"pustule" poems
A ripened sky splits and bleeds
Mangled reds and blacks;
An instant melts as heat from
Clustered newborn suns --
Blistered from the wounds --
Collects and beams 1600 feet
Earthwards from Fat Man's
Plump and pompous underbelly.
The pure-light pin-prick stopped
The city's pulse for a moment;
Collecting remnants of the
Beating hearts (of artists,
Doctors, students, parents,
Preachers, rats, and peasants)
To plant on rotting soil -
A hellish fungal pustule.
The swelling abscess breathed
But once and burst to
Ripple excess outwards
Soaking up the landscape;
Ingesting miles and spewing
Spores towards septic skies to form
A mass of mushroomed
Might and pyrrhic triumph.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
there's a crazzzy devil
in
the white house
twisting our nation
into a denizens den
a tub of **** in a suit
ascending ***** matter
in
a clogged toilet
a black plague
we have a president with the attention span
of sea clams
an emotional ******* drip of impetuosity
a spiraling fit of rage
a snarling delusional dog
narcissist in a warping mirror
a pathetic complainer
a cyst on the body politic
clot
open sore
seething pustule
piggish **** lover
gangsters dupe
fascist wana be
heil heil
god your a pile
making Russia great again
licking Vlad's *****
protecting your assets no doubt
and hissing tweets
at war with with only everything
and figments of a disturbed imagination
a real windmill killer
his mouth
the devils mark
a yapping compulsive lier
forked tongued fury
possessed to a fault
by the vainglories
of money and ego out of bounds
the biggest and the best
at being
the very worst and a pest
grand royalty of ridicule
*****
a ham ****** cartoon nightmare
and clumsy stumbling bore
a seething volcano of perpetual excrement
reading from the book of chaos
aberrations of enemies
a war room president
at war with his own citizens
huddled in a panic chamber
burns and cuts himself
with his own hot sharp words
as there thrown back at him
a bully getting bullied
a ripper getting ripped
the brains of a lizards eyelid
in a shadeless socket
pulp hearted orangutan
menace to society
his mottled soul
like a black sun
on the verge
of a black hole
a hell mill of decrepitude
a dark creep creeping
tarnishing our beautiful country
lights dim
America
there's a devil
in the white house
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC
All the world's a *********
And all the lads and ladettes mere defecators,
Gratifying oozing exits and entrances;
And one man perforce enacts too many roles,
His acts being seven deaths. D'abord, the baby,
******** and ******* on his mummy's frock.
Then, the errant truant with his rucksack
And pock-marked wanker's face, creeping like death
Foul-trouser'dly to school. Next a teenager,
Panting like mad dog, with an oozing pustule
Dripping oe'r his girlfriend's pubics. Then a hoodie,
Full of strange oaths, and dressed up like a freak,
Lacking in honour, decency, and up for aggro,
Seeking the respect of loathsome peers
Even on the street corner. And then the adult
With bulging beer belly, and ample burgers stuff'd,
With eyes dulled by unfulfilled promises,
Mortgaged to the hilt, and indebted to Visa,
And so he wastes his life. The sixth age dawns
Before he knows it, bald futility,
With ****** in pocket, five quid a pill,
His youthful hopes well fuck'd, the world too much
For his ignorance, and his vain butch rantings
Reverting soon to teenage curses, coughs
And tobacco'd wheezings. Last we see him,
Ending a pointless and useless existence,
Clutching to his piss-stained Zimmer frame,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans pension fund.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 4:54 PM UTC
Tear out my eyes
repainting them shades of purple puke
and send me off back to work
Snip the curious child
from my gut
and paint the walls pink with his feet
pour drano into my ears
so that i may not have to think anymore
lobotomize my fingernail biting fetishes
till i only get hard-on's from my skull
dragging its skin across the pavement
you pitiful excuse for a poet
you hope to dazzle them with dayglo frosting
caked like mold in the corners of your mouth
you sick hopeless perfectionist
knitting cellophane walls
of hands slapping your face
so you can close your eyes
and lose yourself in the confines
of your stalagmites
you with your cut and paste philosophies
which leave gaping holes
stretching across everybody's pupils
huh?
exactly you ******* pustule of plastic bubbles
you are an empty bud
no flower could rise from soil as rank as yours
no love will ever find comfort in a heart as prickly as yours
i can only be ashamed
that i share your body
i'm better off getting aborted
next time you sneeze
so that i could infect another's fragile flesh
passing our sick parasite
at least something of yours will be left
for others to cherish
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 12:11 PM UTC
So pick up the scissors and cut it the **** out!
Then take a stick and knock it the **** off.
Alright, all done?
Are you ready for a conversation consisting of truth?
Or does that concept still, somehow, confuse you?
For years I've been fighting a battle with the cowardice in you!
And now, after all of it, I have more emotional involvement in my shoe.
No, scratch that, not in my shoe...
Because that dog **** I stepped in last week, has more integrity than you.
Fidelity, do you know what that is?
Egregious, do you know that word exists?
How about 'low life ***** mother fucker'?
Oh, meaning got through.
Allow me a moment to adjust my vocabulary for you.
You're a coward. A snail. A waste of my time and space.
A blister, throbbing pustule on the *** of the human race.
You have never been loyal.
You're robbing me of my youth.
The worst part is, I see myself becoming like you.
I admire the way you avoid the subject.
The method you use to crawl out of the line of fire.
Throwing others in front of the bus so you don't hit the tires.
That's right, its all their fault, duh.
You really think I'm that ******* stupid, huh?
Well. **** you.You're a ******
A ******* class A.
A dissapointment, A nebbish, A poltroon, A quitter and recreant.
Someone I should have never given a second glace.
I mean it.
I'd be a liar if I didn't admit.
I regret the last four years of this ****
I'd be ******* stupid to stick around for more of this.
I give your life meaning? Purpose?
If that's true I hope you're crushed by my indifference.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
Oh my love,
You are the three day old milkshake to my fuzzy green polyp,
You are the scummy rotten pizza to my mold,
The intestine to my tape worminess,
Undoubtedly the toes to my carnivorous fungi,
The grungy wet towels to my mildew,
The unbrushed gums to my pus filled canker,
The ancient decaying wood to my deadly black sludge,
The inflamed skin to my oozing pustule,
The cone shape to my keratoacanthoma...
Without you; I would cease to exist.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC
I am a pimple on the face of the world,
A festering pustule
Simply trying to heal.
When the world reaches up
With its ***** hands to
Break me, for its own vanity,
It merely opens me up
So it can pour in more if its
Filth.
Over, and over,
The world will try and fail
To empty me
Of the filth it feeds me.
And maybe,
One day,
I may finally heal.
But when I do,
Because of the meddling,
I will be left as a scar,
A symbol to the world,
That it should have either left me alone
Or washed its hands.
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 12:43 AM UTC
today is a day in autumn poised somewhere
on the toasted bread color spectrum
except wetter and chewier this morning
the gold light found me solemnly dancing
in the mud among the cypress knees
digging down to the bone to pass
this skin deep writer's block
the sun seemed huge and flat
when it sailed over the evergreen hill
misty on the beak of a warrior owl
but like me it's burning on the inside
tingling the tip of my spine causing
the blood in my arms and legs to buzz
beneath the unshockable woodpecker
with his tremendous hammer where
the monarch butterfly holds court
my skin becomes streaked with brown
as my bare feet slap the water face sending
slow elongated ripples through the swamp river
when the sun begins to spray tie dye off my shoulders
i'm haloed like a young madonna among the
jabbering leaves and whinnying branches
last night there was no howl at the moon cliche
as i let the hungry rain eat me i burped out
a victorious purple bird-sized butterfly
fighting in a gossamer heap from my tum
for my own confused psychoactive salvation
i'm still splashing and swooping
by the adenoidal afternoon
as the wild fox whimpers on the hill
the angelic chorus kicks in when
an ethereal forest nymph emerges
with her hair washed fresh
by the crisp autumn rain
out of the long trumpet gun barrel
of an orchid and dips her silken tongue into
the blue gray puddle of dew collected
in my bare navel
her skinny fingers flit between
the woven strings of an autoharp and
my arms fall limp like the branches of a wind
bent pine toward the fuzzy backs of centipedes
my chest glistens with perspiration
and my lips begin to quiver nostrils aroused
by the organic mating smells in the
daisy and dandelion clusters i
absorb through my open pores
like clear clean shining light
honing priming myself
into a glorious monumental
semi ***** pustule
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
There's a town somewhere up north off of route 54
It's cheap to live there, but I wouldn't recommend it
It's streets run with greed, ****** and sin
The people there are devoid any sense of ethics
It will leave you all shocked and breathless
Welcome to the neighborhood
Where you board up your windows and doors then double check if they're locked
Where you can always hear some one screaming
"Stop"
"Stop"
The mayor has been in office for six terms
And in his cabinet are members of the mob
Whose fronts are local mom and pops
Where junkies like to hang out
While a mugging of an eighty four year old widow takes place around the block
Welcome to the neighborhood
Where you board up your windows and doors then double check if they're locked
Where you can always hear some one screaming
"Stop"
"Stop"
-Tommy Johnson
The youth are all in gangs that **** each other
Delinquent dropouts doing drive by's
Defiling untouched regions between innocent women's thighs
Girls making appointments for back alley coat hanger abortions
As some hate group constructs homemade bombs
Welcome to the neighborhood
Where you board up your windows and doors then double check if they're locked
Where you can always hear some one screaming
"Stop"
"Stop"
Diseases and food shortages
Rotten government cheese and unpaid mortgages
Call the department of health and human services
Life here is unbearable mercilessness
Poverty and violence
Money and bullets keep those who might talk silent
Here it has come down to a simple science
The spineless **** the non-compliant for their defiance and they lay lifeless by the hands of those who commit viscous acts so mindless
Where you board up your windows and doors then double check if they're locked
Where you can always hear some one screaming
"Stop"
"Stop"
You may ask, "where is God or the police?"
They're doing their bi-weekly patrol
And they're both on big brother's private payroll
There is now law and order in this contaminated area
It's an unkempt, repugnant pustule in the middle of the caked-on face of America
Welcome to the neighborhood
Where you board up your windows and doors then double check if they're locked
Where you can always hear some one screaming
"Stop"
"Stop"
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
Would you allow me to delicately ooze myself
down the length of your scratchy throat?
-- I'm in need of a new home
The newly blaring sun makes me oh, so sleepy
and weepy to the point of bursting,
A giant, punctured pustule, oozing,
Ooze with purpose,
is all I was taught to swallow,
A little **** and milky
-- the taste is not for everyone
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 6:46 PM UTC
Penny had hives that day
I remember them well
Some almost pustule
and that room we where in
with the wall paper
that if you half closed your eyes
seams like flowers
that made faces that all grin
but penny
I must tell you
in your arms I felt warm
maybe due to the lack of heating
But penny that night
i we are one
Then in the morning
THE PENNY DROP'S
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 4:27 PM UTC
Another impact on your mind,
The glass wall flexing more and more in time.
His screaming is getting louder across the brink
Take this second nemesis and think!
Break this wall and there is no backstep,
Push me under and there is no breath.
Fall down deeper for every misstep.
As with this freedom you have bought your death.
The glass it shatters but still holds firm,
Under bloodied hands the weakness squirms.
Holding on with every muscle,
You feel it break like a putrid pustule.
Break this barrier tears will falter,
Don’t do this for the freedom alters.
I pray to every hearing ear,
to **** me before his birth comes near.
Dec 12, 2010
Dec 12, 2010 at 12:40 PM UTC
Quel temps de chien ! - il pleut, il neige ;
Les cochers, transis sur leur siège,
Ont le nez bleu.
Par ce vilain soir de décembre,
Qu'il ferait bon garder la chambre,
Devant son feu !
A l'angle de la cheminée
La chauffeuse capitonnée
Vous tend les bras
Et semble avec une caresse
Vous dire comme une maîtresse,
" Tu resteras ! "
Un papier rose à découpures,
Comme un sein blanc sous des guipures.
Voile à demi
Le globe laiteux de la lampe
Dont le reflet au plafond rampe,
Tout endormi.
On n'entend rien dans le silence
Que le pendule qui balance
Son disque d'or,
Et que le vent qui pleure et rôde,
Parcourant, pour entrer en fraude,
Le corridor.
C'est bal à l'ambassade anglaise ;
Mon habit noir est sur la chaise,
Les bras ballants ;
Mon gilet bâille et ma chemise
Semble dresser, pour être mise,
Ses poignets blancs.
Les brodequins à pointe étroite
Montrent leur vernis qui miroite,
Au feu placés ;
A côté des minces cravates
S'allongent comme des mains plates
Les gants glacés.
Il faut sortir ! - quelle corvée !
Prendre la file à l'arrivée
Et suivre au pas
Les coupés des beautés altières
Portant blasons sur leurs portières
Et leurs appas.
Rester debout contre une porte
A voir se ruer la cohorte
Des invités ;
Les vieux museaux, les frais visages,
Les fracs en coeur et les corsages
Décolletés ;
Les dos où fleurit la pustule,
Couvrant leur peau rouge d'un tulle
Aérien ;
Les dandys et les diplomates,
Sur leurs faces à teintes mates,
Ne montrant rien.
Et ne pouvoir franchir la haie
Des douairières aux yeux d'orfraie
Ou de vautour,
Pour aller dire à son oreille
Petite, nacrée et vermeille,
Un mot d'amour !
Je n'irai pas ! - et ferai mettre
Dans son bouquet un bout de lettre
A l'Opéra.
Par les violettes de Parme,
La mauvaise humeur se désarme :
Elle viendra !
J'ai là l'Intermezzo de Heine,
Le Thomas Grain-d'Orge de Taine,
Les deux Goncourt ;
Le temps, jusqu'à l'heure où s'achève
Sur l'oreiller l'idée en rêve,
Me sera court.
647
The grotesqueness of Man
Shown to a clouded mind.
The animalistic nature
Of a society that separates itself
from the animals
Revealed.
In the moment,
Thoughts too jumbled to express
The stark realization.
The realization that society is sick.
A pustule ready to burst
Packed with the greed and malice of the masses
And the Hypocrisy of a people
Where being equal means being white
Where opportunity only lies in lineage
And then the sharpness and soundness returns
And all those realizations fade
Chalked up to delusions of a drug induced dementia
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
Billy had an ingrown hair
That covered most of his temple
Tried to pluck it, being gentle
Caused swelling in a gland to flare
Bulging pustule pinned up next to his eye
The attraction’s leading folks to stare
He knows he shouldn’t care
But pin in hand he lets off a battle cry
Goes to war with a sharpened stick
Alignments balance best to beware
Pushed too far, a ****** affair
Left without motion after that one little *****
Billy once had an ingrown hair
Placed right over his temple
Tried to pop it without being gentle
Flawless complexion as he drools from a chair
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 12:22 AM UTC
Maybe my life is like someone's album cover
There's millions of songs and I haven't heard even half yet
all I know is that my backpack groans like a saddle
when I put it on my back
It's a little happiness every morning
when my room smells like incense
Or like the air outside
Maybe my life is like a raspberry with an infinite or nonexistent
number of pustules
Maybe my life is like the word pustule
all I know is how scratchy my blanket feels
how the waves sprayed in my face from a thousand feet below
literally- how albus dumbledore stood there
but not really- how the lightning didn't always mean thunder
and how spring feels after a long winter
Maybe my life is like my sister's car
Maybe my life is like the people in my sister's car
drunk and a little confused,
all I know is that they're fun to hang out with
have great ideas when they're high- and sober, too-
that the cold mist is ideal in summer and terrifying in winter
that my sleeping bag is comfortable on any surface
and Blues Traveler's "Run Around" is my life song
but there's tons of others, too
Maybe my life is only like my life
and there's no appropriate analogy
that can capture what's actually going on.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
Every pink pustule pounds my skin like an artillery bar-
rage. Your horde swells with my stress, bubbles up from my
rage. Volcano head, a v of violent irritations between my brow.
Doctors prescribe petroleum products to ease the water pressure
from your oily fracking.
Every splotch a rig rising up over the water, and YOU
place every dot target practice for pointed looks. No mythical halcyon
calms the red waves and YOU,
the construction company placing rows of pylon.
Risking lifelong scars pounding railroad spikes across the Great Plains,
With no grand plan or project to mask my pains
With what form you take, it must be the most
Awful, vile, loathing, malignance of being,
Where you cannot be complacent in your own immutable form,
that you must plague others with your
adolescent pestilence.
But a pestilence of lilies’ dot
the starry pond
The lovely constellations,
have no need for an Andromeda,
And have no worries, for my residents are no Cancer,
And that hope of divine light shining through such inconsequential motes,
also shines through, bathing my face
before I sleep, night after night,
And I see the stars through my rosy windows, as I lay back in my cot.
And where Greek Gods so methodically placed every gentle blót,
a cherished love had never not known the halls of my temples.
Dec 18, 2019
Dec 18, 2019 at 9:57 AM UTC