"nunnery" poems
Sister who conceived was thrown outta the nunnery
This disgrace fed the top feeds hence.
Shunning all her exemplary works at once.
But where did the well-read ladies lose reference?
THE BOOK had revealed it all right there,
But when history repeated itself...
with just a track from heaven missing
And so this mother raised a fatherless child.
But in history when the father was a Carpenter.
Here in time the father was a Father
Who continued to raise "patriarchy" on the altar!
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
She was told to get to a nunnery;
Warned not to get involved,
To step aside.
His love was inconstant as the moon,
Defined by worthless trinkets
And very poor poetry.
Instead,
She went lily picking,
Broke her mirror on the bank
(is that a belly bump sinking),
Shattered him to despondency.
It's time for poison and rapiers:
The royal family's dead;
The stench is lifting.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 10:42 AM UTC
How far is it?
How far is it now?
The gigantic gorilla interior
Of the wheels move, they appall me ---
The terrible brains
Of Krupp, black muzzles
Revolving, the sound
Punching out Absence! Like cannon.
It is Russia I have to get across, it is some was or other.
I am dragging my body
Quietly through the straw of the boxcars.
Now is the time for bribery.
What do wheels eat, these wheels
Fixed to their arcs like gods,
The silver leash of the will ----
Inexorable. And their pride!
All the gods know destinations.
I am a letter in this slot!
I fly to a name, two eyes.
Will there be fire, will there be bread?
Here there is such mud.
It is a trainstop, the nurses
Undergoing the faucet water, its veils, veils in a nunnery,
Touching their wounded,
The men the blood still pumps forward,
Legs, arms piled outside
The tent of unending cries ----
A hospital of dolls.
And the men, what is left of the men
Pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood
Into the next mile,
The next hour ----
Dynasty of broken arrows!
How far is it?
There is mud on my feet,
Thick, red and slipping. It is Adam's side,
This earth I rise from, and I in agony.
I cannot undo myself, and the train is steaming.
Steaming and breathing, its teeth
Ready to roll, like a devil's.
There is a minute at the end of it
A minute, a dewdrop.
How far is it?
It is so small
The place I am getting to, why are there these obstacles ----
The body of this woman,
Charred skirts and deathmask
Mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children.
And now detonations ----
Thunder and guns.
The fire's between us.
Is there no place
Turning and turning in the middle air,
Untouchable and untouchable.
The train is dragging itself, it is screaming ----
An animal
Insane for the destination,
The bloodspot,
The face at the end of the flare.
I shall bury the wounded like pupas,
I shall count and bury the dead.
Let their souls writhe in like dew,
Incense in my track.
The carriages rock, they are cradles.
And I, stepping from this skin
Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces
Step up to you from the black car of Lethe,
Pure as a baby.
3.6k
did you die,
Ophelia?
did you drown yourself?
I heard you looked
pretty and glorious
in your best dress
and with flowers
all ready to meet your Maker;
they tell me it was so beautiful
one could only cry to see you in the water…
did you **** yourself
darling Ophelia
because I told you to go join a nunnery?
did you think
your love’s words
meant a nunnery is the same as death
and so honored mad Hamlet’s words that way?
you could have chosen a drier type of death,
you know – though death by drowning,
dearest Ophelia,
dying in a stream and being wet
you save the living the trouble of washing you…
did you die, did you drown
darling Ophelia
thinking
Poor, poor Hamlet is gone mad…?
…thinking….
There is nothing left when a noble soul
goes insane…
did you die,
Ophelia?
did you drown yourself?
or is that just some new fashion you’ve invented
darling Ophelia
of taking a beauty bath?
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 1:21 AM UTC
By those soft tods of wool
With which the air is full;
By all those tinctures there,
That paint the hemisphere;
By dews and drizzling rain
That swell the golden grain;
By all those sweets that be
I’ the flowery nunnery;
By silent nights, and the
Three forms of Hecate;
By all aspects that bless
The sober sorceress,
While juice she strains, and pith
To make her philters with;
By time that hastens on
Things to perfection;
And by yourself, the best
Conjurement of the rest:
O my Electra! be
In love with none but me.
2.8k
do you have a dark secret
my darling
a terrible brain
instead of nice ***** pink
girl things
you ache for ****** insertions
cutting edges
menstrual swab mouth plug selfies
while you pretend all is well
loving Mother Mary
at the church with mummy
knowing
deep down inside
your a ***** *****
god dam the boys look good
do you have the courage
to admit it
first to your self
and then another
or shall you live
muzzled
as you finger *****
obsessed with flying *****
and devils teeth
pigs nuzzling mud and ****
strewn at a *** trough
you love playing with fire
hot toes and ****
oh yeah
turn up the ****** heat
your craven desires
to be a **** toy
and then the pleasure
break me break me
twisted broken
little **** toy
if you could only find me
your
Lover
Linker
Licker
Sucker
Thinker
Maker
Shaker
Breaker
******
Burner
Cutter
Shooter
Impaler
the one who glorifies
your *** hole
insinuates kisses that tear
who adores your
midnight whimpers
howls of pleasure
cries for help
no safe words
bending bending
broken
mutilation gasms
you smiling
succubus
hobbling over
for another hard blow
your **** drenched
******* zinging
from razors play
blood red rivulets
falling on pretty feet
while good people
dream of angels
you dream of
big cocked men
and merciless gang bangs
a sweet ***** of Babylon
hard justice
cruelties ecstatic
being beaten to death
by 100 buttered *****
legs and arms piled high
and **** and **** and more ****
your holy trinity
no you say
there must be some mistake
thats not you
your on gods leash
burying yourself
in black rocks
crypt of normalcy
your goody goody goody
time to cinch up
veil of the nunnery
hinge on the death mask
no honey
theres no gorilla
in your cave
crushing girlie's soul
pride will out shine all
til last bloom is no more
then learn laments fury
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 1:22 PM UTC
I remember the schoolgirl days
when Sister Anne led us out in rows of
blue and white
[mirrored in
the Dutchware my father painted with
quick, uniform strokes]
to the school garden,
pointed hands to plant the
violets.
We breathed their air,
colonies of their gold dust
settled in our lungs; sometimes
we carved out twin plantlets
to grow in our window.
And for all those years
I never saw the flaking autumn nights
when Sister Anne stooped,
nunnery cast behind a bush;
crushed a violet stem between
2nd and
3rd fingers
lit one end
smoked her eyes
blue.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
The mirror's reflection looked away from me today.
She knew my secret and my shame...
Even now I thought I could hide it from her.
There are certain dualities to monogamous promises
Because emotions are never made just for one.
If I knew I would have loved him then I would have hated him first.
If I knew I would hurt him...then I would have killed him before I could.
I've traced all my steps back into a wall.
The path that was there before has been blocked by my own hand.
I built it with every lie and every truth about myself,
And yet I stand dumbfounded at the choice I am to make.
I'm panting and wild eyed for an escape
And my captors are threatening for an answer.
Both breathing fantasies and lives that I want to see
And all they get from me is a choke.
A stammer.
A stutter of a choice made but not thought through.
I give them both each hand to have but the joke is on me...
Basic anatomy only gave me one heart.
And them as well.
They both gave theirs to me and now I'm overly supplied
And worrying over them spoiling if I leave them out too long.
Then I think to myself of a prose well said,
"Get thee to a nunnery."
And like a coward, I flee.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
I hardly breathe under a hodgepodge
of starched and creased clothes
my heart beats pell-mell
every time clocks take a halt
dragging one second behind
when batteries are low
(could this be a deviation towards red light?)
with straighter and longer fingers
I bow down worshiping
in front of the rising sun
the nunnery pelargonium
the red silk bookmark
forgotten inside the Book of Job
(rose hips will bloom upon my grave)
the empty space on my front
from where a star fell down
still burns with pride
I’m guilty like the deer youth
putting its muzzle damp with love
in the palm of his future hunter
(maybe time doesn’t roll on like a river)
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
Hamlet texts:
"2B r..."
Ophelia texts back"
"...NOT 2B babe!"
Then a text following on
her just sent text
"G'd nite sweety prince!"
she minces irony with sarcasm
"Yo, bitch...get thee to a nunnery!"
Hamlet always direct and cruder.
'SOMETHING'S ROTTEN IN THE STATE OF
THEIR RELATIONSHIP!"
THE NEWS OF THE WORLD
proclaims the next day.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 12:25 PM UTC
If you should sail for Trebizond, or die,
Or cry another name in your first sleep,
Or see me board a train, and fail to sigh,
Appropriately, I'd clutch my breast and weep.
And you, if I should wander through the door,
Or sin, or seek a nunnery, or save
My lips and give my cheek, would tread the floor
And aptly mention poison and the grave.
Therefore the mooning world is gratified,
Quoting how prettily we sigh and swear;
And you and I, correctly side by side,
Shall live as lovers when our bones are bare
And though we lie forever enemies,
Shall rank with Abelard and Heloise.
1.6k
How far is it?
How far is it now?
The gigantic gorilla interior
Of the wheels move, they appall me --- The terrible brains
Of Krupp, black muzzles
Revolving, the sound
Punching out Absence! Like cannon.
It is Russia I have to get across, it is some was or other.
I am dragging my body
Quietly through the straw of the boxcars.
Now is the time for bribery.
What do wheels eat, these wheels
Fixed to their arcs like gods,
The silver leash of the will ----
Inexorable. And their pride!
All the gods know destinations.
I am a letter in this slot!
I fly to a name, two eyes.
Will there be fire, will there be bread?
Here there is such mud.
It is a trainstop, the nurses
Undergoing the faucet water, its veils, veils in a nunnery, Touching their wounded,
The men the blood still pumps forward,
Legs, arms piled outside
The tent of unending cries ----
A hospital of dolls.
And the men, what is left of the men
Pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood
Into the next mile,
The next hour ----
Dynasty of broken arrows!
How far is it?
There is mud on my feet,
Thick, red and slipping. It is Adam's side,
This earth I rise from, and I in agony.
I cannot undo myself, and the train is steaming.
Steaming and breathing, its teeth
Ready to roll, like a devil's.
There is a minute at the end of it
A minute, a dewdrop.
How far is it?
It is so small
The place I am getting to, why are there these obstacles ---- The body of this woman,
Charred skirts and deathmask
Mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children.
And now detonations ----
Thunder and guns.
The fire's between us.
Is there no place
Turning and turning in the middle air, Untouchable and untouchable.
The train is dragging itself, it is screaming ---- An animal
Insane for the destination,
The bloodspot,
The face at the end of the flare.
I shall bury the wounded like pupas,
I shall count and bury the dead.
Let their souls writhe in like dew,
Incense in my track.
The carriages rock, they are cradles.
And I, stepping from this skin
Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces
Step up to you from the black car of Lethe, Pure as a baby.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 10:35 PM UTC
Under a lawn, than skies more clear,
Some ruffled roses nestling were:
And, snugging there, they seem’d to lie
As in a flowery nunnery:
They blush’d, and look’d more fresh than flowers
Quicken’d of late by pearly showers,
And all because they were possess’d
But of the heat of Julia’s breast:
Which, as a warm and moisten’d spring,
Gave them their ever-flourishing.
1.4k
Consider poetry
& all of its complicated forms.
Then strip it
of all rules and restrictions.
Now, consider the subject matter.
Free verse
would not be free enough
for the words I would choose
to describe
what I would like to do to you.
Maybe these types of instincts
weren't meant to be cheapened
with velvety phrasing
& sumptuous language.
You see,
I have this hypothesis
that poetry
would be just as effective
translated into raw action.
*(They really should have
shipped me off
to the nunnery
when they had the chance.)*
But they sent me to college instead—
where I learned
how to properly test
my hypotheses.
**Hot **** do I love research.**
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 3:30 PM UTC
To Lucasta, Going To The Wars by Richard Lovelace
Tell me not (Sweet) I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 11:32 AM UTC
HAMLET HACKED
Hamlet texts:
"2B r..."
Ophelia texts back"
"...NOT 2B babe!"
Then a text following on
her just sent text
"G'd nite sweety prince!"
she minces irony with sarcasm
"Yo, bitch...get thee to a nunnery!"
Hamlet always direct and cruder.
'SOMETHING'S ROTTEN IN THE STATE OF
THEIR RELATIONSHIP!"
THE NEWS OF THE WORLD
proclaims the next day.
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 3:55 AM UTC
i was romanticising her genitalia like oysters,
i know the boys in school thought
of fish first, but the same boys didn’t go
to brothels and seen prostitutes oil up;
come to think of it, given the above facts
i’m going to romanticise her genitalia with leeches
from now on - and in reverse? as for me?
well plenty of skyscrapers... boring...
comparing her’s to leeches fits the strategy;
and once, and once a boy of sixteen could
buy a ***** mag in a shop in Ypres without
the female shop owner looking at him like some pervert.
Ypres? yeah, school trip, visiting world war one trenches,
enjoying the atmosphere running in them like a
crazy dispatches boy trying to **** some chlorine on the sly,
which i think is the scary bit, but don’t worry,
we had female troopers with us, so we could shoot and ****
and not worry about the infidelity of our girls back home
to some shady ‘enry ‘hinaski.
but from what else i can remember, six of us broke off
from the rest and decided to go to a brothel,
but being schoolboys we didn’t have enough money
or were simply not convincing material for a free one with
the belgian beauties -
i had to wait a few more years before i had enough dough
but then it was with a ukrainian beauty in poland
after i realised that the university i attended was a nunnery.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
i want to live in a nunnery
and devote my life to something i will never understand.
at least i can just accept that i will never understand god
instead of trying to continually make sense of the world.
i envy those whose lives are one whole volume -
unabridged, and yet
still manage to fit from one cover to the other.
while the rest of us, full of breaks and pauses
and multiple volumes
that are either too tragic to print,
or too convoluted to put into words in the first place.
my life is a series of stops and gos,
of commas and semicolons.
infiltrated by question marks,
interspersed with the rare exclamation mark.
i'm just waiting for that full stop,
that 'the end' inked in your sweat that i
will never taste the salt of again.
i am tired of false starts,
of sputtering gas that fuel embers
and never really catch fire.
god only knows how many times i have burned
while trying to put out flames
that were never hot enough
to keep us going.
there are so many question marks and empty spaces in this world
that i wonder if they are ever meant to be filled.
the more i think about them, the more i am convinced
that they're not.
and i find that it doesn't matter,
because i'll never be whole myself.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
we slept all
bundled up in
beds too tiny
meant for
one
limbed and
twiny under
breathy blanket
quilted by
your mom
in pokey dorm rooms
loud and
clambersome
we slept all
upside down
in princess bed
of brass ornate
and painted
ceramic of
flowers pink
and dainty
pulled and
rubbled out
from rummage
sale in
somebody's
front yard
enclosed by walls
of wood
a-seep with
rugged deep
grotesque koala
gnarl
we slept all
pulled out long
on foamy
futon
slats a-stick
in ribs and
jutting out
to wailing
whooping
siren sounds
and tv screams
and chopper
chops
and others'
midnight
lovers' fights
a-pound and
hot and grimy
we slept all
lofted up
and alcoved
cozy
high in castle
attic
nunnery
monastic
circled round
by clouds
and crows and
osprey
wings a-soar
wings a-flap
dizzying up our
weathered dreams
with
cat a-curled and
purring at
our tender feet
and farback
memories
swirling sweet
of bygone nights
of bygone plights
of sleeps
slept other
places
© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
Ye olde Yo-cum, advises get thee to a nunnery of trees, leaves of sunlight scorched sunrises and sunsets to clear the cobwebs and recall more fully the good stuff, like in Oregun,
allow it to resonant via ****** shots of temporal, but seasonal natural harmony, a more regulat visitor of the upcoming comes of good weather and the life by the water, on a tiny islansd, long lazy days, and a lessening of the
mental haze-ing
punctuating life with long walks and teardrops of tears, poetry suggestives, will be dropping from icy white cumulus every day clouds, moving to uncover the elaborate and running trills of colutara words lurking within, no more the blaring horns of trafficked sounds of First Ave., trucks fighting to de-liver-er the urgencies of consumption (a most excellent disease) and the potpourri symphony of marching bands blaring of ambulances, fire trucks, and the EXTRAordinary impatience of horn blaring taxis up and down York Ave., dropping off patients 24-7 at a laundry list of "specialized" Hospitals with "views of the river in every room"
I miss the quietude noises of summer breezes tickling minds, trees frothing a
cappucino sun heated breeze to stir the blush and rush of words forming faster than the mind can absorb;
alas, alas, this same mind can never fully squeeze out the sins of memories of winter's travails and yet, the mere suggestion of my old friends embracing me, sun, wind, green landscapes, sea and land animals coming to greet the human interlopers makes me all stirred up, like watching white milk in black coffee spread its cooling affection and lightening the black; aerate and mixing the perptual continuum of my ever slowly chilling bloodstream streaming to mind
and I sigh, for many reasons...but in my heart, I am, and remain, forever a summer man...
aerate and mix and I sigh, for many reasons...
Absent brain surgery, the mind wanders following the sun's trajectory, wither?
Mar 29, 2025
Mar 29, 2025 at 7:40 AM UTC
*primarily because of daylight, and younger brother's
song: evil and harm; and last night.*
you know what i keeping conjuring in my head?
stapling the cheat's kippah of a pope,
to his head... and then tugging him by it through
the streets of rome...
i'm way past jokes,
i'd literally staple the hierarchical to old alec baldwin's
head, and then tow him, drag him... through
the streets of rome...
i mean... you make the pope a saint?
well... that's a first, why would popes be saints
if they can't decide upon being a pope, emeritus?
pope ratzinger (benedict XVI) is the only saint...
with what grace! with what grace he settled
for a nunnery!
fuck me! but he's not considered a saint!
that's awful, really, that's absolute filth!
oh yeah... double point: the pope's "kippah"
(so called) -
like these fake jews ruling over us with an iron
grip? ever notice the ****** on the top of it?
no? never noticed the ****** on the "kippah"?
it's not even a ******* kippah by then,
but a....
béret français:
and if you're into linguistics, try these alternatives:
bə'rā (bé ray) thrą'sé
bé'ré φρąsay -
parle poo?
qui, parle poo, anglais - on-a-glare...
with! with! with a glare!
oh ******* 'ell...
the french aesthetic for spelling: λoγoς...
and then the actual pronounciation, i.e. the φoνoς?
miles apart!
they're not as bad as the english, but they're ******* worse
than king arthur's sons.
the comparison? you see an aeroplane in the sky...
and then you sort of see the shoom five miles back...
you have to remember two languages...
the french and the english are naturally "bilingual" -
it's not that you say one thing and mean another,
you have to ******* write one thing, and say another:
so the λoγoς is the aeroplane... and the shoom?
that's the φoνoς... or the once fabled television
static being the remnants of the big bang.... well, isn't
that an ingenious name for the beginning of everything...
big... bang... and a ******* firecracker whilé you're at it.
so yeah, if you never experienced an asiatic invasion
akin to a mongol horde... you will not have clear, distinct
syllable distinctions... you'll be like a vampire saying:
blah, blah blah, blah.... or bleh bleh bleh, bleh;
minus the hatch? hetch? hay't'ch? blá, blá blá....
alt. blé blé blé, blé.
considering style though? reading heidegger
is, seriosuly, sometimes akin to
watching liberace play the trombone;
all those italics and non-footnote dittoes...
a bit like watching an apple balancing on a watermelon
and calling it tango.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 12:56 PM UTC
*only with the oeuvre: BURN! slayer's mandatory suicide: count the bullet-holes in your head; ***** by machinegun fire; suicide, suicide, suicide, suicide.*
the anglophone world is so unfrequented
by the dualism of keeping one's
native tongue while establishing a
wordsmith perfection of an acquired
tongue...
you know how in see the failures
of assimilation? not in the terrorist,
rather, in their harem's worth of
nunnery...
and backlog of bad ideas...
rancoids of agent orange debacles,
mirroring the current ********** affairs
of the lesser luster-year...
abhorrent ******** koo nee see qua
kuu nee see qua - call that japanese
for variety all you wish...
it still spell out hollywood; ditto:
noah now dies.
problem: a slayer oeuvre -
south of heaven,
before black sabbath was all led zeppelin
but when the native tongue comes,
you're inviting your cousins...
you want to divide the atom,
why not dividing the quanta,
or the kilimanjaro?
can i ask in latin
how little actually means
when you state quantum: how much?
can i ask: so by dividing an atom
we get hiroshima...
what do get obelus quantum?
prior to: how little?
qua questio pro vel qua sors occultus -
as being a question for either,
or, for...
i'll just nut-crack your
******** like the catholic priests / theology
teachers treated me:
kept me in the dark, never taught me
any latin,
blah blah blah, blah,
and a blah later who the **** cares,
the pope sure as **** doesn't...
qua questio pro vel qua sors
occultus is as much latin to him a she latin
you just said is to your: saudi:
a ******* ibrahim judeo mel-frázī:
blah-blah-blee-bi-bi...
**** burns, **** stays oriental
by the limits of ending up in mecca;
sorry to have to add: hey presto!
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 8:45 PM UTC
As a lactose intolerant
cow whirring lion eye zing
dual (Banjo playing) Manichean
("FAKE") keen man womanizing,
faux nymphomaniac wannabe,
I cone only scream about visualizing
nip pulling and getting a breast
of Hani La (vanilla),
this sweltering unfreezing
Wednesday while mouth
watering chiefly hanker
for milch of
human kindness, which titillating
fanciful fandom fantasies
skinny dipping into soliloquizing
whet dreams har made
sadly, simply, and sorely realizing
test tickles quizzing
noggin merely figment
of fertile imagination pricking
prurient potent plentifully oozing
naughty salacious, licentious,
and felicitous evocations pulsating
hypnotically invoking
trance send dint overriding
gloriously flirtatious escapade needling
my over active
thought processes monopolizing
ability to focus attention trying
to compose joyous leavening,
sans jump starting
massaging, and kneading
dormant limp libido liberating
panting allied force,
which seems tubby
in axis Sybil for Nick -
A.Ting, thus Celeb Basie,
frantically, gingerly, and
haphazardly kickstarting
***** riot with this feeble attempt
for a firm hut heave action,
one docile male member
devoid of livingsocial,
hence aye ****
sitter ring joining
a nunnery, which
would be habit chilly unfitting,
and very un convent
shin null for a poetic ending!
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 2:10 PM UTC
.
O
p ph p
h e l h
e i a e
l Op l
i h e i
a l i a
O O p O
p h e p
h l h
e i e
l a l
~
i
a
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 9:50 AM UTC