"flogging" poems
Cause you're toxic Defiled
shedding the old you exposing a new person you have turned into
You're not around me... now
But when you are
I'm falling like I'm drowning
This friendships crowning
Evolved into another person that I just don't need.
Cause you're all full of passive aggressive rage that's melted my sight.
What's hidden and hissing waiting to devoure me.
Brainwashed to all the lies that you've been telling me.
Seducing me, loving me with self loathing injections, posioning.
Leading me to believe. Lies.
In the trenches abandion. Dark. Quite. So I stop being afraid. Nothing flogging me.
Reality: The unforgiving madness. Like a light in the darkness. My Heart.
I see that I can be worthy. I just gotta figure out how to get back my selfesteem again.
No one wants to lick my wounds of unchanging torture.
Cause I have been walking around in a salted skin.
Never healing, never dealing, with all the injuries that I've taken.
Don't want to soak up the death were you've laid me to rest. Cause it's changing me.
You are not me. I will never be you. You wanted me invisible, you still do, when all you can be is you.
Lets call it what it is: Resentment.
You will never be me! Sorry imitation. It's what's in the heart.
Look at me. Strong again.
Prying off the scabs of pain Disinfecting
Nine years and this is the end.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 2:14 PM UTC
In the Boondocks of the Ozarks
Salty caramel smelt of August
Swathes stench of rotten trailer parks
Imprisons barren mid-west dust
Feral fevered kids a hunting
For to cool; shoot up, or drink
Arthritic railroad; tie and shunting
Ferrous old town wretched on the brink
Since the cease of mine and logging
Depletion of iron lead and zinc
Nag horse too dead for flogging
Folks futures draining down the sink
Some respite in the summer heat
RV’s; tourists and campers for trails
Like blackfly plague pick off the meat
Fly fast; escape as another harvest fails
Dark currents pepper darker mood
Intolerance grinds in the daily way
Resentment bread as only food
At someone’s door the blame shall lay
In the graveyard of the Ozarks
Rednecks dance on industry tombs
Burn brown smoke spice. Moonshine sparks
Oblivion; no life. Back to mothers' womb
©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 8:06 AM UTC
I was about eight
and i could speak three
Nigerian languages,
especially pidgin.
Every sunday, i recall, my mother
would bless my stomach with nicely cooked native dishes.
Then, the Nigerian
football matches in the evening with my father was a sight too exhilarating to miss.
My school years was eventful
has i received a whole lot of flogging.
The only clothings i had
asides undergarments
were all native attires.
Some admired it, Others didnt.
I honestly was not bothered.
Now, i'm serving my country
in the army, which frankly is fulfilling for me.
No matter how bad Nigeria gets,
i'll always be proud of it.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC
Fukushima Daiichi
You told us about the samurai ***** that day,
why the child-emperor drowned, how folklore affected the shore.
The thinnest male I’d ever seen pulled out a blunt and smoked.
Everyone else focused on you, Kasa Professor,
but I trailed over the class with his breath, kept
my eyes on the clipboard you passed around, “For
relief efforts.” You never spoke. Only explained.
As an English major, I knew you would be an exclamation mark.
As an English major in the History of the Samurai, I didn’t know you would be studying the I.R.S.
The swords were scarier than the men, yet their ghosts were on a ***** back.
I imagine my ghost as cigarette smoke flogging over an enamored classroom until I leave – only glancing back when the clipboard is returned.
We both knew it would be empty.
We both admitted it when we smelt the smoke.
The sinking ship already burned, and your dying wave is the confusion behind betrayal of a tradition to quench approaching starvation.
That final bite – the moment we are full – is where all history is lost. In the future, they will wonder where the ***** came from. But I won’t wonder about you.
You are not an exclamation mark. You were a question mark all along. But a mark, nonetheless.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 2:10 AM UTC
..for every bear that ever there was
is gone today for certain because
illegal loggers are flogging the guts
out of nature.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 3:31 AM UTC
Black eyes, blue heart, green hands, yellow soul
Girls in white dresses, who dip their face in blood
Bear themselves with a hellish grace.
Forked roads never lead to the correct destination
Following the angels of hell leads to nothing but the abyss
Gorging myself on beauty, I see the white sky
Flogging myself with duty, I see my heart go by
Burning myself with nothing, I stare into her eyes
And I feel like I'm dying, like I am death,
Like it's in me, like it is soaking through me
And I can't breath, or look away.
This is my life, and I have to live it. Even though everyday I'm handed a black rose.
I feel like I've been shot through the heart to many times to name.
They are times I feel like my life is repeating itself,
Things that make me sad,
Disgusted,
Keep happening,
In various ways,
Over again.
What am I to do?
It hurts my heart to think of you,
yet you're always right at the front of my mind,
right along with the discomforting thoughts.
