"fouling" poems
"But, sir," I said, "they tell me the man is like to die!" The Canon shook his head indulgently. "Young blood, Cousin," he boomed. "Young blood! Youth will be served!"
-- D'Hermonville's Fabliaux.
He woke up with a sick taste in his mouth
And lay there heavily, while dancing motes
Whirled through his brain in endless, rippling streams,
And a grey mist weighed down upon his eyes
So that they could not open fully. Yet
After some time his blurred mind stumbled back
To its last ragged memory -- a room;
Air foul with wine; a shouting, reeling crowd
Of friends who dragged him, dazed and blind with drink
Out to the street; a crazy rout of cabs;
The steady mutter of his neighbor's voice,
Mumbling out dull obscenity by rote;
And then . . . well, they had brought him home it seemed,
Since he awoke in bed -- oh, **** the business!
He had not wanted it -- the silly jokes,
"One last, great night of freedom ere you're married!"
"You'll get no fun then!" "H-ssh, don't tell that story!
He'll have a wife soon!" -- God! the sitting down
To drink till you were sodden! . . .
Like great light
She came into his thoughts. That was the worst.
To wallow in the mud like this because
His friends were fools. . . . He was not fit to touch,
To see, oh far, far off, that silver place
Where God stood manifest to man in her. . . .
Fouling himself. . . . One thing he brought to her,
At least. He had been clean; had taken it
A kind of point of honor from the first . . .
Others might do it . . . but he didn't care
For those things. . . .
Suddenly his vision cleared.
And something seemed to grow within his mind. . . .
Something was wrong -- the color of the wall --
The queer shape of the bedposts -- everything
Was changed, somehow . . . his room. Was this his room?
. . . He turned his head -- and saw beside him there
The sagging body's slope, the paint-smeared face,
And the loose, open mouth, lax and awry,
The ******* the bleached and brittle hair . . . these things.
. . . As if all Hell were crushed to one bright line
Of lightning for a moment. Then he sank,
Prone beneath an intolerable weight.
And bitter loathing crept up all his limbs.
1.7k
While waiting at the river Styx, in twisted time untaught,
from branches of the gallows tree, in recollections wrought,
your soul, a beggar’s blanket, hangs in crazy quilted knots,
with dangling pearls and diamond studs in dripping crimson clots,
midst gaping wounds and bulging eyes like fouling apricots,
for wrapped like rope around your throat’s the Reaper’s grim garrote.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 9:48 PM UTC
I took a far peek at your seek
and glanced into your eyes
Eyes wide shut.
You sunk me in and inaugurated me
I peep in slightly to be magnified
Star gazing at life's mystery ,
Your Sky is ever so gracefully true of mendacity
Taken away by your master mind
sailed away majestically ,
Accompanied my heart of blue
I look up, the twinkles run my mind and anchored ,
Settled to disappointment too.
I wondered why so down while life waves aimed up hi
I conceived a facade love story that just began in my mind ,
will this nightmare end in horror or in sweet serenade.?
A question that ignited our flame
searching and fouling out with words of shame
Attending to this nautical phase, unquestioned !
Redirected attention and navigated back to my heart.
I sail away back to the start and peep in your telescope once more,
There i realized
Distracted with sparks and accumulated the mind with blind truth.
I fooled myself in falling in love with a fool .
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 11:32 AM UTC
(A Choreopoem after Ntozake Shange)
Babbling publicly into your phone
the tragedy’s yours, and yours alone:
messages from your dysfunctional city
inflicted in Afro-eccentricity.
Turn off your phone and spare us the drama.
Look for change from the Lord (not Obama)…
Quit twitching your neckline, stop making that face
there’s nothing you merit because of your race;
no right to entitlement. Take it to God—
we hope He will change you, but spare the rod.
And we pray He does change you, put “yes” in your can;
and that change that’s left over (from Savior to man)
might enlighten your heritage, lighten your load
help you calculate more or less what you are owed
in dollars or dignity (afro-semantics)
while twittering radically militant antics.
A debt unforgiven: this claim someone owes you
some change in a can that black history shows you
your hopeful presumption is scant reparation
for ghetto entitlement fouling our nation.
