"perdition" poems
thus by prosecutor charg-ed, with this crime so heinous~ed,
the judge insisted on a super speedy trial, this, a special case-d
"can't wait to hang this ***** be~deviler,
got me a jail, second only to hell,
if he thinks his hifalutin lawyers will get him de-roped!"
I plead guilty to save the state some moola,
avoid the expense of all the attendant hoopla,
but in my tired defense, I said little but this,
it was god who cursed me with this word-ly power!
now I ain't saying I was naturally bad,
but who are you to judge me so harshly ,
when all I did, with a tool god~given, was,
tell people how beautiful they are, so close.
never far, from bringing them forth to their fruition
so my intentions were good, tho my goose is cooked,
loonily, this I truthfully willingly confess, though just as bad,
I was lazy, I was negligent, I am now hell-bent for many
infractions, the greatest, chiefest of them all, was all the times,
!!!!!
***read a poem much beloved by other's on this blue earth,
weak from jealousy jealous, I never...reposted it! for their way
much better than mine, and I was too selfish to praise them,
so I expect I won't be too lonely in perdition, just another poet***
!!!!!!!! addition
*so children, teach your children well
a poet's hell will slowly go by, if they
fail to repost them hundreds of poems
that mak'em gasp~laugh-just plain weep,
for that will really **** (sorry lord) the one
true judge wh gave us this wordy blessing,
and is eagerly awaiting us special*
sinners
and that just might be my one true name…
(Oh sinner~man!
where are you gonna run too)
[{(]})]
p.s. this poem readily available to be reposted ('jes a 'gestion)
even
plagiarized elsewhere, but remember, when you, who stole it,
somebody's a~watching whose
vision is unimpaired.
plus, I got new software invented by Ai trained teachers,
so so, easy to find ya...
Sep 28, 2025
Sep 28, 2025 at 5:14 PM UTC
Magical cauldron apomixes connoisseur
Cephalic phantasmagoria entity obliquitous
Mystical conjurous conjugal entrepreneur
Fantasia fantastication phantasm obsequious
Amorously arduous ardent raconteur
Ephemeral translucent opulence ubiquitous
Vanity sanctimonium temerities saboteur
Intrepid verve’s intriguingly iniquitous
Sorcerous sabbatical apothegms chauffeur
Endemic veracities fortuitous elicitous
Futurity fatidics fornication kithe
Ephemeral metaphor semantics flaunts
Empirical emulation scenarios blithe
Subjunctive subliminal nostalgias haunts
Agile articulation acuities lithe
Analogizing corroborative prolificacy daunts
Alacritous tactile manipulations writhe
Numinous syntactical paradigm *****
Emanate imminent perdition tithe
Orotund jaded seal ordinand jaunts
Overt convection coercions chiaroscuro tempestuous
Apex crux axis ****** matrix torrid
Manifest objectified enamorous interstice lecherous
Spurt binge spree ***** protuberance squalid
endearingly engendering amore
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
Umbrage ultraism infrangible extemporaneous incognito edition
Penumbral platitude platonic proxy photics rendition
Interface fenestration imbroglio pandemonium inducement sedition
Wretched infelicitous extant trajectory sordid intuition
Scandalous scavenger squalid anomalous punitive condition
Panacea chiaroscuro parallax emanate imminent perdition
Equilibrist revision exertion suborn temerity imbues
Indulgent zealous discrepancy apparentness cogitation accrues
Heuristic noumenal psychokinesis extrapolation incursion construes
Aura auspicious primitive prism processional reviews
Obstinate tenacious preeminent edificatory omnipotence eschews
Equivocal gumption ratification constitutional manumission ensues
Delusory apparition extravagance peccavi verity tempestuous
Obtrusive obtusely overt indemnities sagaciously obliquitous
Ephemeral anxiety antonym existential exigency alacritous
Fortuitous emendation phantasm ontological ontogeny acuitous
Indemnify veracious infernal infidel impunities iniquitous
Meritorious fulham presumptive extrication expiation indigenous
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 9:20 PM UTC
For a thousand years, I've found myself in these dark alleys, searching for a light, on the pathway to perdition,Waiting for someone to come along and wake me up from this nightmare.
