"kennels" poems
Fresh from the kennels. A whole world away.
Companion conversion for a young castaway.
A darling of distraction with irrational fears.
The clumsiest canine with ever aware ears.
Guardian of gourmet. Suspect of all sounds.
He'll catch himself someday, spinning around.
A tug of war here. A muddy mess there.
A lick to the face of the humans in his care.
How thrilled his tail and tremendous his teeth.
How dug up the planet from paw underneath.
The running for fun. The claiming of trees.
The car window ride along - face full of breeze.
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But now he's a master of "Stay!".
His eagle ears succumbing to gravity's sway.
Napping much more, barking much less.
Now rarer the cuddle, the clean, the caress.
Patch protector. Owner of no debts.
A veteran of various villainous vets.
Birds as trivial as the tennis ball is far.
Eyes now as hazy as the indistinguishable stars.
A howl at the moon. A loosening tooth.
An ode to memories of a modest youth.
They still love this pup. He still loves them back.
May he long be remembered as he faces the black.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
The Avengers all gathered together at the Justice League
Crimes are taking place
There is no time to waste
Villains in every category
This is where our journey begins being the story
Popcorn Man along with all Villains who want to make a spread in Gotham City
But all the Villains are helping become witty
The plan is to make Gotham City be buried in streams of Butter
Popcorn Man is determined to make all Gotham City residents to flutter
All the Avengers rush to defend
But later then
A trap has been set
Superman suddenly falls from the sky
A mysterious substance makes Man of Steel turn weak
For Superman this looks bleak
Across town Batman and Robin’s Batmobile is stuck in quick sand
What options are in their demand?
A plan needs to start now
The Hulk uses his strength ****** creating a deep hole being a straight line leading to the river, which makes the Butter head for it
Later, Thor and Ironman make the Butter dissolve
Meanwhile at the Popcorn Factory, Popcorn Man and every villain known to the Avengers are plotting the kennels in forming an army to over throw Gotham City, where Popcorn Man will be the Mayor in Control
But behold
It is not going without a fight from the Avengers
Hulk smashes here and there
Wonder Woman and Captain America battle with the mission to villains in beware
Thor and Ironman team up and utilize combined resources
Well all the Avengers forces win out
Popcorn Man and Villains have loss their punch
They are taken away to jail
The Avengers mission in they didn’t fail
Superman regained his strength
Batman and Robin escaped their ordeal
The Avengers stand hand in hand with a sunrise and sunset that will continue to shine, and let all Villains know, “Where there are the Avengers comes might”.
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 6:26 PM UTC
Charlie the gnome needed a home
and so he looked around,
the garden shed too big he said
and too high off the ground.
The bar b que would never do
the ash would make me sneeze,
so on I go look high look low
in and around the trees.
The bird box white would be too tight
with chicks that chirp and cheep,
and constant song the whole day long
I'd never get to sleep.
The kennels large but then there's Sarge
and all his smelly toys,
plus after dark he likes to bark
and make a lot of noise.
The house I found is out of bound
too many folk in there,
so I'll stay out and look about
as I don't like to share.
A wooden crate there by the gate
would make a perfect home,
it's not too small or wide nor tall
it's just right for this gnome.
I need a door and windows four
some carpet and a bed,
a rocking chair would look good there
or maybe there instead.
Yes this is fine and it's all mine
with roses all around,
the place it seems straight from my dreams
is what I think I've found.
Charlie the gnome no more will roam
his house is warm and bright,
with flower beds of blues and reds
and picket fence of white.
A wooden crate down by the gate
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC
NAY! swear no more, thou woman whom I called
Star, Empress, Wife! Were Dian's self to lean
From her white altar and with goddess lip
Swear thee as pure as her pale breast divine,
I could not deem thee purer than I know
Thou art indeed.
Once, when my triumphs rolled
Along old Rome and blood of roses washed
The battle-stains from off my chariot-wheels,
And triumph's thunders round my legions roared,
And kings in kingly ******* golden bound
Shook at my charger's foot, past the hot din
Of Victory-whose heart of golden pride in wound
Most subtly through with fire of subtlest pain-
My soul on prouder pinion rose above
The Roman shouting, to an air more clear
Than that Jove darks with hurtling thunderbolts,
Or stains with Jovian revels-that separate sphere,
Unshared of gods or man, where thy white feet
Caught their sole staining from my ruddy heart,
Blazing beneath them; where, when Rome looked up,
'Twas with the eyes close shaded with the hand,
As at some glory terrible and pure,-
For no man being pure, a terror dwells
Holy and awful in a sinless thing-
And Caesar's wife, the Empress-Matron, sat
Above a doubt-as high above a stain.
Nay! how know I what hell first belched abroad
Tall flames and slanderous vomitings of smoke,
Blown by infernal breathings, till they scaled
Thy throne of whiteness, and the very slaves
Who crouched in Roman kennels wagged the tongue
Against the wife of Caesar: 'Ha! we need not now
And opal-shaded stone wherewith to view
A stainless glory.' In that day my neck
Was bound and yoked with my twin-Caesar's yoke-
Man's master, Sorrow.
I know thee pure-
But Caesar's wife must throne herself so high
Upon the hills that touch their snowy crests
So close on Heaven that no slanderous Hell
Can dash its lava up their swelling sides.
I love thee, woman, know thee pure, but thou
No more art wife of Caesar. Get thee hence!
My heart is hardened as a lonely crag,
Grey granite lifted to a greyer sky,
And where against its solitary crown
Eternal thunders bellow.
3.7k
so it begins when it begins
blasé grass serrates
past herds of carabao dreaming anxiously
of the day's toil;
the countryman stilts through
mounted in gray mountain
with dippers, casserole, mirrors
with imprints of ******** clad women
and women who are (really ******** clad) ready for bathing work,
collections of red days and even
tenderly the ***** sing attenuated songs of rooming-houses —
the crunch of basil over the afternoon.
waft of a pasture's death my eyes well
up rivers and ponds of elation. dog days, feral nights limp behind rusted
kennels and makeshift asylums
there is nothing left of the world
(this small world
that only rises when bellows
of festivities harangue the many streets
bending in them, the curve)
men moving from neck to neck
of bottles — (in the north there
is only four corners of bottle: gin,
pristine brook; in the Visayas is
the redolent Vino Kulafu of the same
potency) plucked out of the vermilion
and on benched careening on half-painted gates crooning Sinatra
gets stabbed, bloodied on the floor,
named after elegies; native chicken held
upside down and beheaded as many blacker days stifled; what do you make
out of this?
carabaos, equines, hens line up
the slaughterhouse behind the
TODA; you know a fine day when
it happens — breaking eggs
against the lip of the kaldero. crumbled
archaic sensurround, barrage of
simmer round the clock cycling
before the child wakes and wails to suckle
our mothers, faster than repose
of milbrightlions of stars falling asleep
to silent radios, leaving windows
open revisited by the eve of cold.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
Other worlds have hopes,
for plants, for trees and
dogs walking by, panting
soaking in humidity like carp
above water.
Not ours.
Dead ends, parked cars supplanting
serenity with passion, desire
crammed into
row upon row of heartless
dwellings expunging sunglass-wearing
**** suckers
blocking their emptiness from the world
with reverse blindfolds.
I know their eyes still glare at me, scoffing at
them. Walking, I
walk past
their barricaded kennels, under-
construction housing
impersonating natural climes
with sushi and slushy shops.
People like them have admiss-
able drives, hankering after
freedom; they're indoctrinated
to believe admission is
monthly cable bills
wired in beneath concrete slabs
maintained compliance
through lines painted on grass
where overlords can tell livestock
what to do.
Bus chutes form
hillsides, beside lines of
trees which perfume these
feedlots
we call
cities.
**** oozes below streets
walked on, they stared at me
like cows, watching a ranch-hand
suspicion toward anything
beyond bistro fences.
"What the **** are you looking at,
you filthy animal?
Have you no idea which species your greed
feeds?
Do you know where this ends
for you?
Who's tazing your ***
who's making you sit there?"
Moo, mooo.
Mooooooooooooooooooo.
Receipts, a cudgel on each table,
more cudgels ring
from pockets
telling them what time it is,
where they're to be.
Sunday's almost over,
back to blocks of houses!
Graze on painted grass,
then die,
but not before you stare at me
with empty eyes,
you pathetic, miserable
creatures.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC
by Sara L Russell
(For the casualties of Manchester Kennels, 12/9/14, 21:05)
Old trusty Bob, sure-footed in the lead,
Truffles and Sandy bringing up the rear;
And all the others, with no faith or creed,
Yet representing all that's loved and dear.
They run along the path to Paradise
To where no faithful hound need ever die;
A playful eagerness lights up their eyes,
As clouds and gliding seraphim go by.
Garlands of stars and quasars light the way
The scent of incense lifts their spirits high
Nobody shouts commands to sit or stay;
Freedom is calling from beyond the sky.
Saint Peter tells each one "Rest easy, friend;
Your earthy suffering is at an end."
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
A place where
you can feel
safe in your own skin.
If all the under-dogs
got together
we'd still be a pack of little dogs.
But we'd be
the same size
as the
guys
that took us to the kennels
anyways.
Jail break,
let;s get our
freedom back.
Passion.
Love.
& everything else that makes a
goth
gag.
True love is something you'd die for.
Cuz
True love out lives life.
I want to be in love not lust.
Guess I better drink punch
& die.
Or I can have 7 marriages.
and die half way through my 8th.
So to who ever has some tropical punch,
This *****
be
thirsty.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 3:39 AM UTC
Blood rushing like wild crazed dogs
to the surface of my skin.
Placing a crimson attitude onto my face,
and a trembling hurricane to my voice.
The oxygen runs thin from my atmosphere,
is this real, or is this outer space?
Canines of the blackest exposure make their way
from my head, down my spine, through my extremities, to my feet.
Crushing eyes from around push me outwards
until I can no longer see what I'm running from.
Screeching, mocking barks echo from within
as prey is made of my insides.
Beneath the supernovas of happiness past
alone I await for the chimes of twelve.
I feel the hounds push against my skin once more,
they have not been fed for a while now.
The time has arrived and yet my sanity still has not;
shadows surround me and make it hard to breathe.
Laughter of hyenas, cries of bloodhounds, howls of wolves,
all disturb what is left of me right to the core.
Colourblind, yet with an eyesight set on the brightest hue of fire,
mongrels of most devilish influence impatiently scratch and claw.
Opening their kennels they climb over each other in a frenzy
down the road of scarlet.
Red sky at night, shepherd's delight? Well then, red sky in the morning
is a sign that the herding dogs from Hell shall give no warning.
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
Blew it?
***** it and
do it again.
Along the avenues where the looks accuse and they starch the curtains white.
No moral.
I attribute this kiss of denial and death to the hot Summer breath in the light evening air,
she was there, but it wasn't her who led me to the water and laid me to drink.
If I think long and hard on the why she will pardon me, not be too hard on me,
If,
and again my mind plays the truant.
Complicit in the crime,
I claim it
a complicated time, but she says,
'it's mine and mine alone'.
I find a home in the kennels for the night.
Tempted by unsullied veils
and still
she fails me.
Bedding down now on the outside and
how do you feel?
like a shitheel on a pair of stilettos.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
At the back of the class, that's where we sit
Me, Byron, Elliot, Plath and Keats
and as the teacher walks in
Shakespeare with a apple, doth appear
Shakespeare always sits with Marlowe
we know he copies his works
he holds on to his coat tails
and the end of his Hessian shirts
Byron has brought some whiskey in
he passes it under table in a silver flask
teacher says what the hell is going on
so we throw the flask to Plath
He points his finger at me, that teacher
shouts come here you stupid boy
I walk to his desk head down
and try my best to look coy
He asks me for my homework
to see what I have written
I roar here you are Sir, loud
for I am no ****** kitten
He looks at my work and tut's
says you will never be a great
I tell him to f*ck himself
oh no, what a big mistake
At the back of the class
they start to giggle
Keats, Plath and Byron
Elliot holds out, just wriggles
I continue my retort with little time and much thought
Sir I will have more dog ears in my poetry books
then all the kennels in London and give him a V
so expelled I will be, to the bad boys school of poetry
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC