"graverobber" poems
I FORGOT TO WASH MY HAIR FOR TWO WEEKS IM ******* SLIMY ALL OVER DO YOU STILL WANT TO KISS ME
this isnt a ******* pride parade **** me with your eyes open
**** me and say "god,the smell of you"
the stench
******* spiders crawling out of my mouth i smell like a gutter turned into a bomb shelter
im an epidemic
ITS ******* ART THATS WHY I RIPPED OUT YOUR THROAT ITS ALL A METAPHOR DONT YOU SEE IT NOW
let go of me. let go of me--slime central
home of the world famous gutter babe
**** off ******* shut up ******* **** me
bury your pride and the ******* ****** weapon in one line its not that complicated
but i want to be messed up, or i used to want it
or i will want it
i can feel everyone vibrating with the force of it all and somewhere you're laughing at me
chains around your ankles
this is what it takes to **** a martyr
this is what it takes to swallow him whole
go out guns blazing
WELCOME TO YOUR DARKEST HOUR
**** the switch, or turn the lights off, or whatever
put a blindfold on when you stab yourself
put a blindfold on me when you pull my intestines out with your bare hands
desecrate me
im not a tomb but im a funeral pyre
bodies are my specialty
sorry, i misspoke
what i meant to say was, "i want to **** myself"
but i won't, not when the meats so fresh, lick blood off of my kneecap
YOU WERE ALWAYS GOING TO BE THE SACRIFICE
sentiment is for liars and thieves
(im both but you dont know that yet, it hasn't happened yet--shut up, I'm telling the story.this is my fall from grace,not yours)
bite your tongue bite your teeth too in fact
just bite yourself ******
its better this way, or whatever you want to hear
what am i supposed to say to a graverobber? do you want me to thank you,is that what this is about?
**** you, **** you, what the **** are you still doing here, anyway?
i hope you rot
i hope we both rot
(AND HERES THE PART WHERE YOU SAY "I ALWAYS LOVED YOU" AND HERES THE PART WHERE I CUT OFF YOUR HEAD)
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
[Graverobber:]
Drug market, sub-market,
Sometimes I wonder why I ever got in.
Blood market, love market,
Sometimes I wonder why they need me at all.
Zydrate comes in a little glass vial.
[Shilo:]
A little glass vial?
[Support group:]
A little glass vial.
[Graverobber:]
And the little glass vial goes into the gun like a battery.
[Support group:]
Hhh-hhh...
[Graverobber:]
And the zydrate gun goes somewhere against your anatomy.
[Support group:]
Hhh-hhh...
[Graverobber:]
And when the gun goes off, it sparks
And you're ready for surgery!
[Support group:]
Surgery!
[Amber:]
Graverobber, graverobber,
Sometimes I wonder why I even bother.
Graverobber, graverobber,
Sometimes I wonder why I need you at all!
[Graverobber:]
And amber sweet is addicted to the knife.
[Shilo:]
Addicted to the knife?
[Support group:]
Addicted to the knife.
[Graverobber:]
And addicted to the knife,
She needs a little help with the agony.
And a little help comes in a little glass vial
In a gun pressed against her anatomy.
And when the gun goes off,
Ms. sweet is ready for surgery.
[Graverobber and support group:]
Surgery!
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
Beneath blackened earth, where majestic death gave birth..
Lies Sir Roderick so very still.
Claire wanders and wonders if there is something more,
beyond life she can explore...
In a tome of darkened lore
answers were cast at the question.
If only a mild suggestion
of necromantic, a spell.
To take back a soul from hell....
Claire descends in Roderick's tomb.
They will be united soon..
Indeed it is a graverobber's plight, to take care of such a wondrous sight.
Little Claire did not care, as she played with raven hair.
Words dripped from her lips, as she read from the bloodied tome..
The atmosphere drenched in a shivering tone..
going through marrow and cutting through bone.
Lay still your beating heart, let flow your sea of life..
Come back from Death and love thine wife..
A sacrifice with children's blood she gave
Roderick now ascends from his mouldy grave.
His flesh looks putrid and vile..
Dilly, dally the maggots wriggle
Claire comforts with a single giggle.
Now they dance, hand in hand.
They kiss in brittle moonlight
his tongue like broken glass, such delight.
So full of joy was Claire, as Roderick was festering in his chair.
Claire did not care, playing with raven hair.
Roderick still festering, festering in his chair.
Then she nodded, nearly napping, one last spell inside her head.
Command Sir Roderick to share her bed.
Little Claire was nowhere to be found...
Chewing, drooling, smacking....
Followed by a clamour and loud cracking.
Lay upon the bed, Sir Roderick and Claire.
Sir Roderick did not care, playing with her raven hair.
Loathsome Claire was united no more..
Her cannibalized remains
decorated the floor.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
You are young
and still don't understand why you should be afraid of the dark
so you venture into it.
Leave behind the crying people,
and your parents blank faces
surrounding the urn that cradles your sister's ashes.
No one has told you why she wanted to be burned so you do not ask.
You don't know this yet, but you never will.
Imagine you are chasing fairies,
it helps you to ignore the cold,
the pinch of your Sunday shoes,
the voice of your older sister whispering that you will be caught.
But you are determined to have an adventure
and so you run.
Years from now you will remember this moment,
you will swear you could feel the brush of fairy wings
against your face as you rushed away from the marble mausoleum;
but there are no trees
only dirt, only gravestones,
only bushes too high and wide
for your arms to reach around.
Run until the ground rises up,
and greets your body with a bone crushing hug.
It will not let you go, no matter how hard you struggle
or how loudly you scream.
Dirt covers your head and you fear you are being buried alive.
You are not.
This will not stop the nightmares that come later.
(You are twenty and you are speaking to your therapist
she tells you to breathe, she tells you again.)
Time passes, as time has a habit of doing,
and you are standing above ground.
You cannot feel your fingers
only the curious stares of your cousins
and the long suffering sigh from your mother
who wipes the dirt from your face, absentmindedly.
“Did you go off to play and get lost?” she asks.
“You promised you'd stay put.”
You say nothing.
“You are so beautiful. Such pretty eyes.” she says, struggling to smile,
to say words that she thinks will calm the heart clawing at your chest
the way you clawed at the walls of your grave.
You are covered in dirt. There are rocks in your shoes.
You have lost your favorite bow.
You say nothing.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
Oh follow me now
where the barrels were hid
for these are mistakes,
and the peasants are dead
Listen to gunshots
echo so slow
these are the dead children
of the Future of Old
And if, you lay, me down
stand up beside the lonesome playground.
Speak to the street vendor,
ask for your change.
Pray for the autumn wind to
wash for the rain
Shall I make do
while they're laughing at you?
Throw it away and go
kiss the Sun for blinding fame.
Will you feel the eyeballs
that make you so high?
Throw it back at them,
and you can kiss it goodbye.
Will you forbid
what the graverobber digs
or will you awaken
the farmhand's pigs?
Neptune's white mistress
holds out shattered stone.
She speaks so softly.
This is her new home.
And for forever more
shut your wives out, avoid petty ******
Wash down your happiness
with a cognac of love.
Feel sin around you,
it fits like a glove
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
The evening star soon falters,
Night flowers lay in wait,
Trust not the depth of dark waters,
Invaders nature will eradicate,
The living end still comes,
Echos heard within the pristine wall,
A grave pact was made within the slums,
In one night all shall fall,
Not a few,
Not some,
Or many,
But a few,
Some,
Many and all,
The plague rats gather,
At night nothing is safe to say,
The marrow gnawers may rather,
But the swarmyard is the only way,
The coffers are full,
Death's storehouse is now empty,
But don't be a fool,
The assassin lay ready,
The crypts are no longer Hallowed,
Keep yourself steady,
You do not want to get swallowed,
If you make it out alive,
The debtors' knell you will pay,
Without them you would not survive,
Don't forget thank the spirit for another day
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 9:59 PM UTC
\put your feet on the land/
His name, according to the scrawl on the cover of his journal, was Viele. His build, according to everyone he'd ever met, was a lazy mosaic of withered limbs; veins snaking like cracks in pavement.
His intentions, according to hindsight, were regrettable.
\and see/
It is the gospel truth that man is the expert of denial.
As sure as the dead stay dead,
The Graverobber will prefer the term 'opportunist'.
Viele was a "professional",
took pride in his "art".
He dug, dug, dug,
'til the wood did part.
Stripped the cemetery to its bones (or, if you please, of its bones).
\ain't no grave/
Then Viele snags his shovel, about three feet deep.
Somehow the handle asphyxiated by the stalk
Of a Morning Glory, which flowers a defiant blue -
swallowing whole, the rusting ***** as its spiral buds take
their first breaths - against, of course, the tarred lung
of their rawboned abuser.
And lo!
(the image befits the phrase, as does the Earth "empty of form")
the deadyard stood guard,
erupting
like it was suddenly attacked
by an impressionist's paintbrush.
The deadyard, and Viele
Van Goghing, Goghing, Gone.
\gonna hold my body down/
In Lieu, In Bloom:
Baby's Breath and Bells of Ireland and Daisies and Hydrangeas and Lace of Queen Anne and Sunflowers and
God, ad nauseum they arose,
arching upwards from graves.
Leaving no gravestone unturned,
in the pursuit of the place
where footnotes become headlines
and headlines turn to deadlines
and deadlines turn to soil.
For in the morning,
when Viele returns
and Glory, ironically, stands down
(slash-stands-us-up)
we will know to wait.
Tucked away behind our rejected Heaven's gate,
for the show to return.
Where there's Life in the urn.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 1:36 AM UTC
The turtle dreams of strangulation in a green emptiness
A star is the graverobber of god
I texted the writers not all of them
Writing is sometimes being drunk while putting a mouse back together in a mountain
We can kiss here
is an eyepatch
for your moon
tattoo
I don’t know why anyone would want to see anything
What if his son
stayed put
Apr 7, 2025
Apr 7, 2025 at 7:33 PM UTC