What am I to do?
Sep 5, 2011
Sep 5, 2011 at 10:59 PM UTC
Dazzled by
the glamour of robber barons,
a **** fetishist
shills for feudal revival
ambidextrously flogging
bleach-white equestrian bones
eventually dying
a looter's death.
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 6:48 PM UTC
.
night streets and scars of light
scarves of light
moving subtle bustles of shadowed light
carvings of royal light robes of velvet light
make out expressionist doorways
strobes of light fink and fit in protest
coding behind enemy lines
captured light fires colourful snakes about
in flaring curved science tubes
flagging the bartering night flogging the
urban night
we've made apparition in honour of daylight
and out of the theatre fear
of our own bogged nature
synthetic ghosts of light
charge away ghosts
electronic noises scare away
the horrifying lull of the dead
(a dead we don't believe in)
twenty four seven behaviour
to busy away the very spirits we have hungered
and to plot against
all that unnecessary sleep business
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 9:53 AM UTC
I am cage fights with boys and girls alike
I am splintered hardwood floors
kneeling/crawling/hard working
indoor/outdoor
day/night.
I am balled fists
Open palms
I am Chains and
a footstool timbered from my back.
A rent boy with vices
I am violence/dicord/visceral
Bloodied and mean.
A machine built of sinew
made for binding/unbinding
lashing and flogging
I am a service receptacle
a boy built of honour
of instinctual intellect
of bruises and bandages
i am cut and torn
roped and worn.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 2:20 AM UTC
your symptoms are mine. we attach dead cells to living gods, you and i.
Golgotha spawn, writhe in leather trousers
to harlequin the marrow of our dire pipes !
to leap and jeer in tandem
that's how love does the impossible
with your mundane.
we are the abattoir of our stoic cow
your symptoms are mine. i see how you might think me mad; you not i.
but this is the dream fleck of your unkissed
a sweltering bloat of frozen hope
flogging the wolf in a gleam
of campfire exodus
and dust.
your nexus is the heart of the most free, a slim gorge of Krakens
yawning fresh hell and fjords of unconquerable silence.
yours is the tomb I am used too.
where we resurrect
we die laughing.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:37 AM UTC
men would always tell me about the
arcs of screaming air splitting through gaia’s hair,
the heads of wheat falling, light shredding, and the sun bowing before
Leah and her scythe
this woman spent all her twenty one years in the fires of idaho
working for her father
preparing food for her brothers before their schooling.
she was made to stay at home,
and there she worked and washed and read and cut and crystallized
business men in windup cars would see her off the highway
her muscles swaying with the wind, treetop hair flogging the setting sun
singing folk songs to herself in a falsetto that sounded like a rocking chair.
these men would stop to chat, but soon realize that this
Leah was burning too much for them.
her heart was different from city folk
and most country folk for that matter.
her ventricles were connected through a series of
crimson twigs and gnarled vines.
it pumped like any other heart,
but it would crack and wheeze anytime she left that farm.
those businessmen expected that she would be enthralledby anything out of town.
but it was the opposite; fancy gadgets bore her and
snazzy suits and autos seemed like pointless little ornaments.
she’d be more impressed by a man who could cut wheat like she could
a man who could shoot life out of the iron earth
and feed his kin with the pickings of his heart.
but she never quite found a man like that.
she stayed there, and let herself bleed into those idaho hills.
the roots of the grain wrapped around her veins
and her lungs breathed for the farm
just as its rainfall pumped her brown blood.
she never grew old that Leah, because she kept her crop so fresh.
every morning she watered and plowed and every while,
with scorching eyes and whipping locks
she’d swing her scythe, and smell the breaking spines of wheat,
and would quietly sing,
like a rocking chair.
Posted by David Clifford Turner at
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 11:19 PM UTC
Am I such a cold cruel creature
Ice the core of all my features
You think my frigid heart not whole
Yes, someone said I have no soul
Some are quick to sling torment
So full of hate and malcontent
Of my essence you've no control
Yes, someone said I have no soul
So on this lonely moonlit night
These frenzied thoughts I won't ignite
Firmly rooted no unpaid toll
Yes, someone said I have no soul
Am I such a cold cruel creature
Yes, someone said I have no soul
My spirit stands upon firm ground
My love for others is unbound
My heart is full my heart is whole
Yes, someone said I have no soul
It's you that I take pity on
Flogging others with your baton
Coldhearted jabs will take their toll
Yes, someone said I have no soul
One harsh day you will glance around
And find your gardens been cut down
Where once stood friends now just a hole
Yes, someone said I have no soul
My spirit stands upon firm ground
Yes, someone said I have no soul
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
Before Old Charon
I now stand
A bushel of berries
for this ferryman
The guardsman of fate
expresses his guilt
For the broken promises
he has spilt
forget the italics
of my brash remark
ford the wide styx
sings the deathly lark
a limerick of longing
hollows my mind
the verbal flogging
hardens my heart from the kind
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
no let up from the scorching bat
the flogging is a bit too thick
where the fielder gets laid out flat
due to its fervent canning stick
the flogging is a bit too thick
we've been struck by the boiling heat
due to its fervent canning stick
every day this is on the beat
we've been struck by the boiling heat
downed in a sixer's knocking hit
every day this is on the beat
which drains our energetic pit
downed in a sixer's knocking hit
due to its fervent canning stick
which drains our energetic pit
the flogging is a bit too thick
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 4:20 AM UTC
I am you.
I am your shadow.
You are mine.
A stone unearthed in this frozen ground
Covered in snow.
Gazing at the flower growing up, surrounded
By life
And sunlight abundantly.
The stone whimpers in the cold.
Dancing figures in the twilight of mere existence.
Twirling in a haze of endless color and ceaseless charisma.
Stillness in the night.
The biting flogging of time and circumstance
Detached
From all inside and without.
Being comatose inside a tomb made of ice and desire.
Waiting,
Watching,
Weeping.
The rock, he twitches in the uncomfortable onslaught.
The flower loses a petal. In the fullness of life
She
Lowers her head in
Invisible agony. Torn by the choices
Made without reason.
Loneliness.
Time stands still.
The eyes of many are unaccustomed
To
The eyes of the few and the broken.
The grins of the ignorant shine like
Stars.
Glistening in the proverbial
Conundrum.
The rock and the flower split open
After, eternity follows.
The figures, mere candlelight,
Embrace and kiss.
Together.
Forever.
Nevermore hesitant to the desires which
Overwhelm and
Breathe purpose.
Two flames become one.
Meaning uncovered.
Intertwined lovers.
Breathing in shudders.
Blind to all others.
I am you.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 9:14 PM UTC
it started with the alarm
which I forgot to turn off
because everyday
it's how it usually starts
but not today
I sacrificed some hard earned
hours, for a day, just for me
but forgot the alarm
sigh
So I arise
Turned on my phone
read some poetry
appreciated
every.
single.
response.
to me and my ramblings
Facebooked each piece
of my heart that poked me
while being grateful
they tickle with a finger
and not attack me
at my backbone
with a serrated knife
thats not nice
Cooked an early dinner
for my family
Because usually dinner time
clashes unusually with drinking time
and quite frankly
today, I just want them to eat heartily
and leave me be...
but one tiptoed through my sadness
because, he seems to be able
to climb any barbed wire fence,
negotiate the most hormonal minefield
see inside my ***** laundry basket
and kiss the hurts I feel
So I'm sitting here wallowing
in just another day
and I hear music from inside
I put my book down and sway
99 Luft Balloons
(in German, not English)
He hates that song with a passion
but he knows I love it.
Lucky Number...
Kate Bush
Fischer Z
Then my most favourite song!
*See chameleon
Lying there in the sun
All things to everyone*
Run run away
and my heart bursts apart!
It's not just another day
he's trying to make it special
with things to make me smile
bringing music into my life
no, it's not just another day,
it's my birthday
Raising my glass
to Iron Maiden
and Flogging Molly
Metallica and
and Jethro Tull
(the band, not the man)
I'm singing like no ones
listening
I'm dancing like no ones
looking
and I don't care!
It's my birthday
all are welcome
to feel my pleasure
and share!
Jan 28th 2014
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC
**I stand aside sometimes
And await my punishment
Await my flogging
The consequences of my actions
I know I've been bad
I've lied to myself so, I have been had... by me
But that false reality, for a second, filled me with so much satisfaction
I stand aside, stand out of my own way... so I can see
The ability to be in denial to myself is one that I lack, that character is hardly me
And so, I stand aside sometimes, turn my gaze inward, and look inside at times
Correct my wrongs
The rhythm somehow kind of went off key
Re-write these songs
These bad ideas come in crowds... in throngs
These crazy things that we conjure up
That flow freely
**** this tap
Will never stop giving
When will it dry up?**
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 2:46 AM UTC
flogging molly
shattered teeth from
tongue ring probably
splinted filled lungs
smoked all the trees been done
rolled from tobacco leafs been tongued
springs now sprung
the sleeves rolled pun
from cigarette smoked
till ashed and toked
not from greens
but ammo gold
its almost yellow
in store now sold
i speak to tease
devil only a tempted soul
i took the sum of both his needs from the tether pole
stood back to watch him j.cole
bitchbitchbitch
now let it go
roll and roll
did the grass and bridge toll
flu in the till and money bank cold
its full of dum dums and tattered
your girl speaks full *****
and is fatter
then ten nuns crushes
on our holy fathers matter
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
I’ve been told it’s punishment, but from the divine?
Loosed from the bonds, all earthly ties
And what for, say, can’t I.
Lest I am the sinner, the adversary
No chains of such gall should bind me here
This concrete box where I count my breaths
Forward and back, on fingers and toes
The end of days on etches in the air.
As though it for pleasure, I-sadist returns
Congress of years from within burn
With nothing but that, no soul to confide
I will make up eyes to look—they judge!
Fictionalize mouths that speak—derision!
Bitter and arbitrary partners of mine,
And no tease of release, slamming
Through will, blood, **** and ****
Only affixed a skin dressed in iron
I am weakly, free of that—least
Then something holds me close
My existence won’t fold in the unjust crease.
Six steps forward, six back, another six
To complete the burlesque of time’s progress
A harlequin, I am, flogging my back
Akin is the hope of some outer earth.
If nothing but pulp is beyond solip
Then fill my placid-skin with it
And disrupt my absorbing wavelength
I fear I am fiction as the words in my ear.
Glass frame of my skin, new days begin!
Even if I could share with these thoughts
Even if day would lithely walk in
Even if the force of death would invite me in
I would tumble, broken, blind by the box
Still within me
Leave n’er I, n’er I, it to me.
Am I ill, bleeding at the wishing well
No token, but holes, to bribe or to fill.
If I could just do as a man I knew of
From a source, I would doubt, skulking above
Who drilled, for escape, a hole in his head
Out from it poured, his greatest wish
In the language of the box—
I draw prophecy from the moan in the pipes
And these hands brought together in faithful decay
Trace licentious dawn and eve—a broken little slit
I know, I know of a sky—I hoped for it!
I’m strong in that face of patient nothing,
And I will win this fight!
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
The horse is dead.
Long beyond flogging.
It's skin was stripped by a couple of tanners.
After being treated with tenderness.
That horse was merely a hobby.
An old broom handle.
Minus emotions.
A head full of kapok.
And a heart made of wood.
Nobody could love him.
Nobody should.
He ran around the stables.
Knocking down the mares.
Where once he had just knocked them up,
As he was out to stud.
The rag and bone man came to call.
Saw him laying in the yard.
Left his calling card.
The child who once loved him so.
Decided she must let him go.
The rag man he received a call.
Collected hobby horse.
He gave her a bright and shiny quid.
Slung him on the back of his cart.
Stuck him in the shop window.
While his mares passed by and laughed.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 5:45 AM UTC
Almost getting caught.
A pipe under the seat,
ceci n'est pas une pipe-
c'est mon Christ.
But blindness is permanent,
and no one
will stop the flogging
for me either.
But I escaped.
To turn upon my visage,
so splintered,
despite the still silver,
glaring back.
I see the droning lines,
countless faces,
cloned from my lips,
pressing farther back,
before Adam.
Each one bends giraffe-like,
awkwardly clasping the lines-
Lines of sunset and beetlejuice-
prelude to drawn scars,
who will sit beneath the surface,
aching for stars and biting the roots
of forgotten trees.
Rotten cell phones,
wild horses in captivity,
wheat-free Italian:
the cobblestones walked
by my souls.
The path ends nowhere,
the destination crumbled
under closed eyes-
so the end is nigh,
but effectively unseen.
I am Solomon forgotten:
sinner, soothsayer, and poet.
Only Weeds will grace my grave.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
There’s nothing like drunken strip poker, Texas holdem’ style, to make you feel like your home. Friends have always been like the family I wish I had, and this is what we’d call “good quality family time”. Cause there’s nothing like blasting Flogging Molly and slurring the lyrics the whole way through. I’m just happiest here; here with people I love as if they were my own kin. I’d take a bullet for everyone in that space, because a life without them, life would be near impossible to live. See these people built me back up when I thought there was nothing left of me to build. It’s nights like these I won’t forget; cause when we party, we go all out. Go big, or go home; cause nothing is a risk, because you’re surrounded by people who care. People who don’t ******** you, and people who you know, no matter what, they will always be there. And if people were poker cards, I’d be lady luck, cause I got the best of friends, to the point where I can’t lose.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
Your desire is fierce
Fiery
Pulling at clothes and messy hair
Honey mouths and writhing tongues
Exposing my private, smoldering need
Impatient lips to spread and feed
Your desire is languid
Romantic
Gentle eyes and admiration
Warm caresses and butterfly lashes
Taking me slowly down with you
Tasting, inhaling and enjoying the view
Your desire is cruel
Unapologetic
Dominant and demanding
Force feeding flesh and flogging fists
Unrelenting commands for pleasure
Pure and raw, ******* without measure
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC