"grotesquely" poems
A wind blows like a wilderness of wolves
A vendetta, an apocalyptic vendetta
In its unpredictable, accidental quality
That swerves images of realization into tragedy
Neglecting all with swift intent upon a fallen fortress
In complected interests of caresses
Neither invited nor encouraged yet displayed
Displayed vividly with exclusive claim to that oppression
That howls by casting itself as a consequence of transgression
Upon a conventional expectation that claims a privileged sense
That persuades without an orator grotesquely amputated shapes
Extending extraordinary artifice as its priceless wealth
But who, yes who, has envy of so rich a nothing
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 12:23 PM UTC
The Serpent squeezes the mundane egg, for a moment in time,
…to begin the ages, turn the wheel, and so begin the rhyme,
The circus has commenced, a dancing, swirling motion,
…a pit of ghastly horrors, seen as a vast deep ocean,
…or celestial or cosmic, as some would have the notion.
Some of them were large, although some were also small,
…and grotesquely figured or disfigured, a scary monster’s ball,
…and trudging, stampeding, stomping or slithering down the hall.
There they danced, sang or prattled, where giants fought and where they battled, …thunder unto heroes rattled, with awful screams so frightening, and terrifying lightning!
Scaly, hairy or feathered, wet and fiery or weathered,
…conjoined, twisted or tethered, slithery writhing together,
Kingu and his wife, some say it was t’was his mother,
…his plan was war and strife, pitting brother against brother,
A ******* existence and so morally depraved,
…a state of sickly persistence, they found themselves enslaved.
Then abounding voice of heaven, that divided night by day,
…brought forth a princely king of Luke; the warrior Marduk.
Fourteen engaged in combat, the one against thirteen,
…and thus aligned with the ecliptic, at night they can be seen,
Sloshing in the Apsu, beaten with the club,
…slain and torn to pieces, cutting channels of their blood,
A north wind sent them to their places, fixed on Tiamat’s wheel,
…and the starry constellations, did Marduk bring to heel.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
Through darkness, laced in edges of light,
And rain, falling like angels plagued by blight,
Shattering their heavenly bones and wings,
Onto the eyeless dust of their return;
Through paths stranger to the hope of spring,
Where voices of ghosts hang with cries of “Burn!”
And moss mottled trees, like macabre jesters
Dance, limbless, leaves flailing grotesquely
To the secret japes of wind-bourn nesters;
Through corpse-ridden forests of insanity,
To where the rocks dress as the three witches
And chant midst their vainglorious riches
*“All hail, Eremita, bound to the adamah altar,
All hail, Eremita, your blood soma from the mortar,
All hail, Eremita, thou shalt be dead hereafter”...*
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
Can something really be beautifully tragic?
Is it possible for a being to be gracefully destructive?
How can a life be insignificantly worthwhile?
Does that mean an existence can be grotesquely appealing?
Could you be more radiantly pitiful?
You are stunningly heart-rending.
How are you so delicately harrowing?
You are harmlessly treacherous.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 11:21 PM UTC
You are witnessing a prodigious talent and promise, and to a lesser extent but still to the degree whereby it should keep you awake at night writhing in cold sweats, your life, slip agonisingly through your open and clammy palms. Promise means so little if not actualised. You have been granted chance after warning after fortuitous escape yet have blithely spurned every omen and will one day fall, swiftly and perhaps terminally. You are almost certainly depressed. You say you love your girlfriend, and you mean it wholeheartedly when you do, but you worry that the relationship perpetuates as without her there would be no reason to rise with the sun. Even if the relationship is unstable, and at times verging on the unhealthy, you believe you love her but are too great a coward to consider decisive action if that belief is to reside or subside. Your friends range from kind and honest yet deeply flawed to somehow toeing an inextricably thin line between dependability and duplicitousness. Conversations with a certain few of your friends necessitate decrying every undercooked ethos you've every conned yourself into believing you hold (you could well be the most hypocritical liberal to walk the earth, for you are innately and irrepressibly selfish) yet you still nod placidly as your conscience squirms. Grotesquely, like a beaten spouse, you crave the gaze of those who have treated you with the most insulting derision, but are too proud (of what?) and, a running theme, too cowardly, to stoop to a simple detante. You must change, for it pains you on a most base level to have to accept the feeble, whimpering, simpering spectre you have become. You must be bold, brave, unashamed in your convictions, anything but pursed and silent lips. You have a voice, and you must now speak loud enough for them to hear, for that which has become blunted must be whetted, sharpened, readied for battle to be unsheathed at an utterance. Heed the signs and change, for our sake. You, a milksop who attentively notes the sophistry of courage, you can still be brave, and you must be.
For one day you will be swelled with a courage and fortitude to fill your sails taut, enough to leave this place, forget these people and bear you away.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 8:08 PM UTC
Thoughts running through my mind
Body checking
Standing
Looking at my grotesquely
Obese figure staring back at me
Crying at my revolting body
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
Clicking heels announced her presence
in the deepening gloom
where they hid
crouched like cats awaiting their prey.
She stared through the charcoal air
where
they lay
as she clipped closer
to their hungry eyes and teeth.
But when within reach
she spied their glowing glances
and thwarted their advances
with a simple singular phrase
one they would recall for all their days,
“You are already ******
Though this would be armor for few
what the predators strangely knew
was that Wendy Howling
gave no thought to their groping greed
for she lived by a higher creed.
And in the end,
when they mounted her motionless flesh
and grunted grotesquely in the doomed dark
Wendy Howling felt no pain
and she knew struggling would be in vain
for her words were true—
their sorrowful souls dug their way through her
to a hell from which they could not be saved
and her tears were not for her wounded womb
but for their eternal doom
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 6:05 PM UTC
Before we met
How many times did we pass by
Each other on the street?
How many times did we
Stop at the same stop light
Or wave the other on in traffic?
How many times had we
Ordered coffee from the same barista
Within minutes of the other?
How often did we ride
The same BART train
Or think the same thing
About a person we walked past
On our way to work?
How many friends did we share
If any at all?
Before we met
Did you ever notice me hailing a cab
Or search my bag for loose change?
Did I ever give you a ***** look
When you laughed grotesquely
With your friends
As my own guild slinked by?
Before we met
Had you ever considered
Renting an apartment in my building?
Did you ever pet my cat on the street
Or lazily glace through my
Living room window as you
Waited for the light to turn green?
Did I ever see you
At the delicatessen
Where I eat my lunch?
Before we met
Had we ever met before?
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 11:07 PM UTC
What are we,but children wrapped in time and still patience,
ascension of duration and climate and colours.
pretty circles, spinning infinitive,past street lamps,dim glows
bright against cold darkness and steam from mouths hesitant
to speak in chill. Tight scarf,arms clamped possessive against chests,feet shuffling
the awkward Autumn dance to walk fast,walk away,walk wild
against chapped lips,goosebumps and clear air that pulls minuscule hairs
and airs. And childhood reminders,bonfires and gloves and bright red cheeks,
posing as memories for yesteryear and pumpkins, grotesquely shaped.
Not great,
not perfect.
Perfect is the sodden leaf,swollen with rain shimmery in the gutter, simultaneous steps. Nostalgia,the creep of the wind against windows shut,home an escape, the fire flames flickering in eyes wide for wanting.
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 7:45 AM UTC
If I when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,—
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
“I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!”
if I admire my arms, my face
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,—
who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
1.6k
Wander from Argyle Street towards the pyramid shaped monolith
past the oddly named Benny Hamish - Sicilian Couture Tailors -
through the automatic glass doors of persuasion
up the revolving stairs of many stairs
sail by the portly security guard
(who looks like he'd be out of breath after a 10 yard dash)
along the imitation marble airstrip
passed neon facades and signs for proactive self indulgence
toward the carousel of smoked-mirror lifts
that take the well heeled to their desired destinations
without having to worry about their Chanel leather clutch bag
and newly purchased Christian Louboutin shoes
and I sit people watching,
writing this poem on a borrowed napkin
with a discarded betting shop pen
amid a horde of timid stomachs and twitching wallets
faced with a thousand fast food offerings
and gaudy coloured tables and chairs
littered in the remnants of repugnant non-ecological eateries
and Styrofoam cups and re-composite cutlery
under Noah's grotesquely beautiful steel ark
lined in industrial tubing and chrysalis shaped netting
and giant Art Deco toothbrushes
and 30 foot wiggly mirrors
and stretched rhombus sails
acting as a blanket barrier
to the blue skies and arched sun of the outside world
somewhere between
KFC and Burger King.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC
Dreams of working with little objects,
but my fingers are grotesquely fat,
bloated with self worth.
Such frustration,
as the small metal ambiguity falls,
again
between my clutches to clang helplessly on the whitewash table below.
A growing discomfort that is oddly angled and
it’s hard to look away lest someone end up mangled.
Filled with the certainty of a dying man,
I race against the biological clock.
These clichés are sticking to me and
your black thoughts are wicking,
can't you see?
This task is meaningless,
teeming in seemingly endless trysts of error and visitation.
Your mask is bleeding from this,
streaming and adorned in nameless anger,
your own manifested creation.
So I stare with unyielding disquiet at your unhindered disdain,
and make elastic confessions of comparable pain.
May 13, 2010
May 13, 2010 at 12:03 AM UTC
Masterpieces nailed to the sides of train cars
As they pass it becomes a flipbook
Made of names so grotesquely caricatured
(down to every last tittle and tisten)
They would become beauty through definitions
Written themselves.
It is scrawled onto napkins
Hoisted over the neon city
Crudely lined and curved into cardboard signs
Lofted between vagrant fingers that hadn’t touched a green thing in years.
Safety in the colors
Born from the rust of the river which runs when we walk
And fermented through years of gunfire
Which coincidentally spell out our names between the holes
And deteriorate when obscured by some passing train cars
That I cannot help but to stop and admire.
This flipbook of broken law and clever rebellion
In its own right, a masterpiece in pieces
In its terrible condemnation, erased
And the artist dies again.
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 5:22 AM UTC
How would the best user friendly widget
stay that way in a profit incentive?
The physical products escape this unseen
(They're thrown out en masse when profit fades)
The internet’s been a slow fade
from revolutionary layouts and interaction
to the bare minimum you could tolerate
Today most are conditioned not to bat an eye
when the most trusted news sites
are filled with grotesquely glitching ads
that look worse than a 2001 spam virus
Selling sweatshirts with an incomprehensible
automated message containing your last name
Then it switches to threats
the FBI wants to take over my machine
Such is life today
Ignoring what we think we can
Jan 15, 2022
Jan 15, 2022 at 11:12 AM UTC
PANIC ATTACKS ARE FUN!
Ayad Gharbawi
A waterless feast for the thirsty
Torturers
Struggling to restrain their base Infamy
Hungry ravenous ******* eyes
Smiling grotesquely
At their Prey
Wingless birds
The nightmare is still swirling in its
Intensity
Variations of horror
And perpetual stalking fear
Shaking eyeballs
Blurring visions
Colours far too strong
Piercing
Sweating inside
Palpitating heart
Driest mouth
Piercing
Beyond any reason
Pointlessly running
From the excessively, maniacal seething Fear
Never ending
The deformed visions deepen
Yet disconnecting themselves
From my shaking Self
Withering my ‘I’
I see a threatening ugliness staring at me
I know
I am victimized
How can I get out of this?
Filthy stench of a greasy pit!
Where are the maps?
The guidelines?
Where are the physicians?
Promoting this vicious
Civilization
That I do swear
Is even sicker than I am
For you have left us all
Stranded
Surrounded
In a surreally insane No Man’s Land
Feb 6, 2010
Feb 6, 2010 at 8:02 AM UTC
The teenager sits curled around
herself in rehab, matted hair, skeletal arms
bruised by needles, scarred wrists,
metal gouged grotesquely into and around
every orifice, sunken eyes exuding
a generous measure of fear and defiance.
God, She could be my daughter,
had my daughter inherited
my weaknesses and propensities.
Her demeanor tells me more
than her lack of words -
She is filthy, scabby, loathsome.
She looks at me and I can tell she's
thinking the same of me.
Judgmental *****
--
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 8:05 PM UTC
what sadness is leached from your heart to your brow?
unable to show what you truly emote
scathed in darkness
your treachery lies there
hidden still by the magic you've used to fog my eyes
but i am here
standing in the street, neck craned up at the sky
searching for hope, light
but the moon does not appear
cloaked by your entity, your shadow
what light prevails there, beneath the darkest blanket?
what bought breaks past your distant window?
is it the stillness inside of you rupturing?
someday it shall emerge
grotesquely from your centre
and devour all that remains
and there your body will lie, twitching
a blood-filled cavity
useless attempting to repair the fatal blow
and i will miss you
for now all that remains is hollow
the lifeless look in your stare haunts me
so i will not return here
for in my mind, you died that day
and all that i had ever hoped for
went away with you too
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
I feel like my heart is grotesquely punctured,
Punctured and bleeding, because you haunt me at night,
I feel like my pillow is weightless and transient,
Weightless and transient from years spent in flight.
I feel like my knuckles are bruised and bloodied,
Bruised and bloodied from fighting off the image of your face,
I feel like my body is weak and tired,
Weak and tired, trying to win this race.
I feel like this poem is futile and ******
Futile and ****** as I attempt to forget for the millionth time,
I feel like a prisoner—No way in, no way out,
No way in, no way out, but I committed no crime.
I feel like our pictures are worn and faded,
Worn and Faded, because I stare at them too much,
I feel like my soul is seized and beleaguered,
Seized and beleaguered, because it misses your touch.
I feel like my mirror is false and distorted,
False and distorted, because somehow I look whole,
I feel like my heart is grotesquely punctured,
Punctured and bleeding, my ghost—that’s your role.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC
Oh mother dearest,
how dare you, blaming me
for the blood on your tongue
and look, I see
you've got a mouth full of glass
chomping grotesquely, on the shards Of lies fed to everyone
I watched the blood trickle out the corners of your lips
as it drops on the ground it reveals the raw gory truth
yet you remained senseless to the pain you caused
ignoring my cries for love,compassion, understanding
It's all I ever wanted as a babe
I wanted a reaction from the numb corps you were encased in
yet there was no mercy behind your cold sunken eyes
your merciless voice like a monster
booming violence
my shuddering body in the corner
my fragile heart beating through sharp lashing thoughts
forming the words and emotions of
I fear you
I love you
I hate you
I need you
I needed you
These where the wounds left for me to lick clean
scaring forever in linings of my fleshy chest
I wanted to hold you close, but you were the wind
I chased your chilly breezes forever desiring the cold affection
I was angry, hatred radiated my entire body
an ever lasting fever of detachment
I craved relief from the scolding heat wave baring upon me
Yet I was always left dehydrated
my lips became dry of separation and desolate of attention
slowly becoming numb to this hot unloving desert
I became cold like you and I now am the wind
a bone aching cold, uncaring and detached
of the love and respect I lost for you as small girl.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
You must think your something special
As you rampage around the office
A raging bull on parade
A one woman show
Tearing through flesh with your
Pointy devil horns.
The sound from your throat
Is kin to a screeching hyena
Holding a megaphone
To its rotting stoma.
And the expression on your face
Reminds me of a rabid baboon
With wicked indigestion
Locked in a steaming sauna.
It makes me sick to
Kiss your flat, shapeless ***
And muster a semi-genuine smile
With that grotesquely arranged expression
You call a greeting, reflected in my
Eyes every tortured morning
Your 7am demands rain down on me.
Too soon, my pet
I will be leaving this place
Shedding the protective clothing
Ive worn to this hazardous waste
disposal site, you call 'your office'
And the toxicity of your
cruel, malicious comments will evaporate
With the rays of a golden sun.
But you, my pet
Will be left with the gray stormy clouds
You attract to all who are around you
Pouring, and hailing down the **** storm
You pathetically call, your life.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 10:27 PM UTC
Affluence drives the influence,
Brevity mistaken for clarity.
Conveniently concise in assured confluence,
Dependent on constant hilarity.
Engaged in a cult of personality,
Forced diction to subdue the masses.
Grotesquely shaped by a warped reality,
Hidden in plain sight of our fat *****
Irony isn't noted, only subdued and ignored,
Jaded eyes with headlights all dimmed.
Knowledge is left for survivors to hoard,
Laying in the waste that's been already skimmed.
Might over right, the motto tonight,
No room for a shred of reason.
Oppose this with light, and fall out of sight
Privilege lost in the change of the season.
Question it all as it encloses you in,
Restrained by those who suppress the opposed.
Stricken by goals of absolvement of sins,
Temporary ends to a means they supposed.
Under our cloaks are a beacon of hope,
Values that lie in the morals we hold.
We believe unity is the method to cope,
Xenophobia leaves all involved cold.
Your turn to decide: time to run or hide?
Zealous feelings aside, all along for the ride!
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 10:18 AM UTC
We move in strange ways
Our minds have gone insane
Dark haunting jerks of
Misrepresentation clinging grotesquely
To our fragile bones.
We live in fear, wonder slipping from
Empty eyes, crying in an
Echoing silence, still moving
In rituals. Lies whispered between
Truthful teeth, seeping deceit as we
Lie in wakeful drunkenness
Absorbing the black
Outside our window.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC
The poetry
It has spilled
Like the blood of a great massacre
And it has diluted
To a near transparent film
Over the 21st century
Over Miley Cyrus' ***
Over grotesquely distorted salaries
It lingers in the grey concrete behemoths of utilitarian cities
It's on your cat
It's in your parents hair
It's in Angela Merkells teeth
And this omnipresent film
That only few can see
Is evaporating into a backdrop incandescent beauty
It's vaporising into an intoxicating nectar
It's what slavery was to the blues
Or the reconstructions of war to bauhaus
Or what the crusades were to the renaissance
So twerk on Miley
Your artlessness
Makes art stronger by the day
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
The Hunger,
inescapable,
rumbled throughout
your celestial body.
Temptation whispered in your ear
of more—
Greed and Sin
beckoned you,
too close to the sun.
But you, in a haze,
blindly complied.
Against Him.
Your wings burnt
in the scorching heat.
I saw the tendrils of deceit
encapsulate you
as your wings grotesquely contorted.
Flecks of burning faith crumbled
to nothingness.
A wordless scream
left your lips.
Almost instantaneously,
you, writhing,
catapulted—
a freefall of fate—
until you hit
the gritty ash
of betrayal
below.
You betrayed Him,
and so you became
eternally ******
scattered in the winds
of Hell,
my fallen angel.
Jul 1, 2025
Jul 1, 2025 at 7:02 PM UTC