"porcine" poems
In this, my last hour of rhyme,
with stains uncontainèd by shaking hands
Spreading like red soldiers running wartime
untempered by generals shouting commands
Then laughing like drunkards, drowning in wine
that rich purple spills out from its barrels
Then lying on bartops, eyes shine porcine
and unheard soft voices hiss curses and carols.
O, woe be on me if I speak out of time;
out-tumbling come innards, spewed from a mouth
Which whispered sad prayers in corners of grime:
hints of spring-season on trips to the south;
Watch them out-tumble, watch horri-divine
like the death of the tragic, acted but true
Yet laughing old minstrels declare it quite fine:
and friends ensure royal-men breathe not from the blue.
Hours fly past on wings of the Sun
who turns misted eyes from child-fight below
And lives lives of many, but cares not for none
not least merchant servants, throttled in the snow.
I fade and I fade: a blossom once watered
and love of the stage is clogging my throat
It changes my words: I fight it, I fought it
and hot-wet floods up with drowning and choke.
This minute, these words: I defy death.
And cold, outward slipping: my slow final breath.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 5:14 AM UTC
EAST BOSTON, 1996
ON THE BUS
Franz Wright
It's one thing when you're twenty-one,
and I was way past twenty-one.
With unshaven face half concealed in the collar
of some deceased porcine philanthropist's
black cashmere rag of a coat,
I knew that I looked like a suicide
returning an overdue book to the library.
Almost everyone else did as well,
but I found no particular solace in this;
at best, the fact awakened some diverting speculations
on the comparative benefits
of waiting in front of a ditch to be shot
alone or in company
of others, and then whether one would prefer
these last hypothetical others
to be friends, family, enemies, total
or relative strangers. Would you hold hands?
Or would you rather like a good **** sapiens
monster employ them
to cover your genitals?
What percentage would lose bowel control?
And given time restrictions -
and assuming some still had the ability to move -
would ostracism result? Anyway,
I knew the rules on this bus.
No eye contact: the eyes of the terrified
terrify. Look
like you know where you're going,
possess ample change to get there,
and don't move your lips when you talk
to yourself: the destroyed
and sick, the poor, the hungry
and the disturbed estrange.
The badly dressed estrange, even,
and that is uncalled for. The degree
of one's power to estrange will increase
in direct proportion to the depth
of need for others. Do not cry.
This can only bring about, on the one hand,
an instant condition of banishment
from the sole available companionship, or
on the other, a near
fatal beating (one more disappointment).
Just follow the simple instruction
if you ever come here.
It's easy to remember - any idiot can do it.
Don't cry,
the world has abandoned us.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC
Tall men think of robust ladies
Shorter ladies dream of length,
Toothless people fantasize
Of mandibles of white, bright strength.
Porcine women lust for thinness
Breast less girlies long for *****
Dissatisfaction fills the air
It's greener grass or down the tubes.
Black man hopes for pale complexion
White girls bake to raise a tan,
Brown eyed lassie's envy blue-ness,
***** lesbian's, a man.
The wealthy want the easy life
Beggars yearn for cash,
Dissatisfaction's in the air
And mirrors are so trash.
Across the human spectrum far
Mankind wants for more,
The grass is always greener
Looking through another door.
It's bigger, better, brighter, best
The quest is always there
Relentlessly pursued with glee,
Bright eyes and bushy hair.
Results are mixed and varied here
Some reach the holy grail
To watch it slip beyond their grasp
Then founder, fall and fail.
Some teeter on a platform,
Some grasp the prize and run,
Some hit their stride at bounding pace
To see the contest won.
But by and large there's misery
Few climb the road to joy,
Frustration be my brother
Dissatisfaction be my ploy.
Limitation is our lot in life.
Our secret to success
Is to love the mirror warts and all
All other **** ...repress !!
MERRY CHRISTMAS
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
23 December 2009
www.worthyofpublishing.com
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:15 PM UTC
your George Klooney appeals to your filter.
you brunch with Tungsten and straight up toxic marriages.
the mob rules the Jupiter, so therefore and ever after
you mop Hell's kitchen while you slideshow
your thumb through the wreckage
of your tender aggressions in the marsh
where the hard sky lobs acid and false globs
of character... we blur the chi chi's and wiz bang
the last dirge
we incur the wrath of our blissful innocence
and sweeten the Lama
with our Lambda, " all back of the bus, and **** "
we betwixt the twain.
and that's the grease
in the varmint. the tuft of luscious.
you gob-smack the kiwi and chip away at the porcine thunder
of our pagan banquet.
the lungs you drum with; are even now
less equipped to sermon the mount
where your meek inherits
lengua tacos.
and your life means nothing, really....
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
Never behaved in the school porcine;
Had wise words for everyone to opine;
Full of wise thoughts and memories refine;
Rachana Sharma is ready without any supine.
An eyesore progress she achieved school in
Even the trustees could no longer decline;
Her help for others whenever did she design
Was a feast – a great help and fun to dine.
For 8 years was she my dear mentor fine
From whom I learnt how to continuously grin
In adverse situations and start from begin
So that new fight and efforts lead you to win.
Earlier she was looking like a pumpkin
But now she managed her past confine:
Looking beautiful, smart, nifty and divine
Is ready ever any problem to define.
She is my inspiration, she is my Kline,
She is the best lady as a helpful friend in.
With her I developed Monorhyme fine;
And defeated many enemies malign.
A good mentor and nice for nation mine
Is none than Rachana - a brave feline.
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 6:51 AM UTC
Little rag doll in poses I place, smiles non linear
lipstick is smeared not as it should be perfection
is not on the features as statically smiling.
Meagerly patched doll how you are in my thoughts.
Knotted hair ill placed bobbles that don't show
the best of the features frozen on your hollow face.
mismatched clothes not in a way a woman of choosing
would place, odd socks an ankle one, poppy long stocking
contrasting is size and colour but you'll never know.
I look at you, a Picasso of imagery displaced on your face.
Looking like you got dressed in the closet blindfolded and
alone. My little rag doll I strategic leave in a lonely place.
I collect these porcine eyes drained of essence, I open
your thoughts and they are discarded in a bag.
Later your thoughts will feed my hungry dog.
I leave you empty vacant as you should be, my rag doll
with uninhabited motivation. hollowed shell of what you
used to be, blank stares between you and me go silently.
They find my dolls in there houses distorted like my
vison of how sights are seen. A play house of disillusion,
my dolls are my creations come will you be a rag doll for me.
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
When did news parody
stop being funny?
Was it somewhere between
Alan Jackson’s 9/11 cash-in
and Donald Trump’s hair?
Was it BoJo stranded on a zipline over London,
or Cameron’s alleged porcine relations
(bizarrely black-mirroring fiction)?
When did the news
start doing Chris Morris’ job for him?
When did they start
pre-satirising the headlines?
“No evidence mermaids exist,” says US Government.
Swimming pool evacuated after prosthetic leg is mistaken for **********
Robots follow Marco Rubio to South Carolina.
I swear, I didn’t
make any of those up.
The actors on Saturday Night Live
are more statesmanlike
than the Presidential Primary Candidates they’re lampooning.
How the hell do they breed these
creatures? These gurning,
overgrown foetuses with their
conveniently dead ****** sisters to get
all wet-eyed and tumescent over,
their boomingly hollow controversy and
their total, catastrophic
crashes of personality.
These loathsome
organic constructs who would seem
more relatable and trustworthy if
their image consultants made them wear
Nixon masks for every
public appearance.
When did it all become
this strange, sick spoof
of itself?
Is there no one left in Britain who can make a sandwich?
Man dressed as penguin receives more votes than the Liberal Democrats.
Piers Morgan given jail time for illegally hacking ‘phones and gloating about it.
Okay.
I made the last one up.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 6:07 AM UTC
An innocence is within you
If you believe to care
The porcine
The polluted
The users
The diluted.
Don't waste your pearls
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 5:05 PM UTC
Penguins painted pink,
peacefully practising pragmatic pebble placement.
Perfectly pointy piles, please!
Profoundly pious Pandas ponder pancreatic problems,
predict potential palsy.
Prognosis? Perilously poor.
Pale porpoises proudly plunge purple pools,
placidly pasturing petrified plankton.
Poor protozoans perish.
Portly, paunchy, plumpish, porcine, porky pigs
populate putrid puddles,
Pulverizing pumpkin pies.
Purposely Prickly porcupines pursue palatable plants,
pin-pointing precisely.
Puce petunias preferred.
Pill popping puppet people perpetuate planetary perdition,
pardon profuse pollution.
Pretentious ******
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 11:22 PM UTC
Tall men think of robust ladies
Shorter ladies dream of length,
Toothless people fantasize
Of mandibles of white, bright strength.
Porcine women lust for thinness
Breast less girlies long for *****
Dissatisfaction fills the air
It's greener grass or down the tubes.
Black man hopes for pale complexion
White girls bake to raise a tan,
Brown eyed lassie's envy blue-ness,
***** lesbian's, a man.
The wealthy want the easy life
Beggars yearn for cash,
Dissatisfaction's in the air
And mirrors are so trash.
Across the human spectrum far
Mankind wants for more,
The grass is always greener
Looking through another door.
It's bigger, better, brighter, best
The quest is always there
Relentlessly pursued with glee,
Bright eyes and bushy hair.
Results are mixed and varied here
Some reach the holy grail
To watch it slip beyond their grasp
Then founder, fall and fail.
Some teeter on a platform,
Some grasp the prize and run,
Some hit their stride at bounding pace
To see the contest won.
But by and large there's misery
Few climb the road to joy,
Frustration be my brother
Dissatisfaction be my ploy.
Limitation is our lot in life.
Our secret to success
Is to love the mirror warts and all
All other **** ...suppress !!
M.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
Donate to the destitute
Sniff at the rich,
To seek the improbable
Quest is a *****
Porcine platitudes
Lost to mules
Who ignore good advice
To play us for fools.
Dead giveaway dreamers
Floating on air
Who stroll past pearls
To preen their hair.
Contentious ********
Grind their teeth,
Obsessing with conflict
Asleep on their feet.
Beautiful bodies
Deplored by the boys
Who prefer their own gender
To feminine ploys.
Bearded babies
Found dead in the sand,
Mothers distraught
Militarily grand.
Losing the truth
Is humanity's skill
In removing the just
In the rush for the ****
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
5 October 2009
Oct 28, 2009
Oct 28, 2009 at 1:06 AM UTC
The person you have called is unable to answer at the- click
That was the third time have called him since 7:00.
I sit the phone down in spite-full elegancey.
Another weekend crucified in the name of romance, I had, despite a nervous feeling in my gut, decided to stay home.
you see he had said he would drop by my place and we would have dinner at 6 and from there we would paint the town,
so like any idiot worth his salt, I believe him and wait.
And wait. And wait. And wait.
8 o’clock roll’s around and i decide to call back, but just as I pick up the phone an image shoots into my brain.
An image of all the ways he’s choosing to ignore my call, my voice and my intimacy.
I decided that its best that I give up on calling him, after all I have enough dignity to know when to give up.
That prior nervous feeling in my gut soon begins to weigh me down, I take a **** and climb down from my porcine thrown reborn.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 6:15 AM UTC
Pigs sniffing around
For mushroom clouds,
In an orange sky, we’ll drown-
Praying and shouting.
Our shadows shrouding
These strong, brick walls;
Staining skyscrapers,
With our shattered ghost.
Skin will combust
And we’ll settle into dust.
Fungi puffs will multiply,
As tears turn to ash, and dry.
Death comes in a sizzle;
Demise served by porcine people,
Searching for power in a truffle
Creating a ruffle and a ripple.
-SLuR
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 9:29 PM UTC
I'm drowning in bacon grease,
I can hear the pigs begin to screech,
All I can taste is suffering.
Sizzling, in sync with the screams.
Porcine faces gobble down strips,
Off their brows thick sweat drips.
Filling their troughs, and packing their bowls
They fill themselves with aromatic herbs.
Greedily licking flavor from the tips
Of their fingers,
While stealing from their neighbor,
Who is stealing from their neighbor,
They always return the favor
It's part of their piggy nature.
While I burn in the pan, they snort
And laugh at the poor man.
-SLuR
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 10:30 PM UTC
studying a life-sized portrait
of Diogenes. holding a lantern. looking
for one honest man. surrounded by cows.
a horse.
a porcine drunk. a kid thumbing his nose.
the museum was closing in five minutes.
a shame.
because i had just arrived. (a strange statement.
"just arrived".)
a woman suddenly appeared. desperate
to look familiar. (black mascara. trench coat.
could have been a Russian spy.)
the light from Diogenes’ lantern
was touching her face.
illuminating her earrings.
something magnetic stood between us.
if she had burst
into song i would have melted.
“do you like dogs?”
her voice sounded like ice crystals
teasing a dark window.
(who doesn’t like dogs?)
Diogenes
was laughing. i could hear him
from across the canvass.
he knew
a good joke when he saw one coming.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 10:02 PM UTC
Glazed in white this porcelain skin you entrap me in,
I am sundered from the beauty that clings in detestation
My beauty like a crystallise will be fragmented from here.
Slate crevasses like a web clinging to the surface entwine
Aloft as they perch on every part of its superficial holdings
They edge ever deeper till all that was pearl now descends.
Cascading into oblivion where like autumn leafs magenta tears
Descend like ruins that now like coal wisps fade to nothing.
Now there is exemption from what manifested in thought.
This lingering lucent thought given form, but never seen,
Light permeated off its featureless misgivings a kaleidoscope
Of emotions ran free touching all surrounding, static now standing.
There stood a moment of porcine imprisonment ,featureless
Yearnings to touch, but then a tear of crimson detached and a
Rose web did start to ascend from where it collapsed below.
The circle of what would be what was only a matter of time
Created where form became static then birthed in non caporal
Form touching those near as it had yearned all that time before.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
When the recusants stand before the porcine boor in fetters ...
As the Fifth Estate is flat lining around us , the Constitution
twisted till it finally shatters ..
The Military in pursuit of its own , bestowal of civil liberties shot
full of machine gun rounds ...
Bloodhounds bay with the scent of dissidents , storm sewers turn into
raging red rivers ...
When martial law pulls the rug from beneath our feet ....
When broken glass covers every downtown street ....
I will pray for something to take you down !
I will long for someone to take you out !
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 9:19 PM UTC
I was born in that tragic year
America slit its own throat.
I've never seen this fairy tale
that you call the land of the free.
All I see is unfettered exploitation
In the name of the green cotton god.
Mad dogs bark and whine
out of two different mouths,
tugging at the leashes
held by porcine fingered monsters
perched high on their thrones
made of slaughtered sheep bones.
But, you had me fooled for so long, America.
I spent five years afloat
supporting your neverending crusade.
If I knew the truth then,
I would have never raised my hand.
How can I support and defend something
with one hand,
and strangle every single word
with my other.
Your a battered woman,
my motherland.
The land of the free?
All I see is an endless train of cattle,
blindly marching towards the abbatoir.
We can all smell the blood on the air,
but, until the hammer crushes our skull
we never consider the reality.
We eat the flesh of our fellows
while waiting in line to die.
Home of the brave?
All I see in every pair of downcast eyes
is the despair of cowardice.
I'd rather starve, all alone,
than lockstep towards the slaughterhouse.
I don't care about the hungry billionaires,
I refuse to be a delicacy
for your flag-slaving masters.
I see the starbursts of incendiary bombs
dropped on civilians,
and the stripes across the backs of countless slaves,
in this flag I once saluted with pride.
Before your hypocrisy finally opened my eyes.
Who are you really, America?
Are you a ghost, or a puppet?
Not really there,
or not what you pretend to be?
An eagle with clipped wings,
or a temple caught on fire?
Tell me please, I must know
why you have turned everyone I love
into a pathological liar?
If I turn my back
and walk away from you
will you even wave goodbye?
Do you ever cry, America?
Cry, like the beloved starlet,
who first notices the wrinkles
forming around her sparkling eyes,
like cracks in the foundation
that has covered up the truth
of her lined and blemished face.
Do you ever feel afraid, America,
that these may be your final days?
Or are you resigned to your fate
like your pathetic fawning children
are resigned to being psuedo-slaves.
Were you ever really the illusion,
or have you always been this way?
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 5:39 PM UTC
I was assembled in carful manner,
like an artist with a brutal wrist
learning to be gentle at the hand
With his fingers a stroke per touch was liquid fire... and the ambers bled.
In an age of chaste- my uniform and I elaborated together,
right before the architect checked in.
To measure our dogma
do we have the skill of a plank?
Grown enough, he'd engage me at force.
The utensils of my porcine frame had
taken attention- and tention
off from his sore eyes.
Across the alley walls where we wildly grind, contrary
to a man compelled.
And like a beast, he took liberty
in between walls my temple built,
and broke them back down
to a soundly fever.
© Salamasina Talaepa
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 6:10 AM UTC