"puritan" poems
How this **** fable instructs
And mocks! Here's the parody of that moral mousetrap
Set in the proverbs stitched on samplers
Approving chased girls who get them to a tree
And put on bark's nun-black
Habit which deflects
All amorous arrows. For to sheathe the ****** shape
In a scabbard of wood baffles pursuers,
Whether goat-thighed or god-haloed. Ever since that first Daphne
Switched her incomparable back
For a bay-tree hide, respect's
Twined to her hard limbs like ivy: the puritan lip
Cries: 'Celebrate Syrinx whose demurs
Won her the frog-colored skin, pale pith and watery
Bed of a reed. Look:
Pine-needle armor protects
Pitys from Pan's assault! And though age drop
Their leafy crowns, their fame soars,
Eclipsing Eva, Cleo and Helen of Troy:
For which of those would speak
For a fashion that constricts
White bodies in a wooden girdle, root to top
Unfaced, unformed, the nipple-flowers
Shrouded to suckle darkness? Only they
Who keep cool and holy make
A sanctum to attract
Green virgins, consecrating limb and lip
To chastity's service: like prophets, like preachers,
They descant on the serene and seraphic beauty
Of virgins for virginity's sake.'
Be certain some such pact's
Been struck to keep all glory in the grip
Of ugly spinsters and barren sirs
As you etch on the inner window of your eye
This ****** on her rack:
She, ripe and unplucked, 's
Lain splayed too long in the tortuous boughs: overripe
Now, dour-faced, her fingers
Stiff as twigs, her body woodenly
Askew, she'll ache and wake
Though doomsday bud. Neglect's
Given her lips that lemon-tasting droop:
Untongued, all beauty's bright juice sours.
Tree-twist will ape this gross anatomy
Till irony's bough break.
8.6k
I would rather drink than eat,
And though I superbly sup,
Food, I feel, can never beat
Delectation of the cup.
Wine it is that crowns the feast;
Fish and fowl and fancy meat
Are of my delight the least:
I would rather drink than eat.
Though no Puritan I be,
And have doubts of Kingdom Come,
With those fellows I agree
Who deplore the Demon ***
Gin and brandy I decline,
And I shy at whisky neat;
But give me rare vintage wine,--
Gad! I'd rather drink than eat.
Food surfeit is of the beast;
Wine is from the gods a gift.
All from ********** to priest
Can attest to its uplift.
Green and garnet glows the vine;
Grapes grow plump in happy heat;
Gold and ruby winks the wine . . .
Come! Let's rather drink than eat.
7.4k
Why scrawl any
pattern or
family of bitemarks
or caresses
The illustrator has
children of his own
and loud red
wine to waste
Visiting your birthplace
in your example
suggests antique
weaponry
Through sublime sense
Puritan watershed
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 2:22 PM UTC
By A Foreigner
I like Canadians.
They are so unlike Americans.
They go home at night.
Their cigarettes don't smell bad.
Their hats fit.
They really believe that they won the war.
They don't believe in Literature.
They think Art has been exaggerated.
But they are wonderful on ice skates.
A few of them are very rich.
But when they are rich they buy more horses
Than motor cars.
Chicago calls Toronto a puritan town.
But both boxing and horse-racing are illegal
In Chicago.
Nobody works on Sunday.
Nobody.
That doesn't make me mad.
There is only one Woodbine.
But were you ever at Blue Bonnets?
If you **** somebody with a motor car in Ontario
You are liable to go to jail.
So it isn't done.
There have been over 500 people killed by motor cars
In Chicago
So far this year.
It is hard to get rich in Canada.
But it is easy to make money.
There are too many tea rooms.
But, then, there are no cabarets.
If you tip a waiter a quarter
He says "Thank you."
Instead of calling the bouncer.
They let women stand up in the street cars.
Even if they are good-looking.
They are all in a hurry to get home to supper
And their radio sets.