Go harvest your madness and reap what you’ve sown
now that tares have sprung up as you blab on your phone
now that reapers are ready—the data-plan paid
and our melanin levels beginning to fade…
I’ll shout from your rooftop until you’ve heard
and the crackers get fed to the mockingbird.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
From foragers swinging in the trees
To hunters striding through the grass
The sun and watery sphere ruled us.
As civilized we learned to farm
To shape and harness beast and grass
Our fathers struggled with the Gods.
Now sins of fire, bow and axe and plow.....
Our **** in orbit, fouling deep in ground
All decay and rain upon our heads.
9/24/2011
Sep 24, 2011
Sep 24, 2011 at 6:34 AM UTC
The primary failure of…
self-righteousness is that
you become your own god;
besides fouling true Faith,
you’ll never walk in Love,
since you’ll be the center
of a personal firestorm;
you’ll choose to manipulate
others for satisfaction or
gain; as a human tormentor,
you’ll never possess a peace
that’s real or everlasting.
All attributes of character
and humility will dissipate;
unable to discover a release
from Life’s miseries, you’ll
become so isolated, that the
numbness of your spirit will
unwittingly beckon Death’s
realm to be… the solitary fuel
of your own destruction.
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC
Mining
**************
Unsafe, Hazardous
Polluting, Contaminating, Fouling
Waste, Blight, Damage, Liability
Spoiling, Dirtying, Poisoning
Tainted, Unclean
*****************
Desecration
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 9:25 AM UTC
I am lost in humanity’s sea, that great wind swept expanse of self indulgence and heartbreaking reality.
I seek the emotions of peace where no such emotion exists, only that of the state of peace, the situation of peace;
negotiated by power ****** and money makers. The heart and soul have nothing to do with it instead; it is a chip to be thrown upon the worlds table, a tool to justify misguided means.
The elements of true peace are far flung and their intent, jaded in envious green shades of self servency.
I scream into a canyon of wonder, and singular echoes return and return.
My voice; the only answer to my only question. I ask the winds of this willowa to cease and calm their tirades.
Instead, the request falls upon emaciated ears and hardened hearts.
A world exists in this expanse where my unheard calls ring. The din of self absorption outplays my simple plea.
Instead the flags of bias, the banners of silent hypocrisy, flap in winds of fouling air
Upon a society that has no care for the simple emotions, those of peace.
The hard, cold reality that I am forced to realize.
The banters of the ignorant that brings tears to my eyes.
Some may call my wondering that of the mere naïve.
Then I am that in these terms.
For my wish is to see all
At peace.
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 3:25 PM UTC
I finished moving into my residential college as a storm began
- fat raindrops, as big as coconuts, falling from a black and fouling sky.
These northerners were acting like a "tropical storm" (Henri) was a big deal.
“Surely New England gets storms?” I ask, from behind my mask.
“What about NOR_Easters?” I say, like a meteorologist.
“Those are different.” I’m told, with no other explanation.
“Did you bring this storm from the “SOUTH?” I’m asked, accusingly.
(This was after I told them about coming from one ”bulldog-college-town” to another.)
“Yes.” I reply, “It was in my luggage.”
A silly question but they have a point - the storm feels like it’s involved and fulfilling some obligation to dramatize my college move-in story.
“Time to quarantine!” I’m informed - “Yep, can’t WAIT!” I lie.
One disaster at a time.
Aug 22, 2021
Aug 22, 2021 at 2:41 PM UTC
the shadow in the corner,
looks at me, whispers,
and whispers, at me ear,
looking for a way, to
become and merge with me.
as an insisting parasite,
as a shadow inside me,
but futile, and vain,
i'm too egotic, to let him.
enjoying my years of pain,
as a heartless man,
but the whispers, share his
childish flashes, a futile pursuit.
to myself, to be merge,
with creeps, cowards,
and annoyingly vain.
the poets secret crown, of
lovers in heaven, golden and
invisible, but made of pain.
cover my head, as a dead poet,
passing at this era, not blind or
vain, but true, and loving every girl.
even those i hate, the sexi hip bones.
the ego of a lion, never can be merge,
with a creep, pathetic and weak,
but he tries still.
wise by pain and deceit,
a lover in the prime, longing,
loving, watching, smelling them all.
with or without, gauche or droit.
tout le femme, e belle et magnifique,
comme le pleure de madeleine,
le sacre femme.
and this shadow, in me ear,
wants to be me,and make them feel,
complete and divine, as a goddess.
as y make them feel.
or a lioness, in the hand of a fouling,
and feverishly beast. burning and longing,
for the tresor, in their chalis, as mother earth,
smelling as her, as a jungle, and a door,
to infinite delights, between their thighs.
the shadow in my ear, y can see her pain,
but, it was his ******* choice, trie to be me,
and didn't make it, for being weak.
as an adult, inside the veil,
of a mouse's in a suit, the persistence
is futile, a shadow, trying in vain,
to be as me, but can't be but himself.
a lame little shadow mouse, in loved,
with a beast, can't love until she love
herself.
can't live or know anybody,
until he knows himself, and accept
his truth, until that happens, nothing,
will save him from him,
and his shame, is a cross.
as a man, can't live, as a boy either.
just as a shadow, in my body, trying to be me.
but failing at it, to weak and vain, to be me.
all y think, as i watch her, is thinking,
and for this **** almost burn my ***
and destroy my life, good choices, babes
but all wrongs, can't be forgiven,
or excused. all the pain was
hell on earth, but still unbreakable.
and loving even those that y still
hate, the lover's love even **** haters.
covered by lies, y emerge from the hell
some girls create, for the one, who wasn't.
an they where never me.
and now anyone can see. it was only
lies and deceit, little girls playing dodgeball,
for the shame of the creeps
not everything can be forgiven,
as y say, good choice babes.
20 years later, they still can't be me,
or not feel ashamed for their weakness,
or accepting their fate, and being without
feeling a ******* disgrace,
but nothing to
be ashamed of,
just their cowardness,
like tigers not accepting
the stripes,
creepy shadow on my wall,
you will never be me.
accept it and be free,
or you'll end up blowing lucy,
in the basement, loving the burning,
of HELL.
as THE shadow of a mouse,
in Lucy's playground,
suffering, and being only
you, the one you hate.
but you never were me.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
there is a ****** tension
between my ego and my self-loathing
they both love to **** each other,
it's almost alarming
looking in the mirror I'm so alluring,
I could blow a kiss
while plotting to sedate myself,
to fabricate a bliss
I legalize hate for myself
to encourage my fouling
I pollute the good in me,
so why would it surround me?
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 3:52 AM UTC
well what am? a muscular innovation
strapped cords blistering the skin
bones wrapped in sinew,and aboutmy
hands the cords sing softly stroked. the boughs
splay and a forest gasps fronds detonate the
the strands of courageous sun hair. an apparition
of glory sits fouling my shoulders and i am heavy.
so come the needle stem. peaceful riot veins blue
snakes. enchanting scent dump flow under and over or.
a fragment of violence.
Mr. Eliot;mr cummings,am i amongst) you?are my fathers.
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 12:02 PM UTC
Wherever the drum is sounded
There will his feet and ego lead him
For there's none so adept as he
At fouling the mood with a few
home truths
when the village brew is frothy and virile
There too will his keen appetite him drive
For there's none so deferred to as he among
Folk hungry for forgivable misdemeanor
and some home truths
He's the inimitable village drunk
Endowed with a surfeit of expletives
For there's none so free as he here
To douse all and sundry in invective ubiquitous
laced with a few home truths
This village drunk is high on the power granted him
By a grateful captive audience that's allowed him
Freedom to free them of secrets and all
When he dons his invisble crown and dispenses
a few home truths 'bout everyone
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
Winter is coming.
Are we prepared?
The wolves have started howling.
The cold will be numbing,
In the stories they shared.
And now Winter is coming.
Traditions are fouling,
The young king impaired,
The wolves have started howling.
As the previous hand he was becoming,
For curiosity life isn’t spared,
And now winter is coming.
The new mystics are scowling,
Soon their teeth will be bared.
The wolves have started howling.
Kings are ascending,
The wall-keepers stand, prowling.
