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zebra Jun 2016
she came to me one day
the *****
beautiful like a girls choir
singing Latina L'Amour
moving her bottom
like a metronome

her ******* a cascade of kindness
that break the hearts of men
they die
for those
blouse muffins
her smooth legs and feet
made for *** art
lickity splits and ****** contortions
while her wiggly *** and ****
tell you
what heaven would be like
hips that sway  traffic
causing pile ups
and fender benders
and make good boys
hopeful about being chosen
perhaps anointed
and judged worthy
but alas  
turn good boys into
chronic *******-rs
in dim midnight closets
or trawling *** criminals

at the very sight of her
my soul buckled
i wanted her
like darkness
needs a lantern
like blood
needs cells

she looked at me
with ****** in her eyes
it would make my **** wet to hurt you
she said with a soft tremor
ill **** yours for hours
tongue toy
losange
gullets prey
girl food

will you earn your suffering
adore my goddess ***
and lick it **** and span
kiss my beautiful feet
with tender devotion
pray for cruel ***** abuse
be consumed
by ******* jaws
thrill me
love me
flood me
with blood
and ****
die for me
my love

as i looked into
her hollowed
desperate soul
so eager
and felt deeply her need
and loved her to tears
to broken hearts mend

to struggle with
the dark angle
unrequited love
to expunge
years of vacant stares
of nameless women
and empty beds
to forget foreboding
bath cabinets bereft
of girly things
like
lolly pop pink lipstick
cherry sherbet nail polish
lacquered hardened coats  
aerated perfumed clouds
of vanilla candies
and fashionable
demonic party masks
over black brooding mascara
on almond eyes
hiding hot embers
cool and staring hungry

while wrenched obsessive
for the feminine
that drag my soul
through long coffin
hollow gullies
that drive me
to invocations
of Hecate
sacrificial blood rituals
voodoo trances
god forms
and black art astrologers
who have the power
to move planets
through space
and change fates

oh so wrong
yet i must
for loves sake
say yes to her
yes to her for pleasures sake
even if in the end
i am left to moan
to howl at a blood moon
with in the confines
of her dark edged
appetite
ascending in sin
as she ***** me
like she hates me

yes my beloved
to vanquish numbness

she consoles
my willingness  
excites
i felt her adoration

be brave for me
she murmured
sadists are cowards
teach me surrender
you are glorious
in my clutches

i made my self ready
positioned my self
as per her instructions
face down
legs apart
on a bed of nails
happy in my pit
as she played
a whole lotta love
by led zeppelin
blood swollen ****
oozy
for her tender kisses
and brutal schemes

the masochists tao

to denigrate oneself
to kiss your goddess feet
to lick your perfect ****
to adore your prim rose ****
to taste your lips of fire
to tangle in your silky locks
to see your eyes a blaze
to drink your saliva nectar
to eat your crumbs
to lick your *** clean
to be beaten
to your satisfaction
to drown in your *******
to hold you close
to take pleasure
in your cruelty
to suffer for your delight
to be
the sacrificial lamb
to be a victim
in an ****** dream
with jaws and teeth

she took me inside
smiled  like a feral
lust twisted child
took out a
scalped handled knife
brushed it across
my tummy and *****
terror brewed
excitement struck
my **** got so hard
she grinned
and salivated
like a Satanic Cheshire
in bloom

she devoured ***** warm butter
as it poured in waves
into her black lipsticked
pink wet mouth temple

oh she said
i like it a lot
do you mind a small incision
my darling

mommy needs
a little taste of hell

her face shape shifted
into a warbled shadow
as she licked her lips
and tickled
her *******
with gooed fingers

cut me i implore
im in the mood
you sweet savage

she opened me slow
o o o o ooow
ooh the sting
don't stop i begged
loving her
voluptuous greed
as she covered me
with heavens kisses
eyes desperate
devouring
drenched through ******
and bestowed
upon me
eager  licks
that swoon
and savage wounds

she took charge
with curvilinear cutlery
she gave it to me hard
oooofff
then good again
aaahhh
then deep and threw
like a spoon through Crisco
a surgeon from hell house
oh so fun she said
she licked my ****
fingered my ***
****** my *****
frenetic
then stuck me with a fork
giggling
not done yet she mused
and then
required of me
that my tongue
obediently pay homage
to her naked mouth ****

i was the pig for slaughter
needles and knives
burned *******
bruised ****
a bleeding torn
pin cushion
eyes teared
back arched
torso writhing
cherry cheeks
blood gusher
her *******
and belly ****
soaked in my blood
commanded me to lick
my own pools
of red plush
for her amusement

a couple at play
in Satan's temple of lust
her face turned to mischief
in a demons trance
her soul
like hyenas
and clawed weasels
all trapped villeins

im done ****** around
with you she quipped
her **** on fire
like a burning house
she plunged a blade deep in my gut
her eyes wide and glaring
like blazing head lights
possessed by hell bats

oh my goddess
for you
over the summit
as i shuddered
arching in torment
curling into a ball
squirming
like a severed worm

her face contorted
with horrors fun
her **** pored forth
tremulous quivers
and hells
brimstone gasms
ecstatic

oh she drank my blood
****** my ****
with kaleidoscopic tongue
like a devils bride banshee
licked my *** clean
filthy *****
defaced me with a drooling ****
and brooding ****
strangled me with nylons
until my lips ran numb
until my tongue dragged
like a corpse in a car wreck
she  whimpered and cooed
suffocated me with her **** ***

stepped on my face
with feet i adore
chewed off my *****
a black mambas kisses
filled my mouth
with hot rocks
that melted my skull
oh cry to heaven
wheres Jesus
as i scummed
up-leaping

the  last words
i ever heard
*** you sure to kick a lot
im cu cu cu cu cu cu *******
for you blood boy
dead dead dead
floppy floppy head
**** like cherry pie
Sonorant Jul 2021
Banished before thon barren plains,
Where treacherous tears abstain
Fare. Fair is the waste,
The impurity of deep, decrepit weeds.
And dage brings fruit then touched
Only by their ravens of rot.
May they paint thine tainted stave
In golden garth and lull the lark;
“Mine, Sweet babe,
Robbed of cradle
Readied for ritual.
Mine, Sweet babe,
Gore masked black
Within the crimson bath.”
Lacen their throats, the gullets that gloat!
Lest langes of thorns, wrap the bairn sworn.
Death breeds glore o’er luid nights
Beldam rise belles in wicked repel.
Round the funeral pyre.
John F McCullagh Sep 2012
An Amish elder named Mullet,
And some of his ****** clan,
bore hatred deep in their gullets
for their Amish fellow man.
****** seemed out of the question,
It’s rare among Amish, folks say,
(It may be that a horse and a carriage
doesn’t make for a quick getaway.)
So Mullet and some of his minions
Invented a new sort of crime:
Shaving their bearded opponents
one Amish man at a time.
Losing one’s beard among Amish-
A disgrace before God, it’s been said.
Mullet spared no woman either
choping the hair from their heads.
His victims are speechless with anger,
denuded of both beards and hair.
Leave it to someone named “Mullet”
To offend using a Barber’s chair.
Mullet’s in Federal custody;
charged with a crime, not a sin.
He refuses to answer the charges
By the hair of his chinny chin chin.
A true hair raising tale- you can't make this up.
Dark n Beautiful Apr 2018
This ***** ******:

They say that beauty is in the eyes of the
Beholder, so does this ***** have eyes?
the power of evil and bad,

Today we see what it can do
Many a nation have gone to war,
Because of this ugly beauty,
many family units has been tread apart
Because of its evil doings,

The seven hundred wives of
King Solomon and his three
Hundred concubines was
a great example of what
the ugly beauty can do:

Infidelity is on the rise,
so many lies: so many shortcoming,
Lucy ****** is an embarrassing subject
why men lie and killed for it?

this remarkable commodity: with
****** is like a Van Gogh painting,
It gets lot of attention: the baseline dimensions
is still a mystery: A weapon so powerful

It can break a man down to his lowest
It has a language of its own.
silly words like sup, sup, sup.
the same sound effects of a cold beer going down
the gullets: the smoother, the  esophagus: pleasers

The ****** and a beer have so much in common
they both get their men all the time,
a smooth transportation, in addition, the lamentation,

****** you are surely blissful:
Men incredible dreams
who wouldn’t want to own the team?
No matter how destructive or fulfilling:

* Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent,
more perfect than all that a man can invent.”
― Roman Payne
* Quote
there's a guy
sequestered
someplace in a
secret location

his job is to keep
****** alive

since the purported
death of mein Fuhrer
this has become the
most important job
in the world

with ****** alive
and well, we know
what evil looks like
and it sports a
funny mustache

compared to ******’s
lip growth even
old Beelzebub’s
goatee looks
kinda cute

with ****** alive
nations churn out
industrial strength
collateral damage
on the scale of a
Fortune 500
sausage maker
wholly blessed
with the
moral impunity
of profiting on
the war on
terror

assembly lines
manufacturing
the stewed vats
of pink slime
soylent green
lays a wide grin on
Henry Ford’s face
watching happy
Chinese proles
grind through
the day’s
bleating stocks
grateful to have
a wage paying job

we are
the righteous
dudes,

hanging ten on
Malibu pipes
water boarding
the terrorists

pouring waves of
umbrellaed  
Coolattas down
the desert thirsty
gullets of
dead enders

and they don’t
even have
the decency
lay a tip on
their earnest
servers

freakin
barbarians

we are the
empowered
heavies
licensed to
dispatch
immediate
fast food
have it your way
justice,
with
drone strikes
on reprobate
Americans who
spent their last
bill of rights on
a Happy Meal
of Freedom Fries
leaving the
executioner
begging for nickel
change so he
can pick up
a dime bag
of the best
Afghan horse
after laying a
bullet between
old Osama’s
cross crooked
eyes

when civilized men
begin to wonder
if the modus operandi
of intelligence
gathering could be
construed as torture,
we point northward
to scurrying Koreans
sneaking briefcase
nukes over the the
southern border
cleverly disguised
as Chicano grape
pickers heading
for Napa.

in national
tantrums of
undulating
shock and awe
we launch
cruise missiles
to deliver the
news of a well
considered
Bush Doctrine
self conferring the
sweet liberty
to detonate
bunker busters
in noble strikes
of preemptive
interventionism

we hate war
so much
we initiate
warfare before
a war breaks out

we reserve
first strike
blitzkrieg
prerogatives
as an exalted
strength to
alleviate the pain
of enduring
the weakness of
protracted peace

we are firm in the
belief that the blasted
dust from our bombs
form the cornerstones
of future democracies

to serve the greater
global good, America
has dispatched a
humanitarian team of
Navy Seals to East
Africa to get Kony

we’re rooting out this
bad guy whose
trying to implement
his twisted version
of a Santorumish
10 Commandment
based paradise

Kony is living proof that
Islamo Fascists don’t
hold a monopoly on
terror and though
Kony’s got some
powerful supernatural juju
Seals got motion sensors
that can spot a
cantankerous poltergeist
through the darkest jungle
canopies

it also will minimize
the risk of friendly fire
casualties

they’ll have to be careful
not to wander into
the disputed oil fields
of southern Sudan
and they’ll need to
be mindful of Chinese
engineers building
pipelines and refineries

But thank goodness
that guy has kept
the touchstone of evil
alive and well.

we’ll always
recognize it
when we see it
and get hot
on the trail of
******’s latest
incarnations
when they
show their
ungodly face

civilized people
demand justice

and we will not rest until
Kony’s head is displayed
atop a spike on YouTube
buzzing with the hum
of ecstatic flies joining
the chorus of happy
tribesmen singing
kumbaya with
stirring gratitude
from the aboriginal
comfort of their
mud and
grass huts

****** lives
Osama is dead
Lets get Kony

Music selection:

Smash Mouth,
Walking on the Sun

Oakland
May Day
5/1/12
jbm
Jillian Jesser Oct 2018
For I will consider a town called Riverside.
For its only river, the dry Santa Ana, it's shore peppered with the homeless, garbage, an old shoe, a cart stolen from the grocery.
For its downtown with dried gum spots all along the sidewalk, its dive bars with regulars pouring in at 3pm and pouring cheap beer into their gullets until morning.
For its overpriced theatre, a gentrified landmark, driving the sun-hot strays to the park.
For the park, and a lake, dotted with boats in the summer, driven by tired feet, hands hiding beer in gas station soda cups.
For the mountain, with the old ladies, counting every step, looking up to the cross and over the edge onto a thick brown smog.
For the steepled churches on every corner, waking us every Sunday to pray to a hotly scarce God.
For I will consider a town called Riverside.
poem prompt response
Barton D Smock Jul 2012
you have let
again
small birds
land

on your collarbone
to gag you
their empty
gullets

or

you've again
swallowed
a red
insect
and it

walks.  the ink

of your looking
seems
a hammock
but you say

far off
a raccoon
is watching.  a stick

out there
separates
on its own

like taffy.  your hair

has mostly
fallen.  three shadows

I will never see:

under leaf, coffin, or strand

of your hair.  when I hold a glass

the faucet
tries
so hard
for milk.  I can't kiss your neck

and that's okay.  I don't think our boy

would've been
silly.
René Mutumé Mar 2013
Lets make you a snaaakey
son!
lets digest the ground with its spill of green pearl
and the bars polished floor, lets hold
the taps and pour down our gullets
the golden froth of advertised skies
wetting and wedding our four feet
not two, lets not worry that
its closing time, lets not worry where
The fox wanders, for surely
its steps are its home,
its fur, dying daily
its bite
its life.
it was the
summer
of 13

when a city
consumed in a
Cronut crazed
heat wave

amped
the tenderloin

slicing the underbelly
of Hell's Kitchen

packing meat for
Russian oligarchs
pouring fistfuls
of petrol rubles
down the
thirsty gullets
of glutinous
developers

their distended
bellies welling
with aching
avarice
from an
extended
stay at an
All You Can Eat
zero interest
smorgasbord
courtesy of
Uncle Sam’s Diner
somewhere off the
West End

getting fat
on the land
reclaimed
and rebuilt
on the dust
and detritus
of an expired
Great Society

Bloomie's metropolis
rising on the rubble
of razed neighborhoods....

the vertical leaps
shooting ever upward
the heady windows
framing portraits
of endless replication
offering the amenities
of the vain comfort
found in ghettos of
soulless high rises
and the billowing
gray perspective
of blanched out
street cafes
brewing $9 lattes
and big box
boutiques busy
busking the
latest rage
of sweat repelling
yoga mats and
wearable apps

America’s Mayor
Giuliani paved the way
he arrested all
the squeegee men
confiscated their Windex
dumped it down
the sewers and filled all
vacancies at Rikers

a year after Sandy
rolled up the Hudson
breaching the banks
of West Street
licking the streets
clean of urban
flotsam the
surging boom
bloomed

Bloomie bankrolled
a red carpet
for his global
fraternity of
plutocrats
unleashing a
tsunami of
shekels

washing away
the fading
memories of
Captain Sully’s
cool headed
lunch pail
heroism proving
that 727’s can
walk on water
was now passe

Lou Reed
left town
the wild side
monetized by
the belching
banality of
Urban Hipsters

millennial
babes in toy land
embarked on an endless
shopping spree
where credit limits
never expire and
giddy narcissism
greased with entitlement
orders up room service
as the next course
in this endless
movable feast

Music Selection
Philip Glass
The Hours



9/8/13
NYC
jbm
walking the High Line in NYC.....
fragment of extended poem
posted today in response to NY Times article
on the anonymous purchase of NYC high rises
by global oligarchs
http://www.thetakeaway.org/story/new-investigation-reveals-corrupt-foreign-money-flowing-us-real-estate/
LT Sylvest Oct 2011
It smells like you flayed a chestnut tree
and roasted its children
with its own flesh
on a cold winter mourning

The scent of charred skin
and toasted offspring
brings about the small demons
who crush the tiny bones
with their ***** claws
and feast on the infants
sliding down their filthy gullets

Its so cold that all the monsters
strip the cotton bare
and leave them to shiver
so that their plunder
of soft tuft
may be mashed
left out to thirst
and twisted
into a pretty new hide
for the little monsters

When their hot breath
caresses the cold air
poison
is pushed down the throat of plants and trees,
when they wake
they drown
and when they sleep
they freeze
and the little monsters in the yard
rip off their branches
to play a silly game
where the beasts die laughing
and the leaves
wilt and die
S L O W L Y
Iwan Lloyd Pitts Feb 2011
Famous Leatherstocking was a mighty hunter,
Like a male Artemis; Freischutz without bullets.
He did slay many a fiend for Minerva;
Slicing their gullets, before burying the hatchets.
He whistled as he skinned the prey he killed,
And wisdom hung about him like thick mist;
He told stories and glorified all the blood spilt,
But never did he mention the few he missed.
There will always be ones like Leatherstocking,
Those who **** for sport, who like to brag.
When there's no prey left and nothing's shocking,
He might hunt down the children who've been bad.
Or that's what they'll say to keep us in line,
For we are the children Minerva left behind.
Francie Lynch Mar 2015
The strangest dream
I've ever had,
Is when I dined
With the dead.

My skinless, boneless
Friends and foes,
Enjoyed the spread
Of Deviled Toes,
Deviled Ham,
Grapes of wrath,
Deviled eggs
And sin-namon bread.
The deviled tongue
Sang no siren's song
Marinading in
Devil's Dung.

Devils On Horseback
Washed down
Our gullets,
And ****** Mary's
Flooded the banquet
Capping the feast.
I opened eyes
To end REM sleep.

Since then
My morning meal
Has altered.
Encouraged by
The risen sun,
I butter myself
A Hot Cross Bun.
"Devil's dung" is actually called "Devil's ****" because of its smell, but the odor dissipates while cooking.
Third Eye Candy Jan 2016
the wind was swinging from the trees
and mute gulls overhead, slipped in the blue above
swarming the beachfront... gulping salt and silver glints
flapping in their gullets with black eyes
and no dreams.
i walked the causeway and the off road
juggling the change in my pocket with an absent mind.
i turned corners that were never there
and came to a halt as the sun bleached the horizon.
I thought that Beauty was a thing.
and simply forgot to move,

and the world forgave me.
Alan Maguire Feb 2013
what about food for thought and food for your belly, how about some raspberry jelly, or jelly fish that come from tropical seas, captured by the Japanese and are ten feet in diameter, not the Japanese but the gloopy seas creature .

That are kinda pink or red but taste really good and go with vanilla ice cream but be careful with these gloopy jellied things , they stings, I mean, they sting , so don't bite or chomp or chew but slice them up with a blade made outta a reinforced steel , but they feel pain and memories and all sorts of things, so they are not just things that are dragged from the depths, for us to poke or **** or ridicule on facebook or youtube

how'd you feel if tomorrow we was invaded by raspberry flavoured jellied creatures that came from the fifth and fourth dimension, did I mention that they're here to abduct us, to **** and poke us with weird instruments, but not musical ones but frightful ones, long ones , ones we've never heard of , but they have heard of us the raspberried creatures that is

from the fourth and fifth and possibly sixth dimension but I forgot to mention it's our own fault , our own frugal fault, that they've come in huge ,hovering , harbingered things, that hover above us without any wings, yes without wings and to these gelatinous, gluttonous things we are just things  to be dispatched, devoured and digested within one working week, with one ******* gulp we'd go down their sleek gullets or whatever they have
I find it amazing that people eat
larks tongues and chickens feet
black pudding that is dried blood
even goats hooves that have been dancing in mud

Some stuff down there gullets
pigeon pie and Chinese boiled puppy
washed down with snakes blood
from mister grubby's

These foods are surely gruesome goo
roasted crickets and honey ants pooh
never will I eat these foods, never will I be caught
all I know is that, this is food for thought.

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
I find it amazing that people eat
larks tongues and chickens feet
black pudding that is dried blood
even goats hooves that have been dancing in mud

Some stuff down there gullets
pigeon pie and Chinese boiled puppy
washed down with snakes blood
from mister grubby's

These foods are surely gruesome goo
roasted crickets and honey ants pooh
never will I eat these foods, never will I be caught
all I know is that, this is food for thought.

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
bird droppings
from the skies I'd plummet
into the arms
of the open road
of the paved places
of the winding canal
of the idle city sleeping

drowsy in my somberness
quiet in my pain, I labored
spilling my blood with a copper's clamor
the din of supper, scraping rusting fork & spoon
'pon tin plate
to hear ravens' drowning cries
rattling in the tin can of my empty mind
searching for the truths devoured
by many come before
who wound me dearly
who loved me,
dearly
and craved every drop of blood
succored
every morsel of marrow
how they loved me,
my flavor
my scent
craved the texture of my soul
that decadent, succulent chew
the note of my fermented heart
the painsteaking cuisine of my hopes & fears
no monster could dare
devour
as humans do,
as humans do...

as human devour
whom they love...

and wherever you go
finding me,
as aimless trails
of loose change, on sidewalks
on open roads
in parking lots,
in the hot sun or shade
know they wandered there
in drunken stupors
as I fell out of the gullets
of their wanton avarice,
they lost me perpetually
spreading my worth,
as they spread their disease
cloven hooves clopping, clapping, clipping their way
away from the devastation
of the feast of my dying
like banks
emptying in my ruin
of the wake of my demise
their empires, falling
fiat failing
loose change spooling
like my passions,
my yearning for pleasures of flesh
they ***** every woman I ever adored
society,
in the desert of that lustful ******,
disemboweling...
establishments, perishing
grants, drying up
riverbeds, swamp-like
don't forget
how they,
you,
chose the love of money
over me,
as you butchered me,
like choice cattle
no golden calf could ever beat veal
no price could hold sway over the madness of their deal
how demons waited
gap-toothed smiles twinkling
eyes dark, cold, wanting, hungry
accepting every handshake with glorified glee
malice of eternities, met with mirth,
poured over sinful charity,
from those who destroyed the good
despite the evils that would follow

I was the innocence - the sacrifice,

they enjoyed every taste of my youth,
my joy, my spirit, my screams,

they enjoyed every taste of my innocence
despite every harrow,
nestled
in every mouthful,
like broken glass filling
in fillet mignon
******
good
fun...

and here I am
this one's yours
your own pretty penny
with no thoughts to spare
for your pennies could never purchase my thoughts
for my thoughts are worlds of real estate
no longer on the market
closed
like never-never land
a tombstone reads:

"Here lies,
he who never lived,
for living was too high a price,
for the world to bear being free,
due his freedom,
therefore, he died,
that they may remain slaves
to the devil's delights,
evermore..."

and no one was there
to proclaim forgiveness
that they, who ransacked, knew not what they did
for they, who ransacked, did know
and yet persisted
for the sake of their own yields of riches,
***, and a deep-rooted
desperate sin
called,

"greed"
Horrors looming on the horizon,
for them to seem pretty(er),
better to accept their approach,
than to run and be devoured from behind,
as if that sinful cowardice
worthy only of lucifer, satan, and the devil,
or any anti-christ,
changes one's fate...
natalie Jan 2014
“The Road to Hell”

I am surrounded by blank pages.
With scorn, they mock my inability
to fill their gluttonous gullets.
Notebooks, journals, and diaries jeer
with disgust and desire; even the
looseleaf paper stares longingly
at the collection of pens and pencils
I have amassed, a stinging tribute
to my stayed hand. Each time the
moleskin is opened, he gasps,
hopeful, only to be crushed as I
jot a quick note, perhaps a phone
number, or a few names. The foreign
beauty with the hand-pressed paper
has not once been opened, and lusts
to be used — as a post-it, a sketchbook,
or kindling, she does not discriminate.
Each celebration of a birthday — be it
mine or Jesus Christ’s — is merely an
excuse for more lonely pages to join
the ranks, collecting dust and growing
feeble. A mysterious hand pain is
merely a convenient excuse, for the
truth is that I have never been a
consistent writer — not on paper, at
least. My fingers are suited to typing,
and the keyboard assuredly gloats
daily to the lonely paper of her
usefulness; Microsoft Word of the
multitude of poems, short stories,
essays, papers, musings, and
assorted writings he has fabricated.
Indeed, if the road to Hell is paved
with good intentions, then I shall
descend in a carriage of blank paper.
Ethan Sigmon May 2010
You feel it ripple your bones,
in waves, in waves, in waves,
wavering across your spine,
in and out,
seething,
teething the bottom of your mind,
the part that connects jaw-line to skull,
the part you wish to pry your fingers into,
the part you wish to slam your knuckles through,
the part you wish to tear ligament from ligament from
the part you wish to ground into thick, black pulp and sod.

So you can mirror yourself
violated.
Painting self portraits, fists swinging
wildly,
narcissism sails eagerly from
cascades in skewered necks.

Could you finally, then,
give?
Could you finally, then,
give enough
to let loose hounds
thundering in your throat,
gullets run red, raw
from pulling chains
through bowels…
Could you finally, then,
let the outburst out and burst through those very bowels to spew fragmented thoughts onto the floor after you’ve berated the very walls that dealt with the pyres and the floods and the ice and the hell outside foaming at the mouth to be let inside to rip you apart in the very fashion that you ripped apart your own heart in an effort to live up to the family that sours in your veins?

And their mothers cry as they **** harder,
and their fathers cry as they swing harder,
and their sisters cry as they scream harder,
and their teachers cry as they blink harder,
and their preachers cry as they lie harder,
and their friends cry as they grow farther
apart.

Now we can see where they come from when they gag and heave into a night of small candy pills.
Now we can see where they come from when they’re found face down in the ditches and gutters.
Now we can see where they come from when they cry into the same phones that split their skulls
Now we can see where they come from when they stare, hopelessly waiting for the pawn shop nine to pull itself.
Now we can see where they come from when their ***** fills their lungs in cars and bathtubs painted red and brown.
Now we can see where they come from when their fathers drop them like wasted forties into the streets after ******* in the empty bottle.
Probably the longest poem I'll ever write, and it's so far the longest I've written. I'm proud of it, at least for now.
Sam Lincoln May 2014
If you could find my azule ink
In the gullets of lack-long sun fish:
You would find a young woman at shore always letting out the string. Yet, sun is bleaching the cloth, sand, wood, skin and I don't think we would recognize any of ourself by the end of it.
Lorenzo Soldera May 2014
There is a path.
Its rickety bridges dangle you over the jaws of despair;
I welcome the jagged teeth with pursed lips.
A planet does not choose its sun.
This diminutive island orbits obediently, tracing an oblong avenue
Around a heavenly beacon which burns at close range,
But protects from the uncharted perils of a frozen infinity
Beyond the horizons of our understanding.

Books.
Here they are seemingly as plentiful as stars in the great expanse.
For every one I read, there are a thousand more
That could pour out of my fingertips without warning.
Here on these shelves (and in my hands) are words –
Legions of ideas, cries for help, and declarations of the self –
Collecting dust to pass the time.
Bound by a spine, each page is a painting,
Or a singular brush stroke;
It depends where on the museum’s crisscrossing paths
We place it.
I am allowed to manipulate
These likenesses with my own unkempt paws.
I sift through each layer with great care.
Poised above my isolated figure is a cloud of silence.
Luridly dark, it threatens to immerse every shelf in its corrupting solitude.
My fascination decays into sorrow.
Curators grow weary.
Thick lenses become damp with labored breath.
A tomb of these words encases the regenerative key
Our depleted cityscape so desperately needs.
But the museum has not received enough submissions; funding is being cut.
Fingers spanning a soiled palm have grown tired of the dirt.
Limp breezes are now strong
Enough to disconnect them
Permanently
From the words that burn at close range.
They allow themselves to drift, because it’s easier.
It is cleaner, more “cost-efficient”.
Straying from the museums, we drift from realization (from reality, even)
Into delusions of creation and achievement.
Lo! How accomplished we are!
We, the Cash-Rich People of the Thought-Poor States,
In order to form a more synergized union,
Do downsize the words that disseminate from our digits,
Dutifully drowning them out with more rambunctious
Gurgles from our gullets.


Curators warned and a generation of disobedient phalanges paid no mind.
My feeble hands mold a clay cadaver, grooving oily prints into its hull.
This incoherent signature will fall perpetually unnoticed between the cracks.
No one is looking.
6 May 2014.

the fourth poem from the "Disclaimer" series.

© 2014 by Lorenzo Soldera. All rights reserved.
M G Hsieh Mar 2017
is built on dreams and
agonies that were known too late.

Both mannequins and puppeteers
lay beneath the ashes of rosewood
and petals. The lords and laborers
drink blood like wine and through
their gullets pass equal measures
of stone and excrement.

I bear the flesh
wounds inside.

My eyes continue to see the crumbles
from the roofs. I can still hear hysteria
forcing me to enter. The vines carry fruits;
they are strings that pull me under.

"Dig through the dirt, then
climb up." You taught me
light can still shine
from the ground.
Ron Gavalik Jun 2018
The cost of TRUTH
may at times burden
our mental energy and our wallets,
especially when we are delivered
so many cheap, comfortable lies.
TRUTH, however, is the tonic
that heals and fortifies our minds
against the constant flood of toxic oil
that pours from the gullets
of poseurs and profiteers.

The few who summon the courage
to embrace TRUTH are transformed
into angels of light. They rise above
the sewage of violence and hatred
of so many polluted minds,
the diseased souls condemned
to whither in misery.
This is why I write. Please support me on Patreon. Patreon.com/RonGavalik.
A proud , dandy lad stepping up to the podium , directing his subjects at five in the morning ... Every feather flawless , each spur just so , singing
acapella for his fan club down below .. Come hither hens ! On your feet precious chicks ...Daylight is numbered , awake from your slumber ,
Turn the fleeting , final hour of Moonlight handy for the earth is your candy , fresh well water in our faunts , cracked corn in the pans , blackberries on the ground , tall green grass all around ..
Let the cattle , hogs and sheep moan and sloth .. We've chores to finish ,
hours to mark , grain waiting to fill our empty gullets and fence lines to explore and walk ..
Copyright February 24 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Jennifer Mar 2020
concrete castles, brick battlements,
chimneys billowing black smoke.
sky, leaden and forever dull;
this is the city of the guls.

perched upon red brick walls
and slated rooftops
they unleash their cries of battle
and dive, strafing as they fly;

gutting wheelie-bins, squabbling
over human trash and muck.
this is treasure to the guls,
their feathers diseased and their

necks sporting plastic trophies.
they ****** from grubby human hands
and swallow all they can;
their gullets hold no guilt or shame

for the human filth called 'man.'
the guls know their city: every cranny
and every nook. they have always ruled
from their royal perches:

ruthless, ***** and proud. they look
upon human men with beady eyes
as they leave humble offerings,
and they cackle

chorusing with their high-pitched
squawks. for humans are
mere pests
among those mighty guls.
haven't written in a while! go easy on me ;) thank u to Jolyon for supporting my poetry n for helping me with this one <3
Carlos Oct 2017
Elevate me, bring me to a separated plane,

That would culminate my thoughts from somewhere between spiritual and deranged.

But ok, debunk yourself from stable,

From making magic between the tragic epiphanies; reversed serendipity to cradle.

This traffic of ideas tesselate the snake train,

Elaborated in definitions of tapestry and fake names.

Wallflower, with no protest to bonemeal,

Kaleidoscope of diets from eggshells and chlorophyll.

Hmmm, this brain food's a drug inducing misdirection, that holds no compass but somehow still sheens a cruel reflection.

Of course, consolidated losses, juxtapose the crosses,

Sway the form of faith to a diluted array of traits. +

And when the gullets a game for gross concoctions,

It's obvious isolation and failure seem the only options.

But anyway, with a sober mind still intact,

I could follow lines of letters from loosely to exact.

Clearly there is no sure thing, especially when the puppet contorts to the willful rhythm pulling at his own strings.

Look how far we've come, from willing to unable, that would shatter any semblance of cards still on the table.
I'm a stranger in my own home
And I'm getting stranger by the minute
These words are like minutes
And I don't have any more to waste
Waste not, want not, important mantras for today

I'm just a drunkard at the pew
A pacifist with a machine gun mouth perpetually pointed at you
Dribbled, wrestled, spat, washed out
My words either wither or pierce with clout
But sometimes it's myself I begin to doubt
That whether whispered or done with a shout
My words will fall on deaf ears when they leave my mouth

It seems I'm ill-fated
That words will be wasted
When it seems that I've made it
To a decision to open my mouth

And that's the question then my friend
Will these nouns and verbs mean anything in the end
If I keep vocalizing, will they begin realizing
That I have some valid points without making myself seem self-satisfying

My rhetoric's a weapon and I'm sweating bullets
Aiming to touch your hearts through your gullets
I'm just praying to the heavens that I finally hit the target
There's just enough dry fields here for a fire and I'm aiming to start it
But all good things must find where to begin
I need to find the creativity deep within
The crevices of which my inspiration was found
Before it got clouded by my cultural dumb-down

I still have faith that I have some worth with what I say
And by God, I'm looking forward to that day
When I finally decide not to take
My power of free speech in vain
While knowing full well that I'm finally
Acknowledged and accepted
Liked and respected
And possibly never detested for what I have to say

Hopefully soon these fears will be dated
And I'm no longer ill-fated
With words that will be wasted
Once they leave this mouth
B Wasserman Jun 2016
Oak: attended by insects and disease
tug tight and called my name for me
it asked to be carved out

I've polished and removed
more than all the efforts
of former years could

the sea invited
the tides imparted
the tides bathed
and sanctified
we went till the head
of the lake

the boat professed
and yearned that now
since two hundred
grand years past
that if it could once
now and ever more
pass

I removed a plug
and the waves buzzed
belched the breeze up

the boat sank free
rotting gullets filling up
the pipes rendered mute
by the powers of the waves

free from hunger
not free from touche
at the grip of the hands
of lake
now consigned to the lockers of waves
Tom Shields Jan 2021
Reflection, introspective question, echoes "Dissonance..."
this distance, fist, fuel pump Death's liplock on cognizance
cogs ground to halt, acthung in their tongues whipping ignorance
pale snow like corpse-flesh rest and rot on the ground
thunderous, the sky fills with one overpowering sound
exhaustion, bleaker cracks than ever on the porcelain eye
behold this, the greatest show you cannot miss
give us a kiss, death give us a kiss, expel the spirit and leave the lie
screaming for a blanket, notes plaster the walls and ceiling and all the clashing concords are parabolic bliss

With your sugar skull aloft and looking down
all these jesters dance to entertain one clown
the paint wears off their faces, no presence
no dignity, no disgraces, they look into the mirror and say this
"Courage..." comes from elegance over using power at every chance
while cold water runs off with the colder blood that seeps from the cuts in their hands

Star fire!
Molten and liquid and poured into the gullets of each of your foolish and wicked, cruel and detestable people
if no person ever lived, who is to say if the universe would ever know such things as evil?
The pomegranate complexion of these brazen, emboldened, boorish and bombastic beings
I curse their granite introspection with blazing, untold and traumatic things
burst them and wither their seeds to nothing, all that I regard of them in sight
death kisses are the sweetest for they offer final release from all mortal pains, and carry you off into the eternal night.
write
please read and enjoy

— The End —