"mules" poems
The mules you wear
Are tread bare
From walking over me.
But when I'm treated
Like something you'd scrape
From the sole of your shoes,
I know it's time to walk.
But thanks for wearing flats,
Over your stilettos.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 7:50 AM UTC
the witches
they don't take no ****
feminists with a wand
made from a femur
wrapped in ***** hair,
fingernails, and spit
no
not good little passive girls
although amused by a good spanking
for laughs that titillate
from a red wicked dicked old man
with slippery fireballs
like a spicy cherry pepper
that slurps filths coves
through a black tongue
and open-mawed bite
Femdom's queens
oiled torsos and bond fires
drenched ornaments for laughing snakes
that spread like spider webs
while the whips flash licks
hells tender blood kiss
insatiable prayers
and
************ rituals
mixed like bones in broth
with intricate sigils and saliva red
menstruum her holy sacrament
that shapeshift crones into young girls prancing
and bind water to stones
her spell can crack your skull
like a mules kick
and melt your eyes
like nuclear skies
no
the witches
they don't take no ****
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 2:15 PM UTC
It was not, by any means, a loss of faith;
Indeed, her devotion was a boundless, unfettered thing
Beyond proscription, beyond rote chant and catechism,
And what she found as a novitiate
Were shuttered gates and gossipy confessionals,
Standoffish priests, pig-eyed and pinch-lipped
Sisters who thought life’s commerce
No more than mechanical prayer and spotless linens,
The whole enterprise
Smacking of the exclusion of Heaven’s bounty.
So she demurred when the time came to take her orders,
And she returned to the world of pavements and lesser pieties,
Free to seek God on park swings and barstools,
In pleasures of the pastoral and the profane,
Though her faith is no Dionysian walkabout,
As she is passionate to the cusp of maniacal
When it comes to the Book of James’ admonition upon works;
She is often found among the sisters she once tiptoed alongside
At food pantries and clothing drives
(She is scrupulous about ministering to only secular needs,
As the Bishop is not happily disposed towards those
Who choose not to take the veil,
And the specter of excommunication is a prospect
Too awful to contemplate)
Afterwards clambering onto some vaguely roadworthy MTA bus
Back to her studio apartment in Green Island,
Where she often walks down to the Erie Canal lock nearby,
Praying for those who have travelled near and upon the water,
Convenience store clerks and ragged Irishmen fleeing famine,
Feral kittens and insufficiently mourned mules.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
A duo as diverse as can be found anywhere
but, once we were together, full of stories to share
Laughter and hardship made us both who we are
And now, to find those two people, is like roping a star
Baseball and cub scouts, standing in as your dad
These were some of the best times that I ever had
I wait for the doorbell, hoping that's where you'll stand
And that the burdens developed are gone with your hand
Two hard headed old mules,
As stubborn as the other
We've lost years of our past
And missed times as a brother
Two hard headed old mules
Growing old with regret
Both resistant to change
And ..what we'll never get
We'd stand with each other in times all gone by
We don't know how to fix this, but, someone should try
We're both so much older and wiser by now
This needs to be fixed up, but neither knows how
Years of missed laughter and growing as friends
Is extended each day, and we should make ammends
Our lives are much different, that much we know
But, we still sons and both brothers, with time left to go
Two hard headed old mules,
As stubborn as the other
We've lost years of our past
And missed times as a brother
Two hard headed old mules
Growing old with regret
Both resistant to change
And...what we'll never get
I wait for the doorbell, and know it's not you
I'm not sure if I found you, just what I would do
The sins of the father, should be put to rest
For our years full of laughter were some of the best
Fishing, and talking, sharing each others dreams
Have been wiped from our minds, at least that's how it seems
We'll always be brothers, right now just in name
We're just stubborn old mules, still playing the game
Two hard headed old mules,
As stubborn as the other
We've lost years of our past
And missed times as a brother
Two hard headed old mules
Growing old with regret
Both resistant to change
And... we're not done yet!!
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
Eats the lovers head after coitus
Something tells me a black widow is better
Dogs get stuck together
is that a style?
Pigs can ****** for 30 minutes
little corkscrews
mules can't reproduce do they have fun?
seahorse males carry the pregnancy to term
penguins take turns incubating
in extreme conditions
humans get joint custody
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 10:44 PM UTC
Oh, what I would give to be nine and benign
Because as I grow older the flow of concepts grows heavier
And swirls around me rapidly
Creating a whirlpool
I can feel the world pull
In the gravity of ideas
Given weight by words
That brings down birds
We look up only to see Jupiter
And we live on the Earth's back
Weighed down like mules by it's presence
Carrying conflicting considerations
Ideas inflicting incineration
The rain precipitating from the clouds in our minds
Develops a lofty humidity within humanity
And the leaves on the trees point downward
Erecting walls
To trap us in our gravity garrison
Plotting ways to crush each other
Time becomes the most effective method
As we wait to weigh down wanderers
With a point of view
In our gravitational pull
To make them our mule
Carrying our concepts
To strengthen our impact on the maelstrom
As our brain gets bolder
The water gets colder
But this ocean keeps spinning
Keeping the frigid water from freezing
And the gravity of what we think
Is the gravity that makes us sink
From concept cradle to gravity grave
Tranquil transcendence is what we crave
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 8:12 AM UTC
The rear axles hold the kick of twenty Missouri *********
It is in the records of the patent office and the ads there is twenty horse power pull here.
The farm boy says hello to you instead of twenty mules-he sings to you instead of ten span of mules.
A bucket of oil and a can of grease is your hay and oats.
Rain proof and fool proof they stable you anywhere in the fields with the stars for a roof.
I carve a team of long ear mules on the steering wheel-it's good-by now to leather reins and the songs of the old mule skinners.
3k
Haitian style independence
no more whiteness at all
type independence
playing three rhythms at once
independence
blackness take over the entire
American sports and political world
independence
Went south to join the Seminoles
fight against the colonists
killer abolitionists
dangerous and feared
independence
economic
the beginning of the union
no more free labor
regulate that
government
paper bag 40 acres
and we are not ******* mules
independence
organized black militants killing
burning plantations of whiteness
yearning independence
captivating white audiences
nationwide
scurrying to the legal system
to constrict the laws
make more weapons
make more conflict
make it more dangerous to be black
independence
You will never find us again
whiteness
that independence
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
Dewey Dell Bundren
Had her baby
And ran off to college
Worked single-mother hours
To keep her ****** apartment
And never missed a class
She married the first theology professor she could find
The kind
With the horn rimmed glasses
Drinking imported scotch
Discussing literature around the fire at night
She got a degree
At Northeastern
High honors in history
She never knew all those books were about her
And the people she came from
The places
Had their stories told
In the pages
Shaped everything she had ever known
She was grateful
For her history
And once a year made the trip
Back to Jefferson
Mississippi
Put flowers on her mother's grave
Still tasting
the bananas
Hearing herself saying
"Hadn't you ruther"
Still hearing Jewel
Cursing softly
******* you, ******* you"
"You sweet sonofabitch"
Still seeing the mules
Swollen
Floating
Bellies up
Past Cash and the coffin
Leg broken
In that biblical spring flood
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
I'm going to go through with it
This just has to be done
It's all going to stop
Chasing our tail around
For The ****** Dollar
It's all the same in the end
Passionate and proud
At the burst of a cloud
Rain falls in whispers
All today and into the night
When the wild are on the verge
Of some kind of taming
Who cares who you are blaming
How much does it matter that some are unaccountable
Not that you can get away with ****** and wars
When it's time to take your artwork
And put it in a frame
The picture is yours
It's the painter who takes the claim
When it's time to die
What's in it for the stars
Maybe a big wake and
Miles of lined up long electric cars
The mountain's shadow
Keeps the place cool in the summer
Not 'till the volcano spews it's guts
Will you lay down and burn
Or vaporize just in time
It's over with the death of the Star
'What is and was will be bleaker and bleaker
A place you'd turn your head away from
When we have this chance to change into living without borders
What does that mean a shot of the The New World Order
An evocation of imaginations of and for the somewhat rich and the richer
A full and complete Police State, militia walk the street, Their bidding done
No way to travel but by foot
And the odd old bicycle
Horse and mules being bred
To save the soles on your leather boots
All the waters contaminated all the crops hollow not fit for an animal
We go this way or we go that
Who will drag us down or
Who will bring us up
Vibrational influences could save us all
We can't keep trying to tell ourselves that the Government
Has our best interests at heart because they don't
If there is war among the classes it's a way to distract us
But it needs to be done and I'm bringing my 'A' game
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
Our world is but a grain of sand,
A grain of sand in an endless beach of worlds.
Stretching forever, along a rippling sea,
An infinite expanse of energy.
Beside this beach, unseen and hidden,
Obscured from our dimension,
Lie endless amounts of shifting sand.
Shifting sand and water grand.
Some are different, varied realms,
But all are vast and endless planes.
Planes with unique laws and rules,
As different as are cats and mules.
Our universe is but a single speck,
A tiny dot in the vast unknown.
And yet this earth is hardly spent,
For it it has life, significant
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 4:48 PM UTC
flesh smirks cautiously
silent beehives squelching elk
leaps glumly, mules snarl
bluebird builds, rigid
foundlings disappear lamely
incarnations peck
raw conjurers acts
devious shady agile
rosemary boasts, stare
starflower hovers
depression gives birth snidely
harps romping mustang
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 5:22 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
We're either a nation of cowards
Or a nation of fools
When our kids shelter in place
Inside of their schools
And our president breaks
All of the rules
And locks children in cages
Which proves that he's cruel
We're either a nation of cowards
Or a nation of fools
When criminals are pardoned
As part of the tools
That the president uses
To protect his footstools
Which he bandies about
Like they were precious jewels
We're either a nation of cowards
Or a nation of fools
Who proceed blindly
Like a wagon train of mules
Who are being driven
By an assortment of ghouls
Who push our buttons
And change our molecules
We're either a nation of cowards
Or a nation of fools
Who resist climate change
And biofuels
Those who mention them
He simply overrules
With little resistance
From those he ridicules
Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2019. All rights reserved.
Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 10:52 PM UTC
It's such a quaint notice to understand
The very point on why Friendships are made
And you in Cheer, though Special beforehand
Was just a Concern I had to obey
This thrice on Crop's Best; And opened before
Such that Stubborn Mules fail to socialise
They only eat grass - aloof and demure
And a Good Partner most unqualified
We shared the News once. That a Good Exchange
Of Certain Facts the Telly won't disclose
How frustrating when we need a wide range
And once we did just adds to our Remorse.
Freakish Things they are, Roaches in the Brain
Unless we sweep this, infest they remain.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC
carrying Kalashnikovs on their backs,
the rebel mules have panic in their eyes
and resting at the back?
fear filled pupils that dilate
with every corpse seen vacating itself
of tissue and blood,
smell the perfume of gun barrels
and those lonely enough to be culled,
picked off by a trained eye
and a government lie and
a man laid down in an apartment block out of sight up high.
civilian fathers laying spread on the back of a flatbed,
cinderblock walls that offer no protection but that of protecting the dead,
sharpen another knife for another internet viral video of another guy without a head
and finally, cat walk model rebels wearing beaded shrapnel necklaces, gorgeous and chrome red.
and they’ll try give them away around,
a daily sound of the everyday
so they can have a price that they can pay
for the ordinary,
for the sane,
for America’s definition of the lame.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 12:44 PM UTC
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**•in your world, your man with the addiction rules • he's
all fists with a mind of a hundred mules• daily he takes
to the bottle • then atte ntion to you, he asserts
his ugly mettle•i know he is pummelling you
out of your senses• you can't hide your
tears... and brui- ses behind those**
darkened lenses•
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 10:42 AM UTC
we three kings are having a jar,
bearing gifts we stole from the spar,
money counting, profits mounting,...
selling em in the bar.
ooh, ooh, car of wonder,pile of *****
pinched it from a building site,
we proceeded, they don't need it,
taxi's dear this time of night.
we three kings are shy of a goal,
work for a living is selling your soul,
we got money, think it's funny,
tuesday we sign on the dole.
hoodie laughs at working fools,
mocking men that play to rules,
we pay taxes, he relaxes,
he's the king, and we the mules.
Dec 20, 2010
Dec 20, 2010 at 9:01 AM UTC
The tribes trapped by a paradigm pair
A parasitic co-dependent braid
Ever dance the hate minuet so fair
And the dank hollowed halls drink the noise made
Cast as evil those who would break the spell
Powers fell curse upon you whom it rules
In patience we await the dead hand tell
They bank on that ancient snare, kindly cruel
To one day break that bank is our intent
To see freedom ever free is our goal
Too much control is our most fond lament
With bread and butter you would steal our soul
The mob owns the mules & they their riders
A ball peen hammer, still the anvil rings
For each Goliath there comes a slider
Tho’ framing hammers bang the 16’s sing
Since only you matter, then here’s the deal:
If it’s all relative, nothing is real
… including you.
Floyd Alsbach
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 6:49 AM UTC
Flames flew from Salem to Soweto,
Fanned by freedom's winds
In sails stubborn like mules
Seeking the rights of thoroughbreds
And the thrill of the trifecta;
But in the land of speed
Horses and zebras reign
And the mules,
They dream of pristine barns
With piles of fresh hay
And corn...
Dry, white, primed
For revolution
by fire
Like crimson race-cards
And threadless black tires...
~ P (#burnfree)
12/20/2013
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 10:58 AM UTC
the CIA will never make the money off ******
it made off *******
******* is for parties
dance clubs
good times in social settings
****** not so much
dark alleys with ***** dealers
selling black tar
to hopeless souls
Mexican mules with **** cavities
brimming
carrying kilos into Nogales
or maybe Calexico
bow legged and sweating
just 35 more trips and sweet little Consuela
can be an American
until Trump gets his wall –
article after article relaying tragedy
the poor, lost in addiction
desperately seeking a coping mechanism
something to stem the tide of despair
and general malaise
dead in their prime
over a twenty sack
and low self-worth….
many friends and family this same tale…
some folks heritage is in ranching,
thousands of head of cattle
driven across the open plains
grandfather to grandson,
uncle and cousin….
others,
political dynasty
papa congressman
and auntie judge
but not mine –
the crest of my tree looks like the biohazard symbol
as generations of drug addicts litter the undergrowth
their weight attempting to hold me
lock me into familial history
unfortunately or fortunately
my will, and recognition of god’s power
flowing within me, as it..
I am my own master
and free to fashion my branches
to whatever my liking desires –
undercover government agents line street corners
whispering illusionary tales of release
stories of becoming void of pain
parables relating a free mind
to personal freedom
through chemical alterations
I whisper back
“I bet my **** is delicious,
wanna taste?” –
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 12:35 PM UTC
There's a broken banjo in my birthright,
It was tied to were I wonder
Hidden between John Henry's Hammer,
and the hobbling post on Humble Hill.
I've walked this far on the blame in my grit,
pushed to by tailwind sunsets,
So kick me a mea culpa kneejerk
hardball, and sandstone my stonewall.
Forget storms in the cradle,
I found dustbowls in my waiting room,
Chasing rabbits in a wordwind,
plinking at the vermin as
they rolled into town with the rest of us,
***** but soaring, Carrion pigeon in the clouds
not getting caught up in admiring the reflections
in all the silver linings,
Just... Flying.
narcissus couldn't manage
the glory of wax work wings.
But Icarus knew real beauty.
He felt it.
When he hit the ground
The heat of floating zeroes
blasting his broken bones
into the obsidian of desert floors...
See, angels can be as jealous as God.
Anywhere can be as lonley as the long plains
of Kansas,
Empty canvas trampled by dog and pony shows
as cowboys rode mules muddy miles
through ****** brambles
to drive herds of bulldogs and lions
from the hunting grounds of dragons
to the safety of home
from High, High, Horses.
Under the shadows of eagles.
But the devil never waits at the crossroads, people.
He lays in lies.
And six shooters,
Under Dog Collars,
with the blood and scars
of everyday life,
and the beaten bodies of
seraphim, fallen to **** the well,
with their phoenix ash.
Sheep and shepherds are never friends,
Ones happiness is the other's hunger.
Dont get me wrong, wolves get hungry too,
But at least their honest about the arrangement.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
It's really hard to see the world when you cant even leave the house.
No im not staring at your tit's just admiring the uhh fabric of that blouse.
Mickey mouse sure is a ***** since he started doing crack.
Put minnie out on the street.
Daisy's out there to ?
im not even gonna say what I seen her do with pluto
but i want my money back.
Crystal **** and coffee starbucks really has changed.
Really Tommy stop slipping your sister the tongue.
Really dont look at it as lynched prisoner why not think of it as
well hung.
Im sorta demented and well just not right
everyone admits.
I hope this isnt to forward but hey can i see your tit's
You can swear you were just drunk sweetheart but Gonzo
never forgets.
Hey thank God for night vision and my sugar's drunken mother.
Boy naked twister sure is awkward.
Watching three mules with sister Sara and my wife's
kinda well sensitive brother.
Im one of a kind thank the lord.
A pervert of the ages.
Gotta thank my mom and dad and jack dainels
such magic was created that night in back of
the sizzler in that old ford.
Im a old G and not the spot.
Drinking till my liver kicks out.
Heaven isnt my style besides everyone knows
its in hell my wicked mind shall forever rot.
He should be banned every pen named
complaining time of the month pussy submits.
If ya hate me your wasting your time sugar britches.
Keep on talkin cause kidies Gonzo never forgets
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 1:10 AM UTC
I feel like nothing. something wanting to want anything. failing to find meaning. Diving deep inside my being with nothing to be seen.
A switch with no on button. A battery one-sided confiding within. Coal with no need for diamonds. A clam spitting out sand and diving. A bull running away from red. And a mule who hates other mules.
A pebble dropped in my puddle.
A well is all dried and set aflame with dead leaves. A flower for a fire and a cold flame buried by a ghost. hopes for the past in a meaningless circle digging deeper with each motion.
The pebble sank and met another pebble at the bottom where they ground each other into non-existence.
You have involuntarily decided my fate. it's okay. Nothing is a team effort. We win alone and die alone. A nothing. Aspiring nothingness. Nearly impossible. Not even plausible. I desire myself. And the things that I love are always hurt.
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 5:22 AM UTC
Scratching at veneer,
prying pillars
off the tower buried
climbing high.
Endure.
Creating past frames
of doubt, of rationale
on the tower buried
climbing high.
Stain.
Squatting inside
senile mammoths, gnawing mules lie,
strip-mine brilliance
for harpoons
in the tower buried
climbing high.
Besides…
That rope is tied to our waist/waste,
tangled mess.
Heaving barbed streamers
into tight corners
through windows
that maul the sky.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC
The oil's spilled; the weekend’s spent.
Battering rams adorn our newest cars.
The coral's bleached, our girders bent,
and as the ash falls, drones fly on Mars.
The poker chips clank on the felt.
Sweltering mules sway drunk in bars.
A toddler falls, receives a welt,
and as the fires grow, drones fly on Mars.
I could not bear to speak the truth
when you had asked me where went the stars.
A cow sits in the kissing booth,
and as the sky blackens, drones fly on Mars.
The wind has fangs; my heart now sags.
A feral pig grunts to mass applause,
Now childish men hoist cryptic flags,
and as the crops fail, drones fly on Mars.
Aug 19, 2023
Aug 19, 2023 at 2:35 PM UTC