"mouldy" poems
I try to write a poem,
but poems are too hard
Rhyming is for losers
and airy-fairy bards
To put a pen to paper
and write about your life
I've had enough of all of those,
they only cause me strife
Free-verse script is awful,
for fools without a beat
Repetition's far too simple
just repeat, repeat, REPEAT
Those lovey-dovey ode-things,
that wishy-washy crap
And poems about hatred,
you all deserve a slap
Spare me all your ramblings,
I don't care how you feel
Your self-expression surely stinks
of mouldy day-old eel
To tell a tale of wonder
never ceases too be trite
To sing of magic wonders
is nothing but pure *****
Your metaphors are useless,
your imagery is vile
Your sense of diction makes me gag,
I cannot stand your "style"
So save me your quotations,
please spare me all your rhyme
Shove that poem up your rear
and cease to waste my time
I look at what I've written,
this jumble of clichés
Looks like I wrote a ****** poem
so I'm the one to blame!
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC
they say you're terrifying scorpio
I think you're stagnant
and not in the mouldy water way
you're a mountain
always there
looming above
they say you're intense scorpio
and i know you love intensely
and hate intensely
and find nothing in between
you're ongoing
and everything
pulling the world towards you
you're not mine scorpio
and I don't know if I want you to be
but I think we'd work
born with the moon in scorpio I was
and i'm a little bit you
and i'm not sure if it's that
or that i'm a little bit not you
that makes this a fire *******
You're definitely a fire scorpio
even though they say you're water
I'm an air sign
even though I know i'm earth
I guess in another world you'd set fire to me
but in this world I'm only rippling your surface
bubbling up to the top of you
and you can't bother to set me alight
it's okay though
we're a firecracker either way
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
A little birdy told me, hearts and souls are mouldy,
Walk with me, talk with me on this journey of doubt,
You'll question people and you'll question the drought,
of honesty people lie about, because It's time to scout,
For people of kindness on earth,
From birth, I think I've been cursed
It gets worse, as I rap this verse,
I'm trying to explain how life can be complicated,
Because we're all intoxicated, muffled in fumes of disease and fleas that cling onto your skin,
Use the energy within, and repel them this is where your journey will begin,
I've been searching for a moment or a pin, point in time,
When these rhymes and lines will be classed as devine, as I perfect and refine,
I'm just wondering how many times I can assign the same rhyme, so all sit back with a glass of wine, whilst I intertwine every line, lyrics so evil I'm committing a crime, maybe I'll get a statue, maybe a shrine, I need to switch it up so let's all decline, but you'll remember this verse as one of a kind.
Whilst I'm standing still over this hill, I think of moments in life that gave me a thrill,
But I remembered the pain and I remember the chill,
Of the cold dampened hearts that never seemed to spill,
Love or affection, like it's protection they need during the question, should I mention, you never gave me attention,
Like the worlds in one convention and I'm stood outside looking in,
I grin, whilst I use these forces buried within, to show people in verse what I mean, before the planet isn't green, before the seas collapse and wind is no longer a breeze,
We freeze in an ice block, tick Tock, tick Tock we stopped the clock.
But no body hears me so everyone listen up,
Stop what you're doing and please raise a cup,
For stopping global warming and extinction of animals, because we're all valuables on this tiny spec of galaxies,
Yet governments plan strategies, to profit from the tragedies, they keep us all living in fantasies, but strike in catastrophes
So let's help our families and all become one, before we've got none and everything we love and everything we feel is gone,
Putting a bet on the apocalypse, odds are 10 to none,
So hold hands with me now let's rejoice in song!
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 3:51 AM UTC
Incandescent virtues , yet I'm a drought within .
I read tealeaves in mouldy cups of our tainted futures.
Our wicks that never saw the light, even though burnt out.
Untenable sight that we drank deeply on, but still thirsted for.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 5:33 PM UTC
Zombies are waddling toward their door.
Witches are cackling, black cats are scratching,
And the ghouls want brains and more.
But Brig and Ophelia aren’t scared yet,
They’re waiting inside,
Gobbling strange snacks while they hide.
It’s bugs they like to chew and gnaw;
And they love to eat their spiders raw,
Not fried with onions, like Granda;
Or served with broccoli, like Nana.
Not boiled with worms and creepy crawlers.
Ciaran eats those,
Not these crazed daughters.
Ophelia and Brig
Eat them raw,
Alive, not dead,
With wiggly legs and sharp jaws;
And wrapped up with mosquito heads
In white sticky spider webs.
They eat Black Widows soaked in goblin blood
And wicked witch’s poo;
Made from bats and rats and unschooled fools,
That witches eat to soften stools.
They eat fat spiders
Floating in soup,
That slide and wiggle
Down their throat.
They eat them with their mouldy cheese,
Melted over wasps and bees.
The girls fork down spider stew,
They love the taste “Tres beaucoup.”
The gravy’s made from a mummy’s spit,
And sweat that drips from a ghoul’s armpit.
They like their spiders spread on bread,
A feast to feed the risen dead.
When their snack is finally done,
They’ll pick their teeth and scrape their tongues
For Daddy Long Legs they didn’t eat.
The long legs caught between their teeth.
They'll use those legs to weave a wreath,
To trick flies and bugs and lonely spiders
Into their hungry House of Horrors.
Oct 30, 2023
Oct 30, 2023 at 11:06 AM UTC
The crescent moon has been sighted
Lantern of hope has been ignited.
Doors of mercy have been opened
And the devils have been chained.
It is the month,
Where clusters of sin await repentance
And good deeds worth are multiplied.
The month
In which we abstain from food
From dawn till dusk;
Empty stomachs
But tongue heavy from thikr.
A month
Enlightened with Allah's vast mercy
And extreme prosperity,
Tasting rewards
And bathing in immense blessing.
So choose to
Break mouldy habits
Reform the fabrics.
Reboot your entity
And Recharge your faith.
Choose to strengthen the backbone of your lives;
The pillars of Islam.
Recite the book that has been bonded with threads of faith
and encrusted with pristine words of Allah.
Choose to unshackle yourself
from the blackening shackles;
Untangle from messy mirage of the world
entwined with your wrist
And braid it into ladders to heaven.
Choose to join congregation at prayers
To pray to Allah seeking his affinity
Asking for forgiveness and pray for agility.
Choose to handle tough times with sincerity
And dig faith in one another.
For strength and forgiveness
can be found under his love
And this can be the month
That can bring you a step closer to Allah.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 3:21 AM UTC
There’s a door that leads into the hallway
Of the house that lives under the trees
Whose trunks are beleaguered with knobbles
Like a twisted collection of knees
The handle looks faintly organic
Any moment it might come alive
The paint is like vertical shadows
And the number is seventy-five
The foot of the stairs is before you
And the door sidles shut to your rear
The carpet is damp and disfigured
And the walls are uncomfortably near
The windows are coated with algae
So the light is all mottled and rank
The varnish and the paper are peeling
And curtains hang mouldy and lank
There’s a hole in the wall with an angle
And a view of the kitchen within
There’s a nest in the bowl on the table
There are rats living out of the bin
Disjointed lugubrious echoes
Of a whisper without any voice
The spoons haven't stirred in a decade
So the cups haven't had any choice
It’s then you should really be leaving
But you've taken your time and the bait
For a sound of a footstep behind you
And a voice saying simply "too late"
There’s a breath on the bone of your collar
It’s as cold as a final decree
There’s death to be found in that kitchen
And a death that came looking for me
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
Under a stagnant sky,
Gloom out of gloom uncoiling into gloom,
The River, jaded and forlorn,
Welters and wanders wearily--wretchedly--on;
Yet in and out among the ribs
Of the old skeleton bridge, as in the piles
Of some dead lake-built city, full of skulls,
Worm-worn, rat-riddled, mouldy with memories,
Lingers to babble to a broken tune
(Once, O, the unvoiced music of my heart!)
So melancholy a soliloquy
It sounds as it might tell
The secret of the unending grief-in-grain,
The terror of Time and Change and Death,
That wastes this floating, transitory world.
What of the incantation
That forced the huddled shapes on yonder shore
To take and wear the night
Like a material majesty?
That touched the shafts of wavering fire
About this miserable welter and wash--
(River, O River of Journeys, River of Dreams!)--
Into long, shining signals from the panes
Of an enchanted pleasure-house,
Where life and life might live life lost in life
For ever and evermore?
O Death! O Change! O Time!
Without you, O, the insuperable eyes
Of these poor Might-Have-Beens,
These fatuous, ineffectual Yesterdays!
2.3k
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
If I could do anything
I would be controlling clocks
And go right back to that mouldy box
With the broken locks
And the electrics off
Those days when I would sold me socks for cake and drops
Whist cooking rocks
***** this K detox
I feel like a baby fox
Thats I been ***** by all 3 bears and goldilocks
But day by day with my tool box and theese building blocks
I'll build my very own fort knox
Il see the light shine when I stike the fire from my matchbox
Listening to my old jukebox
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 9:27 AM UTC
The second poem in the series by my alter ego, Count Orlok the wicked Vampyr
O how the moon peeps out gaily from behind a pink cloud,
Its light shining wanly on the grave of my fat neighbour,
That ugly old **** Bert Higgenbottom, follower of silly old Jesus,
As my vampyr fangs glisten in the ***** moonlight.
Ding! **** The midnight bell tolls like the clappers
And I rise fully ***** to begin the horrid task
Which I have been putting off for months:
The ritual defilement of his mouldy corpse.
What a shock to discover his nightdress-clad body
Lying next to his collection of Doris Day LPs;
Thus I turn the putrid plump corpse over carefully
Before sodomising it with my mighty circumcised ****
Yucch! It's a grim job but someone's got to do it.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
Guns on the battle lines have pounded now a year
between Brussels and Paris.
And, William Morris, when I read your old chapter on
the great arches and naves and little whimsical
corners of the Churches of Northern France--Brr-rr!
I'm glad you're a dead man, William Morris, I'm glad
you're down in the damp and mouldy, only a memory
instead of a living man--I'm glad you're gone.
You never lied to us, William Morris, you loved the
shape of those stones piled and carved for you to
dream over and wonder because workmen got joy
of life into them,
Workmen in aprons singing while they hammered, and
praying, and putting their songs and prayers into
the walls and roofs, the bastions and cornerstones
and gargoyles--all their children and kisses of
women and wheat and roses growing.
I say, William Morris, I'm glad you're gone, I'm glad
you're a dead man.
Guns on the battle lines have pounded a year now between
Brussels and Paris.
1.9k
you're the boxspring billionaire of feel-good
saving up your love for a rainy year,
scrounging and saving every fleeting smile and shallow kiss and
miserly, hunched over with the weight of your own suffering and despair,
each scrapped-together pile of crumpled-from-your-pockets shreds of I.O.U.s and featherlight touches.
too afraid to leap and risk, you'll never grow or invest your affections into the stocks of Lisa and George LLC, or Francis and Kelly Inc.
so your love is bound to crumble into fragile dust, the fruits of your labours withering into mouldy piles of seed, stem, and flesh.
the could-have-been and might-have-grown dying, before even living to flourish and erupt into glorious blooms of the strikingly ethereal and otherworldy.
but not for you, not ever for you.
you're the boxspring billionaire of feel-good
and you'll burn before planting your love.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
Away from hills and away from mills,
Comes a child with no two eyes.
With its tiny hands blue and small mouth bled,
"There really can be no hope," they said.
It cries out loud, pulling at its rags
Carrying naught but stones and bones.
Throwing them with vigour (aiming at none!),
With its two eye sockets blind and dull.
But no people are there.
Naught but ghosts from antique towns
Resonating through the echoes of sand and crowns,
Shouting and laughing
Feeling not the stones,
Pretend to fall dead
As they chirp, chant, and dance.
~
As the memories distort,
A presence emanates from dust of broken mauls
Burying the ghosts in golden holes:
On beds of hard, cold, and mouldy bones
Whilst bestowing the child with eyes of ghost desert rose.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
See that zombie stood over there.
Caked in fresh blood.
It's under his hair.
He found a fella with a hole in his head.
Sad zombie fella.
He found a slice of mouldy old bread.
Uses it as a soldier.
Dipped in his head.
No fun.
A newly made zombie.
He's always hungry,
Now he's dead.
Peeps at Mr Majestical's testicles.
Fancied chewing them.
Loved the juice.
Succulent as strawberries.
Raspberry sauce.
Blood of course.
Derwent fancied a bit of breast.
Loving mother told him breast is always best.
Julie's just a crazy chick.
Fancied a nibble on the dead guy's ****
Yummy,yummy, really sick.
Or should I say she ****** it.
As if it were a straw.
Remembering days of living.
Always was a *****
The kid in the corner is popping out eyes.
Never really worked out why.
Perhaps he was thirsty.
Eleanor.
She fancied a nibble on the bladder and kidney.
Of a once fine chap.
Whose first name was Sidney.
***** tasting of peach lemonade.
Eleanor the dead chick.
Got really drunk.
That Zombie's really ******
Mum's over there.
One of them?
Or still my mum?
You know what?
I really don't care.
For the first time in my life.
I feel really scared.
Hell.
I digress.
They're chasing me now
I'm making a mess.
Run out of puff and all that stuff,
They're trying to eat me.
That's quite enough.
I'm feeling quite numb.
The dead ******** won.
Stripped all the tissue clean off my ***
Chewed though a bit of a nerve.
Partially damaged.
You feeling the image?
Bled me near dry.
He did.
Son of a *****
Made me cry.
For a second or two.
Lucky me.
One ate my eye.
So glad.
I won't see myself die.
With a skeletal hand.
I'm waving goodbye.
(c)Livvi
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 4:34 AM UTC
crushing,brushing against it,
don't lose it,the feeling,
breathe it in,rancid sweetness
evocative of yesterday
musty and mouldy,like rotted fruit,
your innermost
brick of soul,heart of wire
it runs through your fingers now
sticky sweet
try to wrap it,to warp it,to save it
last years dinner
served up to the undeserving..
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:21 AM UTC
Glowing Windows embedded into mouldy brick walls
Ivy climbing the gutters of neighbourhood roofs
Skies becoming burnt out like charred blackened fields
Tall spiny trees project shadows onto the road below
Leaves curl up to receive some weakening light from above
A formation of sputtering cars cling to each turn they decide to make
Cloudy milky light bounces off faulty windows that exhale the aroma of somebodies impending supper
A heavy truck manoeuvres itself into the blistered bitumen horizon
Dry deflated branches make obscene gestures towards passers-by
Gardeners rummage through their bags as they near the end of their working day
Their faces filled with an expired enthusiasm for breathing
Parked hunks of metal pelted with dead itchy leaves
Windscreen wipers hold fragile twigs down against grotty neglected glass
Chain-link fences link disparate housing and the sleeping people within
Some dispirited unsatisfied psychos gaze up as they catch a moving bus
Smoky Incense billows down from some apartment balcony
The air becomes cold and sharply fills these ordinary streets
Engine sounds try to supress the divine quietness
They only merge into it
Now the stars are out and about
Bright specks waddling in an aerial pool of dark blue
You turn the key and walk through the front door
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 11:24 AM UTC
If you go down to the
Woods today the bears
Will eat
Your
Insides
They'll start at your foot
Slap you with a left
Knock you out with a right hook,
Then they'll snack on you for
Breakfast
Lunch
&
Then
Teatime
The cubs will eat your lunch from you insides.
Then slurp your intestines
As if they were spaghetti stung outside,
The flies will lay eggs
In your mouldy insides,
Then maggots will feast on your
Cold dead eyes,
They will feast on you carcass,
Will devour you
From what's left, that nature hasn't
Nibbled
Bitten
Dragged
Off, then you'll just be a
Skelton
With
A boot on,
No flesh or insides
You'll be bleached by the
Sun,
Earth,
&
Sky
And buried in the long grass,
All for wanting to be with nature
"Beware its dangerous out there"
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
Beneath blackened earth, where majestic death gave birth..
Lies Sir Roderick so very still.
Claire wanders and wonders if there is something more,
beyond life she can explore...
In a tome of darkened lore
answers were cast at the question.
If only a mild suggestion
of necromantic, a spell.
To take back a soul from hell....
Claire descends in Roderick's tomb.
They will be united soon..
Indeed it is a graverobber's plight, to take care of such a wondrous sight.
Little Claire did not care, as she played with raven hair.
Words dripped from her lips, as she read from the bloodied tome..
The atmosphere drenched in a shivering tone..
going through marrow and cutting through bone.
Lay still your beating heart, let flow your sea of life..
Come back from Death and love thine wife..
A sacrifice with children's blood she gave
Roderick now ascends from his mouldy grave.
His flesh looks putrid and vile..
Dilly, dally the maggots wriggle
Claire comforts with a single giggle.
Now they dance, hand in hand.
They kiss in brittle moonlight
his tongue like broken glass, such delight.
So full of joy was Claire, as Roderick was festering in his chair.
Claire did not care, playing with raven hair.
Roderick still festering, festering in his chair.
Then she nodded, nearly napping, one last spell inside her head.
Command Sir Roderick to share her bed.
Little Claire was nowhere to be found...
Chewing, drooling, smacking....
Followed by a clamour and loud cracking.
Lay upon the bed, Sir Roderick and Claire.
Sir Roderick did not care, playing with her raven hair.
Loathsome Claire was united no more..
Her cannibalized remains
decorated the floor.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
Resting:
Mouth wide,
Hands tucked.
A lust:
So ripe,
Satisfied,
Now ******
Stale,
Stale,
Stale.
Awkward, sour, mouldy and pale.
And I won't brag of you there,
As she does of him here,
There is no need,
We're us,
Our intentions sincere.
And there's something so sterile about their romance,
Their drama.
Lost in translation.
Hot air,
Hot air,
Hot air.
And it's a joy to sit here and think of you,
Whilst she talks of him,
And genuinely not care.
December 2010
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 8:52 PM UTC
There's a hole in my wall which the wind whistles through
And the wallpaper's mouldy and calamine blue
The carpet besmirched with a decade of grime
And the pattern is lost to a happier time
The journals and books where my memories stay
Have mixed and submerged in a fearful array
The curtains hang tattered in woeful neglect
Where the mildew and fungus and beetles collect
There's a hole in the floor where the mice have a nest
Where the walls creak and groan like a cancerous chest
And a puddle emerges from under the door
Like a serpent, it winds on the laminate floor
Underfoot, fragments of crockery crunch
Still stained with the leavings of long ago lunch
There's a rattle and scratching of verminous claws
The spoon never stirs so the *** never pours
There's a crack in the window that lets in the rain
Where it runs in a rivulet right down the pane
The mattress is rotten and rusted inside
Bacteria thrive and amoeba divide
The ceiling is sagging from waterlogged beams
And catches the sunlight with putrefied gleams
Like powder, the plaster is fast in retreat
With it's choking secretions, the air is replete
There's a trace of a life that was never fulfilled
Like a drink only sipped and then carelessly spilled
There's hope of a future and trinkets amassed
But frittered away and consigned to the past
The wires are old but the bulbs are still new
And pictures of vigor are hanging askew
As if from existence, vitality blinked
A carcass remaining though life is extinct
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 11:10 AM UTC
I need to be locked up, chained up,
STOPPED.
I'd do it to myself,
If I didn't think I'd find a devious way
to escape
Like chew off my own hand,
Or scream until someone called a locksmith.
Don't do it, for Gods' sake,
Find a way for it not to happen.
Find some ancient mouldy food in the fridge
And chow it down,
Call all your friends,
Find someone in crisis, that needs you by their side.
Turn on all the taps and flood the house,
Get blind drunk.
Feign pregnancy.
Just sit here
And read random poems
Until it's too late
Until it's too late.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
The shadow of long-ago noblest of souls
now ghosting
the battements of this
mouldy tumbledown palace moans still,
albeit silently
about the time there was wind
blowing out of control in her royal mind.
Oh there was storm but she held the reins
of the hurricane
that could strip grain bare
if she so wished, and he whom she loved
was there in the room
handsome and bold, she decided to speak.
She was never afraid of tomorrows yet
she trembled
beneath the weight of this
queenly affair, there was something she
had not known
for a very long time
and that now arose to entangle her heart.
The Queen turned of a sudden and asked
for a kiss, oh yes,
she then received the tenderest
of gentle embraces
which would not be forgotten for the rest
of her life, but was
she liked for herself as a person, or not.
Fate though dictated that she never marry
any one man
but be wedded to all,
and such a hard
immensity of role meant belonging soley,
being in charge of her nation
was where mission ever held precedence.
All knew their place, so she lifted her head
as royal a ******
as ever had been, and yet
she was always to ask in her deepest heart
did he kiss her
because she was his Queen,
just to gain favour or did he really mean it.
Elizabeth's shadowy ghost will ever ponder
that unanswered question
in this hazy place as she wanders awaiting
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 12:02 PM UTC
When the wasting embers redden the chimney-breast,
And Life’s bare pathway looms like a desert track to me,
And from hall and parlour the living have gone to their rest,
My perished people who housed them here come back to me.
They come and seat them around in their mouldy places,
Now and then bending towards me a glance of wistfulness,
A strange upbraiding smile upon all their faces,
And in the bearing of each a passive tristfulness.
‘Do you uphold me, lingering and languishing here,
A pale late plant of your once strong stock?’ I say to them;
‘A thinker of crooked thoughts upon Life in the sere,
An on That which consigns men to night after showing the day to them?’
‘—O let be the Wherefore! We fevered our years not thus:
Take of Life what it grants, without question!’ they answer me seemingly.
‘Enjoy, suffer, wait: spread the table here freely like us,
And, satisfied, placid, unfretting, watch Time away beamingly!’
1.2k