For a thousand years, I'm the boy that I'm not, I've become the sophisticated mask that I'm wearing which conceals all my loneliness and agony.
For a thousand years, I've felt this burden residing in my chest, the heaviness of my heart, and the profound weight on my shoulders.
For a thousand years, I've been looking to be redeemed, to be salvaged, and to find a way to liberate myself from the curse of insecurity and desolation.
For a thousand years, I've been weary and cold, longing for love, wanting to be understood, and yearning to go home.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 7:55 AM UTC
Suicide is not an option
Everything has to be done with caution
Be it wrong accusation or depression
Taking your life will reduce our population
Believe me, all you need is affection
Speak to someone who'll relieve you of your oppression
Who'll give you nothing but compassion
You may need trust and care in addition
When facing life challenges and tribulation
Take not suicide for a compensation
Try to have a little comprehension
Of the afterlife using your discretion
And also have a little conversation
Involving you and your intuition
Considering suicide may be as a result of impression
Or thought in abstraction
Or even to punish a relation
No matter the condition
It doesn't worth your life as a rendition
If you do plan of taking this action
I beg you take this into consideration
And do a bit of cogitation
That suicide is not an option
Though, it's taking it toll on the nation
Leading many to quick expiration
My fella, suicide is not an option
Try to do some reconciliation
And make sure to somebody you mention
To get your mind in a good position
Or perhaps it might change your situation
And set you in a new direction
Again I say suicide is not an option
Take this into admonition
That your afterlife may as well be in inversion
That live each day with vision
Devote smile to your face a portion
Do activities in admiration and jubilation
And in you life begins a resurrection
Thereby killing the ulterior notion
And also averting a possible perdition
Because suicide is never an option.
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 5:07 AM UTC
Dilapidated,
I hang on the precipice of perdition.
My lacerated synapses,
struggle to usurp the assailant
who created my beautiful crimson demise.
I'm weary of being ostensibly content,
with all of this malice and prating that enshrouds me.
Lets not mask this with useless euphemism.
I'll make this as equivocal as I can.
Its time for this dalliance to end.
Its time I end my diminutive existence.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 11:49 PM UTC
Magical cauldron apomixes connoisseur
Cephalic phantasmagoria entity obliquitous
Mystical conjurous conjugal entrepreneur
Fantasia fantastication phantasm obsequious
Amorously arduous ardent raconteur
Ephemeral translucent opulence ubiquitous
Vanity sanctimonium temerities saboteur
Intrepid verve’s intriguingly iniquitous
Sorcerous sabbatness apothegms chauffeur
Endemic veracities fortuitous elicitous
Futurity fatidic's fornication kithe
Ephemeral metaphor semantics flaunts
Empirical emulation scenarios blithe
Subjunctive subliminal nostalgias haunts
Agile articulation acuities lithe
Analogizing corroborative prolificacy daunts
Alacritous tactile manipulations writhe
Numinous syntactical paradigm *****
Emanate imminent perdition tithe
Orotund jaded seal ordinand jaunts
Overt convection coercions chiaroscuro tempestuous
Apex crux axis ****** matrix torrid
Manifest objectified enamorous interstice lecherous
Spurt binge spree ***** protuberance squalid
endearingly engendering amore
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
I really wish this wasn't my most read poem, it was a ****** experiment of mine that doesn't have much behind it. Oh, well...
I,
Not
Too
Pleasant
Every
Sky
Feels
Joyous
In the
Near future, watching
Them
Play
Everyone
See, it's time to
Feel happy and
Just right.
Inside where I stay
Neither happy nor
Thwarted by their accusations of
Perdition.
Everyone else
Smiles but him.
Forget it,
Just forget him.
Interminable are the
Nights
That
Pain brings.
Eternal are the
Scowls
For dark ones like you.
Just forget it, let's play.
Et Cetera.
Interminable.
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 7:52 AM UTC
#
**Where will you be
twenty twenty
I've got news for
you aplenty**
Leave me alone let
me pilot my drone
let me fire my missiles
in a no fly zone
I don't need your permission
to release ammunition
You might as well leave if
you're looking for contrition
Rifle Rifle—wait for it wait for it
Trifle Trifle—everything's legit
Eyeful Eyeful—never can forget
Look out! I strike without warning
Splash! Try again tomorrow morning
**Liar Liar
tongues on fire
can't put out the
forest fire**
Leave me alone let
me pilot my drone
let me drop my ordnance
in a no fly zone
I don't need your permission
to release ammunition
Get in my crosshairs
You'll be headed to perdition
Rifle Rifle—wait for it wait for it
Trifle Trifle—everything's legit
Eyeful Eyeful—never can forget
Look out! I strike without warning
Splash! Try again tomorrow morning
Leave me alone let
me pilot my drone
let me fire my missiles
in a no fly zone
Here's the facts hard cold
if I may be so bold
if you really want to win
you'll have to wait till I get old
**One step forwards
two steps backwards
Once released you
can't take back words**
© 2020 Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
#
Jul 11, 2020
Jul 11, 2020 at 12:22 AM UTC
If you drive down route 235,
the lonely parallel line of route 5,
running through St. Mary's County, Maryland,
between the intersection of Old Three Notch road
and St. Andrew's Church road,
and the liquor store at the corner of Mattapany--
you must do so with a fat wallet,
and a growling stomach,
who barks at the flashing signs
of the sparkling chain restaurants--
wafting their familiar scents out the windows
and onto the busy street.
Utterly beleaguered every which way by these olfactory factories,
your mouth waters and your wallet lightens
as the tantalizing sensations
permeate your vehicle.
So you cave;
another lost soul vacates the street at Restaurant Alley,
under the prowling searchlights
and the intoxicating smells lingering like a dense fog;
You linger in your purgatory with glee.
You exit satisfied, patting your abdominous belly
and lifting your smiling face to the sky
in thanks to the gluttonous gods
who rain down these chain restaurants
from the heavens.
A satisfied sigh seeps out of loose lips,
barely hanging on to your fleshy face,
so ruddy and fat.
You act like your stop was something novel,
like it wasn't routine to acquiesce to these temptations;
you return to your car to continue your roamings
down restaurant alley.
Sadly, a full stomach won't stifle a querying nose,
and your senses are soon at it again;
just as the waiters and waitresses,
cooks and busboys--
are back at the window, leaning outside
with their clamorings and bustlings and cookings--
You pretend to entertain willpower as your copilot,
but even if that were so,
your senses would still be at the wheel,
with your mind bound and gagged in the trunk.
Restaurant Alley goes on for miles and miles and miles,
seemingly endless in the permeating fog of
burgers and pancakes and pasta and chicken and fries and burgers and soda and ice cream and beer and pasta and wine and America and pancakes and steak and appetizers and desserts and entrees and specials and kids menus and burgers and chicken and pasta and fries and burgers and ice cream and salad and burgers and soda and eat and eat and eat and eat and eat!
There's nothing to eat;
there's nothing to do but eat in Restaurant Alley,
on route 235 in St. Mary's County, Maryland.
So fasten your seat belt,
and loosen your waist belt,
and take a doomed trip down the endless roadway--
where you are dragged, shackled to food chains
that haul you from the perdition that is the lobby's waiting room
to be seated with loved ones at the mercy seat of Ambrosia.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
Chop down the city lights of Paranoia.
Cathartic beads of sweat roll
off the horrors of your back
under the saggy breast lamps
in the pitched dreams where the nightmare kids
come to watch you sleep.
Somersaulting walls made of human tissue,
the love of your life overseas, and everything you say
comes out as water torture on hollow centers of hope.
poetry is dead.
Liars smoke ten packs a day,
social criminals stroll in marathons of perdition
across the rot of post-modern vices,
their feet stomp closer to watching faces under the bed.
'This is a story. A dream!'
Everyone sees the fire under the bed.
Watch-fires earthbound by every word
before it is said,
gagged in envy--brought to glow by spineless atoms.
Every sexless sun has a beard, a saved flirtation that singes
the vacuum of today's soul,
a dead dream because you didn't pull it from the brink.
No one has a name in poetry. A task. A point. An exit.
One bed-room apartments locked with pearls
visible only to soloist dogs.
No sorry for vagueness or shut-mouth or bleeding upwards. The meter is running....
to the pharmacy
because it could be pregnant with all the possibilities.
And the whole amphitheater wants to hear one line, the life changer you brought
--here it is: Forget your name.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
Congressmen, police and ministers
All can be particularly sinister
When they take it upon themselves
To think of us as shoemakers elves
Fairytale beings who then madly
Exist only to work for them gladly;
Drudges to work for them out of sight,
Creatures that give in without a fight.
A sense of privilege causes this.
As fate is always rather hit and miss
It’s not granted by common sense,
More like a caprice of something dense;
A dark deity that is impressed by wealth
Without regard to someone’s right or health.
And the scary people the malady infests
Seems unaware of the evil it ingests.
Limelight and spotlights are the energy
That often drives their ***** perfidy.
But just as often, these fools don’t care
Who knows of their arts, no need to share.
They while away at greed and perdition
And certainly need anybody’s permission.
They only live to gobble and acquire
And never need anyone call them ‘sire’.
The most frightful of these lustful ones
Are those who ply their will with guns.
They decide the good from enemies
And few seem good to these entities.
They only plot their murderous plans
Without regard to the rights of man.
If you get in their way, you are foe.
That is as far as their thinking goes.
For that is the point here, after all.
These creatures ignore propriety’s call.
And the same with society, it is true.
Those needs, for them, will not do.
They work sorcery behind the scenes
And create acts that are truly obscene.
It matters not what is wrong or right
They are ever-vigilant, day and night.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
Through many nights of unsound sleep
I've heard you say my name
You held your hand out through the haze
And whispered
"Come and find me..."
Your invitation woke in me
The hurt to hold out hope
You've ruined me,
Stole all from me,
And I have always loved you.
If I could take away the nights
I longed to touch your hands
Or smell your hair
Or hear your laugh
Or know you missed me too
I would.
You took my very confidence,
Walked away with all my pride
Doused my trust and struck a match
Reduced my faith to cinders.
Your love was never really mine,
Those sparks alive inside your eyes
Told me I was not enough
Impressions all re-told, relayed
And carved into the hands I hold
Fists I clench ask I stay brave
Despite the truth I thought I'd stayed
Bid farewell and walked away
I've hated every single day
I thought your eyes were mine
But found out later lied at times
And left me in a state of stupor
Stayed up late refreshing thoughts
In hopes I'd see you one life sooner
Not have to wait another chapter
You spin your story, yet another,
I'd found all endings through my lovers
The ones I've loved in living matter
In skin and bone and days forever,
Not dreams that lived through dying embers,
Fantasies of youthful slumbers
Our dreams were worthy of remembering
Days spent in September, singing,
Laughing like our youths together
Holding hands, through frightened fetters
Hearts and promises were breaking
As I recall, the air was heavy
Thick with quaint and distant longing
Brought my blood to painful burning,
Exalted fears to basic yearning,
Turned away, last second learning,
Tears in eyes tore me asunder
Brought me to my lowest standing
I can't afford to be so petty
Perdition's path turned me astray
That road was ours to walk together
But we got lost along the way
Our paths will cross again, I wager
But not the way we walked before
I've learned to trust my loss and anger
The pain is weakness leaving me
Reminders grief was all worth feeling
Wisdom that to life there's more
I have mine and you have yours
Your boy, my words, these bonds are precious
Like soothing rain that stops the storm
Like distant clouds on the horizon
Like winds that settle change's roar
I left our memories on the shore
I've walked away, I'm hurt no more
I've left your memories on the shore
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 1:10 PM UTC
Poetry is the altruistic apogee of the individualistic emotional egoist.
The lack of feeling, and the lack of empathy,
the petty attempt to hide them with creativity.
It’s truly astonishing how we can fool ourselves into thinking we’re kind
When we’re just wasting our time, pretending to see when we’re blind.
How could we ever emulate our chemical imbalances on one another?
The only way to do it is the kindly overrated feeling of love and affection.
And why would we need words, if we’re sure about our love for each other?
Oh, we’re puzzled to believe that our puny poetry represents felt perfection.
Yet we just walk through the valleys of lyricism,
Lost in our own wishes for joy or demise
And yet we become shadows of perfectionism
Filled with the detachment we criticize.
Our representation is our perdition
We've lost ourselves in our own mission.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
1522
His little Hearse like Figure
Unto itself a Dirge
To a delusive Lilac
The vanity divulge
Of Industry and Morals
And every righteous thing
For the divine Perdition
Of Idleness and Spring—
2.3k
1239
Risk is the Hair that holds the Tun
Seductive in the Air—
That Tun is hollow—but the Tun—
With Hundred Weights—to spare—
Too ponderous to suspect the snare
Espies that fickle chair
And seats itself to be let go
By that perfidious Hair—
The “foolish Tun” the Critics say—
While that delusive Hair
Persuasive as Perdition,
Decoys its Traveller.
2.3k
No, helpless thing, I cannot harm thee now;
Depart in peace, thy little life is safe,
For I have scanned thy form with curious eye,
Noted the silver line that streaks thy back,
The azure and the orange that divide
Thy velvet sides; thee, houseless wanderer,
My garment has enfolded, and my arm
Felt the light pressure of thy hairy feet;
Thou hast curled round my finger; from its tip,
Precipitous descent! with stretched out neck,
Bending thy head in airy vacancy,
This way and that, inquiring, thou hast seemed
To ask protection; now, I cannot **** thee.
Yet I have sworn perdition to thy race,
And recent from the slaughter am I come
Of tribes and embryo nations: I have sought
With sharpened eye and persecuting zeal,
Where, folded in their silken webs they lay
Thriving and happy; swept them from the tree
And crushed whole families beneath my foot;
Or, sudden, poured on their devoted heads
The vials of destruction.--This I've done
Nor felt the touch of pity: but when thou,--
A single wretch, escaped the general doom,
Making me feel and clearly recognise
Thine individual existence, life,
And fellowship of sense with all that breathes,--
Present'st thyself before me, I relent,
And cannot hurt thy weakness.--So the storm
Of horrid war, o'erwhelming cities, fields,
And peaceful villages, rolls dreadful on:
The victor shouts triumphant; he enjoys
The roar of cannon and the clang of arms,
And urges, by no soft relentings stopped,
The work of death and carnage. Yet should one,
A single sufferer from the field escaped,
Panting and pale, and bleeding at his feet,
Lift his imploring eyes,-- the hero weeps;
He is grown human, and capricious Pity,
Which would not stir for thousands, melts for one
With sympathy spontaneous:-- 'Tis not Virtue,
Yet 'tis the weakness of a virtuous mind.
2.3k
Umbrage ultraism infrangible extemporaneous incognito edition
Penumbral platitude platonic proxy photics rendition
Interface fenestration imbroglio pandemonium inducement sedition
Wretched infelicitous extant trajectory sordid intuition
Scandalous scavenger squalid anomalous punitive condition
Panacea chiaroscuro parallax emanate imminent perdition
Equilibrist revision exertion suborn temerity imbues
Indulgent zealous discrepancy apparentness cogitation accrues
Heuristic noumenal psychokinesis extrapolation incursion construes
Aura auspicious primitive prism processional reviews
Obstinate tenacious preeminent edificatory omnipotence eschews
Equivocal gumption ratification constitutional manumission ensues
Delusory apparition extravagance peccavi verity tempestuous
Obtrusive obtusely overt indemnities sagaciously obliquitous
Ephemeral anxiety antonym existential exigency alacritous
Fortuitous emendation phantasm ontological ontogeny acuitous
Indemnify veracious infernal infidel impunities iniquitous
Meritorious fulham presumptive extrication expiation indigenous
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC
choo choo
next stop.....perdition
(no, not really...no-one believes this Stygian opacity)
1.
look how Time doth ravage thee
look what it did to thy visage
in smithereens, lies youth
it so artfully takes away
what is held so dear
rivers and streams
valleys and hills
arching to ecstatic heights
plunging to abysmal lows
into the ravine of chance
stirred by the spoon of Time
slowly around the cauldron
brews the self-same mixture
then poured into chasms of forgetfulness
using the eternal sledgehammer
it
smashes the foundation of thought
grinds the nutmeg of speed
pulps the fruit of mentality
slows the pulse of sensation
and pardons none.
2.
what was once sensuous and voluptuous lips
now are merely two dry slits on your face
once stared-into eyeballs, now glass over
vitreous cataracts steadily grow, weed-like
toned into lithe elastic bands now stretch
away into forever, a pale platform to walk on
life's morn is encompassed by years' slanting
clouded and bedimmed by mists of age
butterfly's existence outweighs a man's
by mere night-veiled windowpane of true sight
draw the curtains; close the shutters; screen the eyes
the time has come to shed all blinkers and face the sun.
3.
crimp
sag
limp
drag
mud cracks down a dipping dale
scalding pain sears sore half-foot
yes, time is but a disease
ravaging all
without fear or favour
sunken eyes
slower reflexes
tardier mind
scraggly body
hides not
condescends not
forgets not
the glimmer of ....
a time of ...
4.
cathedral invites the walker in
cool and calm recesses
sit silent
wait....
then they walk in, carrying
one who had but a lucky half-score lot
clear soprano note becomes a rudderless bleat
announcing the folly of stifling ego
now shorn of burning frost of circuitous fervour
beams of mercy cast a final look-see
jump the barriers of
time
to
carry thee off.
pipe organ-stops are pulled out
(art thee ready? platform number 5)
S T, 9 May 2013
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC
Vast, empty, midnight hour,
hunchbacked lampposts glaring over parasitic black earth
choking its host.
A parking lot,
an ecosystem’s blemish—
hot tar seeping into the pores of the earth
like a stubborn blackhead in a lip line.
When no cars burrow into the blackened hide
like lice
the great absence of life
is an atrocity.
I imagine myself skateboarding across the tier
as the small town cops
watch languidly with vague interest—
A skateboarder’s paradise
where wheels and accomplice minds roll across celestial barriers
blasting infinite pulses
into the microcosm.
What greasy punks have their mother’s van parked here,
huddling by the heat vents
and jerking off into a Pringle’s can?
Empty parking lot
looks like a cemetery
filled to the brim
where headstones meld
over a mass grave—
delineated by white lines,
the apparitions of vehicles and their hosts
haunt the frozen space.
Another horrible excuse
to waste land,
a wasteland in and of itself
where Tom Eliot saunters aimlessly
and buries the dead.
The saddest sight to behold,
this vacuous parking lot
littered with stray shopping carts,
phantasmal plastic bags,
gum splotches,
***** stains,
candy wrappers,
cigarette butts,
used condoms,
lonely cops
and patient drug dealers,
ambulant skaters,
tired punks,
bored teenagers,
somnambulists,
stumbling drunks,
hunchbacked ***** lights
prying for life beneath its sallow gaze—
The air encapsulated within the perdition
stifling,
the pavement below stifling,
a constriction only visible
when emptied of its contents.
A cop wakes from their choking nightmare gasping
to find themselves trapped,
****** in this parking lot
where the walkie-talkie buzzes
with the weeping and gnashing of teeth.
The warehouse store
looming above the waiting room
lifeless, silent, dark countenance—
Big Brother sees all in the gaping maw.
Cascading before me,
stretching towards the highway passing by,
waiting for the panorama to finish scrolling,
the treadmill to cease its cycle—
all the while lamenting life’s absence
and reveling in the potentiality it possesses.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
False memories and track marks pave your arms
Sudden revolt of youth pressurised to fail
Painkillers doubled and stacked for a head to slumber
Soft heads and dead leg spasm attack pillow piddles in *****
Fictitious tesla coil blue breath mortifys mortality
And your goggles won't fog out the underwater current miscellaneous
Digital tectonic pushing ideas you brainstorm
Shadowed reluctance to consume the musk of infrared roses
This romance is one that was jealous of itself
Pre-divorced in its own certainty on incompatibility
Basin top full too top heavy to predict precarious
Living in a shaded sense of erased memory lapses continuing truth
Toward magnificent still life categorised by perdition
Forward thinking ruby gold phong shaded hatred quantum conversate Unthinkable
Nebula of gas
Face first head in hands
Euthanasia between my thighs crush my head
Choked neck
Throat
Strangle me and give me breath
I roll and the conductor pulls apart my mouth
Diseased by euphoria lips separate and teeth show
Pupils land home and iris jumps ship
Perfume gum dry bitter butterfly kiss
Head held back in place tongue falls back into the razor-front of the mouth
Caution held simultaneous irrelevant body load carries my smile
Jump knee deep into the silence of my own lungs
It's been a while
I breath vindictively in time with the respiration of the country
Somewhere out in the hexagon sun I burn candles and whisp
Hold in smoke
Die
Twitch forward in palliative peace motionless and still
Cuspids and lochs
Spread across the grass the harmony touches yours and mine
A hole and whole dream
Conscious and dead
Content
Voices rattle in unified mono-chromidity
Sadness
Carrion
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 2:52 PM UTC
Seeing such said-to-be veracity
made spurious by truer voracity
left me in a downward maudlin spiral
caught in the gravity of pejorative thoughts.
(They were right about you)
Shown to be mendacious and meretricious
with such audacious and ignominious cupidity
that is, apparently, insatiable
by external stimulation.
These words are for thee.
(They were right about you)
A
Mistress of Verisimilitude
Sorceress of Perdition
Goddess of Rapacity
Nugatory Luddite
Fatuous Epigone
Specious and unctuous Girl
of gratuitous turpitude
These puerile and rather flavorful words
fueled by seemingly insuperable motifs
arranged in a terse, inimical verse
for a rather insipid person
who will likely never even know of them,
and yet;
such sweet felicity.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
I met the devil many times
didn't drink his beer for free (like Kris Kristofferson#)
or beat him in a fiddling duel (like Charlie Daniels##)
but he wasn't trying too hard to hide
or convince me he didn't reside
in all our hearts at one time or another
Instead, he allowed me to see his (and my) wicked ways
and make me afraid that at the end of my days
if I failed to follow a prescribed and sacred tradition
I would land in the ****** world of perdition
this loathsome chap serves a purpose indeed
and those who have the interminable need
pray fervently each and every day
hoping to keep this imp at bay
but without him and his miscreant acts
we would be stuck with unimaginable facts
like bad things happen without a reason
and nobody is guaranteed a winning season
So if you meet him on some dark and lonely path
(as I have many a time)
fear not you will incur his wrath
for without him there would be none to blame
and we alone would have to feel the shame
for all the woe that is the world
(#Kris Kristofferson wrote a song in which he states he didn't beat the devil, but he drank his beer for free--##Charlie Daniels had a tune where he has a fiddle duel with the devil--I believe Charlie wins in the song)
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 7:46 PM UTC