"flagellation" poems
1.
Nymphomaniac-addicts,
Overweight bisexual vegetarians
Climbing trees to stay fit
and eating 80’s fried chicken *******
2.
just imagine
Aquarians full of class valedictorians
Swimming on display for graduation ceremony…
reverse-symbolism of how Moolch drowned His *****
3.
Better yet, just imagine
Holy wars,
Beautiful words written to describe the burning pains
Of holocaust...the Kristallnacht nights
Under the mistletoe,
Watching Hall of fame ball hawks on pivot toes
Driving through hoes
After the whistle blows
4
College Literacy classes teaching basic:
Ideas that good questions leads to good answers,
Reading reminders
Free association conceptual constructions
5.
But ************ professor:
free association **** shticks
misfires, false alarms
are all art, too,
Like sticking a dagger into an apple,
Not the edible, but the technology.
6.
Go head, deconstruct the philosophy
Of oral cute-tification,
according to the Tautology of Leviticus,
With the same three half truths, pogroms
against biological deviant... FLAGS!
7.
Cryptic gospels of a ************
Where three F.F.F’s
Stands for six six six
Like how 1mg of juxtaposition
And a dose of metamorphosis
is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon
‘cause even the Holy Ghost
drinks from the cup of Christ’s blood.
8.
Reading,
Self-flagellation gospel-manual of Pope John Paul II,
At shrink sessions under the daze of heron Piper methysticum blunts
With sweet phat butts like lit lickerish that droop eyes
Like the psalm of Valeriana officinalis root extract.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 12:46 PM UTC
Acts of love save.
They save from evil
from envy
from suffering
from disturbing memories.
Only acts of love save.
From the nightmarish and stagnant life.
From anxieties
from unnecessary tears.
Acts of love save.
From words that hurts
from the fiend of insomnia.
From self-flagellation.
From monotony and emptiness.
Only love saves you
from sadness lagoon
from yourself.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 1:07 AM UTC
I'm an idiot, idi-fool,
Idiot, idiot, idi-tool,
Idiot, idi-lump,
Idiot, idi-chump,
Idiot, idiot, most uncool.
I'm an idiot, idi-goon,
Idiot, idiot, idi-loon,
Idiot, idi-berk,
Idiot, idi-jerk,
Idiot, idiot; a buffoon.
I'm an idiot, idi-plum,
Idiot, idiot, and so dumb,
Idiot, idi-pratt,
Idiot, getting fat,
Idiot, idiot, feeling glum.
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 9:00 PM UTC
The alarm clock rings
and once again
the rooster sings
the morning new.
Slumbering flowers
lift their petals to drink
the drops of dew.
Reliable Sun
vanquishes the darkness
as he lightens the sky.
I see an honored guest
is in the garden,
his tiny nametag reads... butterfly.
But on the other side of town
someone struggles with
addiction.
Habits grab hard,
break will powers in two.
The will becomes won't
and the power is all through.
Satiated,
temporaneously satisfied.
only till the next time the habit has to be gratified.
The victim moves on trying to reassemble his day
Avoid
a crooked roaded relapse,
along the way.
Oh ghost of the host why must repitition repeat the most
and feel so good in its continuation?
Why must familiarity breed the need
for more familiar feelings?
To the point of killing control, sealing a fate,
dealing defeat,
stifle healing.
If your out there guardian soul, spirit helper, what's your roll, your goal?
Guiding with helping hand or let stand the habitualized
habit man.
Isn't there a self preservation station within?
A gland or impulse control button to switch from sin to win?
Even Edgar Allan Poe stubbed his toe on a ten step program trying to get in the door.
Ill-begotten and craven, drunken and unshaven cried the raven...never more.
Guiding spirit it ends here!
No more slave to the crave
or impulse picking from the addiction tree.
The need to repeat and repeat
the pattern becomes a self fulfilling prophesy.
Back to normalacy, complacency,
it's a moderation that one seeks.
To enjoy the ****** of bells, hallalulah wails,
a babies dimpled cheeks.
Can you do that Spirit helper, please.
Let sing the bodies vibration.
No more internal damnation.
No more self flagellation.
Allow to draw power from these words.
Think of this all as an intervention!
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 6:52 PM UTC
Nag, nagging,
Finger wagging,
Shoulders sagging,
Victim slagging.
Oh beration,
Flagellation,
Irritating
Castigation.
Cutting hemlock,
On her chopping block,
Innuendoes
Spawning ad hoc.
Super-intending,
Condescending,
Never ending,
Insult fending.
Pointless rounds
Of empty double-talk,
Wife, your name is
Self-styled wise hawk.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 6:33 AM UTC
Fresh wounds
Begin to fester
Tearing inward
Scars deepen
Transported from flesh
To the soul of a victim,
Specific pain
Catered to the controller
An intimate bond of blood to emotion
Crimson Consumption
Pristine Flagellation
Perfect Punishment
With each step
My youth deteriorates
Enticing me deeper into the void
To which I am held captive
l.v.s and z.w.b
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 2:56 AM UTC
she was the first
to act as though
she wanted to be my beretta,
to hold a holster to my thigh
and accept the badge
of partner in crime.
she spoke without shelter.
pool days of marination
in monsters and taurus,
a kiss for pity
as i'd yet to be corrupted,
and she stole some joy
in taking what wasn't hers.
she was bigger than me.
she showed me
how shattered touch screens
can look like dried petals,
but cut like cold *******
and when you're in a field of dandelions
how they come in handy.
she wrote the book on flagellation.
she promised it was all for me;
calloused fingertips from
loving me with lighter fluid,
scratches for feral adoration,
and the damocles' above my head
or rather hers, and hers to drop on a whim.
she wrote a chapter on manipulation.
i wasn't ready the first time
she pushed passed denim
and plaid as easily
as she waived my concern,
nor the second --
nor the third.
she had daddy issues.
i still didn't know
how tampons worked,
or vaginas for that matter,
and so to be forcefully
and viscerally introduced to both
behind a tree in Henessey
****** up my brain a little.
she called it "mad week."
ear bud cables
became garrotes
around my neck
in the suspended
movement of a pulse
through my aorta;
and as every day with her,
i felt she crossed a line,
and as every day before,
i never called foul.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 2:07 AM UTC
And the rivulets spun through tapestries of golden guilt, aligning themselves with the magnetic regrets of my life path. There’s a rage in me from everything that hasn’t worked out. A tendency toward pity and self-flagellation. A poor, little wretch who has come to believe that he deserves life’s beatings. But I’m a nice guy, so instead of directing that anger outward, I direct it at myself—a victim-martyr caught in a loop of self-punishment to save the world from myself. I want to wake up and feel love and purpose, but instead I just feel like I’m surviving—clawing my way back to feeling lost and uncertain only to fall back asleep and do it all over again. The child in me is scared. He’s crying in a dark room clutching his knees to his chest. I guess I’m waiting. Waiting for that fabled moment of clarity. Waiting for a beautiful woman to save me. Waiting for the path to reveal itself. Waiting for something outside of myself to make the choice for me. Waiting for life to happen instead of choosing it. I’m scared too. Scared I’ll make the wrong choice. Scared I’ll always be alone. Scared I’ll go the wrong way. But I’m more scared of waiting here forever and never knowing who I could’ve become. Yes, there are burdens in my life, pressures and darkness, but they are not the end—they are the forging. Without them I would never reach, I would never become something more. So I bless these days of darkness, these challenges in my life for blessing me with strength, wisdom and the opportunity for immense growth. Thank you.
Sep 1, 2025
Sep 1, 2025 at 10:16 AM UTC
" i always wondered if fish drooled ? " she said... and left it there like a cartoon tumbleweed, caked in glitter and sprite phlegm. she stood across an ocean on an island of outlandish abandonment, where all the mirrors crack. her passing quakes the stain off her daily betrothal
to a toothless bigot in the land of freedom's end in the hovel of her heart's fall from appointed grace. a place of a thousand cuts and no car. waaaay out in the country of her diminished affections, her eyes could be seen wandering the burnt out villa of her lost love, where she recalls the fairy rings piercing her lips and the trembling of her youth, finding a slow hand to explore the wet *** without peril, soaring with her palm, plastered to a feathered bed in a guest room, in a time-share.
grampa sleep. and bird's nest pitch black.
" i always wondered if fish drooled ? " she said... she slept through it... on to the next disconnect to get intimate with. she left me there, like a chocolate mint resting on a pillow made of shards of habitual flagellation by candle light and instinct; resting on a bed of nails rusting
in the flood plain of her fondest wish.
she left me there
to conspire with her better demons, to witness - the benign desperation of her frenzied exploration
of actual actualization... to watch her ****** from the jaws of a dire wolf,
her bleeding heart and her ransom.
with her bare teeth and a naked
Truth.
you should have seen her face.
i tattooed her secrets on the iris of a blind ghost, i swore it " abide in her broken heart like an open door with a cool breeze slinking through the fetid air of her self defeat and stale bread bumble bees.
and to abide by her rules
when she finds them... then to ghostly fall
upon his ghost sword by midnight
with a smile that tells hell it cannot claim what rises.
a smile that spat at the devil and pitied his children.
a ghost smile that stole a book from a museum
and never told his other
books why.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 5:07 AM UTC
Drinking *** to reminisce about fun times drinking *** and talking about dumb lines where a sociologist posed as an astronomer and took the moniker to heart claiming forbidden foolish nonsense of black holes and super novas and the Goddess that is Neptune. But he also forbade the odes of the old testament, he nicked the hold on my head and soul and feet until I couldn’t walk because I was too busy kicking my *** and licking my teeth with thoughts of dinner stolen from the solemn souls in the coral reefs – those that Neptune created and nurtured with nursing fingers and eyes that hid cruel truth from the water, the creatures that didn’t suffer the bite that God’s daughter took so long ago, but the flow of the current never ceases it never reaches the bleeding feet connecting repeatedly with the bottom that serves me to sit and think or **** about the gospel spilling from the hostel of the professor’s mouth. And I doubt the drought that lifted my spirits out of the well with the spout of Neptune’s ***** These days I’m on it with a sense of self-flagellation that only makes sense in the dimension of my imagination pondering the nation of the brotherhood of stars and heavenly bodies that weigh so heavy on Mars with the clingy core dragging desperate attention from divine inventions of intervention with rats and cradles. Neptune, who’s cradled in fables and left to such imaginations as those. Invention allows the suspension of disbelief and spite if one might rest in humility in face of such things as humanity where miracles are mistreated and under-recognized and falsely advertised as products of greedy eyes that lie in wait to shake the foundation and tune it to the stellar station or broadcast populated by the whispers of holy apparitions misconstrued as static.
Jacob is the heathen with reason to grasp his brother’s heel and deceive him. The treason to sit up to stand down to kiss the hem of the gown of whatever clown performs a pretty act while he’s in town. The frowns expound and expand for the man whose body spans the sand of the holy land.
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 11:34 PM UTC
GO FOR JEUNE!
- darts for charcoal.
Jeune boy is compassionate, secure, loving.
What more could a girl want?
Charcoal.
Charcoal boy is mad.
Boy, is he unhealthy, inconsiderate, hurtful, hateful.
Full of everything but love for me
Choose wisely.
Self-flagellation anyone?
Because I can suffocate and choke myself on charcoal, I push jeune away in a bout of responsibility.
Jan 27, 2019
Jan 27, 2019 at 7:58 PM UTC
Upside down is my right side up
With too-thin skin, splayed legs
and lips ****** of substance,
I lie quietly on rumpled sheets.
a word some say that I've said too much:
s-o-r-r-y sorry sorry sorry
It loses sincerity when uttered often,
but I am sorry, I haven't said it enough.
is my chagrin charming?
is my self-deprecation darling?
(no response)
I'm told (insert compliment).
I believe it, I have heard.
I both love and loathe myself.
************ and flagellation,
brought on by the same hand
penance, paid; insatiable, still
Just sit, ******
and watch a martyr at work.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC
Sketch me,
draw me in your mind,
project me onto your canvas.
colour me,
releasing the unquiet,
make me your,
unprecedented piece,
an ongoing life work,
perfecting all impurities,
eradicate all self-flagellation,
espouse a new desire,
akin to Basil's obsession,
The Picture of Dorian Gray,
infatuation lends to disillusion,
pursuing,
hedonistic pleasures,
soul baring to all sin,
intentions to please,
exonerate myself entirely,
you promised redemption,
not further damnation,
I'm Narcissus trapped,
between,
painted reflections of self,
dying a thousand times,
devoted & absconded trust,
pulling it out,
hand in chest,
blood,
*poured
poured
poured*
as Lector serves,
killings,
you feasted on my heart,
with the same delight.
© Sia Jane
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
Soot and ashes are the platter from which I dine,
the pool of my flagellation is the outpouring Merlot.
I forget to breathe through the lash,
rending the sackcloth until my nakedness is set before you.
The bells harken, the pendulum keeps time,
my requiem is set by your pulse.
DO NOT dismiss me, DO NOT neglect to
render my salvation in parcels.
Level after level of purgatory the holy grail
I imbibe and drink in ruin.
As the shredding of my skin with filaments of rope,
dislplay a journey of persecutions selfless ardor.
Crouching I beseech, I grovel,
forming steepled hands.
Oh, humble penance
slips my parched tongue and crippled lips.
Sweet King, Soveriegn Lord, Merciful Master,
I cower in my nothingness,
wrapped in the robes of bleak shame.
STILL I PRESS FORTH,
through decadent chambers,
in filth for a glimpse of your being.
For the simple gesture of uttering
your name.
Does your crown sweat with the bulk of my sobs?
To wipe your brow,
smear your worries on my bodice.
Enticing you from your throne to love...
a slave.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 9:47 AM UTC
It always starts
in the head
lay face down
on the bed
my cover pulled
over my head
dissecting myself
every mistake
Distrust runs riot
all ego led
patterning plans
my wings clipped;
they deem me
a flight risk
Self flagellation
my own whipping boy
mortifying flesh;
*Lord, forgive me
for my sins*
My body pays penance
mauled;
flesh laid bare
and, I trace with fingers
tram lines of forgiveness
Overly thinking,
all inside my mind
is unfocused
war zones of
clambering disasters
Guilt further fed;
satiated by stealing
my breaths
from cushions
that smoother
I can't breathe
There is a deep, resounding
stillness
a calm before the storm
inside & outside
landscapes swirl
as I,
fight to unpin
myself
from that to which
I'm so tightly woven.
© Sia Jane
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
They call it guilt, John.
That's what the voice in the dark of the night,
would always whisper upon me.
But I was deaf, so I would never hear it.
Oh, it's just what they'll all say,
"It's not your fault",
That your brother died,
That you're a broken husk of a man.
Worry not, worry not, fair snakeskin,
fair caterpillar,
surely you, too,
will shed your skin and fly, fly away.
But he doesn't get to fly now does he?
No all he exists is,
as a sad, cold face,
dead, under the refraction of light,
that pool's death gleams.
Hmm, but you enjoy this don't you,
John, the voice said to me.
The tragic backstory, the shameless reason.
For such gleeful ecstasy, surerly,
The small price of the lie called brother,
of innocence, of life,
of something you never really had, something you never really lose,
what an even sacrifice, John, what a fair toll,
in fact how favored are you, to so enjoy,
self-flagellation.
I won't tell if you won't, she says, whispered. Why always a she and who? It finishes anyways; whether I want it to...
Spencer died,
So I can have,
my whip in hand.
That is my truth.
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC
I ravaged the vaults and came back empty
Nothing shall worry me today
Yes, i even looked for troubles and woes
No, nothing shall worry me today
Self flagellation used to be the norm
But not today, surprisingly
Self doubt evaporated, steam it became
Yes today, surprisingly
It feels grand to be renewed, vigor and strong
Into tomorrow this truth shall be
And every face that kept me dark and weak
No place it has, in tomorrow as the new truth shall be
He, she, and they, can forget i ever cared
Inconsequential beings of yesterday
And let them rot as i ascend, high and bright over
Inconsequential beings of many yesterdays
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
i'm unwinding my head
on
honey moon belly
******* carnivorous lozenges
falling in love with glazed
eye ball devils
hypnotic stare
destination
a tunnel of fiendish odysseys
blood drooling eel
vomits gush white
daddy long leg threads
in honeys wet cage
to wither
writhing spit hot
in fat muscle and bone
headless
head first
like a mindless falcon
after scattered mice
i feel her teeth tearing
syringes of ecstasy
ransacking swollen motion spirals
and ***** like bronz buckaroos
at a fancy pool party
crimson *** macabre
****** roast bon bon fire
licking her lump of desire
a rousing boogyman sermon
speaks in incinerating tongues
swallowing a hideous parfait
**** growl
girl squat
**** ****
mint julip throat
choke symphony
abducting lascivious pollinated gulps
take me in like reckless bull sap
through your red
dada warp land
pit of the brain
undulant flesh landscape
of shapeless ovule spume
mouthing night blows
Incised flagellation's
devour buffet spread maiden derelict
arched and trembling
drunk and drugged
like a buttermilk sky
groaning hysterical
in feral muck stained beds
of puce and slime ochre pigments
stunned umbra
a famished
deep veined jutting peninsula
longing for princess ***** dynasties
with vast thighs radiating inferno hearths
and rolling hill **** hieroglyphics
decipher rug pugilist lap songs
my goddess i long for your
bruised fruit
crawling like the dead of night
on pitch vanta shadows
where love becomes a savage
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC
you’ll never feel the bite of pain
that tears the skin from bone
nor the aching loneliness that
scares the heart from home
the absoluteness that leaves a hole
where nothing is able to hide
while driven by the loathing
birthing a life to the love inside
no matter what the circumstance
you can’t negate the absolute horror
of wanting what is begged for
there is no returning the honor
I’ll whip my self unmercifully
until the end of a perfect day
even while you subjugate me
my scars upon myself just say
how much you intended to deny me
all twisted parts upon me are a whole
crisscrossed upon my body are the marks
that give you access to my soul
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 7:05 AM UTC
when i begin to free-wheel
and shudder with contempt
i take comfort in the thought
that we are mostly born to fail.
honey-slow days are steeped in loss,
marinated in missed opportunities
sweetly whistling tunes that pipe
"all is well because all will be, regardless."
my life might have no payoff
to the meandering silk i weave
and death could prove a hostel,
relief from what i was born to carry.
effort always looks to me
like a lack of priorities
while i jealously guard potential
and covet their delusions.
i'm a coward gently born
to soft beds and microchips
and indulgence of my worst self
when i am too afraid to move.
i am worried i am a narcissist
for wanting to keep breathing
soon picnics and parties become noble acts
proof of love through self-flagellation.
i've heard that poets see farther
but i don't even know metric units
so how can i tell anyone how far ahead
the beginning begins and the end ends?
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 5:09 AM UTC
Holding on to anger
Is like self flagellation
A tirade against peace
Depriving the soul
A dose of tranquility
Leaving deep gashes within
Bleeds in silence
Overflowing the system
Incarcerated heart
Sitting on burning embers
There’s a raging fire
Burning down the peace
Only ashes shall remain
Smeared over the
Remnants, of what life was
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
"I should"
a solemn
voice in the head
is all grumble,
dutiful with condemnation,
a heavy
oppression.
desirous flight
is persuaded
to stay
afoot
by what
it
should:
a culturally defined, mental-
artifact, of what one supposedly
must,
oft devoid
of one can-
will, but won't,
out of fear.
doubt, like chains on dreams,
easily persuades
the mind into mundane
plains of
guilt ridden sorrows,
cut out by knives of shame,
choking the present tense
of what shall,
strapped in and unfulfilled,
hollow
and holding,
like an anchor
in a reservoir
of regretful
undertakings,
sticky with ought,
fierce like flagellation
lashing,
imprisoning visions:
victimized
by expectations,
negations of choice:
stomping on the souls good will,
starving the free heart,
shackling the mind.
operations from a place
complacent with
banality and viciousness
in some quiet take over
some woe
of status-quo
waging with
shaky scaffolding
and the numbing
dumb
timber of nothing
a
dull aching
noise
.
enough.
turn off: the over beaten
dead skull
thumping
with outside pressure
be silent
to hear
there is an inner music
more in tune with life
than anything you've been told
by the force
of should
or should not.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
As I maintain the whip,
As I kneel upon the ground,
I strike myself, not in sin,
But as eternal man profound,
-
I grip the cat’o’nine-tails,
Ever it has been sharper,
I bless my back in welts and wails,
Until I feel no longer.
-
Fifty lashes strong now,
No sin had been committed,
The longing to feel just something,
For love to find, be fitted,
-
O’er and o’er I feel the sting
O’er and o’er I’m branded,
For the darkness inside of me,
For the sorrow I’ve commanded.
-
Ninety lashes, still not feeling,
Swelling, my tongue I’ve bitten,
Until the hopelessness in my heart…
Is dead and long be ridden.
-
Adrenaline coursing and still no pain,
I’ve conquered all but you,
The questions in my heart are somber,
Your face in my mind is glued.
-
One hundred and twenty strokes now,
And forever still seems far away,
Overcoming this paradox,
To curse this mental pain away.
-
I strive for physical touch of blade,
For emotionally I am torn,
I’ve felt nothing until you,
Since the day I was born.
-
A wretched sense of memory,
Caresses my cheek and I
Rip apart myself with malice,
For this nastalgia defied.
-
I wrap the shroud around me,
The thin linnen to my flesh fuses,
I tear it quickly without flinching
Off my gashes and bruises.
-
Still nothing has fluttered,
In the pain recepters,
I wonder how my life could,
Ever be this disevered.
-
It aches and moans with cracks and groans,
My whip, serrated, ne’er faulters,
My robe in flagellation,
Lays down my blood at aulter.
-
One hundred and fifty after the shroud,
I confess I could strike harder,
Perhaps it decidedly best,
If I think myself of fodder.
-
Nightmares are but where I dream,
Yet dream of this, I don’t.
If I were spied upon, I guess,
They’d beg me stop, I won’t.
-
The shroud now soaked with blood and flesh
And false hopes of years of rot,
This punishment is not what it seems,
It is not one to be fought.
-
The outline cry for oil dipped rope,
Has not this pain be stopped,
Moreso however I do fear,
That your love for me has dropped.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC