"papal" poems
If I expect to be a born
again christian, I would
be hoping that they got
rid of the fish, unless,
that is, my mother was a
Mermaid, in which case,
a Caesarian section is the
only other option I could
consider, now that I am
100% Herbivore, avoiding
*********** completely,
even on Mardi Gras, when
Cath O' Licks, have a Papal
exemption on Fat Tuesday.
Jan 27, 2019
Jan 27, 2019 at 9:16 AM UTC
It is where it is, not where you are...
Switched this week from ice coffee,
Back to hot, on September Thirteenth.
The chain busted,
No Adirondack throne, no audiences of
Southbound geese, my new ******** fans,
No **** arrogant deer
Pitying the stupid humans,
Occupying their lands.
No racing rabbits, crickets underfoot,
And in the house,
No raccoons bigger than a colt.
No just living, breathing eyes, seeing paradiso,
No place for god to come visit to chill,
And ask for atonement for chemical weapons
No bay waves soulfully soothing,
No sun, no cherries by command,
The breeze, voila, a nasty cold wind,
The bath-waves ain't no **** substitute,
Not-Near good enough,
No matter how hard I splash.
**** right I was worried.
I lifted up my eyes to the mountains—
From where will my poetry come from?
From men.
From women.
From you-reminding me,
It is where it is, not where you are...
It is here in the unread tragedies,
The wails so plain, repetitive,
The screams that never cease, the
Poems, yours, that deserve ten thousand likes,
But die ignored, despite, my best efforts.
It is in the newspapers,
Chroniclers of our daily,
Inhumanity,
And papal words, that lift a jew's heart,
That poems get birthed.
It is in the woman's dictums
About doing this and that
And where that is most preferred.
Point made. Quitting time.
It is where it is, not where you are...
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:37 AM UTC
A Sunday and she will not eat
cabbage brew
or the plethora of stale mush
stuffed within
her trusty rusty biscuit tin
even tea stained
and netted dishcloths wane
like fossil flies
on toffee streamers that were baptized
with gravey drips
of the Irish stew from her whitewashed crypt
and papal’s sprogg
plays housies with the dog
we keep shtum .
When threadbare ears are in the room
cull the conversation cull
Go Moe less scale, leather hull
until our hallowed family makes
familiar curiosity and lemon cakes
she’s broke down so give her a push
Maybe ninety two.
It’s Monday and she will not eat.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
The air feels heavy in the daylight.
Morning noise falls through the cracks.
Like unwelcome guests.
I do nothing.
But breathe in. Inhale. Corrode
Heretic lungs weighed down by sighs.
Combust. Purify. In fumes of nicotine
And smoke of papal white. Aware
Each breath burning away at life.
Eyes that see no oversight.
Curtained in ******* light,
Fade out of view
The room is shun away
The world lies flourish
I have made an enemy
Out of the Day.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
Joseph's sons are still in Egypt
All is not fulfilled as yet
The elder child, Manasseh
calls himself a Christian these days
and still seems mightier than Ephraim
as foreseen by Israel
but has this small problem
keeping Father's commandments
having been suckled on
papal leaven
with that false gospel
girlfriend he likes to call
prosperity ...
I'd rather remain a gentile, thanks
Invite me to the wedding
I'll come visit every Sukkot
He really needs his younger brother
to come of age and stop fussing ...
to stop copy-catting Judah
and feed Yeshua's lost sheep
from that double redeemer's portion
Jacob blessed him with ...
that which speaks of BenDavid
and the keeping of true Torah
which is the tittles and jots
'Jesus' said would remain
a blessing till all is fulfilled
till His Torah shines forth from Zion
once again
Jealous Judah awaits him too
Prays each day the prodigal will come home
and tell him who Meshiach is
There really are no Gentiles or Greeks
except in diaspora
No, not even Jesus freaks
Just a faithful, obedient remnant
in Jacob's trouble
going to the promised land
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 8:38 PM UTC
I truly fail to understand
Why it’s gotten out of hand.
It seems so very odd
There are so many God
Is supposed to have ordained
Some aren’t even trained.
There is an absolute dearth
Of an actual true rebirth
In the revivifying blood of Jesus.
It’s almost like allergic sneezes.
Pastures full of pastors.
Priests and beasts.
Defectors and rectors.
Pickers and vicars.
Bleachers full of preachers.
Clerics and hysterics.
Papal delegates and celibates.
Televangelists and Adventists
And hostile Pentecostals.
We are becoming overrun
With an ecumenical kind of fun
In which before we can holler
Another puts on a backward collar
And starts tell us what to do.
When the rebirthing is through
They are on their park soapbox
And ******** about our Xbox;
Telling us what we should watch
And the coffee in our coffee klatch
Is unGodly because Jesus never drank it.
Makes me want to grab and spank it
Before it multiplies. Jerks, those guys.
Pastures full of pastors.
Priests and beasts.
Defectors and rectors.
Pickers and vicars.
Bleachers full of preachers.
Clerics and hysterics.
Papal delegates and celibates.
Televangelists and Adventists
And hostile Pentecostals.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
Paddy met a *********
at a Pedestrian crossing
with a Poodle Painted
green on Patricks Day
Pretending to be Catholic
but he was a Protestant
because he walked on
the Orange and got Bradley
injured by The Secretary of
State Karen a Unionist to a
Papal Propaganda meeting
in Portadown attended by
Paisley-ites Pronouncing
Phonetic Parables in Portuguese.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 3:24 AM UTC
They tried to bury Yahushua Alef Tav
behind a nice Platonic, less Jewish facade
Renamed Him Jesus the Alpha Omega
and chanted many HEP HEP Hoorahs
... beside His feminist-friendly god/mother
to the tune of many hail Marys
even freed Him from His own Torah
despite "think not I came to replace it"
But see, He's risen now
from every holy papal place
from every charismatic falsity
that preached pew-warming prosperity
He's restoring Israel
not gentiledom...
one lost sheep at a time
back into twelve chaste tribes
just as she was under Sinai's hupa
before the separation
He's elbowing aside modern pharisees
who refuse to know Moses
and therefore can't know Him
or follow His commandments
who really aren't into feeding lost sheep
Egyptians hate sheep
It reminds them of plagues
Leaven goes better with bacon
Aug 26, 2010
Aug 26, 2010 at 11:54 AM UTC
#…a threefold cord is not quickly broken.
(Ecclesiastes 4:12)
A pastoress once bore a name
which merits neither guilt nor shame;
Pentecosta Charismania
(biblical in megalomania).
Worthy of poetic fame,
a brilliant if unstable flame.
Sincere she was, yet volatile,
she brought it down, revival-style.
At altar calls, she could inspire
tongues of glossolalian fire.
The Devil she would oft rebuke
with lines from John, or Paul, or Luke;
a prophetess on holy crack
was Pentecosta on the attack…
Her nemesis was prudent, able
doctrinally dull—but stable:
Patriciana Presbyteria.
Less given to divine hysteria,
wisdom did adorn her table.
And her soul bore well the label.
No prophecies escaped her lips
nor prone to divinating slips;
this sensible reformed young maid
was made to have and have it made
Elect, correct in doctrine, wit
invested in no counterfeit
her pop’s portfolio lent her worth:
not less than heaven cashed on earth.
Mocking these unseemly heretics
swayed by neither sects nor politics
was Maria Della Romana
Faithful matron, primadonna,
loyal to her Papal rite,
she grieved her sisters by candlelight;
fingered furious rosaries
stormed the gates with St. Peter’s keys
beseeching Jesus that they turn
from devil’s doctrines fit to burn,
rejoin the holy Mother Church
rather than their souls besmirch
with further Antichristian sin.
(She genuflected fit to win.)
God is known in Trinity
but less through femininity:
His three adherents, flamed by One
like braided gold reflecting sun
are Christian fates: three tendencies
or triplicate analyses,
tripartite in judgemental grace
each one assumed, with zealous face
that the other two could not be saved
as sure as Heaven’s roads are paved
with wisdom’s gold and Christ’s pure light.
(They made a most amusing sight.)
Since threefold cords cannot be broken,
let my punchline rest, unspoken.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
Stop Vaping
skip the beat with robotic meat your turn with vapor power
pouring out for a great cause eager to alarm just for you in papal pew
light upon light for a certain right caged in the fight your caption went
learn softly in the timidity;
time is cut short to project the report
shallow pools resort
Stop your vaping to know you have been faking
peril smoked chicken was dizzy in the making
Stop the vape
Stop the vape
out of the corner of your eye
you threw up in your mouth
cash to start
who are you kidding ?
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 1:09 PM UTC
Because the sun is coming up, and I still haven’t slept,
They call me crazy. But I’m not, I promise you
-Not in a destructive way. I hope that’s alright.
And I can’t see the technicolor clouds from my window,
But maybe that’s for the best. I’d only be identifying
Images of you floating by in the shape shifting aurora.
False dawn passes, its greyish-blue hue
And fresh scent of rain giving me a second,
Third, fourth (and so on) wind, almost as much as the caffeine.
And I waited all night to talk to you,
But you never came. You said you would, though
It was silly of me to think that you would show;
That’s me: silly. But you like me that way.
And with my words failing on a pendulum locket,
Copping like they’re coping with the treasonist panic,
Backstabbing, hair-grabbing, pinching; biting; mother-spiting.
Falling through with mad devices, a lost prolific parody of
Gasping fools, so desperately grasping to the notion of an ending
That they insist is only the beginning to something greater.
I put a sign up in my window: Prozac and papal blessing- 2 bucks a pop.
Dec 22, 2010
Dec 22, 2010 at 9:28 PM UTC
We queue up like
indentured servants
grateful as ripe fruit for
the opportunity to
bend our back in an
eternal question asking
how few grains
how few beans
how few drops
do I need to survive
in a world that fits
like the abandoned sweater
of the world's tallest man
We line up like
Hoovervillites
eager as dogs for
the opportunity to
plunge our paws into
scalding pots of wondering
how many coins
how many beds
how many children
must I offer to subsist
in a world that spins
out of reach like the apples
of the world's tallest tree
We row up rank and file like
slaves
servile as a Christmas and Easter parishioner's lips slathering for
the opportunity to
kiss the papal ring imagining
how many hours
how many loves
how many lives
will be lost to languish
in a world that ossifies
like Gluttony's cast off carcasses
left by the world's fattest corporate cat
We queue up like
indentured servants
dolorous as dying vines from
the bonds and bridles that
bend our back in an
eternal question asking
how few grains
how few beans
how few drops
will I have left
after they've taken the sweater
after they've taken the apple
after they've taken the scraps
in a world that fits
like the abandoned sweater
of the world's tallest man
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 3:36 PM UTC
Overman—
Follow you the music of a generation
Premonitions of the culture
Constantly unseating one another
At the throne beneath your soapbox?
Quarrel you with Parrish Priests and
Local Lords and
Moneyed Many and
Other Overmen?
Overman—
Speak you in uncommon tongue
Through veils of bourgeois idols
Through clouded visions blinding you to pleas from those beneath
Through impenetrable barriers about your plywood castle?
Overman—
Reject you any god lain at your feet,
Any miracle as trivia,
Any sincerity as foolishness,
Any ethnic pride as blasphemy,
Papal Pagan figureheads as absurdity?
Overman—
Have you children born unnaturally,
Brothers cross the moonlit gulf,
Sisters of incestuous intimacy,
Fathers of musical prowess,
Mothers of a warm genetic lab?
Overman—
Your day is coming
One hundred million of you
In synchronistic harmony
Of uniform variety
Of classless social rigidity;
Becoming one with the orbital network,
A single entity to govern life among the planets,
An immortal computer god
Expanding past the reaches of
The spent and worn-out orb
That keeps revolving, spiraling downward,
Closer, closer to the sun—
Overman, will you outlive them all?
Overman, you were there first,
Will you be the first beyond?
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 7:50 PM UTC
Truth is the daughter of time.
Lies are at best her half brothers.
Truth longs for a lover to come;
her milky whiteness uncovered.
She does not wish to be ruled
by the Crown or by Papal decree.
She is not Agenda's handmaiden,
she simply longs to be free.
Had I but the skills of a Goya
I could make Truth's beauty well known.
Michaelangelo, too, could portray her
for truth's often captured in stone.
Some will tell you that
Truth is quite beautiful,
as the last of her veils hits the floor.
I agree that her figure's impeccable;
She always leaves me wanting more
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
To think its even palpable
Is laughable
In papal
Purchases
Of lurching
Murderers
Searching
The versus
For versions
Viable
To the venial
Ventricles
Of vengeful animals
Toppling
The tiny trees
Just with their being
A seething species
Finding peace
In the pieces
Of enemies
Scattered in the streets
I wish i could say
There was disbelief
But i got a subscription
To weekly casket wreaths
And im singin in the rain
Refraining from profane
Crackling in the rain
Of my reign over sane
Waning in the basements
Flooded with the muck of lakes
Drained sacredly
In the same ****
I go silent
Before violent
outbursts
Squirting the words
On the wills of birds
Chirping the verbs
Of disturbing slurs
That i never heard
If asked
But im keeping you on blast
To unmask the crass
Endeavours of an ***
Fighting fire with fire
First and last to laugh
Burning blurbs on your maps
Every time your lapped
And lapsing in the trash
Itching the rash
Amassed in your lap
And slapped in the face
A disgrace to the pace
Of a space in the haste
Of wasted hate
Too late to change
Into shorts today
To show the ****
On your legs
As your girl
Cries when she begs
For me to *** in her face
But its okay
She knows her place
But do you
In the back of the line
In the grey and the blue
Whispering to you
To stay and acrue
Humility
In militant pedigrees
Of satirical phalacies
From your knees
You need me
The truth
Go ahead
Its on you
...
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 4:45 AM UTC
i've seen the view
from upon the cross
i've looked down upon my sins
i've been that ragged christmas tree
with tired sprawled out limbs
i've bared a crown of thorns
and been wrapped in bright gold tinsel love
and all i've seen from this view
was wide blue eyes staring up at me
licking lips
and hanging jaws
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 10:27 PM UTC
I didn't like that you were in my dream
I didn't care for the deeper meaning
Just for the proper morning
Stop this spinning world
from turning now
For what's it worth,
Earth is not a bumper car
Bumping into cheaper stars
But in dreamland
it's not that simple,
There's no plan
and the ample of people
can be quite bland
sitting in the temple
listening to the Papal's teaching
of the gospel
and like a bell ringing
I saw the ripple
of misunderstanding
spread through the crowd
All proud of their ways
All vowed never to sway
A lot of ****** up things happen in dreams.
Like that bus crash with the injured kids
eyelids half opened in pain
looking for help
but we kept on walking
despite all our preaching
I didn't like that you were there
to share that moment
I feared your judgement
too tired for an argument
I hated that a fragment of you
was buried in me
that laid dormant until now
My dream is my house
method within the madness
organised mess
although you gleam like gold
you're nothing but a mouse
hiding in my place
not scared to show your face
from time to time
But my house doesn't have a phone
to call pest control
so alone I patrol with a pistol
and hope I get lucky
When I wake up
I feel the ache of reality
come crashing down
a carefree burning
and suddenly
I'm mourning for last night
Just for a split-second
I wish I was dreaming again
because at least there
I know what I feel
Isn't real
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 6:15 AM UTC
Atoms or Adams or Adam's atoms
Lemme at em, the *****
Always touching...me.
The atoms of Adam's Adam's apple
Slapped by a Papal ****
Chase the *** with rolling rock,
Someone get him outta there!
Someone catacomb my hair
As I lay dying in my lair...
Frolicles of Gwarnia, I summon thee.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
Papal places borne of trust
Missions built to all of us
Regardless of their race or creed
Thresholds crossed among their need
To face the days their playing fields
Emotions net those things revealed
Places hidden in night’s dark
One of each upon times ark
Webs once spun as spider’s tales
Cry not now the creed of males
Showing solid fronts afraid to fail
Moonlight silver shows lifes trail
Beaches found with footprints few
Coins they ****** to pay dues
Memories tucked away to mime
Fate it shimmers crossing time
New eggs safe in high tree nest
The chosen passing natures test
Rising now to feel the wind
Newborns flutter voices sing
(GE2014)
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
My mother was a catholic
until her mother died
she said she fell out with God
and sitting through surgeries
and a harsh childhood
stole God from my father
And that leaves me
sitting in an empty church
listening to the rallying calls
the crusades never ended
but the holy land has changed
the human mind
told to fear difference
but nobody cares
if I wear a shirt of poly-cotton blend
I think it's time for a new bible
after all
the current one is pretty old
gathering dust on my bed side table
papal imagery ****** in my face
they should have stopped writing it
after they penned the golden rule
and tossed out the rest
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
Cosmic Debris
Cover your head and run away
chicken little all abluster
the sky is falling so they say
the bolide explosions from above
stole the thunder from larger DA14
but this is not the only cosmic debris
and Frank had warned us so long ago
I'm talking about the jive talk brother
from the politicians that we elected
entrusted our world with
too many seem to think it appears
that they were appointed with papal providence
as though GOD herself, or himself
had annointed their specialness
and dam the torpedos full speed ahead
they rule with arrogance and yet
yet we elect new ones every time
Frank also warned us about the yellow snow
I hope most of us paid attention on that one
cause we can't seem to get the aforementioned correct
Gomer LePoet...
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
The High Priest Kisses King Herod’s (Hands)
His Eminence the Cardinal of New York
The High Priest kisses King Herod’s (hands)
And joins him for a feast of mockeries and lies
Giving the tyrant for his crimes a pass
Laughing at Truth as civilization dies
Over lobster and beef they pity the poor
While robed in white ties and evening gowns
And silken ecclesiastical couture
(One of them has visions of papal crowns)
Gluttony and scorn at a rented manse -
All that is missing is Salome’s dance
Oct 19, 2024
Oct 19, 2024 at 12:21 PM UTC
“As that of butterfly she sits not afar off from me,
Ah I notice a glance procure every so often,
Oh the body of excellence the skin of papal host,
She has made me feel alive again with her allure,
The wind blows the aroma of galbanum,
From this ethereal beauty,
As I now sit with an apothecary of emotions,
Abasement has slain my inspiration to continue on,
Light of another diurnal is not sufficient for my cogitation,
Could earth be cloistered in some obscure place?
In her curves and the galbanum of her body,
I am besieged by the enlightening celestial beauty,
This could be the most ecstatic point of my life,
Your skin, your big eyes, alluring one be my alluring one,
You are beginning to be my light my shadow alluring one,
Magnetism is what you are alive in front of me my allure,
I can feel the Tender Touch of your hands the tender lips upon, mine,
As the sea influxes collide in the sea before us,
As we cosset in the sand you are now my,
Ethereal ALLURE”
By AG 04/1/2018
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
I saw you pour him out,
break his fragile shell,
with hungry, greedy
snatching needy fingers.
His green and red feathered wings,
held no strength,
and flight?
Not again ever.
You slandered his name,
profane,
each hand breaking a wing,
stepping on the spine,
and slandering,
like one smears paint around a room,
and ignored him when he reached out,
tried to utter words,
but watched him with broken teeth,
and ****** mouth.
Pouring his heart out,
eyes begging for help.
Wings broken
but feathers still held gold,
despite the pain.
Despite the acid rain.
But mercy didn't fit your regime,
nor did it fit your ideal dream,
your beautiful doe eyes,
ignored his cries,
feathered green,
cardinal plumes,
freckles and fumes,
washed away,
in the passing stream,
old candor,
street car fumes,
wickered and gray
I hope you pay.
I hope you pay.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 11:22 PM UTC