Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Lambert Mark Mj Feb 2015
Humble gestures of chasten
Crumbling meek shifts to jotted chivalry
Into wrongly seemed semi-finite basins
Grim faces accused by chromo authority

fault at last by accursed impalement
days into mourn and far bliss
and darkness zeal in snide basements
thawed searing into crest

how is chaos' show Humble gestures of chasten
Crumbling meek shifts to jotted chivalry
Into wrongly seemed semi-finite basins
Grim faces accused by chromo authority

fault at last by accursed impalement
days into mourn and far bliss
and darkness zeal in snide basements
thawed searing into crest

how is chaos' show
deepened to cyro void
gone to confluence row
Yearned by those overjoyed

and quip smith's crooked dagger
lanced from pure ways
pride into back alley's sober
goodbye love of sparked days
deepened to cyro void
gone to confluence row
Yearned by those overjoyed

and quip smith's crooked dagger
lanced from pure ways
pride into back alley's sober
goodbye love of sparked days
Those who have made themselves the villain for a greater cause are not be forgotten.
Mark C Apr 2019
the boy with tousled black hair met my gaze and cocked his head to the side. "come here", he mouthed with a grin that allowed his fangs, sharp and glinting, to come into view. they were like diamonds and i was a lapidary, fueled to engrave him into my memory. the other boy beside him was too busy placing kisses all over his pale neck to notice i had moved closer. eventually, he stopped. his silver eyes flashed into mine, and his lips barked a kind of laughter that brought a slick of sweat to my palms. "Claudius, who is this?"
Claudius stood up, his voice mocking. "our appetizer."
the urge to run kicked me to the stomach, but my feet couldn't sprint quick enough.
he pierced his fangs into my neck, and i drifted.
day 16 - any dreams?

wrote a short story (not a poem!) based off a dream i had two nights ago.
martin Apr 2013
Thank you sir, how would you like to pay, firing squad?
-- I beg your pardon?
Nice and quick sir, no mess, comes highly recommended.
Or there's the rotten cotton bungee jump, very popular with our younger customers.
Um, we offer an old fashioned duel with a chieftan tank, there's walking the plank,
And we've just started an in-house hang draw and quarter option with free head impalement.
Exceptional value that one, sir.
Now what else is there, there's the axe in the neck from the man with the hood,
The genuine guillotine experience, the short flight over the ocean with a sharp shove at 15000 feet,
Um, the drag naked through the streets by a crazed horse,...
--Is barclaycard acceptable?
Of course sir, I can offer you a complimentary snake bite with that sir.
--No thank you.
Ok sir, let me offer you this free bladder of wombat spittle mouthwash,
Special promotion till Friday, yours to enjoy.
--I'll take two.
Certainly, excellent sir.
--Is there a cheese shop in the neighbourhood?
Yes sir, finest in the district sir, but if I were you I wouldn't go there sir,
The man who runs it is a bit strange sir.
Meant to be taken a bit like a Monty Python sketch
Katharine Kvh Apr 2012
How does it feel?
To be a girl,
And to bleed,
Whenever we create

Something beautiful.

The dunce cap
Fills the void;
Where the crown should be.

Life grew
And fed, from these *******
Now ripped apart,
Pieces of shame.

Judas’s Cradle,
Destroyed our flesh.
Left us humiliated,
Like Lady Godiva

Hours of ******
From impalement
In spite of Eve
Whom bit the apple.

Hot irons,
Through vitality’s tunnel
To fallow the holy book,
The Malleus Maleficarum.

Confession induced stoning
Drowning, burning
Just to be whipped like animals
For social bonding.

The battles of power
With the entertainment of ****,
Still two Hundred years of
Forced sterilization.




A pear of anguish,
For the miscarriages
A coffin,
For the son.

Who can be civil?
When survival
Even today,
Is about exploitation.

A dowry for obstetric fistula,
In Pakistan.
Under the union of god’s will,
Of course.

The ****** test
Out lives the Bison,
Only still being bred
For the hunt

Mutilation for those,
In Southern Sahara.
Huge abscesses,
To cover the curse.

The breaking wheel
Daniel Handschuh Oct 2015
He is blessed to have not lost a hair, despite his climbing age.
   He is both nearsighted and farsighted; can see every turning page.
   His gray mustache is thick; his smile is jovial; he is grandfatherly.
   He is loved by many for his outgoing, convivial personality.
   One might say that death would be quite peaceful with this fellow,
   But who is to be warned that he will not even see the morrow?
   A pipe bounces in his lips as he tells heroic stories to the children:
   “He hoists up his pack and fights to reach the peak of the mountain.
   “He battles the knifelike snow as it attacks like thousands of spears.
   They stab his burning eyes, and blizzardly winds scream in his ears.”
   But what is on the other side of the mountain? What lies beyond?
   What is so great that the suspense and action must be prolonged?
   The man’s face tightens, his eyes go distant, his body goes rigid.
   It is as if his brain has suddenly transformed into a slimy liquid.
   With a rough cough and a puff of smoke, the pipe falls to the floor,
   Spilling out unused tobacco; it is a quiet, unsettling roar.
   The man’s eyes grow dark; his face turns from healthy to deathly white,
   And his head slumps down, staring at his knees, the children affright.
   As a droplet of blood seeps from his nose and caresses his dry lips,
   And a restless bead of sweat travels down the bridge and the tip,
   The children scatter like cockroaches, searching for the darkness—
   Some comfort to ease the horror and the pain and the sadness—
   Somewhere to empty their minds of this terror into a black hole—
   Someplace that they can entomb their thoughts with the secret, unknowable scrolls—
   An undisturbed place where their innocence can be embraced and consoled—
   Yet is there such a place where the recesses of the mind do not unfold?
   But already the old man is forgotten, as are his great stories and tales.
   He slips from all conscious minds and leaves nothing, no details.
   No questions arise; his whereabouts are not wondered; he is decoration:
   A work of nature’s art that is meant to stir up onlookers’ admiration.
   His beautiful stillness strikes a long, thin, metallic chord of inspiration:—;
   But it is the gong of fear and disgust that overrides these ponderations:—
   Fear and happiness battle symphonically to make the best music.
   Fear wins because screaming noise shall always reign over acoustics.
  
   A young man, unmarried upon seeing his bride-to-be hung in her room,
   Has enclosed himself in his own prison and will not come out soon.
   It is rectangular and copper, putting a deep taint on the world outside.
   Long gone is his decency, his health, his love, and his signature pride;
   Long gone is the liquid of delusional ecstasy that once filled this bottle
   That he now resides in. He feels that he has lost a hopeless battle.
   His skin is whitening, the color in his irises are fading, his body is thinning.
   Everything in him is collapsing dejectedly as his skeleton continues creeping.
   He hums an arrhythmic tune with a salmagundi of conflicting emotions:—;
   The phantasmagorical manifestation of mental convulsions:—
   The hot flames of Hysteria make love with the cool rains of Sadness;
   Joy—giddy and intoxicated—rapes Hatred with confetti and madness;
   Anger blossoms as a spring flower and attracts the red blood of Love;
   The screams of this beastly mating is heard in the heavens above—
   Oh, the horrendously whorish screams, how the animals salivate!
   The wails of bastardly offspring! How the corruption does culminate!
   One can only marvel at the dishonor that the unabashed Morality
   Has taken! How can one now differentiate between dreams and reality?
   How does one now describe dreams—so ****** and violent, but perfect?
   Or reality—so disinteresting and faulted, not a wanted soul in it?
   The entrapped man has every answer, imprisoned in a cell, like him,
   But why should he utter a word at all when he is his very own phantom:—?
   He answers only to himself, never reveals the codes he has deciphered.
   So many anomalies, oddities, and complexities that he has been inspired.
   As his breath walks away with loud shoes and its head held high,
   The world is suddenly transfixed and does not want to see him die.
   They know not his name or profession, nor can they remember his appearance.
   Even so, he has been unexpectedly labeled as their guide, their endurance.
   But he froths at the mouth and urinates freely, like a wild, untamed animal—
   For even humans become animals, and grow further to become cannibals.
   Shall all of society tumble because of a lost faith put into the faithless?
   Needless to say, an impalement on jagged rocks will not be painless.
  
   Upon the gong, a naked woman is on her knees, her wrists tied behind her back,
   And her ankles shackled. She is a pained, a contradictory nymphomaniac:
   Oh, how it hurts, but how thrilling! What is pleasure without the slightest pain:—?
   Deception! Nothing! It is suddenly worthless and full of absolute disdain!
   The woman looks up with bubbly, tearing eyes and awaits the cannonade
   Of gripping and violent desire. She will gladly be a toy, and a toy she is made:
   A sword descends and inserts itself into the woman’s welcoming throat.
   She gasps at the cold metal; how deep it falls, how it makes her feel afloat.
   How her ******* bulge with warm milk and her hips shake with anticipation
   Of what the sword has to bring: Happiness, glee, lust, and beautiful vibrations.
   She pants and chokes as the sharpness slices her inside; she tastes blood.
   The sword breaks flesh, finds her womb, and fills it like a flood.
   ******—******—******—!
   Gulp—******—gulp—******—!
   Oh, how her desires are exploding, going far beyond the limitations.
   The tastes of fulfillment come from the monsters of intimidation.
   She coughs; a crimson blob fountains and drenches her cheeks, neck,
   And her mermaidian black hair, like soft silk across her smooth back.
   Whatever blood she does not catch, the gong of fear and disgust catches,
   And it is painted redder than Judgement Day’s moon. The blood attaches
   Itself and becomes one with the gong and sings it's now morbid song.
   As the woman’s lungs are violently ripped out, she feels nothing wrong.
   Nor does she feel at all as her heart is shredded within her tireless chest.
   Rivers of blood flow down her impure body—its warmth is the best
   And brings dizziness to her he head, tears to her eyes, and wetness to her legs.
   Even as she weakly collapses, eviscerated, she continues to long, to beg.
   The gong of fear and disgust vibrates roughly, sparking hormones—
   The hormones of terror and revulsion that help her to never be alone.
  
   As the corpses rot below the acidic waters, the blood polluting
   It even further, horrors beyond comprehension begin rooting.
   The gong of fear and disgust drones over he mountains, emotionless,
   In a great search to find a host. And searching has never been hopeless.
   Catch its eye, and be afraid, or catch its eye, and breathe fire.
   Either way is a dangerous pursuit of will and courage—a dance on a wire.
                        Fly—
                    Goodbye
Among the impalement
she feels
the creeping sensation.

Though sudden,
is the tender destruction
of her Rob Zombie *** act
left over from the complex she had from her church.

Its ****** views made her
desire flesh
in a morbid way.

© S. Wesley Mcgranor
http://comicsbulletin.com/main/sites/default/files/shot/images/1303/AZ%20what%20the.JPG
Spike Harper Jun 2017
any one person can withstand pain.
But there is a subtle difference.
When it isn't registered..
Like a dream that alludes the recently awoken.
For the moment is always questioned as fiction when it comes about.
As if building a freeway over the desolation would bypass the isolated incident.
With every pass does it become so.
And yet it is ever so aparrent.
Like a splinter made of ice.
For when the initial trauma fades.
The cold.
Numb.
Aftermath.
Sets in.
Making every other impalement go unnoticed.
Picking at old scars with phantom limbs.
Visible only to other ghouls.
Which have sadly become the only contact available.
And neither the shadow nor the image it belongs to are recognizable.
And this room full of strangers gains an addition to its ever changing painting.
One that will inevitably be painted over.
For it has become not only a constant.
But a certainty.
One that will be upheld.
Regardless if this hand helps it.
Or not...
devante moore Mar 2015
For long my love would live on
Eternally forever
Like the reign of Dracula
Cursed with these feeling
Like his first taste of human blood
We both thirst
His will drink you dry
I want my love to fuel your heart beat
To strengthen the cartilage between your bones
My love is solid like his castle walls
Strong like his chains keeping the wooden bridge closed
Denying entrance to his fortress
My only weakness is you
Disintegrating my walls
Like the vamp king skin in the sun  
But there's a dark side to my love
Beware the traps doors
Hiding behind the twisting mid evil walls
There meant to keep me safe
More tortuous then the impalement of his foes
Who knows if you can withstand what you see
Once you get a sneak peek of the blood ******* monster inside me
Still asleep in its cage
Hidden inside Vlad secret passage way
But still it's slumbers
Because my love gets in its way
M Elee Nov 2016
The vindication of violation,
is etched in our ecstasy.
The insatiable invitation
Looks on longingly,
to be accepted with no exceptions.

Twilight tinctures transforms
to mild midnight musk
by anatomical alchemy warm
In the dark discord of dusk
Our communion is calculated.

Only hedonistic heat
can melt the polite pretense,
Our dialogue is discrete
Left in static suspense.
I dissolve into your delirium.

The intimate impalement
gives way to grotesque gratification
To cure the ancient ailment.
We ignore the implications
Of this meeting meaning more.

As I ride to robust rhythm
My ****** is chaotic
Our communion is christened
in a cry exhausted and ******.
The vulnerability is voided.

Sanguine sighs give way to
Languor in sated lust.
Sweat drops like dew
Upon my breathing bust.
The distance develops once more.
krm Dec 2018
Anesthesiologist places mask on patient,
coaching easier breaths,
stillness.
Finished-
he leaves, leaves
leaves, leaves.

Surgeon enters with shiny tray of metal tools,
Patient’s rib cage rattles,
rapid breathing, sporadic monitor
panic breaks hospital windows
shattered,
everything is shattered.

Patient cries of days lived in uncertainty,
mutters about metaphorical agony.
Surgeon is insecure in performing procedure—
due to patient’s complaints,
“Pain is a parasite inside my ears, laying eggs inside the brain, where maggots squirm through my eye making a home in the skull.”
Patient feels no pain,
but screams of
impalement by life - -

God, what would your diagnosis be?
God claims, “the heart fights for purpose.”
Patient believes there isn’t one.
A suggestion;
reason with patient to make payment or rental of new
blood circulation, chambers, ventricles, valves, atriums.

Patient takes scalpel,
opening own chest
with hand inside
Patient is unable to find source of hurting
but reports numbness.

current status,
human.

—V.H.
Sometimes Starr Mar 2023
Your happy sun seed fills me with gray life and terminus
How deep my darling goes, to the anchor where it stops her soul
You can be parade of motion and waving around your expressions
But right now it's a wedding that you don't want to attend.

The orange light looked sickly on the concrete, dust debris
Others might unwind here but the orange chokes Mind
Little rocks and bolts and shards of wood in radiation
Perspective crashes awkwardly on the inside of your Eyes

Copper pipes where a flippant thought breaches
The impalement scrapes the vertebrae, clicking it goes up
Feel it in the base of your skull and in your jaw

Lush green of the grass is dark at sunset
Children passing by they like the sun their clothes are neon
Pink and green, you feel like such an ugly freak
How different things are now, where that sky is coming down
You look up at the sky, paranoid and obsequious
I ripped my monkey suit.

No one understands you as the patio raises an eyebrow
The angels have their thoughts which do make sense but still you differ
Sound of tires on the gravel and you've seen enough of people
It's time ignition with no soundtrack make the pistons bring you home
Radio has sarcastic bite

So you do and slanted sunrays slice the summer air you drive in
Dusty denim crusty pleather ***** tube socks in your mouth
Takes a shower, cell phone sink table
Dripping, floral smell to wine, TV and lonely couch
To stroke it all to bed
Mike Trevino Nov 2021
Out here,on the peremiter
There are no horizons
Only pale grey impalement upon
**** stained shattered glass pavement
The sound of swirling emptiness fills
The blank steps before you
Space out of Time , the infinite undoing behind you
Who can survive the cosmic Guilt
The teeming Emptiness?
**** that, I'm high
I fear not Death not Meaningless
Take the next step,soldier of the mundane
Your undying lies ahead.....

— The End —