They are a fine people.
I like them.
5.4k
lovers are burning.] balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the overwild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious !
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain !
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed ! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of sylvia plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists !
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts
for gospels.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
Thank Heaven! the crisis—
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last—
And the fever called “Living”
Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know,
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length—
But no matter!—I feel
I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly,
Now in my bed,
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead—
Might start at beholding me
Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:—ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
The sickness—the nausea—
The pitiless pain—
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain—
With the fever called “Living”
That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible
Torture of thirst,
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:—
I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst:—
Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground—
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed—
For man never slept
In a different bed;
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses—
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies—
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies—
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie—
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast—
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
Now in my bed
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead—
And I rest so contentedly,
Now in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead—
That you shudder to look at me.
Thinking me dead.
But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie—
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie—
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
4.4k
The dead-bolts on the interior doors
Against the nephews most securely locked
(One is destructive; the other explores)
Ignored by their mother (usually crocked)
The brother-in-law babbles about his bowels
And surgeries over the festive spread
Ignoring his wife’s disapproving scowls
Detailing each grim therapy and med
The puppies are safely penned inside
Because of an incident with a crowbar
And a nephew who kicked and screamed and cried -
He wasn’t allowed to **** the dogs or bash the car
His mother comforted him in his tears
And glowered at me for telling him no
And comforted herself with a few more beers
Her special child is sensitive, you know
The brother-in-law’s colonoscopy
With lurid adjectives of graphic doom
Comes with the pie and more iced tea
His miseries circulate around the room
Then from the living room an expensive crash
“Not me!” “Not me!” More screams and denials and cries
An old family vase – it’s now just trash
“You shouldn’t have glass around,” their mother sighs
The brother-in-law offers to show his scars
He finds his shirt buttons, makes his move
We other men escape outside for cigars
Cigars!? The women uniformly disapprove
One nephew leaps upon a garden seat
And jumps and yells until it falls apart
Their mother says her boy is cute and sweet
“Are you all right, my dear little heart?”
The brother-in-law holds his tummy and groans
And tells us all about his flatulence
And just which foods lead to what moans
(Perhaps he should practice some abstinence)
The women come outside to cough and choke
With practiced puritan disapproval and sneers
About the satanic scent of tobacco smoke
The world’s best mother chugs a few more beers
The brother-in-law explains why he can’t drink
It’s about his digestion (be surprised)
And we shouldn’t smoke; if only we’d think
And we (got a match?) are properly chastised
Then at the end of this mandatory day
Of mandatory Hallmark merriment
All of them finally go the (space) away
And how did the mailbox get broken and bent?
But the brother-in-law pauses at the garden gate
“Say, did I tell you about my new pills…?”
And so dear solitude again must wait
While darkness slowly falls upon the hills
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC
mmm, palce lizać, albo wsadzić je w dúpe i nadawać sygnał wriggly-wriggly alter: wriggly-pigglety; counter-alt? calling it: the miracle of five croutons, and two pieces of sushi... c'mon, let's go crazy! and take it to the excesses permitted by the original feat! (yes, i mean the fish parts of sushi, there's enough carbohydrates in the croutons, so yes, no rice-bed for the tartars).
ć is the puritan's aversion to cz / chai;
or at least an exfoliation curbor.
i write honey,
honey honey honey,
i write honey,
honey honey honey
p'ooh bear
droned in on it.
when i write,
i write honey,
honey honey O'Milee.
from serving in the US and A
navy, to a beach-buggy
accident.
when i write, i write
honey -
*** e -
Atilla styled liquorice -
lee co reesh - not
liquidated rice -
ghosts of latin almost everywhere;
quadruple that.
convene and converse -
contrary collective.
some say this might as well
be the famous goldberg sardines;
when i write, i write honey,
i write: honey honey honey...
will you be my Duracell bunny?
honey, will you be my
******** par excellance?
i see... no, you won't be.
the museum of Greek sculpture
was vandalised!
guess what they took,
the ****** fiendish crooks!
with a wet splash of colour
comes the cold marble artifice -
a bit like the cool-mouth
refrigerator of a woman during
felatio... still don't know
how she gets that gob down
below room temperature.
(heresy input, never start a
sentence with an) and
there you have it,
writing, catering for
abstractionism,
just after he said: they're on a diet.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
Percepts of enlightenment & civilization to encounter
The grim aftermath of tales unspoken from the galaxies afar
Betokening Indian tales of deeper truths than ever,
For the Great Spirit still swirls in gestures previously milder,
At a snail's pace and surely winning the pursuit among souls or
Is example better than pre-conceived precept?
or
“Is that a dog in the manger?”
Now cherishing the viper?
The human dilemma between liberty & authority?
“Has mythology now become psychology?”
A dingy white color in disguise of tranquility
To suit the blemished features of the 21st century
With fair women & brave men turning fables into verse,
Yet Socrates’ doctrine about death bespeaks a wafture so callous!
The new-age “iron claw” screams nastiness in time and space.
The pretences of mankind like the puritan;
Mars trapped in the net of Vulcan,
Jupiter is serene and above the conflict to win,
While Venus tries to fight upon the plains of troy
That the Greek gods of serenity may win at Tuscany.
“When do these sultry groans of mortal remorse cease?”
To calm the sordid uproar that Love may peruse
Through the scattered white aromatic rose petals
In search of the scintillating path back to the highland stables
Were snowflakes are an irresistible lure for the Arctic snowbirds!
Nature herself is proud of her designs
Yet!
There is nothing grating in mortal cosmoses but direct villainy.
Sinister fate climbs the lonesome banister faster
Before the “fanged dawn” descends nearer,
As stronger minds virtually become weaker;
These “shameless actors” are melted into “thin air”
“Must they cheat themselves with that same foolish vice of honesty?”
Mischievousnesses feed!
Like beasts till they be fat, and then they bleed
As they are led to bend the curve of “No return”
Since it is only rational that after the darkest of nights
There is a brighter day to reveal the true knights
Of the once gloomy age of Democritus.
Tis plain, from hence, that our vows
Request hurtful intense things,
or useless at the best.
Sep 17, 2009
Sep 17, 2009 at 5:16 AM UTC
By the first of August
the invisible beetles began
to snore and the grass was
as tough as hemp and was
no color--no more than
the sand was a color and
we had worn our bare feet
bare since the twentieth
of June and there were times
we forgot to wind up your
alarm clock and some nights
we took our gin warm and neat
from old jelly glasses while
the sun blew out of sight
like a red picture hat and
one day I tied my hair back
with a ribbon and you said
that I looked almost like
a puritan lady and what
I remember best is that
the door to your room was
the door to mine.
2.6k
red blue
reptiles reptiles
white russian ****** mary
puritan pride puritan pride
freemason freemason
where the good, old days at? where the odd. good days at?
conspiracy conspiracy
deep fake deep fake
trump has a wooden leg biden has a wooden leg
aliens aliens
wars wars
china china
abortion abortion
manifest destiny manifest destiny
lobbyists lobbyists
fox nbc
sovereign citizen version
hey!
get the hell out of america!
your title makes no sense
if you're a citizen of the world, then move to that world
who do you think you are? God or something?
(as it appears on https://www.merriam-webster(no lie)
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sov·er·eign | \ ˈsä-v(ə-)rən
, -vərn also ˈsə- \
variants: or less commonly sovran
Definition of sovereign
(Entry 1 of 2)
1a : one possessing or held to possess supreme political power or sovereignty
b : one that exercises supreme authority within a limited sphere
c : an acknowledged leader : arbiter
2 : any of various gold coins of the United Kingdom
sovereign adjective
sov·er·eign | \ ˈsä-v(ə-)rən
, -vərn also ˈsə- \
variants: or less commonly sovran
Definition of sovereign (Entry 2 of 2)
1a : superlative in quality
b : of the most exalted kind : supreme sovereign virtue
c : having generalized curative powers a sovereign remedy
d : of an unqualified nature : unmitigated sovereign contempt
e : having undisputed ascendancy : paramount
2a : possessed of supreme power a sovereign ruler
b : unlimited in extent : absolute
c : enjoying autonomy : independent sovereign states
3 : relating to, characteristic of, or befitting a supreme ruler : royal a sovereign right
Nov 2, 2021
Nov 2, 2021 at 12:08 AM UTC
Do you really need that second slice?
Don't you dare to super size!
Guzzling down large sugary drinks-
Do you rally think that's wise?
Your hamburger is much too large
I'd cur it down to size
until its like those square ones
that White Castle serves sans fries.
I taught the City not to smoke
in that I was thought wise.
Unhand that Nathans hot dog!
It will go straight to your thighs.
I guess I'm just a Puritan,
my happiness undone
by the thought that somewhere, someone
might still be having fun.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 7:22 PM UTC
Pain in the thighs
from the endless straddles
Pin ****** in the ribs
from a poorly made white willows dress
All are things much desired by a pudgy adolescent female
A garment of ill conceived freedom
An illusion
Of frolic in utopia
It was just a small gate way to the mud caked feet
And into the auto eclipses
Of stargazing zombies
Those still relied on vintage kaleidoscopes
All Full of cracks
See in her bleeding ignorance
the shores still remained open
Turquoise schooners unleashed
The tree tops were still aching to be claimed
Reincarnated as a paradise for attractive drifters
Not even the all mouth beasts
can contain her patented enthusiasm
The straw huts break for assembly
under a tiny hand
Too bad the cracks have been secured
The air was kept to boil
and stain the linoleum
Echoes of a puritan called to action
The streams soon hardened
to form plastic shelving
And the orange flowers collapse
to form packing materials
Onto the plastic shelving is were we placed the books
The books that know that freedom
is just copy right infringement
And life is a micromanaging instruction
Designed to make workers eat their own demise
Grid-less prosperity
cremated in the corner of a starter home
Only an anthropologic mistake
Meant to ward of a mass pandemic of sudden infant death syndrome
The pudgy filled girl,
The comedic car and the overproduced dress
They will learn the value of a hot meal and a good ********
The dreamers almost stole her away
in their patchwork parachute
But we sent her away to Universidad
And the world is her worthless cluster ****
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 8:59 AM UTC
Puritan James is about
to teach his growing-up son
a thing or two
about the evils of alcohol and drink
He places a glass of water
and a glass of whiskey side by side
on the dining table and he declares:
*"Now watch, Mike,
what happens to the worms
I will put in the glass of water
and in the glass of whiskey;
and tell me what you learn"*
And Mike watches the worms
curl up and die in the whiskey
and Mike formalises his wisdom:
*"Dad - I learn that if I drink whiskey
I will never have worms!"*
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 8:45 AM UTC
I'm neck deep in stupid
Trying to live up to a halo
That doesn't belong to me
My moral compass points North
No matter where I face
Can't tell my head from my ***
Maybe it's that I need
A brand new pair of horns
Because that's a step somewhere
My head was on the chop block
And but for naught but you
Thanks for letting me die
Oh, but you missed a spot.
Shoot me again because
I'm not quite dead yet
So let me burn in hell
While you dance with the angels
It's not like you give a ****
Ten thousand hungry insects
Consume my flesh alive
And you're sipping champagne
But we got backward the ideas
Of Puritan and Libertine
Of hypocrisy and integrity
So when I'm done with you
The hell I send you to
Will feel like heaven
I'll take solace in the fact
That in the end, with all considered,
I won't be crucified alone.
Sep 7, 2010
Sep 7, 2010 at 12:23 PM UTC
*here they go again , these experts
telling us things to sadden the heart:
game may not be that safe to eat
running river water is never a treat
for it carries upstream decadence
here they go again, these stuffed-shirt experts:
water is two to one hyydrogen and oxygen
boiled, the oxygen steams away into the air
and your cappuccino has a hydrogen flavour
we endanger our lives when it we drink and savour
here they go again, the learned heralds of demise
they tell us that nothing we can ever devise
can avert the armageddon that's surely coming
the entropy or second law of thermodynamics
transforms physicists into latterday prophets
here they go again on prime media, the erudite experts
talking about free radicals, anti-oxidants, titanium utensils
and the havoc that excess proteins, fats and carbohydrates can cause
it’s time to go puritan and vegetarian in this new poisonous present
where fun is frowned upon and barbecues are a deadly pastime
in this age of dietary enlightenment and forced moderation
we must eventually go raw in our cuisine and be natural about it
or perhaps be as creative as possible before the nutritionists come in
to tell us how not to cook our food and how not to eat it
living was great fun before this age of detoxification and cancer!*
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
A poem from Barry Hodges' "Memories" Sequence by Edna
Some folks think the place where the 'Pilgrim Fathers' landed
On the 4th of July in 1776 with a cha-cha-cha
Is a beautiful place, nice and peaceful
With clapboard churches and houses
And maybe a couple of nice well-kept cemeteries
(dedicated to the dead native Americans,
who caught influenza from the colonists),
But there is another side to the landing place:
Believe me, I know, I have been there
On an interesting cut-price package tour
And I have seen it in all its hideous terror.
I was wandering happily around the historic venue,
Taking a few photos with my new Nikkon X2234A Digital
(And accompanied by my blind mother-in-law, Mrs Ada Sproggs),
When a gang of savage drunken Puritan preachers,
Out of their minds on some kind of tobacco product,
Savaged us and cut off poor old Ada's head
With a reproduction 18th century axe
Which totally ****** up her holiday plans.
O Perfidy! They left her lying there on the beach,
Her brains splattered on the coral strand,
And for what? Well, let me share the horror with you:
They wanted to wear her Marks & Spencers ******
(In spite of the senile stains and skidmarks)
And as a result she spent a couple of weeks
On a mortuary slab (in two separate pieces).
The consequence? I had to pay for a very expensive funeral
And my travel insurance argued about the costs.
Dear God, I will stay in dear old London in the future.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
I'am not a glutton
neither do I eat mutton
I'am a puritan
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 2:17 AM UTC
There are humble gods
weeping laments over guitars,
notebooks, prison floors, drums.
While locked in cells, of mind,
of design, of compromise.
Of drugs and *** and sin
and hail satan hail satan.
All the party kids go to hell!
because they dared to have a good time
on this puritan prison.
This mirror vision of the ego
of a mastermind.
This clairvoyant's hell.
This witch burning hate mongering
puritan hell.
This insane ******* place,
society,
where we all **** a certain way,
even if it's not good for us.
**** in a hole in the ground,
you don't need a ***** throne.
That's what they do in "less civilized" places.
They do what makes sense.
******* Europeans.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC
I could die
of smoke inhalation
in a trailer park in Southern Alabama,
my hair streaked with lemon juice
and you wouldn't miss a breath.
My vocal chords throb from chanting
your name to St. Anthony.
I am a 17th century puritan,
nothing without you.
My man.
My grudge.
My emptiness.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
Glory be to God for avenging the ****** of William Laud!
Refusing the reality of the Spiritual Church?
Puritan
Though not altogether disjointedly?
Pilgrim
As Puritan dreams
turn to happy meals
and
vast parking lots
of freedom of choice.
America that Church
with their Jeffersonian natural religion and
their Masonic philosophies.
Where human rights/freedom are the Gospel;
as Christendom falls to human nature
for exaggerative innuendo and condemning councils
to further intellectualization of faith
in Jesus name.
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
the english don't know how to drink *****
sorry...
they don't...
by the way?
the english artifact of saying sorry?
it doesn't actually mean an apology...
the apology always comes too late...
but english nightclubs?
the english? they don't know how to
serve *****
***** is never served on ice...
i'm losing followers? am i?
good...
i like my self-imposed
censorship...
i like weeding out the soft pockets...
of people with weak
stomachs...
for all the celebration of Darwinism?
peer into my eyes...
if you really want to serve *****
***** isn't whiskey isn't
red wine, served at room temp. being
allowed airing...
mind you... funny fact...
six cloves of garlic dumped into
a bottle of red wine, matured for 2 weeks...
3 x 25ml of the wine...
apparently curbs your appetite...
don't ask me whether that's inclusive
of a placebo effect...
but when you're drinking
***** proper?
you don't add ice...
and keep it at room temp.,
you freeze it...
to below -10°C...
vodka isn't whiskey!
i know what warm **** tastes like,
i once fused red wine,
and, having ****** into the holy grail,
and subsequently drank the concoction...
come to think of it...
******* the Vatican colored flag of
extraction into a sacrament?
you need ***** to be served below
the freezing point of water,
given that, 0°C is a baron of quality
differentiating water from *****
alcohol evaporates at around
70+°C...
p.s. interlude:
i was never fond of the imperial rubric
of Fahrenheit and ounces, pounds,
miles, inches...
and all that quirky "genius" of
measurements...
mathematically?
i'm aligned with French...
but you don't serve *****
at room temp. with ice cubes
and a mixer...
given that ***** has a lower
boiling point,
you serve it under the "niqab" of
waster becoming ice...
so you serve it...
as something, equivalent of
gomme syrup...
you drink ***** that appears
syrupy...
like any single malt
puritan when it comes to whiskey?
there are ***** puritans out there...
you don't drink ***** lukewarm,
or slightly chilled...
you drink it at a temp. of
a gomme syrup...
liquid -20°C...
thick...
with all the alcohol poisoning
bacterium dead...
appearing
excessively sugary,
but not really...
night clubs that serve
***** not stashed in refrigerators
like butcher's meat?
don't drink the *****
in those places...
if it doesn't have the smoothness
of a gomme syrup?
sliding down your throat
like a mollusk on amphetamines?
the epitome:
***** and orange juice?!
you ******** me or opening
a ******* parachute while
stranded to the the ******* ground?
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
I thought I was free
No, I KNEW I was
I'd witnessed myself crawl
helplessly out of the
merciless void
that sticks like
steaming tar
to my scarred skin
I prevailed only
days ago
Now it's as though
I've plunged
back into the abyss
that torments me so
with its
labyrinthine passages,
none of which truly lead
to the
romantic lie of
happiness
Like a sinful Puritan,
I fear the
inevitable dark,
for in the
absence of light,
I am punished by
mental illness
for innocent actions
the depression deems
"heinous"
So kiss me while you can,
I'm growing more exhausted
everyday
Hold my body while it's warm,
the blood that
courses through my veins
will soon instead
flow to the bathroom floor
Take my breath away
before I take it for myself
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 11:12 AM UTC
Neocons— like bees,
Puritan values in hives,
So many good drones.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 2:52 AM UTC
On Proctor’s ledge I made my bed
Following the ****** scores
Through grey fog, thick as cold death.
Screaming gallows want my head...
To dance across their blood stained floors.
This opaque sky is my one true friend
Oh the exquisite view it does afford!
Peering down those rotten trap doors.
Puritan villagers spew hate
Lighting my ***** feet
As this frayed rope keeps me safe.
Smooth grey rocks hidden away...
By broken sticks and amber leaves.
I left them on the ground where they lay
Just to preserve this caliginous scene!
Eighteen others shall soon agree.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC