the churning chaos of scars long lost forgotten.
I play upon your innocence, crushing it in my grasp,
I feed your existence the fermented embryo of society.
Your screams are in vain; I am you: a cocoon manifested from your decayed tears.
A memory surfaces to a mirrored abyss, reaching but never grasping.
Allow the jagged ice to crawl across your skin, inching, creeping, crystalizing a self you once believed in.
I claw at your chest, burning, burning, burning, the existence of your past is frail.
I feed upon your weakness.
Feeding you ****** Sins off Diverged Tongues*
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 5:23 AM UTC
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn ****** our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
8k
Clayton
How I know you
Paternal parenting
DNA infused
Carbon contribution, to my physique
Father
In everything
My skin, eyes toes,
Unfortunately; inside my mouth
Spitting plaster-walled
Copy-paste personality
The same
Intimately
Close-dangerously
Different
Me a bold-faced fraction of ill abated love
Something that didn't work out
Photocopy
Blond-blasphemy of useless flesh
Reminder of her
Mom
Enough!
Teeter tottering
Tip-Toe tangling opinion
Excuses
Words fermented
Rotting-rigor
I know you.
Slit-eyed palefaced ****** of bigot ideas
Bearing pronged poker
Clicking glinting-clawed finger fondling fake religion
Suppressing supplement thought
********
God's love the good life
Living a life to be proud of
Excuse me!
For not being as I am "supposed" to be
Eatting rancid lies
Your reality relative
To kiss-ass preferred siblings
Who like the taste of ****
What you shovel
Hung on lipsucking harlot, hinged hip hung-over
Descending oppressidly upon willing wanton will of man
Letting cracked-cackled toothed
Field Gap-smile
Decide your next move
I know you
I see what you push into hidden corners
The bias, nasty film of your character
Under whitecollar shirttails
Citizen, Patriot
Americas American
I know you
Your oppression
Not new
As underhanded and seedy as it was
And still is
I know you
As much as I'd like not too.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
I find myself diving inside of you where the weird dream shamans draw sketches of naked humans.
And you’re a human, and we're both naked. You’re purple, you’re just the perfect shade. I place my flag inside, to abscond us away inside of a womb where our world will open to portals to all of our favorite places. A floating haven, of cashmere. Gestating where the climate is warm and damp, and coloring me dark with wine—sweet wine of lovers, penal forgotten, and fermented anew in maternal rite, because…
This swarming melodic nectar that swims through my nostrils and rolls in my eyes cannot be drank casually. It’s the elixir of love. I love you,
And in you, I find that I love myself.
What’s more, the shamanists exclaim, “She wants to give you all of herself.” Yes, they’re right. Even what I do not love so much, I want you to have, if you’ll take it, because I have to live with it, and if you live with me, you’ll have to live with it too. And then, when you crack open your sternum to let the things in, the scribes of my life’s doing, of ancient passion proclaim! They burn their papyrus scrolls soaked in the blood that I drew from my veins to pass unto yours— and you swallow them whole like divine burritos. And then we are ready for the world to fall suddenly, if it felt so inclined. Now that our chests are pressed together, and our tongues are fused tight. We are the daughters of the prima mother. We are the goddesses of our dreams.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
Against the saturated
Horizon of dawn,
Loitering in the dark timbre
Of emerging consciousness -
Dissipating somnolence
And preemptive despair,
Tacitly adumbrate the
Yawning abyss.
Chastened by the cunning and
Lubricious nihilism,
Igniting fermented provocations,
Silent subterfuge; death,
By mirth - the inane;
Lament of the mundane.
Fallow paradigms, accretions of
The last gasp -
Evaporating empty liturgies
Of suspicion;
Charity and equanimity -
Lost in confinement,
Triumphant avarice bearing
Descendants
Of intransigence;
Wielding imperious
Schemes of orthodoxy.
Pollard fragments of
Silken tapestry,
Miasma draped depression
Abridging;
Conversely,
Permuted flurries of anxiety
Dislodge
The vestiges of meaning
That abide
In brazen equivocation.
Tributaries of dogma reach
Their confluence,
Watershed moment,
Numinous effusion
Streams naked epiphany,
The precarious vision -
A gesture of providence,
Certainty and contingency;
Gratuitously derivative, life
Equals choice.
Verdant branches of intention;
And opportunity the vine,
Live forward -
The pen, my voice,
Piquant conduit pouring,
Exuberant wine.
Footprints found in givenness
Underline,
Penumbrae of my soul;
Mirrored silhouettes,
Thoughts and words engender;
And in verse adorn
Fecund soil, Line after line,
The cosmos altered,
Continuum of permanence -
Artist’s art articulating
Essence of my imagination,
I proliferate, I design
Phrases unique,
Participation mystique.
Words creating world,
The apparatus of infinity
Heidegger, ontologically precise,
Language -
The house of Being,
Ineffable, Promethean
Literary devise -
Envisioning possibility,
And abundance to allow,
I occur
Inhabit
Manifest
Future phenomena
Experienced as now.
©2008 & ©2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 2:02 PM UTC
The honey in the lion sounds like a delicious thing––
a gentle balm capable of subduing
the cruellest of monsters.
According to the stars and tattooed,
you fancied yourself king of the jungle––
lazy in hot African afternoons.
Golden and tawn with sleepy sun-gold eyes,
shaggy mane, muzzle red with
the blood of a gazelle.
Did you think me such easy prey?
Or was I so much fermented honey,
only a sweet intoxicant.
Sun warmth seeps from jungles of cold concrete.
I mistook your gargoyle wings
for those of a guardian angel’s.
I overlooked your rough skin, your
crooked hawk nose and your skinny ribs,
and assigned fine things in you that didn’t exist.
So duped, I acquiesced to your slimy kiss.
Your mouth a neglected cemetery,
teeth a row of mossy tombstones.
Vampire. Incubus. Your seduction like grotesque death.
You named me tempest in a teacup,
but I was the eye of the storm.
Until the night the eye was eradicated,
and the storm blew in,
striking me dumb with your sound and fury.
But no spattered blood and no spreading bruise
to be found in the pattern of the kaleidoscope.
No cause for alarm.
Today I am lost in a picture show,
a beautiful world coloured by nostalgic past.
Women’s lips the vivid red print of a velvet valentine.
Head in the Clouds, I fantasize about a certain scene.
Because you think violence is ****
retaliation – ********** in my dream.
Give me an eye for my eye,
for all the eyes you plucked, from women and breadwinners.
Give me blood running down your back, sweet as honey.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 5:37 PM UTC
but you are smooth in full regalia
reptilian in your lounge suit
your westchester upbringing
shows in your brooks brothers snake skin boots
so she knows your from old school money
and plants a perfumed eye on your rear end
it sticks there like sweaty glue
every inch of her polished skin
fermented at great expense
and you thought suntans were hard to pay off
try having the ***** pickled in whiskey
but the divorce would leave you
a destitute sideshow on rodeo drive
with nothing but your mansion and your jag
standing between you and the unwashed masses
so you make her slap on another layer of makeup
you drop another crotch rocket happy hardness pill
and slip a few more bucks over the border to Switzerland
and drop a quick prayer to the twin god of Morgan and Stanley
that the market holds for one more day
lounge lizard
pushing seventy
with a twenty two year old ******
on one arm
and the keys to the rolls clutched in your liver spotted hand
your ready for anything
you may be king of the florida keys
but
gotta respect the cash flow
if what your pointless poison
bites off your **** more than goes into your mouth
then ya gotta wonder kiddo
if moving back to the homestead
in Spuyten Duyvil
might be better than lettin lifestyle carjack your life
that twenty two year old ***** you got poured all over your lap
has more spider in her than girlish charm
shes a train wreck waiting to happen
ill get ya to the border safe and sound
don't 'cha worry bout that
have you headed north
fore they even know your gone
may be the king of the florida keys
but it high time we get ya
back to brooklyn fore they bury you down here
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
They reached behind my sternum,
wrapped their hands around my heart,
and attempted to strangle it.
I pried their aching hands away,
and I tore my bleeding heart in half.
One half shaped itself into bread,
and the other half fermented into wine.
My eyelids slowly came together
as I let the holy water wash over me.
My words consecrate the communion,
and I bless it for people to consume
so we remember that we're not alone.
Apr 9, 2022
Apr 9, 2022 at 9:32 PM UTC
Every night was tortellini
when were roommates.
I complained about my chapped feet;
you bought me the wrong socks.
Black, mens, I clarified,
but you kept buying the women's.
Then one day you got it right,
only they were for you
because black is a warmer color than white,
and the socks of a man felt like cherubs.
I complained about my chapped feet,
you the heart of the world,
its cold silence.
But we remained "alright".
You bought new pajamas every night
and painted a beauty mark on your face
to match.
Years of x-marked places on our bodies
which no one saw because
we were cynics,
I the most.
No roses at our mat--we grew our own bushes,
ordered the ones with the extra thorns.
I charmed that snake,
you bit me on its behalf.
That I'd do such a thing
was shameful.
We were girlfriends in a can of salt,
tears in our eyes, mouths and ears.
We drank wine in bubble baths in our clothes
for three days straight,
or even four,
after that guy dumped you.
From then on
every night was tortellini,
La Dolce Vita, and--
and the freckle below your ear,
the horns growing from my forehead,
the way your falsies touched your cheeks,
late nights looking brighter
than they should,
than they normally would.
Pretending to be goddesses awaiting their gods--
while I awaited you.
Then you felt them too,
touched my head as though it were a fever.
I always knew you hated the suburbs,
and I did listen
when you complained about the gray rooftops
and the saturated green lawns--
"Give them a chance, please.
Then we'll get away--"
I begged, I relented--
The wine, finally, fermented.
You remember what I said next,
because after that you broke my heart.
I never doubted it was a bad idea
to say it
but I said it
and you left.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
I hate pickles
neon green colored cubes of sweet bitter vinegar fermented cucumbers that have lost their identity in green no. 3
and dealing with oblivion seems like
(green pickles)
......disgusting and
it makes me lose my identity.
so please give me adrenaline for
whenever my heart sinks
so I don't fall into oblivion
sans-identity
like pickles
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
#
Got jumped going down the alley
by a couple of bottles and a card game
Got my portrait painted finally,
hands hidden by the fancy frame
"Immortalized Sobriety"
that's what I'll call it,
immortalized sobriety
and not alcoholic
I'll tell my friends
I'll never drink again
We both know that's
not ******* happenin'
I'll tell my friends
I'll never lie again
We both know that's
maybe gonna happenin'
Am I losing my mind?
No, no just one more drink
am I perfectly fine?
No, no just let me think
My mind is soaked
in fermented brine
this page is soaked
with blotchy
**i
n
k
-**
-ling of a remembrance
woke up in the backseat
of a taxi cab repentance
aftertaste so bittersweet
declare me in-dependance
I'll tell my friends
I'll never drink again
We both know that's
not ******* happenin'
I'll tell my friends
I'll never lie again
We both know that's
already happened
Am I losing my **** mind?
No, no just one more **** drink
am I just fuckin' blind?
No, no just let me fuckin' think
I think I might need,
I think I might need,
I think I might need
you.
#
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 3:27 PM UTC
Half drowned in those wine dark eyes
drunk off those fermented words
that trickle off those lush rose lips
Calypso or Scylla, I know not
it doesn't even matter
as long as I am with you
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 11:20 PM UTC
I was fed a lie
and as stupid as I am
I believed
and ate it up like honey
until betrayal's claw
fermented and
burst from my stomach
grabbing me by the throat
Dec 17, 2022
Dec 17, 2022 at 9:51 PM UTC
Honey meets tongue,
Leaves taste buds stung and mouth melting
violently versing vows, Spilling out
fermented
Thoughts caught aloud
Dribbling down toward where they ought not
Time stopped us In a clockmaker shop
Cooking empty pots of dead doves in forgot sauce
Some day in december's When
Plans were dismembered
For the scent of Butter bubbling curiosity
Found horse hungry, So, suddenly he broke free
Trampling Predictable logic.
chasing her tail to town
When, I, sir pain, thought id taught again, then again
the art of invading castles,
Without being found.
Trolling, rolling through The inner out of bounds
A shoeless, shoreless yet Very sure way To get around
None catching on of course Till swordsman number four
Split with silver This world on wheels we made
With a crash
left some
Birthday suit vision
Standing
stunned
stupid
Abashed with a gun to the mirror
Which crying, stammered:
If you let them dear,
Just let them,
They will Listen,
To your chime, chiming Bells inside,
Rhyming you dread hearing songs from"
Said defense:
"Who wants to play each blow to the heart
With lawless abandon to The head?"
"letting harsh light burn holes and leave marks wherever they feel"
Don't think so Solomon!"
Vision laughs,
reflection kneels,
Hands praying
And In the periphery, as a way to break scene here
we see the mailman Crying tears on a map
Who once watched little Ms steel-sturdy
put on her full act.
Wood chips flew thenmsky went black
Pupils dilate to her shell-shocked state Of Before,
before hell bent on Withholding,
before Taking hostage of clowns who are all tied up with
Lilith, the queen
The state that led our wayward siren to begin driving round
in Some man-made beast
She calls Ed.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 7:22 AM UTC
Staring at a citrus wall
My head feels heavy with alcohol
My lips taste glazed with
fermented grapes
But nothing is as sweet as
breathing your name
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
~Oh! Delicious Death of Self~
your un-Selfing of Life
fermented sweet,
eyes opening,
filling with
| V O I D |
the substance of the
Nameless White Light's
Nothingness,
infinitely
present
Unblinking in its
inescapable
witnessing of
The All of its
not-self
Jan 27, 2023
Jan 27, 2023 at 2:03 PM UTC
.
*So the smoke coils
surrounding a stray thought
clinging to the vine
as it weaves threads
into a tapestry
of fermented grape wrath.
His pen crawls
across the pages of life
and ignores the punctuation,
a plague infected word flow,
his stream of catharsis.
But the babble
intrudes and sounds irk,
sending resentment forward
like an advance guard
to meet the violence
and deflect the onslaught.
And the wave dies
as the aggressor retreats
before motley defence.
But the mood
has been tainted, spoiled,
despite a flirtatious distraction.
And the flame flickers
as the smoke coils,
and tired eyes avert their gaze
from the perceived ***** page,
the excrement of misery
smeared to make nostrils flare,
and the entry is left
incomplete …*
© Pagan Paul (06/05/19)
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 5:00 AM UTC
Love and disdain
Are two fruits
On the same
Clustered vine.
When picked
And fermented,
They make
Fine wine,
Or bitter vinegar.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 4:28 PM UTC
Being silent was best
Ham is strong and he threatened me
with a fatal accident
Then there was a child
Oh, my dear husband
the tireless
naturalist of the fermented juice
of sweet grapes
His old age has been tarnished
by that made-up anecdote
which hid the rapes
under a moment of shamelessness
But the punishment betrays it
anyway, the eternal curse
from the first scream
of the baby, innocent
Canaan, my youngest son
His generations to generation
subjugated and squeezed to death
in the purple lowlands
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 3:55 AM UTC
Cool, gentle air
glides across my face.
Strains of hydrangeas
mingle with THC
and sweet, cheap, fermented
grain alcohol.
The stillness
knocks the breath from
My lungs.
Wafts of voices drift
across the swaying trees
mingling
with the steady chirp of
crickets and a lone car puttering
in the distance.
A gentle whistle
Like the start of piano concerto
No. 15
crescendes
to the roar
Of a thousand bullfrogs
Straining to hit a high note.
Trees bow
To the iron god,
Voices melt into the grating
Metal monster
Declaring their
Subservience.
The air rushes and then
Disappears
Just as suddenly
And the voices return
and the crickets hum their
chorus
and the stillness
whispers
crescendos
screams.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 1:32 AM UTC
Fermented undergarments
farmers markets, Targets, turn tarnish!
An angle of self-righteousness moves to left.
.
a group of cleft palates peel all the way back for the attic
after a thousand years of theft. (Arent you in awe?)
when hairless hands wrap and grab Tef – lon
get on one of the seven horses.
Hercules the matter seems urgent
Please
create morses.
.
Your Torsos show their bland position
portable valves, three of horse pistons.
so if they want violence, they certainly will achieve.
shout above the crowd and call for former foreigners – roll up sleeves.
in the white and black reality
we flee once we believe
.
but perfection is a perspective
the artist is just an elective and a given
IN GETTING BITTEN BY THE SOCIAL TAPE WORM –
we let the world squirm -
and turn
tighter in silky cob webs
the spider traps and they took laps
‘til the insect bled out
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC