"hedonists" poems
My revenge is spelt with a "J"
and it comes from the mouths
of lawyers and judges
and vigilantes who seem to think
that they can spread their so called "Justice"
to the entire world
with nothing but a pocket knife
and determination.
My oppression is spelt with an "F"
and it comes from the mouths
of politicians and protesters
and just about anyone
who will call for "Freedom"
to their family and friends
despite not really knowing
what it is.
My ignorance is spelt with a "B"
and it comes from the mouths
of hedonists and grandparents
and teenagers
who would rather carry artificial bliss
than try to make it
so that they can truly be happy
with the world as it is.
My love is spelt with an "L"
and it comes from the mouths
of everyone
be they doctors or murders
or mothers or children
and it is spelt love
for that it all that it is
and could ever be.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 7:22 PM UTC
Plagued by a flagging heart at the very mention of Brazil,
and the poor habit of scrolling to Capricorn at any and all astrological babble.
Meaningless and heedless whether together or apart,
tyros or hedonists,
perhaps both.
A volatile amalgam any way you slice it.
My best poems are about you,
my worst thoughts too.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 9:55 AM UTC
I’ve come to learn recently, or perhaps it’s better said ‘relearned’ that people aren’t to be trusted.
I’ve rediscovered that people are not some endless pool of bountiful happiness and fairytale happily-ever-after endings. People are bitter, bitter hedonists at heart. And like drugs they’ll smile and they’ll wink and fool you into thinking that they are what happiness is, but the truth is… Or at least in my case, the truth is that real happiness can only come from inside yourself.
-
I’m starting to think that all those monks spending a lifetime looking for enlightenment and happiness must be right in their own bald and orange-clad way.
-
I see it as like a state of plateau, where you finally understand that the only person you want to trust, or impress, or love unconditionally or be loved unconditionally by, is yourself. And i think that in most of the extreme moments of happiness you’ve ever found yourself in, this is what you feel, or some form of this. Because being with people you enjoy or being enjoyed by people or travelling or ******* or eating or whatever you fancy as happiness is just a way of making yourself whole, a self-approval based on outside influence or approval.
-
Because when it comes down to it, long after that person that made you believe that they would be there isn’t. Or that guilty pleasure has run it’s course and left you with nothing but a little guilt. One person remains, and although you might have arguments or disagreements from time to time. Or even though they may even insult you or hurt you sometimes, they will always be there at their fullest capacity. It’s your love of yourself, but the only way that you can be together fully, is if you confess your unconditional love for one-another.
-
The true path to happiness is to rebel against everything in this life that believes that they hold some semblance of control over the state of your happiness and self-love. I think that in doing this, you’ll eventually find a way to light up like a lantern to all the insects of the night. You’ll find those who only wish to bask in your glowing warmth in the dead of night instead of steal it.
N.H.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 12:55 PM UTC
Could you capture patience and haste
Skin softer than silk a body with delicious taste
Inhibitions non existent
Lustful desires persistent
Entangled like vines
Who have weaved through the fence
A sadistic touch to watch you tense.
Submission a form of primal love
Pain and arousal both in the same glove
What we do a release
A moment of peace
Lost inside chaos.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 3:52 PM UTC
Flits of crepuscular longing across the simoom in the night. For with samiel at the helm, all hell will take us for sloth. Firstly, a schism overtakes the wind, backsliding the doorstep of Lucifer’s kin. Keep an eye on the door’s of ewes. The child angered by sky will surely lust for the hedonists imbue. Then the rattle shakes, pelting trunks of lye, chafing the goons of the dawn and choking from the ***** in our young. Aristotle bakes yore, and relief takes the pen, until the quietness of the impala becomes transfixed by our brethren. Then sores take the skin by trial. Eagerly rushing towards the venomous trails, and only then does the bandit bemoan the pain. Only then will the hungered and hungry peel back their fingers for fare, there where the flocks lay in wait and in pairs. Here where the melancholy of revenge, fills our quivers with children’s tears. Only then do we make haste for the shade, otherwise the sun will cook our hides to the colors of the day, then we will lay quiet too. Maybe then we’ll be overtaken by the Xombie Moon.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
Angie-
fickle, effervescent, esoteric, impatient.
Relative of writers and hedonists.
Lover of spoken word poetry, packing peanuts, and emergency exit row seats.
Who feels that words mean so little yet so much,
you will almost always **** at something the first time around (it's okay),
the 10,000 murderous butterflies attacking her stomach when she sees him.
Who needs the TV on, no matter what,
to hear that she is not crazy, everyone else is,
the time to just sit and read for a change.
Who fears that she really does fail at life,
the huge spider she's sure lives in her closet,
the actual use of physics and calculus in real life situations.
Who gives away advice like guidance counselors are supposed to,
away hair ties like pencils,
love like its cheap.
Who would like to see an actual shooting star,
Sarah and Phil Kay(e) confess their undying love to each other,
the Doctor be happy.
Resident of Underland.
Acuña
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
The pavement is full of spurious persons,
Training each other to pretend they're eclectic,
Using differences to assert the vilification of mankind.
Cross from them stands the truth,
Perspicaciously watching
The hedonists
Be not heedful,
Listening to their speeches full of trifling, inconsequential consequences.
A furtive plan snakes from the mouth to the ears of the truth,
Manipulating it to bolster the lies.
The belief that everyone deserves rights
Akin, alike, homogeneous, to the human nextto him,
Is brought down with the laud, the praise, the inception of the end.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 7:54 AM UTC
February 8th, 2018 - 11:06pm. In. An. The. How much deeper will this go? This desert. This baron land and escape from the moonlit evenings’ effervescent engineering of short-lived Neanderthals. These voices are enough to split our hides through and through like an cheese grater, that pants-boots combo chases us into the early morning forecast. I need to get out with her. We need to get out from here. We need to go out from this place. There are hexes and hieroglyphs places matte with ill-defined Finnish designs. There is the yolk and that which copies it. There is the phone and the web of tangling eyes whose corpus is mimicry. I am the notes and the music is taking me down, down, down. Whether it’s our dreams or the sweats that keep us ratcheting our bodies beaten eyes hooked to the cadavers we once chose. Now it’s up to you to choose. This is the fuse that we’ve let loose, maybe your furnace can curtsy and observe these sad blackened buffoons while they make us shrivel up and go hide back in our bed cocoons. This is a zoo I tell you and you tell me. This is a zoo of mayhem, hedonists, and 400° degrees. These are the tiny beds we hide in until they melt us down, into the heirs of our highness, our luxuries quick to abscond.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 6:55 AM UTC
Labyrinthine châteaus,
Fools in gravestone petticoats,
Chasing reflections of saints through golden hallways,
A path of hedonists and heretics in the tenth circle of hell,
An ashtray paradise where we practice the art of burning out,
Amidst the echoed Antoinette beauty,
Pearls run across collarbones,
Débutantes and flower girls,
A gallery of ceramic smiles, feed men war,
Stars hibernate upon their sleeves with golden needles outstretched,
Temptation turns slowly ready to be adored,
To be cornered in this pantheon of railway beauty,
Magdalene kisses my rose oiled eyes,
Little doll house murders laid to rest in a vigilant breath,
Countess creatures sinful with delight,
Parade in their modern Babylon running circles with saints,
Soporific siren sweet to your trade, string wishes into her mouth.
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 5:33 PM UTC
I’m full of
the ********
that resides in my
corridors—
these hedonists that slice
at my skin and my soul.
I’m old and tiredly awake.
The ******** won’t let me sleep.
They bite my guts with greedy teeth.
I become water…I become grain…
sowed by sadism and adultery.
They transfuse
into me and
I evolve into
something horribly new.
No more my artistic aura,
my classical sense—
Just a specter of gloom
and dust floating
in the structure of a self I can’t really recall.
This is my holy downfall.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 3:08 AM UTC
We're hedonists.
We lay here on this couch
All day and most of the night.
It's old, older than you and older than me
And it's got this awful floral-print cover
That's stained with coffee and wine and cigarette burns
And love and angst and grief.
And we put what we want in our bodies
And they grow flabby and pale
And our love never had a chance
So why won't it die?
And when I was too drunk to stand up anymore
You used to carry me up the stairs
To our big old bed with ratty sheets and mismatched pillows.
Tonight we stay on the couch;
We're both high on this cheap horrible ****
I think it's laced with something, something bad.
And you won't carry me up the stairs
Because there's music on the ceiling
And it's got skinny black legs.
You were made for this life, my rough and rotten.
I could have been anything.
And you're a self-proclaimed anarchist.
I know you're nothing but a sloth.
But I love you more than words can say
And we lay here on the couch all night
And **** three times
And you tell me it doesn't get any better than this.
Oct 26, 2010
Oct 26, 2010 at 12:10 PM UTC
There are those who worship
At the altar of the ear
Who when they hear a certain note
Will shed a tear.
Some worship
Pastoral scenes
Seeing lakes and trees
They slip into a dream.
The church of haute cuisine for some
Is where they go
Every day
To kneel and pray
There are those whose smell sensation
Equates to olfactorial
Adulation
And infatuation
Some hedonists wouldn’t mind
Being blind
Tactile delights forever
Would suit them fine
Though my five senses
Work quite well
I find myself mainly interested
In my mind.
Sean Hunt May 6 2016
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 3:42 AM UTC
I became addicted to nicotine
when I was only seventeen.
The sensation is like no other,
It makes you want another.
Your cells dance and prance,
iust ask the hedonists of France
To the priests that say malediction,
I say it’s the best addiction.
Yet the utopian feeling
is invariably temporal.
I thought I was heeling,
but my body is not eternal.
Kierkegaard says it’s theft,
sensation that deprives you and others.
but in the end there is nothing left,
albeit the crying mothers,
await the return of their children’s vestige.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 1:54 AM UTC
The world is filled with hedonists
Laughing and making merry.
The world is learned by nihilists
With the weight of the world to carry.
You see a point to the daily routine
Your infinite repeated steps reek of death.
You feel your goals are closer than they last seemed
Only ten billion eighty-three thousand steps left.
I view the larger picture,
Work on a bigger scale
This planet means nothing,
Our lives are inane, this galaxy as well.
Every day my eyes open they close once more
Every breath I take is a penance, a punishment
Every day I wake up is an endless chore
Every memory I make means as little as the last meant.
But the world is filled with hedonists
They enjoy the idiocy of life.
The world is filled with idealists
Who feel the "prize" is in sight.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 1:21 PM UTC
I, too, can write passion poems:
(and if you were a rose I'd pick you and stick you
in water till you withered and died and
everyone would comment
on your color
and refined shape.)
so let's collide with night through our noses:
wake to your banging fist on my swinging door
and binge on bad ideas and beatless songs
till distended with poetry we grow ill and collectively
**** sunsets onto those 365 well-ruled pages
that we pray to in pews in this church of hedonists--
every book a bible, all manuals for ************
so at dawn we
criticize the sunrise, hang ourselves
from the belltower, for kicks.
or lash limbs together under covers,
those well-rehearsed kisses
a myriad of plots:
and with our bony fingers,
tie the sumblimest of knots.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC
Black hill bulging on the north head -
city streets burning bourbon glow along the surface.
Bringing a blistering wind from the southeast,
stinging thin skin and whistling between the leaves.
The stars ***** the papery grey cloud layer.
Company bursts the pockets of air:
supple bubbles,
broken under heavy water poured for drowning in,
from the glands of hedonists and socialites
all round, alright, aloud, alight, a hound,
a beast of the night,
sinking into the black thick tar,
slicked with scotch,
burning, hoarding the air
above him.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 2:29 AM UTC
2,960 miles between our legs
And you still claim
That you ache for me.
Your body throbs and moans
With no release,
Mine quakes with longing
For an evening or two.
I keep making these midnight mistakes
And you aren’t stopping me.
Your voice haunts my dreams
Almost as much as the curve of your hips;
There have been weeks of unacknowledged texts
But you follow me like a cat in heat.
You lie to me
And it doesn’t matter.
I’m not waiting for you to love me.
You think that’s what I need.
We’re hedonists, and that’s all.
Neither of us could bear the pain
Of falling in love,
So we won’t.
We’ll just be fingertips under the table
And cutting class
And Friday night bathroom stalls.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 2:52 PM UTC
Rapt by prognosis, sterile elocution
Acute halitosis, banal delusion
Digital notice of distant retribution
Thrombosis will move you before revolution
Brash adolescent right-side part,
Strand obsolescence, abstract art
Pinstripe filaments, two turned backs
Bowed in benevolence, borrowing slack
Hieroglyphic ruminations,
Plastered protestations.
Muscle memory incantations,
Aquifuge of patience.
Future shock, feminists ride-centaurs
Skin-tan hedonists reside-indoors
Tin-can telephone spinal chord,
Sings-an injured semitone final word
40 years since you were a punk
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 6:01 AM UTC
Lately, I’ve come across odd characters and purveyors
Players and soothsayers of such fallacy; yearning and moral foliage
that stirs up something inside of me.
Something that is not inspiration but equally so
Just and robust—inescapable even,
unsure what the word is…
We’re all owners of a false paradise.
That warm place between life and death
It’s meant for a love one that never takes it away
or purposely fills in the gap left in ruins:
A home underneath the veins and a place beneath that as well
A prison made of tendons
With ligaments attached to heart-shaped locks—
Nooks and crannies in the corners of joints and bones.
It’s the lust for life
And the bargain for a soul
Less than zero *****
Given to while in the cold.
The realization remains peripheral
Nonetheless opaque and visceral
Painting a mordant but striking visual
That sharply penetrates the individual.
Pharmaceuticals help dislodge the jaw and
tempt the ravishing worms of intestinal intrigue
to slither out from the bowels and say their piece.
“Hi, I’m anonymous and I’m an addict,
But only by the broadest, modest definition of the term
More like an ill-advised profession,”
they say with a subtle wink in their sponsor’s direction.
It’s the lust for life
A fierce addiction
With hedonists as victims
Catered to a primal submission.
They’ll hate me; fear my desire to split from myself.
I’m an empathetic Jekyll, an apathetic Hyde.
A tainted Seraphim, a saintly devil-kisser.
One half a feral Bonnie with an over-jerked Clyde.
And when all is said and done
with carnage coming out of the wishing well
You’ll see that I am both a vision
Of Heaven and Hell.
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 8:30 AM UTC
enter the horde of idle hedonists
heroes slur disoriented erudition of histories
outsiders stride thru moonlit senility
foe to friend unite under mouthfuls of russet ***
ode to red
riddle riled riots
thrums of melodious lyres
sordid souls soothed, rosily smothered
the thunder of serotine desire resounds
sermonsised myths of lush ironies
elitism interlude
the host rules in definite dement
throne of flumed fortune
floods of dense ferment
series of sly smiles, seedy smolders
edified reins of unholy freedom
shrine to lurid stimuli of ruin
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 4:33 PM UTC
I feel that the light is shining on all of us,
Here today,
That are of this generation.
Without thought for creed or nation,
Dispensation or convictions.
I feel in the air
A breeze of change
From the winds of truth.
I hear the chimes
Of a pur of gust on chords
From a pale vision given color.
I see concern in the face of my brothers,
I discern a scent staining my sisters.
That they are not treated as fathers,
That they are not treated as mothers;
That they are less person & more chattel.
Whatever your chosen identity.
And even so, despite conjecture
The majority feel as such,
That line of a nation
Is one without factions.
And yet, by the party system,
That lie of a nation
Is one where we are equals.
Because in being separate
We are not different,
Not in this way.
For we are conjoined
And yet disjointed;
Debating becomes like arguing,
Disagreeing becomes like fighting.
My friends, what are we doing?
Is it not yet evident
That without the cooperation,
Consent,
And participation
By the majority of the populace
That it is impossible for us to attain real order?
Outside of seditious and nefarious plans
For power grabs of total control,
Which will all reliably fail,
There are solutions.
Nothing so final
As the extremist comics,
Often pessimists or nihilists,
So salivate and dream over.
And nothing so care-free
As some sadists or hedonists,
Often pessimists or nihilists,
So swoon and fall for.
Yet nor too meek or rigid
As some fanatics or magicians,
Often pessimists or nihilists,
So worship and practice ritual.
No. We will be democratic
With a government
Who hears of all
That plagues & plights;
By little & tall,
Small & large.
We will have a middle,
Common ground
Where we may all be impartial.
That place we shall call,
Columbia.
Mar 4, 2025
Mar 4, 2025 at 10:56 AM UTC
I have a healthy space
That I cultivate each day
We are all architects
Of our own time and place
We are infinite weavers
Of sublime ministries and arboretums
We are blooming leaves and plants
And the tiny fingers that grieve them
We are all Apollonians engaged in battle
With the heartless hedonists in our midst
But we're also dancing Dionysians
Who know that you already know
What's best for you to believe in
I am a firefly on your wall
And long before the fall
I held you tenderly
In my embrace
What a chase yet we never really escaped
Nor made it back from that place
So we attack ourselves in the kitchens
With faces full of ice cream
You laughed and said who is the victim now
I came close to closing the door
But instead i wrestled you to the floor
And cuddled you
In case you forgot
Just how f@!#$@! beautiful you are
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 1:44 PM UTC
Friday night, half five. Offices, factories,
fish docks, shops’d unload…
Pan-stick applied, lippy, slap, fresh scent…
ancient Brits in finest 'warpaint' woad.
Oxford Bags, double breasted jacket, 10 ****
Brilliantine and Brylcreem.
The Hull to Withernsea train stood ready
with a full head of steam.
The preened, the pummed - the chancers, romancers…
loves young dreamers, the loved up dancers - .
Laden with laughter, the Friday night
‘With’ Special lurches out of Hull…
15 miles of glistening steel…
an escape route from the drudge, the cludge,
to ‘Crazy Night’ chances of a naughty weekend.
It’s anything but dull…
Paragon to Scullcoates,
Southcoates & Marfleet
the carriages already full to burstin’
and the wackiness awaits.
Hedon Speedway, Rye Hill
and Burstwick trundling by…
Hedonists through Hedon’s Gate
sleepy Patrington, Hollym… With!
Piling off the platform toward digs
and guest house fun, stuffed weekend bags…
A thruppeny bit to the sack truck boy
and one of your precious ****
We’re carousing down the street,
half the city must be here
and the feeling… well it’s reet!
Gagging for a beer - but first…
“Ooh, Mr & Mrs Smith is it?”…
the landlady asks with a knowing wink.
Bags in, **** out - into The Alex for a drink…
before tripping to The Queen’s and 'Crazy Night!'
Tuppence and a jam jar (don’t ask) gets you in
and it’s mayhem - out of sight!
What a din! Lively band, cheap drinks… what a night!
Girls giggle in gaggles,
dancing round their bags…
The lads... a beer, a laugh, a leer
and passing round the ****
The whole of Hull turns out in our With
on a summer’s Friday night.
1935… the town’s throbbing…
will it, ever again, see the like?
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 8:53 AM UTC