"malformed" poems
my darkest poems
bloodletting streams
are a kind of ******
fetishy cognitive inventory
malformed denizens
of the subconscious
a well of torments
soup of Salmonella
the souls gut
its cauldron
yet not with out lurid enticements
and voluptuous supplicants
gorgeous
like an eight legged woman
with beautiful feet
drooling **** lips
drunk on sacrificial rituals
of blood black tongued kisses
and hideous contorted pleasures
********
once
exquisite archetypes
gods and goddesses
are now
putrefied
cellar dwellers
moaning in nature bed crypts
of rock, stone
and engraved sigils
because honest pure desires
became fragmentary
and are now gimping amputees
by legions of primal disappointment
while faces blare in the world
like super bright L.E.D.s
shinning paths to others
our deep self
remains patinaed in tears
a black box pox with a lock
the skeleton key lost
in arcane seas
out of utter disgust
for those dark crawlers
that live within us
revealing them selves
as anxieties, depressions
suicides
and myriad quiet despairs
we appear undaunted
to others
and they to us
humanity
muffled ticks
and splintered sticks
my poems let my demons out
yoo who its me
my name is spray snake z
with my hooks and cries
and dark blood skies
in the misty night
i dragged out their earthen coffins
legends of the despicable
resurrected them
fed and loved those darklings
had every conceivable union with them
their healing, my own
ive sexualized them
and found love
albeit twisted
to be adored
in a hidden embrace
i bestow upon you a poetic fantasy
while obsession takes hold
bind it not
nor let it bind you*
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
The devil's speech say they:
Rolling, clattering, frolicking, hungry.
Billows of charred skeletons embrace the air
Black soot pumped straight from the pyres of Hades
Congealing to clouds of evil intent wherever it roam.
That charred old shell so terse,
Black as sadness and dead as a hearse,
Darling to death as he brings on the rain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
In the coughing desert
Not a thing dares roam
Neither wind nor creature
And neither stick nor stone.
But then the silence disturbed by a horrible shriek -
The railway screams in horror and the train itself speaks, saying
"Tell me, thou innocent,
Why feel you special and best?
For when all is done I take you
And return you to my nest;
Your world is bright and happy
Full of high spirits and song,
Though soon you too shall step aboard
And join my faceless throng."
Hot saliva on the heaving engines:
Weeping, groaning, ghostly, parched.
Rusted joints spewed onwards grinding resisting
Movement spat out like a violently beaded string of curses
Sloppily uttered as incantations of a malformed mouth!
From that charred old shell so terse,
Black as sadness and dead as a hearse,
Darling to death as he brings on the rain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
That dark train cries out and all around
A mourning whimper rises like slumbering fog-
Bleak and yellow it obscures the land
Seeping out insidious in strange locales all:
The old lonely fisherman
Sleeping on his wharf,
The frustrated hawker's
Windblown barefaced booth,
Silent streets crying for attention,
Dark places hidden at the corner of every eye.
That solemn train cries out and all around
Her mourning whimper rises like harrowing fog
Calling all to upright attention and fear.
Looming like a spectre but a breath-span from your window
Slowly closing cold dread claws-
Naked numbness dumb as ice-
Cold dread claws upon thy waist.
And you,
You poor old thing,
Shivering in your pitiful shack of bones,
You never had any chance!
You were only human.
You were only human, you poor old thing.
Barreling on with brimstone slang:
Clang clang! Dang dang! Beelz Bub!
Sputtering an ocean of curses from turgid goat-flesh
Born of sadness to cause even more, yawning great maw
Jowls clanking with fresh hot oil drool steaming stark and lewd, and yet
That charred old shell so terse,
Blacker than sadness and slain like a hearse,
Is all that gives meaning to our every gain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 12:10 AM UTC
They came to me in
a febrile dream.
Whispered screams and
malformed limbs.
They wanted to drag
me to the hell they
came from, but I fought,
and got well.
Mar 11, 2021
Mar 11, 2021 at 1:10 PM UTC
Maynard the Martyr
moored in the marshland
misrepresented
and misinformed
much maligned
melancholy
misfortunate and small-minded
unmotivated
a real Melvin –
macho magpies munch
mangos and marshmallows
in the moonlight
mired in muck and mud
misshapen
mutated
malformed
mushrooms
manifest momentarily
mocking Miss Marple –
marbleized Maples
mobilize
marching to madness
in moccasins
across Morocco
to Monico
or Mexico
perhaps Montana?
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
I am stuck
In a maze of empty corridors
Lined with a thousand mirrors
Distorted and evil
And all staring at me.
When I look into the first mirror,
I do not see myself.
I see a malformed human
Staring back at me.
Ugly.
Fat.
Unlovable.
With blue pools of sadness
That well up
And drip tears of helplessness.
I am scared.
So I run.
But I stop a few mirrors down
Because I see another girl
with bruised skin
And cut cheeks.
She has been beaten.
But by whom?
I am scared.
So I run.
But again I am distracted
By another girl.
She sits alone, naked.
With wrists that are red
And thighs that drip the same.
She has been cut.
But by whom?
I am scared.
So I run.
I want to leave.
But the exit eludes me.
I start to panic;
I don't know what to do.
So I sit down
And cry.
But I hear a voice
Calling out my name.
So I run towards it.
But it's dark.
It's so dark.
Where is this person?
I run past another mirror,
And there is yet another girl
Who looks just like me
But happier.
Prettier.
Loved.
She is the one calling my name.
She wants to help me,
And yet she can't reach me
Through these mirrors I've created
For myself.
I am unreachable.
So I walk away
And, seeing an empty mirror,
I climb in,
And I am transformed into
A malformed self-image of a girl
Who has been beaten by her thoughts
And carved by her own hand.
And I want to go back.
I am scared.
So I try to run.
But I can't.
I am stuck in this hell I've made for myself.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 7:52 AM UTC
mini
[=small car]
mal
[=preface
as in 'malformed']
minim
[=musical note]
al
[=aluminium]
minimalism
is
art
in
its
simplest
form
its
fundamental
features
in
words
[start again from the top]
[read beckett]
in
art
[look at stella]
[look at judd]
in
music
[listen]
[hear]
[each]
[note]
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
Consumed by mutation our species struggles
Dying out from exaggerated consumerism
(soft drums) When will we learn
Monsantoland economics adopted
Three headed grasshopper
A malformed genetic **** you
Other intelligence, for we are known, must be confused
Amused
At our inherent stupidity
It cannot be called ignorance, see through lies
Great hulking vats of toxic slushy
Pouring into our very veins
Pollute the pipes, it all goes to hell
Handbaskets filled with frankenfruit
Our deformed future draws quickly near
I know where my tomato's been
Do you?
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 1:50 PM UTC
You who have never known the loveliness of love,
Gather your heads on the torn pillow’s edge of mud,
Under the wood-tar shadows of camphor-aided sleep,
Where your low-flung groans are starvations of sound,
And the amputated clouds, insinuated with gangrene
And blood-stained woods, are still bound to the shooting
Stars that fell beside you and flung up hissing rays of grass.
Parents of the midnight sky, the stolen stars of your children
Open their broken mouths to the battlefield heart of trespass.
To their soldiers’ eyes, the floor of heaven is uncut grass,
Wet with rain and mold and the unlifted wings of Pegasus,
Whose unearthly hoof to unearthly earth scuffs the clod
Of the lunette for the cannons to divulge the great, stuttering
Coda of everything old, malformed of breath and bone.
Some grass somewhere will now seem the hair of a sweetheart,
And those dead eyes will aways stare, too fond of love unknown.
So the dead soldier and grass and sky conspire to hold a woman,
So the soldier makes the truce between earth and sky,
Between man and the divine, though the chestnut trees
In red human tongues, pay their deep-forested encomium to distance,
In misspilled gorgeousness like Apollo surveying his own tomb.
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
The three of us sat on the disused, plastic patio chairs. Their white facade had faded into a malformed sort of grey, with grazes of mud and collected rainwater erosion further condemning them. We were blind drunk after three-and-a-half beers that were tempered with lemonade. The dreary five a.m. dawn threatens daylight, bringing an end to the party. In a few years’ time we’d be here again; coming down off drugs and talking about missed chances.
Tom and Amy are in my parent’s room, as we whisper conspiracy theories about his impotence, in the light of our lonely morning vigil. I barely remember what else was said, after we spoke of *** and love, and of our life beyond home. “There has to be something more, somewhere…” we would all insist. Yet, one by one, we have turned to shrugs, and those left to insist, do not.
What I do recall is the coffee (I never drank the stuff then) and dry crackers. As the sun came to rise and patterned the skies, we had seen one day slide into the next; we aged brilliantly in a moment. I stared out at the Rugby field just beyond the overgrown allotments; you could only make it out by the floodlights that towered over the trees. I knew then, of where I had always been, yet knew not where I needed to go.
I still don’t.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
*Bending and kneeling
with discomfort
pinning and marking..
coaxing a key from a
recalcitrant machine..
a later discovery
the key was malformed..
An elderly Chinese couple
communicating with gestures
simple throaty sounds
These representatives of
other older world..
An island of survival
in our ocean of plenty..
An afternoon snapshot
only surface impressions
and mystery of work
and years...*
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 12:55 AM UTC
There is an old Chinese saying
that goes like *'those who lie too much tend to
lose teeth'*
I have one ripped from the top
and two snatched from the bottom,
from my un-truths--half truths
those new moon truths, with a crescent
sliver of a lie--but lie none the less
My mouth blossoms red and purple,
veins and capillaries split-lit
muscle malformed, bacteria nurtured
in the hammock of my gum,
all from those words I said to him.
Things like 'I love you',
so sweet and artificial that no
amount of brushing, flossing,
or gargling could prevent the
plaque.
O woe,
I have the mouth of a ***** for appearance--
all in the name of appearance.
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 11:01 AM UTC
There are many unseen dragons that torment me in this life
There is a tiny dark creature
with a vicious forked tongue
Who crawls behind my ear
and twists a barbed tail around my neck.
It whispers bitter words and
noxious notions that dissolve
my sense of self-
That make me believe
I am nothing
Unwanted
worthless,
Talentless
and pointless.
There is the sleek silver beast
Which laughs as
Sharp blooded claws and rapier teeth
cut and rip at my flesh
Guided by my own hand
There is the fiery flash
That ravages my mind to rage
And fight
And destroy those close to me
And the things I hold dear
There is the red heart eater
Who eyes glow brighter
As it steals the joy
And the pleasure
From the things I do
And from the magic moments in life
There is the grotesque malformed nightmare,
That drips sickly slime
And pumps putrid poison into the air
As it breathes heavily on me
And whittles away my will,
Drains all my energy
Until I can barely breathe
Or get out of bed
Then there is the great beast,
Of whom I only know eyes
Darker than the blackest night,
A despair that seeks the quickest end
That teaches my surrendering soul
To long for the final sleep
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
How do you explain to somebody who can't listen?
I was just drowning in a pool of sadness
that wasn't in your back garden.
And whilst you're concentrating on expanding
I'm only forced to shrink.
Do you know what it feels like to shrink?
My mind has malformed, distorted and mutilated from my body.
I am no longer, but a figure.
An unnatural abomination that threatened your existence.
I am unadulterated; reverberating,
creating noises through your bones that no man would choose to face.
My demon is me for I am hatred
and I stick around in your blood to convince you that I never left.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
The sun would always come out a little after
the mind massacre
- follow the monsters-
i fancy lying on the
hard floor
because it is the only place
where the train of vertebrates in
my spine
can set in its rails.
i am a void
bleeding out oxidised civilisation
-holes in my head-
in a world where colours
are just fabricated memoirs
of porcelain filmstrips.
i fear that i am becoming anorexic:
my brain is splattered onto
a tiny plate
-emaciated-
where i maliciously
pick out the
soft and pretty
bits.
My tongue is cancerous,
segregating words into
Pinks' and greys'.
my heart has malformed into
an ugly blister
-swollen-
milking saps
of dismal yesterdays.
i'm swimming
alone
in an acid bath
of bleach and ice.
can't find the light
-the light-
beneath the glass
-the night-
of the
-decaying-
chandelier.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 10:14 AM UTC
"How are you?"
Such an empty question, with an even emptier answer:
"Good."
I'd like to tell (you) how
Everything I (see) looks disgusting to me.
Watermelon seeds are like bugs
eating away at the raw, juicy flesh.
The ground is infected with muddy snow.
The melting of it unearths carcasses of lost junk.
Leaves are discs of decay.
The wind breathes smoky, tarry clouds by
– fogging up my mind.
Tongues are like slugs; kissing is repulsive.
Bodies are malformed clumps of clay, painted with egos.
Slimy egos.
The emptiness corrodes me.
It's about to get paradoxical,
how full of caves (my) heart is,
each echoing:
"You. You. You."
I'd like to tell you
how when I think of you, my mind immediately jumps to:
Our budding tu(lips) touching.
Embracing you,
the comforting muscles of your arms like sculptured masterpieces,
sheltering me in a warm bubble.
Your breath whispering on my neck, my skin replying with static fuzz.
When I think of you even the puddles of mud look like silk.
The clouds (move) by like pillows of the sky.
Leaves, sheets of oneliness, become one
in an orchestra conducted by the wind.
I want to tell you everything
(but you can't hear me.)
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 10:05 AM UTC
baseball
a malformed hand
resting
in a hay bale
feet
so discolored a figure
shoeless
at dusk
talk
an unbroken scribble
connects
the ears
bathroom sink the mirror’s
belly
in it
are fish hooks
survival lives alone
by the looks of this sandwich jesus is teething
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
A little girl; so innocent
Broken, like concrete
Forsaken in this world
As God had chosen to replete
Forever damaged
Spare me the deceit
That I have long encountered
Mentally ****** and incomplete
I broke the mirrors
That distorted my vision
I am not perfect
I am far from precision
Just a judicial decision
To execute this excision
To ensure that this provision
Of unwanted unborn children
Remain broadcasted on public television
For the captivity of the elderly
Scorned, defeated and miserable
Left in utter decay
Salvaging day and night
Part of this twisted foreplay
That took place on Christmas Eve
For Chirst to be born
On such a horrible day, to entail
This sad story of evil
Demons from hell rose in this tale
But Jesus did nothing
Except to defy the Holy Grail
My exorcism, my ghost
To whom shall I toast?
To the one who left me to burn?
To define myself in these lies
God, I am flawed by your unconcern
Jesus, I am mocked by your reputable lies
For that you deserve a noble prize
Can't you see the concern in my eyes?
I have lost my allies
And I have become the worst
That I could possibly be
Part taking in these sins
Is that what you wanted from me?
You deny my existence
You hide behind pride
You force coincide
And you deny individuality
You force this conceited ******* to form
Or so you implied
Turns out the shock was worldwide
But that didn't stop you
From setting me aside
Sitting in your corner
Contemplating
Is she human or a mutation
Something somewhat malformed
Or perhaps just a devil
An ogre at best
Fine be that way
I am not one to detest
My worst side though
I do not advise you test
I am not blessed
For it is in black that I dress
"Satan's spawn!" they protest
Is it my fault that I am possessed?
Conniving and witty
I am sick of this mess
God you put me here
But nevertheless
I am obscene
And forever your mess
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 5:10 PM UTC
One hundred years of sodden red sand
millions of innocents slain and condemned
brainwash the brute and send him to shoot
no more of a troop than a toy in your hand.
Pull the wool over why we send them to die
dossiers, mandates now malformed and broken.
Those who were 'chosen' to vote for the people
are payed off, promoted by power drunk creatures.
Our bubble of bliss is the last dying hope
of a stranded psychopath on a bone-laiden raft
tarnished by greed signed misdeeds
floating in streams: the blood of the past.
Hear the voice of the people unite against evil
to condemn your crimson fuel wars on the east
and like doctor to monster, quench the 'Vitai Lambarda'
fuelled by the foolish benefitting the ******
Let the embers scorch, settle, and form a new mantle
where ideologies are transparent and righteous
and the poor of the world aren't corporate fighters
'speak up, speak up and veto the game'.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
to say that i am fed up now
would be a gross distortion.
blithe ignorance, i can't allow
to grow in same proportion
as thoughts that now let peons hold
onto bold misconceptions
that they alone do know this world
through cliche-formed perceptions.
take heed, blind fool, raise up thy head
and know the truth unknowing.
in lieu of fables, you'll instead
give seed to thoughts through sowing.
saddle up, then. take this ride
into the fields of fortune
where wealth is found to be inside
one's own mind's doled self portion.
if you shall find that you've not found
conceptions worth protecting
the cursory heart to own you're bound
since base you keep rejecting.
i'd liken you to one that's blind
t'were that not false relating.
at least the sightless seem to find
true art through innovating.
this path you've wound has been well formed
by all who've passed before you
the world beyond appears malformed
try harder now, eschew
all prior trends that formed this square
high time you shall contend.
ambivalence should you beware
now know, and don't pretend.
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 7:18 AM UTC
I get easily annoyed,
Being the only sober person along
On this tirade
Of ******* kisses
And malformed care.
I spend my time easily convincing myself
That the only way I will believe he loves me
Is if he splits his bleeding heart
Over my chalice
When they display my body to him
At the morgue,
Toe tag so lifeless against my sole.
I think of my body not as a temple
But a bear trap,
Sprung or in the process of springing,
His ankle twisted in it's teeth.
We walked into this together
Knowing each others baggage
But suspecting there to be hidden compartments.
With ease
I compartmentalize my anguish
And move one,
My emotions just a simplicity
Too enticing in their entirety
To be dealt with accordingly.
I have brought myself to believe that he loves me
But only in his frontal lobe,
My life and personality
Being at the root of who he is today.
I say ******* kisses because he is addicting
But I say ******* kisses because
He is deadly.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
Lunar rays, the moon's array,
Through window screens and windy dreams,
Piercing minds like I pierce my face,
Without a trace, the human race
Chases time, charts out time, every time.
When no child is left behind,
The malformed mooncalf gets to shine,
On carpets; wine,
Matching glasses carry moonshine,
A rabbit one day, a man the next,
Kitty-cat smile, auntie knows best.
Bind Oceans and blood, marine ebb and flow,
Oh! You drive me mad;
Colour fades from visions that I had.
Tell-tale clip-clop of a modest kitten heel,
Starry-eyes, cruise the dark side,
Hell behind a wheel.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
You can be my ball of wax.
I'll roll you between my fingertips
until you're warmed and soft
and I can mold you.
Some are impressionists
or modernists
but I wanted to be a
realist.
So I made you in the image
of my reality.
Only I made you
taller,
kinder,
handsomer,
sweeter.
I shaped you
with so much
self-deception
and so much
failed perception.
You can be my boy of wax.
I made you in the winter
and you were strong
and solid
for a time.
But the summer came and you grew
smaller,
shorter,
quieter,
farther,
and you,
my artful manipulation
of
what I so
wanted
to create,
melted.
You can be my pool of wax,
a shapeless
well
of malformed memories
that change
with every touch.
I curl my knees to
my chest and
do my best to stop
prying and prodding you,
my pool of wax.
Because with every touch
it burns
my skin and turns
my fingers
an angry red.
I made you,
and I never
knew
that
a boy of wax
could unmake
me.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
I will not hide despite the cameras in the sky, nor will i fear the satellites or Internet spies, and i will fight, and i will fight, as to not comply to the lies that co-hearse the norm, into standing idly by, in malformed, and twisted histories, twisting history, into a pearled vision of ministries giving eulogy, to enemies of the light, using light to blind the masses, before the flashes of infertility begin emanating from the cities, under the unity of, We The People, turned predator, under better sedatives that are better delivered, straight to the dream, or belief, of, or in anything.
Dare to dream, turn a blind eye to everything, or just something else, assigned children, or stolen wealth, while warmly held, in foggy hostilities, of those you rarely see, while soldiers of the peace, protect the streets, with covered faces, and powder burned fingers, lingering just out of reach, from the stones that burn the armored cars SAWing through the crowds, with the pulsing sound, of a million hell hounds, hell bound, machine gunning the bodies on the ground, for the pale riders, feeding on the dark horse, on course for a four course meal, leaving hopeless poses, of crying corpses, ashing in the wind of their trail.
Its our blood of defeat that lines the streets with the feed for the beast, as well as that same blood that feeds our victory, as we shall be exactly on time for the end, and the beginning.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC