"rancid" poems - Hello Poetry

"rancid" poems

against the wall, the firing squad ready. then he got a reprieve. suppose they had shot Dostoevsky? before he wrote all that? I suppose it wouldn't have mattered not directly. there are billions of people who have never read him and never will. but as a young man I know that he got me through the factories, past the ****** lifted me high through the night and put me down in a better place. even while in the bar drinking with the other derelicts, I was glad they gave Dostoevsky a reprieve, it gave me one, allowed me to look directly at those rancid faces in my world, death pointing its finger, I held fast, an immaculate drunk sharing the stinking dark with my brothers.

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75.4k

Charles Bukowski

against the wall, the firing squad ready. then he got a reprieve. suppose they had shot Dostoevsky? before he wrote all that? I suppose it wouldn't have mattered not directly. there are billions of people who have never read him and never will. but as a young man I know that he got me through the factories, past the ****** lifted me high through the night and put me down in a better place. even while in the bar drinking with the other derelicts, I was glad they gave Dostoevsky a reprieve, it gave me one, allowed me to look directly at those rancid faces in my world, death pointing its finger, I held fast, an immaculate drunk sharing the stinking dark with my brothers.

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This is the easy time, there is nothing doing. I have whirled the midwife's extractor, I have my honey, Six jars of it, Six cat's eyes in the wine cellar, Wintering in a dark without window At the heart of the house Next to the last tenant's rancid jam and the bottles of empty glitters ---- Sir So-and-so's gin. This is the room I have never been in This is the room I could never breathe in. The black bunched in there like a bat, No light But the torch and its faint Chinese yellow on appalling objects ---- Black asininity. Decay. Possession. It is they who own me. Neither cruel nor indifferent, Only ignorant. This is the time of hanging on for the bees--the bees So slow I hardly know them, Filing like soldiers To the syrup tin To make up for the honey I've taken. Tate and Lyle keeps them going, The refined snow. It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers. They take it. The cold sets in. Now they ball in a mass, Black Mind against all that white. The smile of the snow is white. It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen, Into which, on warm days, They can only carry their dead. The bees are all women, Maids and the long royal lady. They have got rid of the men, The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors. Winter is for women ---- The woman, still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanis walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think. Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas Succeed in banking their fires To enter another year? What will they taste of, the Christmas roses? The bees are flying. They taste the spring.

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40.8k

This is the easy time, there is nothing doing. I have whirled the midwife's extractor, I have my honey, Six jars of it, Six cat's eyes in the wine cellar, Wintering in a dark without window At the heart of the house Next to the last tenant's rancid jam and the bottles of empty glitters ---- Sir So-and-so's gin. This is the room I have never been in This is the room I could never breathe in. The black bunched in there like a bat, No light But the torch and its faint Chinese yellow on appalling objects ---- Black asininity. Decay. Possession. It is they who own me. Neither cruel nor indifferent, Only ignorant. This is the time of hanging on for the bees--the bees So slow I hardly know them, Filing like soldiers To the syrup tin To make up for the honey I've taken. Tate and Lyle keeps them going, The refined snow. It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers. They take it. The cold sets in. Now they ball in a mass, Black Mind against all that white. The smile of the snow is white. It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen, Into which, on warm days, They can only carry their dead. The bees are all women, Maids and the long royal lady. They have got rid of the men, The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors. Winter is for women ---- The woman, still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanis walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think. Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas Succeed in banking their fires To enter another year? What will they taste of, the Christmas roses? The bees are flying. They taste the spring.

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Dal Lake I float on Dal Lake Suspended between the thick soupy crisp air of soldiers water lilies, Kashmiri bread and the Muslim prayers that penetrate the hardness of war chanting Allah Bismallah Floating Islam Holy words drenching the air Drenching the green cloth of Hindu soldiers Sliding down the cool metal of a rifle 9 years of war 1,000 houseboats lie empty in the Himalayan fog Intricately carved furniture Thick with dust and the powder of blood and bullets Himalayan silhouette etched black against the song of lotus gatherers Foggy voices like cloud of moon Lotus lake Gray of war and desperation Children beg 1 rupee 1 rupee 1 rupee Endless monologue Parched like lotus shaped paddle They throw flowers to me endlessly I throw them back endlessly Time passes slowly like smoke on a lizard’s tail trailing in the thick, rancid air of burning meat and maple leaves Like a shikara moving over the glass of Kashmir The sound of a dozen Bangees floating over the water Hollow, solemn and mournful Echoing against the hardness of the surrounding mountains The circle of Himalayas Like a womb around the prayers of Pachin In the middle of the lake I hear the call to prayer Azan Nemarz Suba Azan Nemarz Pashin Azan Nemarz Degar Azan Nemarz Sham Azan Nemarz Koftan From dawn till dusk Azan 4 mosques 4 singers 4 directions staggered by a breath like an imperfect echo Azan slips into the pockets of island soldiers Waters the impatience of soldiers on the shore Steals into the vacant eyes of soldiers in the Mosque They want to go home to their wives and children They want to leave the place of prayer, which is not theirs The place of prayer, which has seen death The place where God was pushed out In order to not see the killing To **** what they don’t see The place, which was no longer a refuge Outside Dal Lake turns to the color of red lentils cooking in a dented metal *** In the Shikara boat we eat dal and rice and throw scraps into the silver water where it washes up onto the ***** boots of a soldier I hear the dull gray click, click of his rifle as it touches the ground The prayers have ended

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Aug 13, 2014

Aug 13, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC

Dal Lake I float on Dal Lake Suspended between the thick soupy crisp air of soldiers water lilies, Kashmiri bread and the Muslim prayers that penetrate the hardness of war chanting Allah Bismallah Floating Islam Holy words drenching the air Drenching the green cloth of Hindu soldiers Sliding down the cool metal of a rifle 9 years of war 1,000 houseboats lie empty in the Himalayan fog Intricately carved furniture Thick with dust and the powder of blood and bullets Himalayan silhouette etched black against the song of lotus gatherers Foggy voices like cloud of moon Lotus lake Gray of war and desperation Children beg 1 rupee 1 rupee 1 rupee Endless monologue Parched like lotus shaped paddle They throw flowers to me endlessly I throw them back endlessly Time passes slowly like smoke on a lizard’s tail trailing in the thick, rancid air of burning meat and maple leaves Like a shikara moving over the glass of Kashmir The sound of a dozen Bangees floating over the water Hollow, solemn and mournful Echoing against the hardness of the surrounding mountains The circle of Himalayas Like a womb around the prayers of Pachin In the middle of the lake I hear the call to prayer Azan Nemarz Suba Azan Nemarz Pashin Azan Nemarz Degar Azan Nemarz Sham Azan Nemarz Koftan From dawn till dusk Azan 4 mosques 4 singers 4 directions staggered by a breath like an imperfect echo Azan slips into the pockets of island soldiers Waters the impatience of soldiers on the shore Steals into the vacant eyes of soldiers in the Mosque They want to go home to their wives and children They want to leave the place of prayer, which is not theirs The place of prayer, which has seen death The place where God was pushed out In order to not see the killing To **** what they don’t see The place, which was no longer a refuge Outside Dal Lake turns to the color of red lentils cooking in a dented metal *** In the Shikara boat we eat dal and rice and throw scraps into the silver water where it washes up onto the ***** boots of a soldier I hear the dull gray click, click of his rifle as it touches the ground The prayers have ended

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It's 3:09am I'm im the library Desperately trying to write a research paper: 'LGBT Familes' How fitting. Caffeine courses through my veins Coffee overloads my bladder Bathroom. I hate bathrooms. When you have no gender The simple act of relieving yourself becomes a chore The heavy weight of that key decision Chokes your lungs as you stand outside the doors Two doors. Men. Women. Not me. The choice becomes simplified: While I sometimes pass as a man I often do not. I can choose the men's bathroom The consequence of which could end in physical violence The same hate I explain through my essay. The same fear that plagues my community. The women's restroom is also an option The consequences likely less dire than the former: Heavy side eye and the potential of yelling. A much safer choice. Obviously. Per usual, I walk into the women's room. I take three strides inside. Then I stop. I've never used the men's room. My fear of violent reactions has always won. Yet at a time like this How likely is it that someone is inside the men's room? Now is my chance to face my fears. Now I have a safe chance at peeing in peace. In a bathroom potentially more suiting Of my gender identity So I turn around. Let the door slam behind me. Half a step into the men's room The smell of rancid ***** hits my senses Toilet paper liters the stalls I have missed absolutely nothing in my years in the women's room Women have nicer facilities A significantly more advanced hand dryer Cleanliness Air freshener Men do not have these luxuries Now I question, Do men not take as good of care of their bathrooms as women do? Do the workers intentionally prioritize women's sanitation? What causes this undeniable divide? Is the messiness of the men's room a result of their conscious decisions? Or simply a response to societal expectation? Regardless, I think I'll stick to the women's room While I add bathrooms to my compilation Of more discrete gender inequality

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Oct 31, 2017

Oct 31, 2017 at 2:23 PM UTC

My First Time Using the Men's Bathroom

It's 3:09am I'm im the library Desperately trying to write a research paper: 'LGBT Familes' How fitting. Caffeine courses through my veins Coffee overloads my bladder Bathroom. I hate bathrooms. When you have no gender The simple act of relieving yourself becomes a chore The heavy weight of that key decision Chokes your lungs as you stand outside the doors Two doors. Men. Women. Not me. The choice becomes simplified: While I sometimes pass as a man I often do not. I can choose the men's bathroom The consequence of which could end in physical violence The same hate I explain through my essay. The same fear that plagues my community. The women's restroom is also an option The consequences likely less dire than the former: Heavy side eye and the potential of yelling. A much safer choice. Obviously. Per usual, I walk into the women's room. I take three strides inside. Then I stop. I've never used the men's room. My fear of violent reactions has always won. Yet at a time like this How likely is it that someone is inside the men's room? Now is my chance to face my fears. Now I have a safe chance at peeing in peace. In a bathroom potentially more suiting Of my gender identity So I turn around. Let the door slam behind me. Half a step into the men's room The smell of rancid ***** hits my senses Toilet paper liters the stalls I have missed absolutely nothing in my years in the women's room Women have nicer facilities A significantly more advanced hand dryer Cleanliness Air freshener Men do not have these luxuries Now I question, Do men not take as good of care of their bathrooms as women do? Do the workers intentionally prioritize women's sanitation? What causes this undeniable divide? Is the messiness of the men's room a result of their conscious decisions? Or simply a response to societal expectation? Regardless, I think I'll stick to the women's room While I add bathrooms to my compilation Of more discrete gender inequality

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Twelve o’clock. Along the reaches of the street Held in a lunar synthesis, Whispering lunar incantations Dissolve the floors of memory And all its clear relations, Its divisions and precisions, Every street lamp that I pass Beats like a fatalistic drum, And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium. Half-past one, The street lamp sputtered, The street lamp muttered, The street lamp said, ‘Regard that woman Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door Which opens on her like a grin. You see the border of her dress Is torn and stained with sand, And you see the corner of her eye Twists like a crooked pin.’ The memory throws up high and dry A crowd of twisted things; A twisted branch upon the beach Eaten smooth, and polished As if the world gave up The secret of its skeleton, Stiff and white. A broken spring in a factory yard, Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left Hard and curled and ready to snap. Half-past two, The street lamp said, ‘Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter, Slips out its tongue And devours a morsel of rancid butter.’ So the hand of a child, automatic, Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay. I could see nothing behind that child’s eye. I have seen eyes in the street Trying to peer through lighted shutters, And a crab one afternoon in a pool, An old crab with barnacles on his back, Gripped the end of a stick which I held him. Half-past three, The lamp sputtered, The lamp muttered in the dark. The lamp hummed: ‘Regard the moon, La lune ne garde aucune rancune, She winks a feeble eye, She smiles into corners. She smoothes the hair of the grass. The moon has lost her memory. A washed-out smallpox cracks her face, Her hand twists a paper rose, That smells of dust and old Cologne, She is alone With all the old nocturnal smells That cross and cross across her brain.’ The reminiscence comes Of sunless dry geraniums And dust in crevices, Smells of chestnuts in the streets, And female smells in shuttered rooms, And cigarettes in corridors And cocktail smells in bars.’ The lamp said, ‘Four o’clock, Here is the number on the door. Memory! You have the key, The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair, Mount. The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall, Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.’ The last twist of the knife.

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8.2k

Rhapsody On A Windy Night

Twelve o’clock. Along the reaches of the street Held in a lunar synthesis, Whispering lunar incantations Dissolve the floors of memory And all its clear relations, Its divisions and precisions, Every street lamp that I pass Beats like a fatalistic drum, And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium. Half-past one, The street lamp sputtered, The street lamp muttered, The street lamp said, ‘Regard that woman Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door Which opens on her like a grin. You see the border of her dress Is torn and stained with sand, And you see the corner of her eye Twists like a crooked pin.’ The memory throws up high and dry A crowd of twisted things; A twisted branch upon the beach Eaten smooth, and polished As if the world gave up The secret of its skeleton, Stiff and white. A broken spring in a factory yard, Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left Hard and curled and ready to snap. Half-past two, The street lamp said, ‘Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter, Slips out its tongue And devours a morsel of rancid butter.’ So the hand of a child, automatic, Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay. I could see nothing behind that child’s eye. I have seen eyes in the street Trying to peer through lighted shutters, And a crab one afternoon in a pool, An old crab with barnacles on his back, Gripped the end of a stick which I held him. Half-past three, The lamp sputtered, The lamp muttered in the dark. The lamp hummed: ‘Regard the moon, La lune ne garde aucune rancune, She winks a feeble eye, She smiles into corners. She smoothes the hair of the grass. The moon has lost her memory. A washed-out smallpox cracks her face, Her hand twists a paper rose, That smells of dust and old Cologne, She is alone With all the old nocturnal smells That cross and cross across her brain.’ The reminiscence comes Of sunless dry geraniums And dust in crevices, Smells of chestnuts in the streets, And female smells in shuttered rooms, And cigarettes in corridors And cocktail smells in bars.’ The lamp said, ‘Four o’clock, Here is the number on the door. Memory! You have the key, The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair, Mount. The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall, Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.’ The last twist of the knife.

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Someday I'd like to wander free like butterfly, like bumblebee, perhaps to plant a willow tree beside the silent solemn sea, before these things exist no more, from mountain top to shifting shore, when, soon, bald eagles cease to soar and build their aeries nevermore, and fish forsake polluted streams (where sulfur swims and typhoid teems since no one really cares it seems) to die inside our toxic dreams while ice caps melt and winter steams, and all the air surrounding reeks as children choke, for no one speaks of fracking wells or oily leaks (Big Brother's silenced all critiques!), and rancid rains acidify so woods no longer multiply (for God so wills, we can't deny, which is, of course, our alibi). And as the deepest ocean fills with plastic bags, and garbage spills upon the plains, across the hills and turns to poison dust that kills wild dingo dogs and daffodils which sink in swamps’ forsaken swills, the mocking bird makes light and trills (midst waning wails of whippoorwills) "Behold the surreal scene that chills and greet the dread that death distills! You've had your day with all the frills that brought the flood and final ills that can't be cured with bitter pills nor yet undone with further thrills of profit gained that grinds and fills dead desert sands with dollar bills." EPILOGUE Though swaddled still in infancy, we feel we’ve reached our primacy (aloof, though preaching piously, disdaining deeds of decency) and have no need of augury. But in the pit of prophecy the crucial questions seem to be: “Is doom Earth’s fate, our destiny to twist in tides of agony destroying nature’s progeny with no return a certainty assured by death’s finality?” and ”Should we plant a willow tree to someday weep for you and me?”

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Jun 16, 2015

Jun 16, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC

Someday I'd like to wander free like butterfly, like bumblebee, perhaps to plant a willow tree beside the silent solemn sea, before these things exist no more, from mountain top to shifting shore, when, soon, bald eagles cease to soar and build their aeries nevermore, and fish forsake polluted streams (where sulfur swims and typhoid teems since no one really cares it seems) to die inside our toxic dreams while ice caps melt and winter steams, and all the air surrounding reeks as children choke, for no one speaks of fracking wells or oily leaks (Big Brother's silenced all critiques!), and rancid rains acidify so woods no longer multiply (for God so wills, we can't deny, which is, of course, our alibi). And as the deepest ocean fills with plastic bags, and garbage spills upon the plains, across the hills and turns to poison dust that kills wild dingo dogs and daffodils which sink in swamps’ forsaken swills, the mocking bird makes light and trills (midst waning wails of whippoorwills) "Behold the surreal scene that chills and greet the dread that death distills! You've had your day with all the frills that brought the flood and final ills that can't be cured with bitter pills nor yet undone with further thrills of profit gained that grinds and fills dead desert sands with dollar bills." EPILOGUE Though swaddled still in infancy, we feel we’ve reached our primacy (aloof, though preaching piously, disdaining deeds of decency) and have no need of augury. But in the pit of prophecy the crucial questions seem to be: “Is doom Earth’s fate, our destiny to twist in tides of agony destroying nature’s progeny with no return a certainty assured by death’s finality?” and ”Should we plant a willow tree to someday weep for you and me?”

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The dictatorship of our state is profound in its mass propaganda, where the discernment of individuals seeps into an eternal chasm of self-sacrifice on the altar of political conformity. Let us actively withstand the passivity of our conventional hypocrisy as we engage with this ontological sleepwalk through sinister passageways of presumed social advancement. In our age of grandiose moralistic eclecticism where imperatives abound, I burn incense and contemplate the cosmopolitan artificiality which lavishes abundant gifts upon our self-opinion. Criminality is the result of discovery. So, oh thorn in my flesh, cover those rancid corpses by the veil of popularity, gain and pleasure. Subconscious social conditioning is the scourge of lustful appearance, don’t you think?

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Mar 17, 2014

Mar 17, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC

Ethical Cosmetics

The dictatorship of our state is profound in its mass propaganda, where the discernment of individuals seeps into an eternal chasm of self-sacrifice on the altar of political conformity. Let us actively withstand the passivity of our conventional hypocrisy as we engage with this ontological sleepwalk through sinister passageways of presumed social advancement. In our age of grandiose moralistic eclecticism where imperatives abound, I burn incense and contemplate the cosmopolitan artificiality which lavishes abundant gifts upon our self-opinion. Criminality is the result of discovery. So, oh thorn in my flesh, cover those rancid corpses by the veil of popularity, gain and pleasure. Subconscious social conditioning is the scourge of lustful appearance, don’t you think?

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Clayton How I know you Paternal parenting DNA infused Carbon contribution, to my physique Father In everything My skin, eyes toes, Unfortunately; inside my mouth Spitting plaster-walled Copy-paste personality The same Intimately Close-dangerously Different Me a bold-faced fraction of ill abated love Something that didn't work out Photocopy Blond-blasphemy of useless flesh Reminder of her Mom Enough! Teeter tottering Tip-Toe tangling opinion Excuses Words fermented Rotting-rigor I know you. Slit-eyed palefaced ****** of bigot ideas Bearing pronged poker Clicking glinting-clawed finger fondling fake religion Suppressing supplement thought ******** God's love the good life Living a life to be proud of Excuse me! For not being as I am "supposed" to be Eatting rancid lies Your reality relative To kiss-ass preferred siblings Who like the taste of **** What you shovel Hung on lipsucking harlot, hinged hip hung-over Descending oppressidly upon willing wanton will of man Letting cracked-cackled toothed Field Gap-smile Decide your next move I know you I see what you push into hidden corners The bias, nasty film of your character Under whitecollar shirttails Citizen, Patriot Americas American I know you Your oppression Not new As underhanded and seedy as it was And still is I know you As much as I'd like not too.

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Oct 1, 2012

Oct 1, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC

Clayton How I know you Paternal parenting DNA infused Carbon contribution, to my physique Father In everything My skin, eyes toes, Unfortunately; inside my mouth Spitting plaster-walled Copy-paste personality The same Intimately Close-dangerously Different Me a bold-faced fraction of ill abated love Something that didn't work out Photocopy Blond-blasphemy of useless flesh Reminder of her Mom Enough! Teeter tottering Tip-Toe tangling opinion Excuses Words fermented Rotting-rigor I know you. Slit-eyed palefaced ****** of bigot ideas Bearing pronged poker Clicking glinting-clawed finger fondling fake religion Suppressing supplement thought ******** God's love the good life Living a life to be proud of Excuse me! For not being as I am "supposed" to be Eatting rancid lies Your reality relative To kiss-ass preferred siblings Who like the taste of **** What you shovel Hung on lipsucking harlot, hinged hip hung-over Descending oppressidly upon willing wanton will of man Letting cracked-cackled toothed Field Gap-smile Decide your next move I know you I see what you push into hidden corners The bias, nasty film of your character Under whitecollar shirttails Citizen, Patriot Americas American I know you Your oppression Not new As underhanded and seedy as it was And still is I know you As much as I'd like not too.

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how sad to be misunderstood to be evicted from life to have the full tenure of a torrid human existence gesture horribly at you in faultless reputation like that of a rancid rage over a lost trinket or to be quarantined while fingerless skin scolds and noiseless voices are raised in a donated generosity of savage ignorance striving to make copious amends in vain efforts to regrettable slow acting poison that boils the mind oh how sad to be misunderstood such varicose viciousness oh it’s sad quite sad to be misunderstood to live through and inoculated hour glass giving limitless time to a wildfire of idiocy and when your breath speaks they laugh black laughter that shatters wet umbilical truths shudders knowledge gestures to smoking nostrils oh how sad, how sad it is to be misunderstood to be drenched in the rain but not get wet in which antiquity rests with its mythologised stupendous ill effects getting vivid shadows massed all around oh how sad it is to be misunderstood until dactylic, hexameter, elegance completes and slithering syllables by their antiquity focus a shuddering shriek that sends an exploding heart through your chest

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Oct 3, 2013

Oct 3, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC

edgar-whitman-wilde

how sad to be misunderstood

how sad to be misunderstood to be evicted from life to have the full tenure of a torrid human existence gesture horribly at you in faultless reputation like that of a rancid rage over a lost trinket or to be quarantined while fingerless skin scolds and noiseless voices are raised in a donated generosity of savage ignorance striving to make copious amends in vain efforts to regrettable slow acting poison that boils the mind oh how sad to be misunderstood such varicose viciousness oh it’s sad quite sad to be misunderstood to live through and inoculated hour glass giving limitless time to a wildfire of idiocy and when your breath speaks they laugh black laughter that shatters wet umbilical truths shudders knowledge gestures to smoking nostrils oh how sad, how sad it is to be misunderstood to be drenched in the rain but not get wet in which antiquity rests with its mythologised stupendous ill effects getting vivid shadows massed all around oh how sad it is to be misunderstood until dactylic, hexameter, elegance completes and slithering syllables by their antiquity focus a shuddering shriek that sends an exploding heart through your chest

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there is a darkness that the silver song of soft illusion lights in symbolic equivalents of images real it is a light brutally interrogative magnifying with dazzling rays the breakage at the jagged edges of the world and lays hostage to impersonation that resembles fragments of smashed oval shaped mirrors reflecting pieces of broken brown terracotta soldiers and causes the eyes to hurt with a watched inner holocaust of disturbing coloured detonations, implosively autonomous given to a deceived departure a departure from reality given by the advocacy of ideological rationalism that sees three kings with blood on their crowns in amplified convulsions call mustre for disturbance, disorder, destruction and death as blood stains the Balkan streets and all emotional impulse is volatilized and a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy stalks the land where sustaining minds are subject to a brutal insensitivity that dazzles on the edge of a spiral vertigo it is a light brutally interrogative magnifying with dazzling rays a vocabulary of incoherence like the rancid stains of ***** that inhabit the jagged edges of the world

0

Apr 24, 2014

Apr 24, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC

edgar-whitman-wilde

there is a darkness that the silver song of soft illusion lights in symbolic equivalents of images real it is a light brutally interrogative magnifying with dazzling rays the breakage at the jagged edges of the world and lays hostage to impersonation that resembles fragments of smashed oval shaped mirrors reflecting pieces of broken brown terracotta soldiers and causes the eyes to hurt with a watched inner holocaust of disturbing coloured detonations, implosively autonomous given to a deceived departure a departure from reality given by the advocacy of ideological rationalism that sees three kings with blood on their crowns in amplified convulsions call mustre for disturbance, disorder, destruction and death as blood stains the Balkan streets and all emotional impulse is volatilized and a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy stalks the land where sustaining minds are subject to a brutal insensitivity that dazzles on the edge of a spiral vertigo it is a light brutally interrogative magnifying with dazzling rays a vocabulary of incoherence like the rancid stains of ***** that inhabit the jagged edges of the world

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But soft, what flatulence through yonder rancid window breaks. If it is the east, well then I’m heading west. I wish I could recite this and I wouldn’t be talking about my life, but life is fair… just not for me. So I dive right in unfortunately. And I bask and I bask and I bask. Hold on, wait, please allow me to retract, as this occurs numerously within occupation. I firstly divide the **** cheeks, as if Moses dividing the seas. Like Jesus I break bread… anyways… my life is literally spent with my nose sandwiched between numerous people’s backsides. This brings me to my next point… I love my job… because I love people. My favorites are obese people because they suffocate me and for a brief moment I am without consciousness and have not a clue of my reality. The people I do it for the most though are the unstable people, you know?... the people with digestive problems that are so unstable they sometimes slip and instead of their body gas I am left with a face that looks like a diarrhea toilet. I am a poet though and therefore I hold onto the only significant job related poem that I’ve seen on our restroom walls… “Here I sit lonely hearted, came to **** but only farted.”

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Oct 17, 2012

Oct 17, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC

The **** sniffer

But soft, what flatulence through yonder rancid window breaks. If it is the east, well then I’m heading west. I wish I could recite this and I wouldn’t be talking about my life, but life is fair… just not for me. So I dive right in unfortunately. And I bask and I bask and I bask. Hold on, wait, please allow me to retract, as this occurs numerously within occupation. I firstly divide the **** cheeks, as if Moses dividing the seas. Like Jesus I break bread… anyways… my life is literally spent with my nose sandwiched between numerous people’s backsides. This brings me to my next point… I love my job… because I love people. My favorites are obese people because they suffocate me and for a brief moment I am without consciousness and have not a clue of my reality. The people I do it for the most though are the unstable people, you know?... the people with digestive problems that are so unstable they sometimes slip and instead of their body gas I am left with a face that looks like a diarrhea toilet. I am a poet though and therefore I hold onto the only significant job related poem that I’ve seen on our restroom walls… “Here I sit lonely hearted, came to **** but only farted.”

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The boy haden't bathed in over a month His **** crack was itching and burning His underpants were soaked in slimy, wet muck And his toes a thick jam were churning His armpits stank worse than a fat pigs raw *** His breath smelled like rancid fish His hair was so oily, matted to his head His own mother wouldn't give him a kiss "Enough!" he cried as a passing fly died When he raised his arm to exclaim. "I must bathe right away! I am long overdue!" "I sure hope the washcloths are brave." "To the bathroom man!" He shouted as he ran And his underpants sloppily squished "I will remove this filth and brush my green teeth" "And my mother I will kiss!" "The closet's ahead!" He said as he sped. And he stopped there to get some stuff. Some soap, some shampoo and a towel or two. But he knew that it wasn't enough. Look though he might, to his horror and fright, Not a single washcloth could he find. Then panic set in 'cause the stink of his skin Was driving him out of his mind. He looked yet again but to his chagrin The washcloth shelf was bare. The washcloths had run off For they would not wash So filthy a boy on a dare "Oh what will I do!" "Boo-hoo, boo-hoo!" The boy cried as flies swarmed his head. "I'd **** myself but I already smell" "Far worse than anything dead!" Then one washcloth came back Holding it's nose and a sack Of bath salts that smelled like dill. It said to the boy "Go pickle yourself!" "And give me a nausea pill!" So the boy rejoiced and filled the tub With water, hot as he could stand. And using the bath salts, he jumped right in And the pickling began. He lathered the washcloth with water and soap And scrubbed with all of his might. Away he washed all of the filth 'Til none was left in sight. He washed his hair and brushed his teeth And dried and dressed himself well. And the washcloth exclaimed as it hung on the tub "Holy crap! that was pure hell!" So the boy now clean ran to be seen By his mother he loved so much. And she gave him a kiss and said "This is pure bliss!" "I can kiss you and keep down my lunch!" The moral I'll tell you and true I will be So no one will say that I lied. Don't wait a whole month to take a bath Or you washcloths may run and hide.

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Aug 1, 2012

Aug 1, 2012 at 7:53 AM UTC

The boy haden't bathed in over a month His **** crack was itching and burning His underpants were soaked in slimy, wet muck And his toes a thick jam were churning His armpits stank worse than a fat pigs raw *** His breath smelled like rancid fish His hair was so oily, matted to his head His own mother wouldn't give him a kiss "Enough!" he cried as a passing fly died When he raised his arm to exclaim. "I must bathe right away! I am long overdue!" "I sure hope the washcloths are brave." "To the bathroom man!" He shouted as he ran And his underpants sloppily squished "I will remove this filth and brush my green teeth" "And my mother I will kiss!" "The closet's ahead!" He said as he sped. And he stopped there to get some stuff. Some soap, some shampoo and a towel or two. But he knew that it wasn't enough. Look though he might, to his horror and fright, Not a single washcloth could he find. Then panic set in 'cause the stink of his skin Was driving him out of his mind. He looked yet again but to his chagrin The washcloth shelf was bare. The washcloths had run off For they would not wash So filthy a boy on a dare "Oh what will I do!" "Boo-hoo, boo-hoo!" The boy cried as flies swarmed his head. "I'd **** myself but I already smell" "Far worse than anything dead!" Then one washcloth came back Holding it's nose and a sack Of bath salts that smelled like dill. It said to the boy "Go pickle yourself!" "And give me a nausea pill!" So the boy rejoiced and filled the tub With water, hot as he could stand. And using the bath salts, he jumped right in And the pickling began. He lathered the washcloth with water and soap And scrubbed with all of his might. Away he washed all of the filth 'Til none was left in sight. He washed his hair and brushed his teeth And dried and dressed himself well. And the washcloth exclaimed as it hung on the tub "Holy crap! that was pure hell!" So the boy now clean ran to be seen By his mother he loved so much. And she gave him a kiss and said "This is pure bliss!" "I can kiss you and keep down my lunch!" The moral I'll tell you and true I will be So no one will say that I lied. Don't wait a whole month to take a bath Or you washcloths may run and hide.

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no slavering kisses like a dog on heat no schoolboy fumble wanting you to beat his meat. no ***** in the dark or a letch to grab your **** no rancid breath,nor sweaty skin to grasp you in his mits. just you and your fingers and your own ***** vices pure ecstacy of loving yourself with your battery op devices. it is all in the touch the rhythm of your wrist the way your body squirms giving a wriggle to your hips. a gasp n moan ************ brings you pleasure frustrated tensions fade away as you fiddle at your leisure. reaching your crescendo a throb a pant a sigh eyes slightly misted youre at your dizzying high. copyright gothicmistress 2010

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Nov 19, 2010

Nov 19, 2010 at 6:02 AM UTC

gothic-mistress

************ for the nation

no slavering kisses like a dog on heat no schoolboy fumble wanting you to beat his meat. no ***** in the dark or a letch to grab your **** no rancid breath,nor sweaty skin to grasp you in his mits. just you and your fingers and your own ***** vices pure ecstacy of loving yourself with your battery op devices. it is all in the touch the rhythm of your wrist the way your body squirms giving a wriggle to your hips. a gasp n moan ************ brings you pleasure frustrated tensions fade away as you fiddle at your leisure. reaching your crescendo a throb a pant a sigh eyes slightly misted youre at your dizzying high. copyright gothicmistress 2010

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The beauty in a bow will only show the rancid flavor it musters when it opens it's throat . With bland intentions of subjects but loud quirks , its grey eyes will shower you with gloat. Sheepish , arched lips will saunter you a hiss. Your pupils get lighter and the lies get higher. Fond of their beauty in substance of looks , only will you find the meaning in books. Will you rattle a smile on a hook when your success won battle with your humble good looks. The vain that slithers out of your mouth wont be a match for whats out and about. Check again looks don't overcome meaning but meaning overcomes gleaming . So give me a higher reason for not being to dreamy? Self-centered, no i remember , it's not the center in my last November. Last time i checked the cab looked its best on the exterior and on the inside lacked of a barrier. Now look again at the vain heart , covered with smudges and a bland start. Look in deeper all you talked was about you, i checked again and please don't lie and tell me it isn't true. i'm insane and you are too , if one is narcissistic then baby its you.

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May 25, 2015

May 25, 2015 at 12:21 AM UTC

The beauty in a bow will only show the rancid flavor it musters when it opens it's throat . With bland intentions of subjects but loud quirks , its grey eyes will shower you with gloat. Sheepish , arched lips will saunter you a hiss. Your pupils get lighter and the lies get higher. Fond of their beauty in substance of looks , only will you find the meaning in books. Will you rattle a smile on a hook when your success won battle with your humble good looks. The vain that slithers out of your mouth wont be a match for whats out and about. Check again looks don't overcome meaning but meaning overcomes gleaming . So give me a higher reason for not being to dreamy? Self-centered, no i remember , it's not the center in my last November. Last time i checked the cab looked its best on the exterior and on the inside lacked of a barrier. Now look again at the vain heart , covered with smudges and a bland start. Look in deeper all you talked was about you, i checked again and please don't lie and tell me it isn't true. i'm insane and you are too , if one is narcissistic then baby its you.

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Animal Crackers and my soup Undigested in my **** All the food I ate today Coming out in the same way Uncontrollable urge to strain Even though it causes pain My poor sphincter it does burn And my guts just churn and churn Pepto Bismol my old friend Go right now and put an end To the horrible, rancid flow Burning my **** as it does go Cramping spasms all day long Something I ate went horribly wrong Could it be the salad or bread? Or maybe something not quite dead? Perhaps it was the chicken or stew Or the fish, boo hoo hoo! I'm just praying for an end So my **** can start to mend And then suddenly to my surprise That nasty flow simply dies Gleefully I start to wipe But then as I start to swipe I hit a very tender spot That feels like it is now red hot Now the Charmin feels real rough Like tree bark or abrasive stuff I finish wiping with great care While the pain I grin and bear At last I stand and flush with glee That nasty stuff that came from me A moment later to my shagrin I feel the urge to sit again

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Jan 18, 2014

Jan 18, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC

Animal Crackers and my soup Undigested in my **** All the food I ate today Coming out in the same way Uncontrollable urge to strain Even though it causes pain My poor sphincter it does burn And my guts just churn and churn Pepto Bismol my old friend Go right now and put an end To the horrible, rancid flow Burning my **** as it does go Cramping spasms all day long Something I ate went horribly wrong Could it be the salad or bread? Or maybe something not quite dead? Perhaps it was the chicken or stew Or the fish, boo hoo hoo! I'm just praying for an end So my **** can start to mend And then suddenly to my surprise That nasty flow simply dies Gleefully I start to wipe But then as I start to swipe I hit a very tender spot That feels like it is now red hot Now the Charmin feels real rough Like tree bark or abrasive stuff I finish wiping with great care While the pain I grin and bear At last I stand and flush with glee That nasty stuff that came from me A moment later to my shagrin I feel the urge to sit again

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"The thought of the future we will never have was pollinating foul fuzzy particles in the air, slowly following the wake of all those tasseled dreams I had held onto for all those years but had to let go." The most intimate revelations can often expose plagiaristic suppressions that we've most likely tried to already forget. Suggesting to anyone on the outside looking in, that there is a rancid cowardice secreting from the pores of all those who would deny the most basic of fundamental decencies to their fellow man. All the while, boasting a loud tolerance that would be found on the very last Autumn-the very last colorful arrangements of watering oranges and smothered reds our world was ever going to be privileged to witness again. The thundering drumming of my own beating heart gave my freshly dead and bland reaction a neon personality, with a few extra ********* lingering, successful gestures that reflected a sparkly prism of tracers. Tracers that were birthed from the most brilliant of lasers, as I was radiating something that was blindingly gorgeous, something that was heightened with more sensitivity as it shadowed over the complexity of every kiss that I had ever been given in my life.. Spinning a silk and gold web around me that was almost as intricate as an alarm sounding earth quake. This flaccidly tight response came at a price, leaving nothing but whispers and the wrong kind of impressions at the sight of it's unwanted face.. The time of dignity and grace felt decades away as your tiny little temperaments began to attempt to soothe me into a very still silence. "Wooing" me and "seducing" me with such a strong touch of romantic readiness, I knew it would never be matched or found again causing me to feel a stroke of sadness at the single sentiment. This dramatic departure killed any interest that might have supported the abortive sorrows and short winded elation’s of men, but instead the idea of a possibly new tasseled dream, sparked me into a shimmering prism bouncing glittering, glimmering, glowing rays off my skin, as I put the shine in the sun.

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Oct 26, 2015

Oct 26, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC

Tasseled Dreams

"The thought of the future we will never have was pollinating foul fuzzy particles in the air, slowly following the wake of all those tasseled dreams I had held onto for all those years but had to let go." The most intimate revelations can often expose plagiaristic suppressions that we've most likely tried to already forget. Suggesting to anyone on the outside looking in, that there is a rancid cowardice secreting from the pores of all those who would deny the most basic of fundamental decencies to their fellow man. All the while, boasting a loud tolerance that would be found on the very last Autumn-the very last colorful arrangements of watering oranges and smothered reds our world was ever going to be privileged to witness again. The thundering drumming of my own beating heart gave my freshly dead and bland reaction a neon personality, with a few extra ********* lingering, successful gestures that reflected a sparkly prism of tracers. Tracers that were birthed from the most brilliant of lasers, as I was radiating something that was blindingly gorgeous, something that was heightened with more sensitivity as it shadowed over the complexity of every kiss that I had ever been given in my life.. Spinning a silk and gold web around me that was almost as intricate as an alarm sounding earth quake. This flaccidly tight response came at a price, leaving nothing but whispers and the wrong kind of impressions at the sight of it's unwanted face.. The time of dignity and grace felt decades away as your tiny little temperaments began to attempt to soothe me into a very still silence. "Wooing" me and "seducing" me with such a strong touch of romantic readiness, I knew it would never be matched or found again causing me to feel a stroke of sadness at the single sentiment. This dramatic departure killed any interest that might have supported the abortive sorrows and short winded elation’s of men, but instead the idea of a possibly new tasseled dream, sparked me into a shimmering prism bouncing glittering, glimmering, glowing rays off my skin, as I put the shine in the sun.

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I see Sloth from “The Goonies” whenever I see you. You softly ask me to make love but I hear “Baaaby Ruuuuth?” Maybe it's your crooked teeth or your rancid funk. When you say you love me so it comes out “Sloth love Chunk!” I see Sloth from “The Goonies” when we go socialize. And when you greet our many friends, you're saying “HEY YOU GUUUYS!” Maybe it's the way you grunt or just your lazy eye. But when I'm having *** with Sloth it makes me want to die.

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May 15, 2014

May 15, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC

I see Sloth from “The Goonies” whenever I see you. You softly ask me to make love but I hear “Baaaby Ruuuuth?” Maybe it's your crooked teeth or your rancid funk. When you say you love me so it comes out “Sloth love Chunk!” I see Sloth from “The Goonies” when we go socialize. And when you greet our many friends, you're saying “HEY YOU GUUUYS!” Maybe it's the way you grunt or just your lazy eye. But when I'm having *** with Sloth it makes me want to die.

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Diseased turnip Rooting in the dirt Rotting fodder Unpicked Untapped Gnarled and bitter Lying under your bridge When you are gone No-one will miss your rancid rag © 2019 MJL

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Feb 23, 2019

Feb 23, 2019 at 10:02 AM UTC

Diseased turnip Rooting in the dirt Rotting fodder Unpicked Untapped Gnarled and bitter Lying under your bridge When you are gone No-one will miss your rancid rag © 2019 MJL

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We the pixies clench our buttocks..... Or up yours Dave... There is tell of a foetid rancid hellish hole in the wild wood, only visible by half light - every leap year, where thick knobbed hairy arsed gnomes plot the buggering of slim hipped virginal pixies. they sit cross legged on woolsacks- knitting ****** shaped thorny policies for the inevitable insertion, the thickest of **** and hairiest of **** get to chew upon the sweetmeat of the mythical proletariat in perpetuity as a stipend for their buggery,,, or so the tale goes...

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Feb 10, 2011

Feb 10, 2011 at 11:43 AM UTC

"- We the Pixies clench our buttocks -"

We the pixies clench our buttocks..... Or up yours Dave... There is tell of a foetid rancid hellish hole in the wild wood, only visible by half light - every leap year, where thick knobbed hairy arsed gnomes plot the buggering of slim hipped virginal pixies. they sit cross legged on woolsacks- knitting ****** shaped thorny policies for the inevitable insertion, the thickest of **** and hairiest of **** get to chew upon the sweetmeat of the mythical proletariat in perpetuity as a stipend for their buggery,,, or so the tale goes...

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So excuse me while I dump out my Starbucks in the fridge and paper shred my valued customer card. Let me hate coffee for you, Because you're the only person I've been willing to hate coffee for in three years. Those other boys could never tear me from the coffee shop counter, I would latch on like a koala to a tree limb, Thirsting for that satisfying and hypnotizing liquid. Let me loath coffee for you, Because I haven't been so excited about loathing coffee in three years. Its tantalizing aromatics will woo me no more. The other men in my life have no affect on my love affair with these beans, Their scents loop around my neck and drag me in, The craving becomes irrefutable, My bones creak with each body convulgence In response to the grinders on the espresso machines. Please let me get you a drink, Orange juice? Milk? Gatorade? I swear, I'll keep coffee as far away as possible at all times, Avoiding every Dunkin' Donuts while driving, Every quaint mom-and-pop coffee shop while walking, And flight attendants will never dare bring a coffee *** on their food cart when we fly. I won't ***** this up with the **** coffee, Because perhaps it was coffee the last three times that left things in rancid rot, The filters from yesterday's shift never disposed of. Let's go anywhere but a coffee shop together, Let's go everywhere but a coffee shop forever. And I promise, I won't even try and sneak a latte around you, But can I please keep my chai tea?

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Dec 9, 2014

Dec 9, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC

You're Not a Coffee Person,

So excuse me while I dump out my Starbucks in the fridge and paper shred my valued customer card. Let me hate coffee for you, Because you're the only person I've been willing to hate coffee for in three years. Those other boys could never tear me from the coffee shop counter, I would latch on like a koala to a tree limb, Thirsting for that satisfying and hypnotizing liquid. Let me loath coffee for you, Because I haven't been so excited about loathing coffee in three years. Its tantalizing aromatics will woo me no more. The other men in my life have no affect on my love affair with these beans, Their scents loop around my neck and drag me in, The craving becomes irrefutable, My bones creak with each body convulgence In response to the grinders on the espresso machines. Please let me get you a drink, Orange juice? Milk? Gatorade? I swear, I'll keep coffee as far away as possible at all times, Avoiding every Dunkin' Donuts while driving, Every quaint mom-and-pop coffee shop while walking, And flight attendants will never dare bring a coffee *** on their food cart when we fly. I won't ***** this up with the **** coffee, Because perhaps it was coffee the last three times that left things in rancid rot, The filters from yesterday's shift never disposed of. Let's go anywhere but a coffee shop together, Let's go everywhere but a coffee shop forever. And I promise, I won't even try and sneak a latte around you, But can I please keep my chai tea?

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your scent frees my skin from the sweat of a never ending chase and the rancid odor of when it all catches up to me

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Oct 14, 2011

Oct 14, 2011 at 12:47 AM UTC

your scent frees my skin from the sweat of a never ending chase and the rancid odor of when it all catches up to me

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"Yet you feed us lies from the tablecloth" - B.Y.O.B. by System of a Down We sat across the table as we feasted on misguided notions. Our integrity tenderised, thoughts manipulated, traded with unconditional compassion. Twisted ideals, served upon the finest china. Delectable treats, laced with shards of such distorted agenda. Multi-faceted truths, all lobbied for self-centred gains. We're the ones who'd worry and cower under tattered brollies... To anticipate for when it would rain. Between us still sat the table. We'd still be served age-old (t)ale while the room stank of rancid broth. But I have lost my appetite the moment we were fed lies... Offered on the most extravagant tablecloth.

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Jun 19, 2016

Jun 19, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC

"Yet you feed us lies from the tablecloth" - B.Y.O.B. by System of a Down We sat across the table as we feasted on misguided notions. Our integrity tenderised, thoughts manipulated, traded with unconditional compassion. Twisted ideals, served upon the finest china. Delectable treats, laced with shards of such distorted agenda. Multi-faceted truths, all lobbied for self-centred gains. We're the ones who'd worry and cower under tattered brollies... To anticipate for when it would rain. Between us still sat the table. We'd still be served age-old (t)ale while the room stank of rancid broth. But I have lost my appetite the moment we were fed lies... Offered on the most extravagant tablecloth.

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Its faded pink parka, Stretched tight across its shoulders Even in the summer twilight, Crinkles, stale newspapers and plastic bags Cacophony with the rhythmic Thud of shopping cart wheels. Its rotten malt liquor stench-- Astringent ammonia sweat Runs in rancid rivulets down Decaying skin on decaying face. Pimples and pus and Meth-notched teeth. It offers a drink In exchange for change. My pockets jangle noisily, But I offer only empty hands.

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Aug 11, 2011

Aug 11, 2011 at 9:09 PM UTC

Animal of Liberty Park

Its faded pink parka, Stretched tight across its shoulders Even in the summer twilight, Crinkles, stale newspapers and plastic bags Cacophony with the rhythmic Thud of shopping cart wheels. Its rotten malt liquor stench-- Astringent ammonia sweat Runs in rancid rivulets down Decaying skin on decaying face. Pimples and pus and Meth-notched teeth. It offers a drink In exchange for change. My pockets jangle noisily, But I offer only empty hands.

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