"grovelling" poems
Goliath never
Praised his wife,
Never said
He loved her.
He came up short
Of his intent,
She felt more worthy,
Had to vent,
So stole off from
The Philistine camp,
Crossed the sands
Like a vamp,
To join Israelites
Preparing
For the final fight.
A challenge
Came
From the Giant,
To send out one
To die defiant.
David rose
In shepherd's clothes,
Goliath's wife
Lay near.
When David reached
For shield and spear,
She handed him
A bra.
Her over the shoulder
Boulder holder
Had Philistines guffaw.
Her Double D's,
Once there to please,
Brought Goliath
Grovelling
To his knees.
He lopped off
Goliath's head,
Enjoyed the same
Back in bed.
The lesson taught?
It doesn't matter,
Tall or not,
Be sure to
Tell your wife
She's hot!
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 10:16 AM UTC
The Kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchant man,
seeking goodly pearls; who, when he had found one,
sold all that he had and bought it.—Matthew 13.45
I know the ways of Learning; both the head
And pipes that feed the press, and make it run;
What reason hath from nature borrowed,
Or of itself, like a good huswife, spun
In laws and policy; what the stars conspire,
What willing nature speaks, what forced by fire;
Both th’ old discoveries, and the new-found seas,
The stock and surplus, cause and history:
All these stand open, or I have the keys:
Yet I love thee.
I know the ways of Honour, what maintains
The quick returns of courtesy and wit:
In vies of favours whether party gains,
When glory swells the heart, and moldeth it
To all expressions both of hand and eye,
Which on the world a true-love-knot may tie,
And bear the bundle, wheresoe’er it goes:
How many drams of spirit there must be
To sell my life unto my friends or foes:
Yet I love thee.
I know the ways of Pleasure, the sweet strains,
The lullings and the relishes of it;
The propositions of hot blood and brains;
What mirth and music mean; what love and wit
Have done these twenty hundred years, and more:
I know the projects of unbridled store:
My stuff is flesh, not brass; my senses live,
And grumble oft, that they have more in me
Than he that curbs them, being but one to five:
Yet I love thee.
I know all these, and have them in my hand:
Therefore not sealed, but with open eyes
I fly to thee, and fully understand
Both the main sale, and the commodities;
And at what rate and price I have thy love;
With all the circumstances that may move:
Yet through these labyrinths, not my grovelling wit,
But thy silk twist let down from heav’n to me,
Did both conduct and teach me, how by it
To climb to thee.
2.1k
I was a grovelling creature once,
And basely cleaved to earth:
I wanted spirit to renounce
The clod that gave me birth.
But God hath breathed upon a worm,
And sent me from above
Wings such as clothe an angel's form,
The wings of joy and love.
With these to Pisgah's top I fly
And there delighted stand,
To view, beneath a shining sky,
The spacious promised land.
The Lord of all the vast domain
Has promised it to me,
The length and breadth of all the plain
As far as faith can see.
How glorious is my privilege!
To Thee for help I call;
I stand upon a mountain's edge,
O save me, lest I fall!
Though much exalted in the Lord,
My strength is not my own;
Then let me tremble at His word,
And none shall cast me down.
2k
she has prized credentials
where grovelling is concerned
and many a brownie point
without merit she's earned
******* up to management
is something she's good at
her activity is as undistinguished
as a gross gutter rat
she crawls all over the high ups
like an uncontrollable rash
her sycophantic behavior
causes our teeth to disdainfully gnash
to observe her inching
up the head honcho's ***
makes us all snigger
at her sniveling farce
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
Like the king of a rainy country, am I!
Rich, but weak, young with an agèd eye -
The grovelling of his old tutors he scorns,
The company of dogs leaves him forlorn.
Nothing can bring him joy, no hunt nor falconry,
Nor the mortal jousts before his balcony,
From his favourite jester no ***** tale
Can redden the cheek of one so pale.
His ornate chamber has become a tomb -
And courtesans, scantily-clad, to whom,
Though royal favours inspire their provocation;
This skeletal youth finds no temptation.
Flamel himself could forge no plan
To extract the dark humours from this man.
In the baths of blood from days of yore,
He finds no properties to restore
This dazed corpse in whose veins once red -
Now flows the green waters of Lethe instead.
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 9:26 AM UTC
It fails to bridge the gap
yet permeates the interval
this remorse is almost comforting
and seems to justify my fault
Feeding my guilt appears the only option
grovelling on my knees feels deserved
but when i lift my head, i see
you waiting at the bar and it hits me
that two must pardon the offense
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
found you hiding in the bathroom stall
devastated tears just running
i pity you, will never show it
your insanity to much to stomach
grovelling for grown boys attention
they broke their toys as children
now they brake fleshy hearts served with drama directed by cowardly ego
you eagerly walked the line
very well knowing fairytales do not exist
fairytales do not exist
the prince more dangerous than the dragon
the dragon protects against the world
in return you turn on the scaly animal who love you so
who love you so, it pledged forever by your side
protecting, loving and caring for you
but you wanted smooth skin wrapped in wit and charm
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 5:53 AM UTC
how far we become a drift; out of place,
beggars grovelling before a strangers shadow,
no reason for right, violent colours stained grey,
lost memories trampled by the silence of tears,
the rain is cold, but listens, empathetic is no one,
we grovel, out of place, in a strangers way.
I hope for rain.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 12:51 AM UTC
I'm waiting with certain trepidation
Assured my reality
Is in for something big.
The eleventh dimension
Can't assuage my dread.
There's something happening,
As big as Dead.
The cellphone's our new Nativity,
Destroying my old myths;
Where's the white salamander hurrying,
Spirits hoovering, aliens lurking,
Hairy bipeds in the forests,
Yetis in the snow.
Nothing soon forthcoming.
It all looks like Alberta.
I can't snap inside the sun,
Nor freeze-frame a revolution;
Or the moment one feels love;
But truth is self-evident.
And the facts are yet to come.
All the best stories,
My life-changing beliefs,
Need one still, a black and white will do;
Til then,
I'll suspend
Disbelief,
And sustain credence,
Close to the dark room.
Then we'll be the Magi,
Bowing, grovelling,
Awed and surprised.
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 9:23 AM UTC
oh but what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
we already know what you are,
you are a masquerade of excuses,
and your favourite subject of expressing
the masquerade is philosophy -
by it you find yourself excused,
but because the english undermined
a philosophical expression we've found
a weak spot, a diaphragm sort of speak;
indeed oh, what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
what you create and leave behind is necessary -
i just hope you find the heart to entomb in your
heart those in the modern era you found
pleasure in entertaining you grasping such
a vain effort of your frivolous maintenance
of the easily accessed numbers of similar examples -
sunglasses in the night - a ghost in the machine -
a soul extracted from the body in that lonely
cataract of flooding applause with one actor
and one member of the audience scared to applaud -
your creation... your immediate loss of identity -
but of course you were anticipating the organic
form of what would become a cohesive inorganic
entity - of the example that a mother even speaks
of regarding a robot - now why would a mother
speak of a robot? hmm? guess... it's a test for
a.s.i., i.e. analytically synthetic intelligence -
history repeats itself -
history repeats itself -
you analyse no difference -
hence you synthesise replication - and you call
it intelligence of avoidance yet waste it on
a test for intelligence quantified, rearing in politicians
to craft a chiral representation of intelligence
quantified - in the recycling bin -
so much intelligence wasted, quantified,
leaving so much stupidity qualified to fake it,
instead of the recycling bin, thrown into the pigs'
through...
indeed, you are not what necessarily remains,
all the fabulous discoveries of science, and yet
the burning existential questions - thrown at you
by the pyramidal scheme of the non-inventors,
the once proud aristocrats languishing beneath
the weight of new-money barons...
indeed you are not what necessarily remains,
you are what necessarily remains in what you
are already... in such great number,
as in the liturgy of history... an anonymity...
perhaps all you ever were was a method statement
of creating a soufflé, the fermentation process of grapes...
how foolish you look now, readied for slaughter,
attempting to clarify a famous person syndrome,
grovelling like a cunt-politician slurping attention
in Orwell's house - i know my stance -
by the machine being fed exponentials -
once only deluded if i be found prophetic on the street,
but with a house bound to a value
a suicide rate is worth in Switzerland (£10,000),
you think i'd pleasure myself with your tabloid
philosophy and wait for sympathy or disgrace?
guess...
it's free; a guess is free,
your little birdcage houses no sing-along.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
Her tiny fingers
Commanded I live
And subsequent requests
Engendered her worldwide knowledge.
I am something
Times many somethings
And she is me
Cubed to the power of three.
My wayward wants and casual lusts
Taught her young of all the usual haunts
She would keep me in line
For a goodly time
But soon liquor and women would e'er undo me.
In deepest woe I'd approach
My young charge at her worst
Consume all throwables
Yet hug her tightly to my chest.
And toward my Mom I'd quake
Without even a choice to make
I'd offer some symptom of obeisance
Even as she waved off the cretinous.
My young love would
Magically invoke the same
And before I knew it
I was grovelling at my mother's grave.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
and the grass was ******* green
and the land unfolded into an ancient
suicide pact
it thanked us.
like a kettle that spits hot when it pours-
like a ring finger that shrivels in the cold-
like plastic that splits open at the seams-
like a goblin's sabbath-
like blood where it belongs-
like rust-
like any sky seeking a wall to shine on.
inside of a room/
but what they don't understand is that i am
cool.
and under a strawberry duress-
honey-drop guns fell down to the earth
drinking me.
i
found you there
hiding under an old chair leg. in an indentation left in the rug-
long since the table gets thrown
away
and the world gets remade again,
and i took the old bodies and hid them.
and in the end again,
(you are choking)
i met you there
under all the promise of a yandere moon.
gleaming pale as your voice yet faltering into the
shadows grovelling at your feet.
wanting to peel off its ugly skin.
standing dumb
in the absence of news.
and
her
hands fluttered as he crumbled through the door
she smiled like a ballpoint scrawled down the spackle of the front
hall
the landing creaked as you crept.
we wanted to wade down the hairy stairs and outside-
see the the stars whipping out their **** down at us
from above
.
you touched your arm
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 7:03 PM UTC
Answering prayers
is easier than sticking
it out
Blessed be thee
and on the run
to the next sucker who'll
Fall
flat
short
pancaked
Face down in his own
grovelling
Keep the **** to yourself
If AIDS, genocide, starvation
never got his attention
The girl of your dreams
never will matter.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
Dear God
I know you are a crutch,
created by a scared species,
to make the dark nights warmer.
I know that millions of lives are spent,
in your name,
and of those other pray to.
I know people flock to buildings,
bruise their knees in abeisiance,
hoping for eternal life.
I know that millions fight for you,
thousands speak for you,
and none ever see you.
I know that the universe is vast,
complex and unknown,
but not created by you.
And yet,
it would be easy,
if I could clasp my hands together,
murmur words of needs longed for,
and recieve a miracle at my door.
Dear God,
If you had indeed been real:
Then the slavery of religion would disgust you,
your followers' grovelling would embarrass.
Teh demise of your word created,
would fire you into action.
To save us.
To guide us.
To teach us how to live.
In the absence of an allmighty,
all I see is a sentient species:
violent
greedy
hatefull
Bent of self-destruction.
There is no Divine in the **** of the infant girl.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 9:03 AM UTC
They tease and they tantalise
Those wild-haired men,
For a raging sea of shapes that
clamour and grasp for their attention,
Despite blending into the colours of others.
Their velvet voices softer than their
growling, grovelling masks onstage,
Their words full of electric promise that
dazzle a new generation in new times,
Transcending the blur of decades to provide
hope for lost souls.
Untainted by the cracked lines of age
Simply because they never wore them in the first place.
And yet they fill their caged time with
fireworks that burn into the heart of the
living, and spark the memory of the
dying.
Ah, how I adore those wild-haired men,
For they carry me to a brighter time
Which I can only experience in my mind.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
I've been waiting in your shadows
For so long that I can't remember
The last time you spoke to me
Or if we'd even met before
*Do you hate me now that
I've grown strong without you?
Or am I to you a frog beneath your shoe?*
I've spent so much time here
Grovelling over your ways
Trying to make these habits stay
That I'm not sure when I last saw you
*I tried to say hello to you once
A squeak came out and you walked past
Since then I've been silent and still*
I've sat here quietly by my self
Wondering when someone will notice
That I've left the room
I'm not sure you ever knew I was there.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
Columns of water smoked over
The lake last evening,
Leaving a sun-soaked
Wet-dog pungency. But wagging.
Fatted newborns are
Claiming trees, digging holes.
The worms are doomed
Beneath the green.
Snouts are grovelling
Where they belong.
This was a blithe storm
Passing through.
My sun is eclipsed by you.
After a calming period.
Especially after seeing
You again, seeing you're happy.
That's a rising barometer
For you.
I see it in your hands,
On your ring finger.
Being congenial is different now.
But I am persistent
With my lieu time.
I will be resistant
In my windbreaker.
I have learned
To wait in queue.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 11:57 AM UTC
A lady asked me today if I could give her a discount
On the **** she was buying
Because she had already spent so much at my establishment.
And I just nodded my head and ******* agreed
Even though inside I was screaming.
Because, ***** I didn't ask to save all those lives I did,
I didn't originally
Feel the need to talk the world out of suicide.
But I subscribed for the long run
And ******* myself over
Because I've got men grovelling at my feet
But they're all doped up on Xanax.
So take your ******* discount and
Shove it up your ***
Because you earned it.
But somehow I still haven't
Earned my day of peace.
Imagine if he was better at timing
And jumping?
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 5:28 AM UTC
Blood reigns from
My flickering eyelash
As he tells me it's "okay"
But how can it be
When each day I am
Grovelling
To your stainless shoes
In my pain
You come to hush and soothe
But it turns to stinging and crying
Am I not the one you love
Am I not the one you adore
I guess not
Because even though
We are both freaks of nature
An abomination by modern society
I have come to turn
That ore mature love
Into consistent anger
Now it's my turn to cause pain
Because my fire has re kindled
And I am ready to start
Burning your life down.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 9:46 PM UTC
Sometimes the searing sharpness of cynicism is required;
The acid, eye -watering lemon zest of fact
Piercing
The soft underbelly
Of platitudes, niceties, clichés, pleasantries and delusions.
The sweet smile offset by the glint in the eye,
The raise of an eyebrow or the hint of a frown
Won't do it.
Slivers of sycophancy stick in the teeth
And globules of gratuitous grovelling make one gag.
Swimming in warm soapsuds makes the skin shrivel
And the body longs for the cold shock of sea and salt.
Slick smoothness sickens like melting ice cream
and pretty politeness can seem
Pretty pointless
In the icy blast of a down turn.
Whipped up enthusiasm is just that -
A lot of hot air.
Oil the wheels, grease the palm, slick back the hair,
Stick on the smile, fix the grin, paint the slap.
Nothing sounds too well held in place;
All ready to slide off, leaving the raw expression of bewilderment
In the face of reality
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 6:01 AM UTC
Holy Mother hear me now!
The High Priestess sits jaded on sapphire throne wreath'd in laurel purities,
Blessing the sinners one by one as they line up grovelling down the block,
Shivering for acceptance, the emaciated children of a future abandoned and thrown to the wolves,
In reverence, she watches the nations burn!
The prisons burn! The churches burn!
The balance bleeds the light of dawn into the sidewalk cracks and tinted apothecary windows,
While the other end of the spectrum weeps blackest night into the open casket funerals of the unjustifiable crimes committed in the name of PEACE
The Almighty PEACE
PEACE in the Highest
PEACE at all costs
The High Priestess rains down PEACE from her bomb shelter throne
You may not understand it now
But this is for your own good
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
I don't need to taste the salt
to know it is bitter. Restless
rings on emaciated fingers,
jungle foliage in
increasing shapes of
doing.
What am I doing?
Thousands of words
are written on every
single day. Millions
of sentences spoken
in a million different
ways. Still nothing
sticks like glue to
the fabrication of
supposing.
I am one dot on a
blank piece of paper,
one mark in a
jangled box of
wasted sand.
Underneath my feet
lies the grovelling ground.
Above my head the
lives the growling sky.
Between the two, that
is where I surround
myself with the gauze
of mischief and malignancy.
I do stand, but only roughly.
Swaying branches open like
falling stars and so I
keep the green light
blinking. One day, maybe
even tomorrow, I can taste
the salt and comment
on how sweet it has become.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 5:18 AM UTC
on your left you'll see whats left behind
the unburnt lungs and unsound mind
on your right you'll spot a cliche scene
grovelling by the anthill's queen.
up ahead we're blocked by some debris
left in tact by king's decree
the driver's blind but this holds true:
the only way around is through.
so seatbelts on and hands in prayer
hope your God can get me there.
(a man jumps off the second floor
then crawls back through the roadside door
begging to be welcomed back
as if he never lead the pack.)
there's not one stranger in these seats
but swallowed by the hungry streets
do not inhale the asphalt breath
lest we're gifted our first death.
last stop is The Royal Us
you'll never leave this tour bus.
...this has been your tour guide
at least i can say that i tried.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 9:53 AM UTC
The rain is a harvest,
Of locusts,
Grovelling in the mud,
Igniting the dirt,
With rapid, incandescent movements.
Few of them
Fall on my wet feet
And consummate
The glowless meat,
With Desires.
Which shall remain unfulfilled.
I remember
The last time it had rained,
You were far and oblivious.
Occupied in the obvious.
While I drank the hues
Hoping you could watch
The omnipresence of the drops.
And kissed the ones which lingered,
Later.
The leaves bend silently,
Bowing before the permanence,
Of the present gravity.
Something washes the chains,
Hoping to break the banes,
Yet retires approvingly,
Understanding how unbridled freedom
Can be very
Ungainly.
Soon,
Every sentry returns,
Unperturbed.
The rain leaves us.
Undisturbed.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 9:26 AM UTC
If you knew this was your last day on earth,
would you spend it wisely with complete worth?
Honestly I’m scared of what my answer would be,
If I’d wallow in regret or just check out early.
Once you’ve breathed fresh air,
how do you go back to drowning?
In my youth I could never care
but lately I’m always frowning.
I tried to **** every single brain cell,
I no longer wished for feelings of thought,
no one asked so I never got to tell,
all these lingering regrets that I’ve got.
Dawn of the final day.
the sun arrives but will never stay.
Twenty four hours remain,
my death rattle will be in vain.
Long ago I lost hope in salvation,
and my dreams were trampled for belief,
so I dressed it up in mindless intoxication,
oh, how well it decorated my eternal grief.
How do I explain that the reason I’m leaving,
was the same reason that I stayed?
I’m tired of starving and done with dry heaving,
it feels like my internal organs have been flayed,
and put out on display.
Once you feel the sun rise,
how do you return back to the night?
When defeat’s visible in your eyes,
‘cause mind and body are both done with the fight.
I tried to **** every single brain cell,
yet there’s still more than enough left to haunt me,
will they survive the fall out, only time will tell,
I have a feeling one will remain only to keep taunting.
Dawn of the final day,
knees were made for grovelling not to pray.
Twenty four hours remain,
maybe time can fit in some rain.
I’m never happy with what life gives me
though I admit I haven’t been given much.
I feel only coldness in my surroundings,
but have felt warmth from a strangers touch.
Everyday I think “this is the end
I can’t possibly keep on going”
My spine broken before it could bend,
and I was plucked before I started growing.
So drag my corpse to the ocean
‘cause it was always my dream for there to rest,
I’ll die drowning in every emotion,
but only sadness will fill my chest.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 7:58 PM UTC