"reprobate" poems
What has become of me?
I've turned into such
a reprobate.
Watching **** and
neglecting writing.
I think of Nin and
Henry Miller, turning
lust and clitoral
stimulation into
****** literature.
And here I am...
*** stains on my
laptop, and looking
sadly at the miniature
bust of Shakespeare on
my writing desk.
Even he looks disgusted.
Feb 12, 2022
Feb 12, 2022 at 7:52 AM UTC
In 1963
Mahalia prodded
the good reverend...
“tell them
about the dream
Martin”
transfixed on
a yonder time
he recounted
prophecies of
a near future
from a mountaintop
he foretold a
history of a people
returned again to
gardens of paradise
thriving in friendly
democratic soils
overflowing with a
colorful biodiversity
governed and
nurtured with a
vibrant sunshine
of divine justice
welcoming all
weary sojourners...
from the
pinnacle of
a Birmingham
jail cell
Martin burst
the bars with
the clarion peel
of a golden trumpet
proclaiming the gospel
of liberation to
the wardens of
unholy gulags
“free yourselves”
the horn emblazoned
in streaking lightning
across the sky
cowed by
prophetic truths
of righteousness,
shamed by
lies the pride
of arrogance
bespeaks to
placate the
intransigence
of dominion,
we prayed the
the walls of racism,
bigotry, prejudice
would tumble down as
Martin lit the Battle
of Jericho
today our country’s
profit driven gulags
overflow with people
of color as justice
lingers on death row
begging for a plea bargain
of a life sentence in
solitary confinement...
from the
****** Sunday Bridge
in Selma, Martin
offered a prayer for
peace, rebuking
the dogs of war
admonishing
the tenders of
blood thirsty
machines to
beat the gears
of war into
pruning hooks
and plowshares
advocates of peace
hope to steer
the plow across
the battlefields of
acrimony to sow
rich seeds of
reconciliation, planting
new gardens where
the rich yields of peace
will be consumed
by all God's children
yet these gardens
remain unplanted,
untended and defiled
by the machinery
of war that churns
churns, churns...
Martin last
dream occurred
on a balcony
in Memphis
witnessing
to the divinity
of those considered
untouchable after
a hard days work
collecting a city’s
refuse
he insisted all labor
was worthy of dignity
and the economic
justice of a fair wage
Martin looked squarely
into the eye of the gun sights
of those who thought differently
he never blinked, he dreamed
Martin formed his last
testament to an angry nation
yearning for the reconciliation
of stability and peace,
unmoved that it’s violence,
exploitation and bigotry only
stoke bonfires of acrimony
and division, condemning
the reprobate principality
to the bleakness of a
smoldering discontent and
continued generations
of recurring nightmares…
Martin's dream continues
in awakened hearts
sojourning on
Music Selection:
Mahalia Jackson
Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho
MLK Day
2014
Oakland
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
Dear Trusting Nurse-Maid, must we Speculate
The Favours your Leader asked has mulled
Far healing cry a tearful Reprobate
And supposed Cheerful Innocence has dulled
As soon as the Red Tabloid goes to Sin
And whips the Pink Horse we all fantasy
Your Prince suddenly squeezes on a Whim
Which the Next Frustration will testify
I envy you all. Despite Fashion's Change
Like Solemn Dakinis prayed for Support
Cry the Call for War; And within a Range
Mark him a Target then file my Report.
I have lost that War. And the Battle as well
Yours straight to Heaven; Mine a Journey's Hell.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 3:08 AM UTC
~~○♢○~~
there was once
a girl unnamed
ever doubted
ever shamed
untamed fire
high & wild
she was a haunted
white-hot child
a wayward waif
she had no guide
no way to hold
her rage inside
*"you're a ***** little girl,
watch me as I wreck your world!"
bursting brain
as well as bubble
he brought her
a world of trouble
now unloved
unlovable*
charcoal lily
ragged ****
neglected garden
a bad seed
never knowing
her great need
a prickly thistle
tried to hide
all the pain
she held inside
chorus
for years she went on
in this state
unloved, unwise
and reprobate
no turning back
it was too late
wild parties
dating thugs
drinking *****
doing drugs
chorus
But deep inside
the little-girl-lost
a seed of faith
grew at last
she grabbed a hold
and held on fast
then, when things
were at their worst
she began
to hunger ~ thirst!
because her God
had loved
*her first!
"I've loved you, child.
I had a plan
long before the world began.
Please do not be sad or blue,
this destiny included YOU
you are SO important
to My story
you will bring Me such great
GLORY!
here below
in heav'n above
I'll show you how much
♡♡ YOU ARE LOVED ♡♡*
the woman changed
she was set free
who's the woman?
she is
ME
SøułSurvivør
(C) 8/16/2017
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 6:10 AM UTC
Bewildered, I walk this barren place
A place my soul can't feel
Too much damage to ever turn back
A place my soul can't heal
Forgotten dreams adorn my path
With seas of liquid pain
Broken promises, my only friend
The scars are all that remain
Mistakes I've made are my shadow
They follow where ever I go
A regretful heart refusing to beat
But shouting I told you so
Memories becoming a stain in my mind
Illusions now taking their place
Reprobate, not knowing right from wrong
Hope, overcome by disgrace
Unfaithful souls walk in this place
A place where it's ever too late
Turn away from the one that you love
And this will be your fate
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 12:17 AM UTC
We gather in Old London town,
the time is getting late.
The fog is slowly coming down,
the year is eighteen eighty eight.
The Leather Apron stalks this eve
ladies of the night beware.
Such things he does you wont believe
and for your welfare he’ll not care.
Hello Mister have a heart,
a girl has got to earn a crust.
A shilling for this fine old ****
for you look like a gent to trust.
In her hand the coin doth shine.
Does she lead this toff astray?
Here’s a quiet place that’s fine,
as she walks up the alley-way.
Face to face and eye to eye.
The victim happy to be plied
with vigour she lifts up her skirt
but now her hands are occupied.
Seizing strongly at her throat
he strangles her till unaware.
Unconscious although not yet broke
he lowers her by head and hair.
Now insentient on the ground
the Ripper sets about his work.
In the dark without a sound
there is no detail he will shirk.
He keeps the body to his left,
her throat is sliced from side to side.
The woman’s family now bereft,
whilst she lies here without her pride.
Left to the nights illumination
Jack executes his deadly art.
Performing such skilled mutilation.
and leaving plus one body part.
Daylight opens up commotion,
"Whitechapel Murderer", strikes once more.
The peelers haven’t got a notion
who it is that killed this *****
Scotland Yard are in despair
as they try to Investigate
their credibility beyond repair
for they cant find this reprobate.
Eventually the death toll, five,
the murders now come to an end.
Folk are free to live their lives
but could you trust even a friend.
Over an hundred years or more
professional research is far to late.
Jack, can we ever know the score?
"No... All you can do is speculate."
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
Closed my heart for a moment
to open my eyes
& mind,
didn't realize
I was nakedly dancing
with some reprobate snakes
because I was trying to make them smile
like a stripper searching for tips.
I liked the way they rattled
through life, their *****
thoughts synced
up to diff'rent
drums 'till I felt the venom
in my veins they claimed were
love bites, despite the paralyzation
of my intuition and warmth.
I was seeking out the snake's smile
if only for a little while
cause I thought my heart could help.
But snakes can't crack a smile,
no, snakes can't crack a smile.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 5:19 PM UTC
I cast my line and reel in my bait
I cast my line and it's a snake
I cast my line, a reprobate
How much longer till I break
Patience is not a lesson I care for
I like waiting even less
I say, "that's enough", You say, "there is more"
- I'm breaking, I must confess
Vice on my heart, squeezing out tears
Thoughts are swirling all of my fears
Ripples in the pond spread out from my float
All goes still, there is a lump in my throat
Chin in my hand
Slumped and alone
My pole, unmanned
Heart's monotoned
I have cast in shallow waters
And reeled in dregs
Wandered forbidden corridors
And near lost legs
How much longer must I wander?
I trust You not to tip my boat
Believe You've brought me where I float
You've kept my rod from breaking
But not my hands from aching
It's the catch that I doubt
It's all one endless bout
I'm trying to practice trust
Though my heart's dusted with crust
Fishing, endless fishin'
Waiting on fruition
Fishing, oh, endless fishin'
Perhaps I'll reposition
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 9:53 PM UTC
Does it matter more to you that you care for others or that others care for you?
Would you take a series of bullets
Would you leap before a dashing car
Would you dance on sweltering embers for the sake of one who does you nought in return?
Wouldn’t most or wouldn’t anyone endure the worst for acknowledgement and commendation…
I try to be gallant—self-sacrificial,
Try to be benevolent, bleeding heart beyond comprehension
Yet am I worse than the slaughterers?
The iniquitous, the rest?
No more than the vile, reprobate, devilish…
For who, after all,
Cast oneself beyond forgiveness
The felon who would exploit acts of selflessness
To assemble his own
Maleficent, pernicious lair
Of praise, acclaim, and comfort.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
I've a sinking friendship,
Torpedoed by the ********
And listing.
The first mate mutinied.
Once a blood brother,
Like no other;
An intimate
At an imminent end,
An alter-ego
More than a friend.
I've been too patient,
Veered off course
With understanding.
I'm quite sure
This Pythias
Would run and leave me
Hanging.
I'm on a cliff
And won't hang on
To a blade of trust,
A fawning pawn.
He had my back,
I turn,
He's gone.
This partisan
Must part
A homeless homeboy,
A dissembling fraud.
No longer a mainstay,
He's insecure,
His equivocations
Make lines blur,
I don't believe
Him anymore.
He really needs a soul-mate,
Classmate, playmate,
But he's become a reprobate,
Lying prostrate,
Lying up straight.
I'll drown my Boswell
In my inkwell;
No longer
An advocate.
The laughs have left,
Yes,
I'm bereft,
But I'll catch the wind.
My course is true.
This friendship
Can't be salvaged.
It's scuttled,
And I won't
Sink with you.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
I was doing research in Hubei
Where they executed Yu,
That deity soldier glorified
By Buddhists, Taoists too,
I sat perusing manuscripts
That dated from the Ming,
And came across a reference
About Yu’s finger ring.
A ring of gold so broad that it
Would fit a peasant’s wrist,
For Guan Yu was a mighty man
His ring, an amethyst,
Set round with groups of diamonds
It was lost the day, they said,
That Sun Quan had ordered them
To lop off Guan Yu’s head.
They lost it for a thousand years
It turned up with the Ming,
Was lost again in battle with
That mighty force, the Qing,
I’d heard it round the market place
A whisper, now and then,
That ring, it might have surfaced
In the village of Maicheng.
I scoured the streets and alleyways
For signs of old antiques,
Researching as I went, I walked
Around the town for weeks,
I found a backstreet corner shop
One night, and open late,
Run by a dodgy Chinaman
A total reprobate.
He had links to the Triads, they
Would come into the shop,
A shifty group of gangsters with
Their stolen goods to pop,
From where I sat with manuscripts
Up on the second floor,
I’d look straight down the staircase
Watch them come in through the door.
One day they brought in a bundle
Tied up in a burlap sack,
Threw it down on the counter, said:
‘What do you make of that?’
Fang Zhang then opened the parcel and
He pulled out a giant hand,
The flesh the texture of leather with
A monstrous golden band.
The ring was almost immoveable
The hand, with fingers spread,
Could grasp a maiden around the waist
Or crush a warrior’s head,
I held my breath as the Triad tried
To disengage the thing,
And all the while the diamonds flashed
On that massive golden ring.
Fang Zhang paid over a block of notes
That looked more like a brick,
There must have been a million Yuan
From what I saw of it,
The Triad left and I caught my breath
Fang Zhang had pulled it off,
He threw the hand in a ******* bin
And then I left the shop.
He hid the ring as I walked on through
I had to get some air,
I’d caught a glimpse of a famous ring,
A thing I couldn’t share,
They’d say it didn’t exist, that I
Was dreaming, if I tried,
They thought that it had been lost to view
The day that Yu had died.
I went back down the following day
The Police were there in force,
They stood out front and barred the way
From normal ***********
They told me through an interpreter
Of the ****** of Fang Zhang,
His face was black, for around his neck
Was a massive, ringless hand!
David Lewis Paget
(Pronunciation: Guan Yu - Gwon you
Hubei - Who - bay; Sun Quan - Sun Chu-arn
Qing - Ching; Maicheng - My - cheng
Fang Zhang - Fang Shjang (soft J))
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC
As I listen to whispers trapped in my tears
I'm haunted by regret
A shadow that's followed me all of my years
Making sure I never forget
Time has recorded the mistakes I've made
And stores them in the past
Long and winding, the path that I've laid
I didn't expect it to last
Twisted and broken as days pass me by
Time will never relent
Uncertain, disheartened, as tomorrow draws nigh
I fear it's too late to repent
I see the world with a reprobate mind
Confused in all that I see
Today is so clear but my future is blind
Whatever will be, will be
Forever I'm tied to the path that I chose
Be it Heaven or be it hell
Will tomorrow bring judgement? nobody knows
It's still too early to tell
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 4:52 AM UTC
My Darling, My Dearest
I sink to the dirt,
My regrets swirl around my body like a brides wedding dress.
White lace, virginal unsoiled regrets lay about me lazily-
biting my ankle, scratching up my legs to be held.
My Cherished Treasure,
I will carry my torment like an old man carries his walking stick
Gnarled with time and miles,
before any step I will take-
My regret will mark the path.
And I will walk for all of time with my walking stick. I will walk until I bend over in a broken bridge of bones, all the while letting my regret lead me onward.
My Beloved,
I will wallow in the mud of my sorrows and grief
I will roll and dry, caking dirt on my belly-
like the beast I have become.
My Beautiful,
The wounds that mortification of the flesh will produce-
will be sorry attempts to understand your pain.
The whip braided in tight thick leather
but I can never cut deep so I might
produce enough depth so instead will I bleed-
another sin, another crime!
I cannot feel your suffering-can only guess at the depth.
Oh the endlessly black waters of your sorrow!
I hold my breath, stones piled deep in my pockets.
I dive, I dive...wanting, needing this sacrifice.
But **** this survivalist in me. My lungs betray me-
sputter and cough.
I inhale my water of my sins and breathe them deep so I may drown and
free you from the shackles of my crimes.
My Cherished one, my Shining one-
Forgive this old sinner, forgive this reprobate heart.
For I love you.
When the stars exploded, when universes expanded
I loved you.
When the first blade of grass poked it's willful head above soil,
I loved you.
When first Adam kissed Eve,
I already loved you.
In the next life where you are caterpillar and
I am stump,
I love you then too, and beg you use me to reach closer the sun.
Forgive a fool his foolish ways, he knows no better
Forgive me, cherished one
and let me love you,
Let me love you as the faulted love the Divine. As the sinner loves the penance, as the child loves the stars.
Let me give you the moon, let me put it in on your lips.
So you may kiss the moon, beloved, kiss the moon.
Sahn 7/6/14
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
You would think
A fool who always lies
Would finally surmise
He is known to be unwise
In most other people’s eyes.
You would think
A snake in the grass
Would not have an ***
But it comes to pass
That some are all ***
You would think
A pile of dog manure
Would smell himself for sure
And that would insure
To show that he's not pure.
You would think
A **** so full of hate
Would not aspire to be great
And instead would wait
Until humility reached his gate.
You would think
Being socially quite blind
No ability to be quite kind
Would someday soften the rind
Of almost any creep you’d find.
You would think
With so many tramps around
And unfunny political clowns
Someone would knock him down;
Teach him something on the ground.
You would think
Some lesson would be due
To give this reprobate a clue
And help him know what to do,
But that might never come true.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 2:39 AM UTC
He was the meanest kid on the playground
If the kid he picked on was half of his size.
He abused his playmates if they were weak
Had freckles or wore glasses on their eyes.
He was not a handsome lad in any way.
It was almost like he took it out on the world
That none of the guys wanted to play with him
And he seldom got lucky with the girls.
There was the slightest hint of intelligence
But it was always of the devious kind.
Nobody ever thought this kid would turn out
To be the type to make fortunes with his mind.
Taking little kids lunch money from them
Was why he even went to school each day.
If he looked a bit older and wasn’t lazy
He might just have hid out and run away.
He didn’t play ball or do any kind of work
And his mom waited on him hand and foot.
You could tell when he reached legal age
He’d find a woman who would follow suit
And treat him like a six foot baby brat
As if he was a gift to the whole world.
Of course he was in luck there because
It’s easy to hook up with that kind of girl.
At work he will call all the women sweetie
And soundly slap his cohorts on their backs.
He’ll always remember his boss’s birthday
It pays to keep the important things on track.
If he can block a promotions of co-workers
Who are not Caucasian and Christian,
He will stick to his hidebound beliefs
And stick to ideas of The Dominion.
And if this reprobate ever has children
They will grow up to be just like him;
They’ll subject siblings and playmates
To their own temperament and whim.
Because bullying is passed by parents
From their parents to their own children.
And bullying adheres to no rules about
Morality, propriety, intelligence or wisdom.
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 9:28 PM UTC
To define someone is a task,
which word? how many? how honest?
The English vocabulary stretches onward.
It's like looking for a needle in a haystack.
I found five needles
And with each I sew your quilt.
So relentless and pretentious
to everyone you meet.
With every little show
these stitches are easier to sew.
And as a reprobate
you should surely know,
the blackened thread gets blacker,
but you just can't let it go.
You are violently twisted,
as the definition suggests,
you're a contorted individual
that doesn't pose a threat.
Ah yes, you read it right.
For all your will to fight,
your lack of might
labels you innocuous.
That's correct, you're harmless.
These needles pierce the quilt,
they thread in every word,
and as you lay your eyes upon it
you realize you can't be cured.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 7:22 PM UTC
haste the day my breath
will wash away under
the waters of my intentions
already dead is my soul
salvation is for the lighthearted
for those that have not
experienced everything at all
theres no hope for the reprobate
tis fools folly to think that
love is enough to hold heaven
at some vast in time
your only comfort is in the
prayers for my speedy demise
for body to catch up with spirit
for these decaying eyes to
close and open no more
with disaster looming in
todays headlines my only
wish is that you were with me
to hold me as I pass from
one hell to the next
that your face would be branded
in my mental memory of this
fateful extrication
© 2009 joshua deathdealer
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 5:39 PM UTC
I am the artist
echoing into oblivion
echoing
I am the artist echoing into oblivion the song of degenerate youth and reprobate age.
giving up my right to opinion to play the devil's advocate
because he was once an angel
why must we demonize anyone who wishes to match us in greatness?
do we fear our own success so much? or is it failure?
or is it virtue left to the necessity of virtue?
I am God because I must be. if you could be, then I could not
echo into oblivion that Satan was once good
he is still good
he wants nothing more than to be Christlike
this too is our fate
our desperate plea for sanctification
is commission of suicide
whether we seek evil. or perfection.
we are fated to damnation
is this justice?
God is a petty child. impotent if matched. a bully. silencing those of power. crippling those with promise.
echo into oblivion
child of God. seek not Christ. hell is your fate
hell is your fate
hell is yours
hell is you
hell is
hell
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 2:31 AM UTC
Hidden meanings foreshadow the gradient eminence off campus,
Stampless letters to be sent to thine dearest of ones!! Mother's hold thy daughter's, for you've lost your youngest son!!!!
Extensive Colgate frames to cover thy soulgaited plains,
Where fewest of animals hath roamed!!
Your caught in scrimmage,
Still Soo unsure if your found or lost at home!!!
Paceth back to and forth as far as thy walls will take you,
Where reprobate minds will break you,
Where loan sharks will rewrite tunes,
Sharking is their key to Finnish game!!!
They feeleth no Elysium,
Their one to thy flame!!!!!
Trilateral thinking freely turns negative,
Primitive to all known consistencies,
Bleeding at thy gums?
Third world indecently!!!
Misconstrue thine own miserly pull,
Galoot of what's not thine own!!!!!
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
So much time wasted clouding every breath
Drinking&Drunk; On lust,
obscenes & Sweet mad death
Living dead walking Deprived of all my Dreams
Filling my empty cavity with cheap poison and fantasy
For Salvation I'm Reprobate And I Abnegate any God
My soul it lags a clime behind Wondering along a Trod
Upon rough road This Night I drag my soul
My Eidolon I so abhor, And whats more -
The debt of sins My Father left
I am cursed to forever labor just as
My iniquitous score is payed for
Not by me But my first born
All my wrongs Forgotten
All the chores I've left undone
And of the least do I concern
Our battles cannot be won &
some good deeds if not them all
are bound to go Unsung
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 8:23 PM UTC
Donald, what is wrong with you?
You’re really acting strange.
It’s like your mind has measles
Or bubonic plague or mange.
Something sick is going on
Down deep inside your mind.
It seems to make you stupid
As well as deaf to facts and blind.
Maybe sometime decades back
You might have made some sense
But we have watched a long time now
And it hasn’t happened since.
You don’t seem to be able to
Tell the facts from the lies.
You are getting stranger daily
We can see it in your eyes.
You always were a reprobate
A fact you couldn’t really hide.
Your responses were so obvious
We saw the truth you kept inside.
You looked down on women,
Looked at them as just toys.
You carefully referred to gays
As naughty twisted boys.
You never had much use for blacks
Except for menial kinds of labor.
You certainly didn’t want any of them
To end up as your neighbor.
And now you want control of
The Presidential nuclear codes.
Do you want to sell them off
To buy stuff to put up your nose?
No, Donald, you are sick as hell
And we’ll be glad when you are gone.
The rest of us have had enough
And think you should move on.
Maybe you can get a job
Playing high stakes liar’s poker.
That might fit a guy like you:
A dangerous and unfunny joker.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 11:02 PM UTC
The sound of broken promises
Haunt my very soul
The chains of regret keep mocking me
By a spirit I can't console
Compassion cries out in silent screams
And doubt now feeds my fears
I'm drowning in this liquid pain
Made from a million tears
Silence filled with empty smiles
Second chances long since dead
Reprobate understanding
Filled with lonesome dread
Mistakes are now my only dream
They haunt me to my core
All my memories repossessed
I can't feel you anymore
This haunted love forever lingers
A stain my heart must wear
Everywhere my heart will look
Your spirit is waiting there
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 6:48 PM UTC
so i write to you my confession...
to speak loudly and clear.
for so long, under such suppression,
damnation i had to fear.
greatly i have wronged you,
in more unutterable ways than one.
the truth of my infidelities
have yet to come undone.
i write to you my confession...
of a man of twenty-eight,
my lustful thoughts woed me,
actions i reprobate.
i write to you my confession...
of a man of twenty-two.
in which i spoke salacious words,
a man who is not you.
i write to you my confession...
of heinous and deliberate lies,
knowing quite well the manipulation
would lead to your demise.
i write to you my confession...
recite what you dont know.
the body that belongs to you,
i proceed to show.
i write to you my confession...
for i no longer wish to hide.
my words, my thoughts, my actions,
may now all coincide.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 2:46 PM UTC