"poxy" poems
You’re a poisoned rose in a wedding band,
A glad eye with a stabbing hand,
A tumour ,vicious rumour surrounds you,
BP Exxon -death abounds you,
I first found you amusing and witty,
cutting remarks a stick with both ends ******
Gutter scumbag with a glaze of charm,
Only interested in doing harm,
A sociopath with a crocodile smile,
always had the last laugh,- real fight? Run a mile,
Backstabber Judas priest,but **** was I deceived,
Each Lie you sold I truly believed.
I stood by you ,defended you til the bitter end,
Bitter irony I know,with you as a friend,
Who the **** needs enemies, its all a front,
An affront to my instincts,get out of my life you ****
chorus
"My toxic friend this is the end get out of my life for good,
Every time you smile a child dies you’re up to no good,
Don’t call me-text me unfriend me before you end me,
You’re the epitome of the new word-Frenemy."
Now I hear you’re spreading rumours behind my back,
Bad move,wrong play better stand back,
Your malicious manouevery no longer stands,
I’m two steps ahead your end is planned.
You better watch your back,you’ve got no back up and no spine,
Juggling hedgehog maze lies through a field of land mines,
I’ve got my eye on you ex pal,don’t worry your time’s come,
we’ll see who can outrun the .45 from a gun,
That you’ve been begging for for years no tears at your end,
You’re a poxy oxymoron my toxic friend.
So come out to play my way and see who draws first,
I guarantee you a surprise not my blood burst,
Flying in the air like a hose god only knows,
You’re a fly in my eye a burr under my skin so out she goes,
The left that hits your jaw will saw your head from your neck
You talk a good fight,good night,I’ll leave ya wrecked.
chorus
"My toxic friend this is the end get out of my life for good,
Every time you smile an angel loses wings you’re no good,
Don’t call me-text me unfriend me before you end me,
You’re the epitome of the new word-Frenemy."
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 2:44 PM UTC
The wheel of the quivering meat
conception
Turns in the void expelling human beings,
Pigs, turtles, frogs, insects, nits,
Mice, lice, lizards, rats, roan
Racinghorses, poxy bucolic pigtics,
Horrible unnameable lice of vultures,
Murderous attacking dog-armies
Of Africa, Rhinos roaming in the
jungle,
Vast boars and huge gigantic bull
Elephants, rams, eagles, condors,
Pones and Porcupines and Pills-
All the endless conception of living
beings
Gnashing everywhere in Consciousness
Throughout the ten directions of space
Occupying all the quarters in & out,
From supermicroscopic no-bug
To huge Galaxy Lightyear Bowell
Illuminating the sky of one Mind-
Poor!
I wish I was free
of that slaving meat wheel
and safe in heaven dead.
7k
The sun was up, and daylight blue
Filled all the air, but in the streets
An obsidian dress fast cloaked la rue
As evil crept on stealthy feet
Which seemed at first to be small threat
And undetect; but threat was rife
With subtle moves the spylings breathe
The stench of death, they lower life
In a malicious, abrupt way
Bewildered me, made themselves known
Enemies to Freedom they
Serve only to protect the crown
We tangled, thrashed, my soul abashed
As in obsidian pall it drowned
And so throughout the bleak days, years
They barricade the street and skies
Their poxy prisons bring me years
As they cull freebird as he flies
He nimble tells their secrets for dear
Price, a price upon his years
Whereon the chase upon my back
The devils apace to do their Ill
Behind, beside me hearts pure black
Know only evil Love no thrill
For ****** rank they have the knack
Of making life turn still
The car swerved in with metal groan
I run past them ever fast
They the inquisition to my Joan
Freedoms flag upon my
mast
Such fearfulness I have not known
Than that they inspire, all hope lost
What will become of our good man?
Their petulance stalks him, his friends
If all this time with strength he can
Put doomed world on the mend
He hath outwit them, beat the man
Even if to grave they him send
It is about a year ago
The hunt, chase for me was afoot
As we pacing to and fro
In that town of soot
A town of beauty till I behold
The black coats and jackboots
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 1:26 PM UTC
Trying to figure out why a ***** tried to stunt on me.
While my homie fronts on me.
Triggered lie’s blasting out like bullets into your chest, golly!
Vigor dying whilst family crying that left me locked up now in a little celly.
Why did I pour out my heart to that ***** named shelly?
**** got me melancholy, casting out poxy curses.
My proxy is dropping down which got me feeling worthless.
Growing up in projects where one survives by snatching purses and killing snitches.
While society bides their time by tying nooses.
Rigged games yet we are told to give no excuses.
So, a minority got no choice but to role with the punches.
But with darker skin colour most don’t or won’t notice the bruises.
Vile nobility just loves hunting gooses.
Stark contrast idly confides and resides Inside institutionalized nuances.
Some people can be such nuisances.
Got me feeling like tony roaming through the different cosmoses.
Lonely sinking feeling, with my hope which was once flickering but is now slowly fleeting.
Reciprocal tensions pokes through my barriers like an unwelcomed greeting.
Typical tropes of under-achieving maybe it’s time I let God start intervening?
However, I’m doubtful on whether spirituality is real or nothing more than Kris Kringle.
Jingling jester choirs who always be harping on my people.
Which makes me ponder whether or not God’s supposed love is fickle.
Or if supposed believer’s have actually ever read the bible?
Religious pharisee’s not seeing the irony of praying to their falsified idols.
With their heads so far up their own *** That they don’t even realize that they’ve actually been worshipping the devil.
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
You. You engulfe me. Over and over and over.
Relentless. Little weapon. Poxy.
Maureen of Blackpool. Readers' Wife of the Year 1988. Wife of the Year. 100% correct.
Goodbye sweet princess. The 4 in 1 will no longer taste of pure Korma. But
Jalfrezi
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
Things are getting better
Look at all the weight I’ve lost
The pounds are falling off of me
But I’m asking, at what cost?
I haven’t left my bed in days
I can’t be ****** to cook
I can’t be ****** to do my work
Or read a poxy book
Things are getting better
I’m relaxing more and more
I feel less and less anxiety
Knocking on my door
But I’ve got deadlines I need to beat
I’m falling well behind
The backlog of things I need to do
Is playing on my mind
Things are getting better
The pills are staying down
They keep me on an even keel
Upon a safer ground
I don’t get too emotional
Over petty ****
Or feel too much elation
Once I’ve had my little hit
Things are getting better
I went to have a blood test
They wanna see if there’s a medical reason
Why I’m feeling so depressed
But I wonder if my blood can show
What’s going through my head
Or can give a rational explanation
For why I can’t get out of bed?
Things are getting better
I’m less and less inclined
To listen to the ********
That passes through my mind
And I wonder, if things keep on changing
Where are they gonna go?
‘Cause if this is getting better
Then I really don’t wanna know.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
Surprisingly the dusted air
does not bring a gritty mouth?
It seeps sandy, into the recesses of skyscrapers,
gives bright blue pools a poxy composure.
Its probably why the buildings aren't white
but not why my teeth aren't
It's accompanied by muted roars,
a cacophony of humanity in the near and far.
Indians eating Ethiopian,
Pakistanis driving Chinese cars,
Arabs shopping at Bloomingdales,
Filipinos Filipinoing.
A city that embodies the glittering gold
of empty flats and abandoned offices,
the cushion covered loungers
and the overwhelming urge to jump
from the 26th floor balcony.
A squinted eye admires the Burjes.
A shielded glance is spared for the Mosques.
Their brilliance is solar, my sunglasses game is weak
and my neck is starting to get sore.
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 2:38 AM UTC
No more the need to be notified
Presidential or otherwise seen
here on my phone, in groups or alone
like a poxy that drones, on my spleen
Over-informed and glossed over
too much information and such
handing me crap, what's up with that?
I think it's overly
much
I get it from FEMA and locals
problems close to my home
keeping it relevant, focused
like pictures made bad
Kodachrome
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 11:23 PM UTC
Hello again Poetry I missed you,hope you missed me,
where'd the Sandman Irish Dragon go,it's no mystery,
but unfortunately last Sunday I just dropped,
woke up to the Sirens,Ambulance,cops,
Cause I'm a Wanted Man in a Dangerous place,
it could have been a bullet getting fired for my face,
folks thought it was a Stroke(of bad luck or bad blood),
and if I could tell you truly what happened,I would.
You see a couple of months ago the Armored car I was in,
got smashed open by a 10 ton truck like a tin,
getting stepped on by an Elephant(can you say Insurgent?),
so at the time my spine suffered and I wound up with a Surgeon,
in a third world hospital,doing 1st world miracles,
an angel of mercy who returned me my Spirit and,
my life force,my good left arm was restored,
but I had to come home to rest on Irish Shores.
And when I got home I got embroiled in the family life,
no more danger(well except the ongoing Drugs war Fight)
and the Spite that comes daily in an average family,
the Irish begrudgery what do you MEAN you write Poetry?
So the Dragons wings were clipped,my good left arm was numb,
and without Hello Poetry i would have succumbed,
to the poxy oxy's that've made junkies out of friends,
or the other poison that's sold as a means to an end.
So my blackout and brief stay in an overcrowded ward,
left me stuffed with rhymes,filled to the brim with words,
so thank you to the Nurses who helped me back on my feet,
its the Return of the Dragon,Sandman NEVER faces Defeat
(Talk to you all again soon,my arm is still a bit sore,but I'm nearly 100%.)
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 7:45 AM UTC
My words make magic happen
Creating potent spells
That conjure the ineffable
And fathom poxy hells
Syntax refines meaning
Meanings deep as wells
Stacatto sound in symphony
A music that appeals
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 11:31 AM UTC
Take a walk through twisted ego of black veined demonik witch
Incantation ritual goes one three six and six and six
The writing on the wall spells out some freaky ****** ****
If you dont wanna know
Dont get me started on all this
And yes I found my soul even before I found me ****
Always got to know
Like upside in and madouv it
You think your bustin *****
But ball is easy peasy prey
We go right to, walk through the source
And decide it we wanna stay
Or not
Ye show me what you got
Im waiting on the sound
But all I hear is Tick Tick Tok
****
This *****
On any poisoned ***
Bending all those knees
For big sky daddy’s poxy ****
Its sick
And sad
But **** it thats too bad
Gotta smash your little brain
In cleansing flame and rains Of pain
Dont waste my time with ******** games
I need the right kind of insane
Gotta learn how to sustain
Never afraid to take the blame
Yes
We in
There's only one way out
So get the party started
What the **** is this about
Im a’courtin all my envy
And im stroking all my doubts
So meet me at the pearly gates
With cleansing flame and Rains of pain
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 3:06 PM UTC
If she could see what I see, maybe it would make her world more bearable.
Maybe her anxieties would let her breathe and her down days would be less poxy.
I can't begin to imagine what it's like bouncing from explosions of colour to that shade of grey, and for that to be the system.
When she smiles, if she could feel how I feel as an observer - enthralled -
maybe it would reassure her, give her some warmth.
She does nothing by halves and she's learning herself;
I wish she didn't have to do it waiting for the fall.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
the rat is belly-up in my hands. breathing is hard due to the plastic vat of formaldehyde-drenched vermin on the desk next to me.
seeing guts open on the table is reminiscent of lying skinless on my heavy bed, organs wet and bloodless inside my body cavity.
combing through the rat, i find i'm peeling back my own painless ribcage, tasting defeat in my own clawed fingers.
it's like selling the fur off my body for the sake of extra credit points, tossing my own torn-up skeleton
into landfill, flopped belly-up below blue plastic gloves and bits of my own drained flesh.
seeing the divide between gory body and vague fishbowl conscience is so much
stickier than i ever would have imagined;
my arms are covered in it,
the ends of my hair drip
with stomach acid. the bisection
of my own blue heart exists tangible in my live shaky hands,
the coil of my intestines curled helpless
in my poxy palms.
how ugly, to dissect for commodity! how ugly, to dissect for the sake of distance, the sake of false superiority over animals that twitch!
how strange to rip my own body open, how repulsive to lie suffering under the cast of my own disease-ridden hands!
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 1:51 AM UTC
“Mercy” is a fiction
A quaint naivety
An untruthful depiction
Since antiquity
The hidden hand on high
Harbours no feelings nor cares
For the dull minutae, under Earth’s sky
Those poxy human affairs
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 8:07 AM UTC