"lector" poems
What Dr. Lector devours with fava beans, inside rots. Too much Chianti?
Not likely. Likely, not enough
but there has been much else. Still,
no amounts warranting any shy example of overload. Mild splurges,
done in high style equal
nothing in comparison to toxic
baths taken in industrial grindstone
mortors. And the payback?
Walking papers and abdominal lump.
Poke it and choke on acid reflux. Pop
more pills to keep it down. Downers
prescribed on more downers.
Feeling down? Have another downer.
What else can we do? Your MRI's
and ultrasound, unsound, do not
come with flag from foreign invader,
claiming this new territory for king.
So, blame it on the offal.
Blame it all on the offal for not
having guts and glory
to fight off its own infection.
And eat your chicken livers.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
I was drinking from the skull
Of a long dead bird, I had eaten
It a while back, it tasted like
Chicken!!
But not much to the bone.
I wondered if I was like
Hannah,
Henry,
Hello
Brain remember it, any way
Mind did wonder past my
Teeth, tongue it slid like
That jelly mother did make.
I gagged a moment, but then
All settled not a zombie,
But not a bad tasting brain.
"Hannibal"
"Lecture"
"Lector"
Snuck down stairs, DVD on
I remember the noise and
"Clarice"
Remember pinkie raised
When drinking from a cup
Haha...
Its the little things that make me
Smile. How you doing there friend
He doesn't talk much now, smells
Funny too, but even the dead are
Company when you only have you.
Apocalyptic
Apocalypse
Stopped
Everything, screaming, crying, chill
Its not that bad no tax, no big
Brother looking down on you.
"Ok running for your life"
"Keeps you healthy"
Plus
"Eating leftovers mouldy in a bin"
*"What doesn't **** you makes you stronger"*
"Negative"
As I regurgitate it back to the bin,
It has its pros and cons
But I miss the chatter
The one on one,
"How was your day"
"You look tasty"
"Why you looking at me that way"
Knife to the side of the head.
"BOOOM"
"O'no you didn't"
Skinny little freak trying biting moves,
This isn't PAC MANtm fool.
You meet interesting people on the road,
All I want to do is have some
"Apocalyptic Chatter"
"Howdy Mam"
That's a big knife I say!!
As I pull out old faithful,
She screams I cant take that
And runs off screaming the other way
**Run ***** Run,**
The Apocalypse isn't boring
But I do miss the day to day chatter waking each day.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
Standing in the vast range of nothing.
With the assurance of thinking you're secure with her
while you spin that thought on the tips of your fingers.
She slowly creeps into your life.
Embracing her crooked smile.
The virus is dormant until you look a little closer
inspecting her deceitful optical organs
the skylight to her soul
The mutation starts to grow.
She slices you open and tempers with the brain
peeling a layer back at a time.
Injecting tainted love into your system.
The true Hannibal Lector.
Her cunning looks and soft voice making you think Its okay.
Holding your hand she leads you to the mirror
what a fool you are.
Her laugh starts to bleed through her teeth.
Now the picture is painted of her wounded soul.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
Sketch me,
draw me in your mind,
project me onto your canvas.
colour me,
releasing the unquiet,
make me your,
unprecedented piece,
an ongoing life work,
perfecting all impurities,
eradicate all self-flagellation,
espouse a new desire,
akin to Basil's obsession,
The Picture of Dorian Gray,
infatuation lends to disillusion,
pursuing,
hedonistic pleasures,
soul baring to all sin,
intentions to please,
exonerate myself entirely,
you promised redemption,
not further damnation,
I'm Narcissus trapped,
between,
painted reflections of self,
dying a thousand times,
devoted & absconded trust,
pulling it out,
hand in chest,
blood,
*poured
poured
poured*
as Lector serves,
killings,
you feasted on my heart,
with the same delight.
© Sia Jane
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
It was magical. The starry night, under the trees.
The romance, completely willing.
Each person covering in the I love you's of tomorrow and for the rest of eternity
Or at least thats how it was perceived by their story
Everyone knew what they didn't want them to...they're romantic night was a joke.
Stumbled drunkness, followed by lustful "I love you's" and bad decision making
It was all an accident and it was the beginning of me.
Panicked months followed. Fake happiness. Attempts to destroy and forget the mistake.
New years. They made a vow...a resolution to finally be okay.
And for a while, they even tricked themselves to think that.
It was great...for about a year
then he left
she left a few years later.
World War 3 was at a stand still...but only for a while.
It didn't take much to rekindle the fire.
As they say...you always remember your first drunken love. To love forever with them until the day the universe forces you two to part.
(PSH! Yeah...thats not what they say)
There was crossfire immediately
Flames thrown further than light can travel and the only person being burned...was me.
I wasn't raised by them. I couldn't ever possibly be that angry.
I have loving grandparents that show nothing but affection and support.
BUT GENETICALLY...I was *******
My outside environment only frustrated my inside environment.
It was like the Wiggles vs. Hannibal Lector.
Surprisingly the end didn't turn out as violently as many imagined.
I was always trying to be "saved" but I never understood what from?
The worse that had come out of the entire situation was me...as I am now.
Granted...I have communication issues I'm a bit too sarcastic and the only was I can say what I really feel is through pen and paper. Sticky notes cover every corner of my room, screaming every obscenity that has ever crossed my mind
AND YET....
I think I'm okay.
I'm successful in most aspects of my life. And it had everything to do with my beginning.
I've heard "I'm sorry" ever since my grandparents came to back to school night in kindergarten.
What for?! How many people do you know that can walk through a valley of fire unscathed?
Honestly, don't be sorry...because after what I've accomplished
the lustful drunken night vs. the romance means nothing.
And who knows...it could have been under a tree on a starry night.
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 12:24 PM UTC
See the seven highlights shinning bright
Fools don't wanna fight came back resurrected
Been selected before my birth know my worth
So suckas better up ya works beatin' all perks
Skills paying bills **** yo will it's **** or be killed
Cookin' up rhymes from the back of my mind
No *** or stove as I drove into ya mental
Verbal animal similiar to Hannibal
Lector check my selector bullets is my protector
Watch me wreck tha mic expand my wickedness beyond tha
So ya new rappers get the running all that frontin'
And ain't never seen nothin' so when I gets the dumpin'
Watch me get their hearts jumpin' pumpin'
Up mad blood ya dead fools cuz
Ya didn't follow the rules
Rap mafiaso blow like Reynaldo see the rhymes that pour
Out nothing but bloodshed thats ya head
If word get to the feds fools scrapin' over bread
And I'm scrapin' over my lost peeps that bleed
For free in the country dying for Lady liberty
Enemies be plottin' centuries ahead
Since the game done changed its time for me to rearrange
Thangs the way they used to be like *****
I don't play dat flex ya gat and I'll bet ya you'll be on ya back
Say you causing problems naw you don't got problems
Only when when barrel staring you down
Then you'll have yo problems
So once again I'm sending souls to the maker to amends ya sins a deadly friend
Enemies get in bendz when they see my visions
I aim for the highest **** being the flyest
Tied to the gods of the star look afar you see me in the makin ain't no faking souls get the bakin'
Once the sun makes his appearance hotter I get the more someone's
bound for a casket though a *******
I still mastered the mathematics laid it's science made an alliance they claim I'm violent
Cuz I'm knocking out those who ain't radiant
Makin' problems yeah many many problems
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC
Yay, it's another lovely Barry Hodges "Memories" poem.
How happily I recall the excitement of my visits to Lewisham's hospital
For my regular "haemorrhoid adjustment/re-alignment" sessions,
During which time I made the acquaintance of a nursing sister
With possibly the fiercest libido in south-east London.
And one night, whilst we were "on the job" in her comfy cubicle,
I glanced over her fat shoulder through the cracked observation window.
Ah yes, dear reader, it was the relatively cleanish Ward G
(the terminal one where the near-dead await merciful release,
wittily nicknamed "the happy dreamers' room" by the matron,
an evil predatory old **** with a 40-inch waist and wild halitosis);
I watched a spectacularly ugly nurse peering o'er the screen
Around poor old ******** Bertie "Big ***** Bloggs.
His wasted, crippled, whitened pyjamed form
Lay twitching on the none-too-clean patched sheets;
He opened his unseeing, ancient eyes and gave voice:
"Give us a gobble" the old ****** croaked pathetically,
"You know you want to, you fat smelly *****
And then he croaked. Unsucked and unloved,
O my beloved lector, compassionate creature that thou art,
Surely thy pleasure will be utterly intensified to learn that
The NHS bedsheets were indelibly and spectacularly stained
As his bowels opened spontaneously with Death's kindly appearance.
"Gor ******* blimey, what a ******* horrid pong," came a groan:
('twas Sammy "No Legs" Smith in mid-wank on a nearby trolley).
These events in the ward led to an inevitable result for me:
You have divined it correctly, O treasured fan of mine,
Yea verily, the happenings I espied made me blow my ***
Most prematurely and my love-partner, the sylphlike Sister Sally,
Was so sodding annoyed she crushed my tender haemorrhoids
Quite brutally in her surgical spirit-hardened left hand.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 8:42 AM UTC
Boston, what a colorfully gray city you are.
At daytime Downtown seems busy.
People in suits, always walking with a purpose and defined destination.
Never stops.
People don't act if they don't have reason to.
And how the sun is hiding the people are as well.
When the bright white moon comes up, the narrow streets are quite, no soul is found.
Im the lector of the unwritten letter,
the crowd of a canceled opera,
the observer of an unrecorded satirical filmstrip of this colorfully gray city. Boston
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
Invitation Only:
A dinner you will forget to remember.
Down the road
little kids laugh and cheer
unaccompanied by their parents
they should have endless fear
Bones in my yard
decoration of course
I'll sit on my porch
watching the joy of endless candy
Come to me little children
I'll eat you up your so **** cute
I bet you taste good too
Brains and Liver, with sauteed onions
lips and fingers, with green olives
toes and tongue dipped in vinegar
come join Serean and Dr. Lector
for your last Halloween dinner.
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 10:06 PM UTC
En los libros de Cortázar juega el autor, juega el narrador, juegan los personajes y juega el lector, obligado a ello por las endiabladas trampas que lo acechan a la vuelta de la página menos pensada.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
Tengo un vacío enorme en el pecho,
hambriento como buzón de sugerencias.
Y no quiero hacer nada.
Echarse a morir es terapéutico.
Buitres en la azotea, niños hurgando en basureros.
La última vez que hablé con alguien
ninguno de los dos estaba prestando atención.
A veces no quiero ser nada.
Para ti, vocecita de lector (que suena como tú
y habla como yo), son estas letras vagas
llenas de la sabiduría que otorga el sufrir
y el amar profundamente:
si te digo que la vida pesa lo mismo que pesa
un elefante de Dalí,
¿creerías en mí?
Sería la poesía un asunto académico
si vivir no fuera de dominio público.
Pero yo no quiero hacer nada.
Como disculpándose me abraza
la primera derrota del día
y al salir se le olvida
cerrar la puerta.
Hasta luego, poeta.
Hoy no quiero ser nada.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 7:17 PM UTC
Pirate maps might bear this caution;
"Here be Monsters" on an ocean.
Here I scribe an admonition
to persons sailing poetry:
"Here be sunken thoughts and feelings,
broken hearts with razor edges.
Here be aching naked lovers'
lives exposed for all to see.
Here be doldrums. Here be tempests.
Here be shattered dreamers' metrics.
Here be shoals of hidden sorrows.
Here be Sirens crying, "Help me!"
Here be tidal waves of sadness.
Here be rotting shipwrecked hope.
Sail these pages at thy peril.
Steer towards creativity.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
"It was something in that kiss
Down there by the Styx
That took my breath away,
A single spark
With infinite mark
I know is here to stay,
Sometimes Death is beautiful
As long as we're awake,
I know I won't make mistakes,
'Cus love is all it takes."
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
I. Look how far I've gotten living like this, kiss my angelic attitude goodbye when mania arrives because I won't be able to control where I stick the knife. You can't find me in a cell no, this isn't no Hannibal Lector story.
II. There are a lot a lot a lot of things people don't understand about depression, like I wanna **** myself a lot but I can't tie knots. But tying the knot isn't as important to me as tying the one 10 years from now with a man with brunette hair and eyes just like yours. He will have skin as soft as your mothers old rug.
III. I can feel the world turning around me and how my poems can't define me. I write a lot of poems about sad **** bad **** and more sad **** but all that sad **** amounts to one happy girl. You forget I spit sunshine right into the face of tragedy. And sometimes I find good luck charms in the form of bottle caps. And those brought me a boy with an Irish name.
IV. This is the silence of the lambs, I have learned to live with it. And you're gonna be taking butterflies out of my throat because you bet it, I'm screaming color into this gray world.
V. It puts the ******* lotion in the basket or else it gets the pills again, and temptation is far worse than death, isn't it?
VI. We covet, Clarice. My brave starling, what you haven't seen is what I have, flight. Bodies flattening on the concrete of Boston is a familiar memory, I haven't lived it but I have seen it.
VII. We all have our lambs don't we?
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 5:18 PM UTC
Reclining on the cold black leather couch
Preparing my contrived viewpoints of what’s life's about
My weaknesses, objectives, dislikes, perspectives, and fears
And to the mix for drama's sake
I will add a few false tears
His eyes were full of gray cold dissection
Bemused expression and advice
I accepted without any objections or argument
His professional and profound perspective of my life
When he referred to his life in the past tense
I began to wonder in retrospection
If had lost truly my senses
Eyes changing into ice, fixed and dilated
I listened closely with a novice ear
His worth seriously I debated
He then expressed his fondness
For sizzling Sweetbreads and Farber beans
While telling me in great detail of one client, in particular
A depressive transvestite
And of his long abstract dreams
As he referred to himself as personality number six
Suddenly his steel eyes began to shine and spin
I wondered if I had made a mistake consulting him
And would do so from the beginning to the end
Without word, reason, or warning.
The day came when he quietly disappeared
Intrigued and in my curiosity
Though he was untraceable
I sought him furiously for an entire year
He was after all a student of Sigmund
And I had little or nothing to fear
The postman in his crisp uniform
Appeared on the clock
Owing to the fact I was in his sector
In my pile of mail
Was a hand-signed bill
From my psychiatrist
The infamous Hannibal Lector
All Rights Reserved @ Tammy m. Darby November 3, 2019.
All Material Store in Author Base.
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 8:07 PM UTC
This charcoal paint
He draws himself an anti-saint
The cross on his face makes way for worthless thoughts and glares
He takes his pain and less mundane
Makes art.
Sacrifice the bowels of animals and coat this ground with dirt and blood of goat
Say the worst of me
I am the worst of me.
Dagger, no- knife of surgeon, scalpel doctor
Lector no cannibal, Hannibal I cut,
And slice and stab and FEEL
I FEEL
GOD I FEEL you!
I feel your cells tearing, schism of church my blade makes works of Raphael and Michelangelo
The Adam finger of my hardened steel makes contact with your God,
GOD
I
FEEL
YOU.
Creation of Man, creation of this man on this earth,
I give my ribs to you,
I cut them from my chest.
And make one *** into two ***
I make our ***
Your ribs make my ***
X! Out my eyes, I am dead,
Slain by thoughts and feel
Slain by day come next after you and I make
TEXT unreal, unnecessary, unneeded
I need not capture my lance of piercing Christ
Destiny not speaking to me in words,
My blood speaking words which turn thoughts of water
Into wine,
You are my Christ
And like Romans, I will pierce you with my spear
Pierce and tear my surgery and tactful share of shaft
Into your ribs as John (19:34) had claimed.
Claim you and shame you for being the true daughter of God.
My savior on cross,
Veronica's veil, placing your Jesus on my face
I will memorize the runes in this literature
With the nerves in my skin,
My charcoal skin.
Paint the flesh on my blood lips with your wine,
So sweet and finely fermented water
I will alter your purity into eternity,
I will copy down the bible.
I will be your Peter and John.
And hope not I am our Judas
Pray only good fortune to us
And we may slash and tear these days away.
Slash and tear and share our ribs and cross,
Indulge in your fruit of knowledge and Eden.
God is dead but we don’t need him,
We have you.
Adam made one *** two.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 4:38 AM UTC
Frozen sheer terror
Abyss,blackened doom
This is how it all started
In my mothers womb.
I was quite happy swimming
Around in daddies sac
If I was given a big choice
I would gladly have swam back.
I had no choice in the matter,
I was a crime without a face
Little ole heartless me about
To join the human race.
Mummy was screaming when
I came out of that dark abyss
Reeking of unhappiness
About to receive my first kiss
My I was a difficult
My I was fu--ing bad
Rotten to the bone
Making everybody oh so sad.
They gave me the name of
Chucky
They made movies about I
I was a bomb in a bowler hat
Surely making the whole world cry.
They said I was paranormal
A freak without a heart
On the scale of one to ten
I wasn't even on the chart
Being a bad omen
A tortured exorcist
I would walk upon your grave
And take a warming p-ss
Shock horror, ingesting all the pain
one flew over the cuckoos nest
Please release me from my chain
Hannibal lector, vladimere the impaler
We're quirky whimps compared to me
I don't know where I'm going with this
So I'm going to walk among the dead
Then I'm coming back to haunt you
And cut of your miserable head
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 7:21 PM UTC
Que otros se jacten de las páginas que han escrito;
a mí me enorgullecen las que he leído.
No habré sido un filólogo,
no habré inquirido las declinaciones, los modos, la laboriosa
mutación de las letras,
la de que se endurece en te,
la equivalencia de la ge y de la ka,
pero a lo largo de mis años he profesado
la pasión del lenguaje.
Mis noches están llenas de Virgilio;
haber sabido y haber olvidado el latín
es una posesión, porque el olvido
es una de las formas de la memoria, su vago sótano,
la otra cara secreta de la moneda.
Cuando en mis ojos se borraron
las vanas apariencias queridas,
los rostros y la página,
me di al estudio del lenguaje de hierro
que usaron mis mayores para cantar
espadas y soledades,
y ahora, a través de siete siglos,
desde la Última Thule,
tu voz me llega, Snorri Sturluson.
El joven, ante el libro, se impone una disciplina precisa
y lo hace en pos de un conocimiento preciso;
a mis años, toda empresa es una aventura
que linda con la noche.
No acabaré de descifrar las antiguas lenguas del Norte,
no hundiré las manos ansiosas en el oro de Sigurd;
la tarea que emprendo es ilimitada
y ha de acompañarme hasta el fin,
no menos misteriosa que el universo
y que yo, el aprendiz.
499
Spielberg had his scary jaws
Hitchcock filmed his crows
Lucas serialised Star Wars
As rocky balboa came to blows
Tarrentino pulped his fiction
Oscar Schindler built his ark
hammer house scared us shitlees
pet cemetry had left its mark
Di caprio sailed with his lover
Gone with the wind,was just a sham
Titanic would never ever recover
633 squadron aimed to break a dam.
Eastwood never been unforgiven
et never did return back home
The long short and tall of it
Private Ryan was never alone.
exorcist the omen, scary movies two
hills have eyes,spit on your grave
Elvis Presley's film Hawaii blue
Aliens predators,King Kong on a tower
Papillon catching Hoffmans butterfly
As the triffids begin to flower,
****** and the ****** shower scene
the beauty and the beast
Snow White and Hannibal lector
Joining us for the annual feast
Having breakfast with Tiffany
Dancing on the African queen
Spartacus oh Spartacus with
Tom hanks brilliant mile green
John Wayne died at the Alamo
The film an all round total flop
Eddie Murphy made millions
as Beverly Hills finest cop.
Little shop of horrors
blues brothers darken pair of shades
My personal view is
Toy story was the best film ever made
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 11:47 PM UTC
Non dies transit, ut non **** te
Sed, putatis de me?
Numquam erit vere scio,
Quia ego sum non a mente lector
Aut via, possum tamen te amo,
Non possum?
O bene.
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 8:46 PM UTC
Their i was in a gene pool of fools
I think they called it a secondary school
Napoleon,Stalin and me mate gunga din
Four walls surrounded educated within
Adolph ****** ghandi me mate po ***
We gave education one hell of a shot
Kennedy brothers and me mate Luther King
Assembly started and the gene pool would sing
Alexander the Great and me mate Johnny cash
All in it together giving school days a bash
This gene pool of fools,a dastardly bad bunch
Even invited Hannibal lector for Sunday lunch
School days were good with all my weird guys
They will be remembered not shall I
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
I turn on the TV through a circle on a device
The letters turn blue, **** where are my eyes I mean the screen like a vice
I wait for the TV to register
The system looks at me and nods like Hannibal lector
I ready myself for the plug in
The games to be enjoyed for some fun sin
It looks like I could be ready for dark souls get deep and swim in
Everything is ready the pleasure of dopaminess joy
The 600 enemies ready for alloy
I am giddy at the feeling of masochistic wish
Who needs brains when your reflexes are at this
Good thing I am going an hour...but oh christ
Why did I turn on the TV through a circle on a device?
Nov 12, 2019
Nov 12, 2019 at 8:36 PM UTC
Esta década he perdido al amor de mi vida.
Y puedes decir que soy joven, pero no, mi estimado lector.
Uno nace con un instinto que registra la entrada de el verdadero amor a nuestras vidas.
Instinto que hace incapaz la acción de olvidar dicho amor ya tenga uno 17, 35 o 60 años de edad.
Perdón, querido lector, debe estar cansado ya de escuchar la misma historia, de oír la misma canción de desamor pero es la única que tengo y la única que en verdad importa.
Sabe usted lo que es perder el amor de su vida a los veinte años de edad?
Saber que me queda toda una vida por delante, pero una vida con el vacío del tamaño de la luna.
Una vida que viviré en la sombra de un "como habría sido con ella..."
Con la vida que llevo hubiese podido ser feliz con ella al menos cincuenta años más.
Sin importar dónde, hubiese podido tenerla en mis brazos por 18,262 noches.
Podría haber vivido 438,288 horas de tranquilidad sabiendo que es ella quien me espera en casa.
Hubiese podido saber que era mía hasta el último momento que mi mirada le buscara para que una última vez me llenara de paz como solo ella sabía hacerlo.
Y eso es lo más triste, querido lector,
Yo no sabré que calles ella pisa.
Que cafés frecuenta ni con quien.
No sabré que atardeceres mira.
Ni sabré quién le abre la puerta.
Ella no sabrá dónde vivo.
Lo peor de todo es que no me vera morir.
Jan 5, 2020
Jan 5, 2020 at 10:25 AM UTC