Winter is coming,
The wolves have started howling.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC
Promise after promise is broken
as she lay dormant for so many years
now we spill her blood once again
fouling the oceans
Her true children weep in silence
then wash upon her shores
in thousands
as we turn the channel
Unpunished and unchanged
the butchers laugh at our apathy
our leaders turn a blind eye
their hands open
God holds her crippled body
and asks for her forgiveness
that he would create such wretched creatures
who lay waste to this gift given them
their own
Mother Earth
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
silence the everlasting
fire, and the thirst of
your skin, well satisfed.
never doubtfull, your eyes
shine of placer, desire, and
complete satisfaction.
humdty in my pelvis, the
silky and sour shine, in the
lap of this gratefull and loved
lion.
and for a minute,
just in that moment, im
complete, serene, loved, wanted,
a full beast, serened and thankfull
the sorrow, the pain, and fouling acts,
and the brutal theft, are just bumps,
overcomed, erased with the humidity
of your ***
doubtfull is the one, that
has not loved, her lie is a heavy
cross, dark, fatal, deadly, her soul
will never love beneath the divine
phalus.
in return, your eyes, truth,
love and venture, loving an
impossible, but loving even so,
stertores of your loved and
kissed ******
penetrated, softly and ferouciously,
are the echo of the fire, crashing the
sea, making life, steam, watering the
earth, generating the trofhic cicle,
of life, fire and water, steam of life,
passion between two beasts,
beautiful and loved.
your honney and your
desire, WILD, intense,
evergreene, are vitals,
for a beast of montecristo,
that just drags, harm and pain,
of betrayal, every cut, every scratch,
every stabing, made of me, the strong man
that y am.
unbreakcable, and living, loving impossibles
destroying the lies, ending the weakness
of layars, full of hate, and envy,
for losing that, holding our
lives.
after that, and for their weakness
montecristo is the winner, a beast
with a heart, learning to love, the possible
and the impossible, to dissapear in the other,
rapped in her ligth, and her beauty,
the evil and weak of the mondego girls,
only speed up, their catastrophy,
y stand alone before their mistakes, and their
lies and anathems, turn against them,
truth clean the waters, and the fire make the
steam, that generates life, makng a full cicle.
so, threw desire, and mutual passion,
impossible happens, in the name of life,
and love, the desire quimera, could never erase
the time we touch, dispise the difference
full and wild.
generating steam, making life,
roaring, ******* groaning, and
in my mind and in yours, the same
desire, the overwelming truth, our truth,
and the incompresible lie, vain, the
echoes of the false, and ther infectious lies,
corrupting wath was always life.
the false notion of love, and their
acomplisses, with her conning, and the
not aceptacion, vain or insane,
dark, crazy and
incomplte.
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 1:59 AM UTC
Dole
Is water, evil?
A reign of the old...
To lengthen a chaste of a swindle?
Spit, indeed
Spite is a fouling light...
Meant with troubled mercy, is spice heed?
Looking the horizon, *** is where might...
Has an owe
Owed the timidity, of a love...
We are the seldom, of vice come to know
A reach of sanity's reality, hunger for a covenant?
Choose meagerly...
And a whole decency, becomes our decision
Noticing the bared future of sovereignty...
Arbitrary brass will do; for a secret, a hap, and an intimation?
Love, is a memory fed...
The drama of sophistication, met
For the only liberty of avarice, ever lead
With the voice of deliverance, are we mercies; living's moment let?
Jan 21, 2024
Jan 21, 2024 at 3:03 PM UTC
The other night,
I dreamed of you and Katmandu.
It was of that first night in that
Guest House, where the seedy
proprietor tried to sell me the
12 year old Kitchen Girl for
20 US Dollars. And throw in
a small bag of Black Hash for free.
Then upon my refusal,
Lowered the price to Ten,
And again I told him no.
The place where the rat came,
up onto our bed and nearly,
ran across my head.
Where February winds threatened,
To blow the shutters in.
The smell of burning lamp fuel,
Fouling the stifling cold room air.
You insisting I not put out the light,
To prevent the rat's return.
That foreign place, the Himalayans base
That city, that cold room.
Our stomachs rumbled from the tainted
dinner rice and so called, chicken meat.
As always your feet like two popsicles,
In the bottom of our sleeping bag.
Yet our bodies radiated a familiar heat,
The only civilized comfort of that night,
So very far away from home,
With you all wrapped up in my arms.
I have not thought,
Nor dreamed these things,
In over 35 years,
Visions no doubt lost among,
All the bitterness and tears.
And yet last night there they were,
Of you and me in our bed.
And I smiled at this,
Our shared and lost remembrance.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
The Fifth Karamazov
When young we identify with Alyosha
His optimism and his innocence
His fragile, flowering Orthodox1 faith
A happy, almost-holy fool for Christ
When older, the sensual Dimitri,
With irresponsible lusts and desires
Grasping for the rewards of the moment
Now, ever now, wanting everything now
Then older still, as intellectual Ivan
Sneeringly aloft, above all faith and flesh
A constructor of systems and ideas
From the back pages of French magazines
Though never do we identify with
Nest-fouling, leering, lurking Smerdyakov
Our secret fear, unspoken fear, death-fear:
That he might be who we untruly are
But hear, O hear, the holy bells of Optina2
Those Russian messengers3 singing to us
Inviting us to meet Alyosha again
At Father Zosima’s poor4 hermitage
1Russian Orthodox
2The name of the real monastery upon which Dostoyevsky modeled his fictional one
3The Brothers Karamazov was first published as a serial in The Russian Messenger
4Poor only by earthly standards
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 8:13 PM UTC
Thunder roars through the empty halls
Lost, forbidden, in the dreams of the dead
Desolation descends to answer the call
Of petulance, compunction and dread
The horror of the night, haunts the moon
As it shines on the blackness of life
Earth disembowelled by all it consumes
Distorting truth, fouling Gods paradise
Death reigns hard, as love is defiled
His cloak bleeds a bleakness entire
The light of the world, left broken, beguiled
Transformed to filth, desperation, to fire
Jun 11, 2021
Jun 11, 2021 at 5:07 PM UTC
I can't make you love me if you don't
I can't make your heart feel something it won't
trick of a reflection shines bright
Peaceful memories,
and purple summer skies at night
Remind me of this beauty;
I am unable to see even in light
you are my out of pure sight
Yet,
visions of you come full force
Seeming addicted to fouling me
They come
sometime I'll cry tears pure hate,
As I know I let you escape,
Escape from the light,
An into the dark
Though you act as we never met
I remember memories,
that your willing to forget
Yet the memories I remember
now seem out of place,
As I cry,
tears running down my face
I would **** just to hear your voice,
One last time
Yet
These walls that you build
Are set beyond our crossing paths
I only cares to look,
Behind your closed book
I dares not to taste
the grapes you once offered,
But look into your eyes,
And release you
from this darkness that you stand in.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
#Despair
God knows them.
They are what they drop:
Subhuman trash
Strewing litter
Fouling creation
Transtrashification;
God sees them.
They will answer
To Him.
Trash is thrown out
then burned.
Apr 22, 2023
Apr 22, 2023 at 9:38 AM UTC
Are you a wheel
just spinning through your cycles?
You rolled around;
my turn today?
Or are you the red-gold autumn moon
that I howl at?
Am I just a passing phase?
'Cause I've
been around a while
and I
can't style up these hours
into any kind of impressive ********
story that could explain.
Guess I'm an ash-
tray, guts filled up with cinders
grey faced
and fouling the atmosphere.
And I guess I'm addicted to this
upheaval
and a devil's voice in my ears.
Are you a picker
filling up your basket
chewing up cores
thrown to one side?
Or are you the grey-green hungry worm
crawling, curving
through the apples of my eyes?
'Cause I've
been here so long.
And I
can't dress up this time
in any kind of inventive falsehood
or story that would explain.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 12:58 PM UTC
He's clutching his cash
in the torrent of the market,
she's dreaming of friends
just to keep them in her sight.
She's getting to work
when the sun is non-existent,
he's thrashing in his sleep
the whole time before that.
He's talking to her
with one eye upon the cradle,
she's ordering wine
just to keep him in her sight.
She's dreaming of Paris
and the sighing violinists,
he's watering down
all the drinks at his bar.
He's a drinker most nights
when work is non-existent,
she's smoking all day
just to tolerate this life.
She's opening her legs
to the thud of empty guidance,
he's kissing her neck
to dominate the land.
He's looking at ****
and jerking off in bathrooms,
she's painting her nails
a deeper shade of lime.
She's fouling all her make-up
to cover tender eyes,
he's nervous in the aftermath,
he's playing out his time.
He's playing with her hair
as she's cradled on the couch,
she's covering her *******
from authoritative eyes.
She's hiding from her father
in the cellar of the house,
he's looking for his own creation
that has somehow gotten out.
She's shaking in the hallway
as he holds her by the throat,
he's laughing at the daughter
he claimed to love the most.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC