"sanctimonious" poems
Ignorant, spiteful, closed-minded and afraid-
The text on which you built your life, the same that you betrayed.
Holy, self-righteous, yet wholly hypocritical.
Sanctimonious bullies- bigoted and parasitical.
A veteran in the land, which to protect, he went to fight,
but for him it seems equality is not a given right.
Ridiculed, scorned- filthy sinner, heathen-
But who created him this way if not the lord that you believe in?
Your eyes are darkened. They're tinted with hate.
Your ears? Too filled to listen to debate.
But in this surge of civil rights that before has been denied,
you will be the prejudiced fool that history leaves behind.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
I’m a woman with some attitude--
not one who will dispense a platitude.
Chicken soup won’t give you soul;
from me, it’ll get you an eye roll.
You try to mask your disapproving looks
with sanctimonious advice from large print books:
“Embrace the moment” “Be grateful” and “Breathe”
“Pray” “See only the good” “Turn the other cheek”
“Accept others’ flaws” “Don’t criticize”--
I have some advice that’s a bit more wise:
“Don’t put up with ******** “Embrace your outrage."
While you were living in the “present,” history turned the page.
God is Dead, you’ve got to take charge;
you’ve been scammed by crooks in suits, who live large.
People aren’t so good; sometimes they’re ****
They’ve pulled the rug out from under where you sit.
Don’t accept others’ flaws; tell them to go to hell.
If you’re really mad, don’t breathe, just yell.
Anger is good, it’s there for a reason.
You’re just a phony, with your people pleasin’.
Get off your **** and take some action--
stick it to the jerks, join the radical faction.
Accommodating ******** just brings on more--
just wait, and you’ll see what’s next in store.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 10:44 PM UTC
The glitter of strobe
gratuitous gaiety
platitudes
and sanctimonious guile
******* cocktails
on the menu
an ingratiating mask
a gratified grin
Contorted vocal chords
lots of laughter
no time for irony
look at me.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
Sitting in her wheelchair,
Wondering what to wear,
Natalie, the Notorious,
Found her situation nothing short of inglorious.
Absorbent or plain, it didn't seem to matter,
Until, down the hall, she heard Nurse Agnes' chatter.
Her ears perked up, as did her head.
Glinting eyes showed much to dread.
Natalie said with all due sobriety,
"Here goes the plan in all its entirety."
She gave herself a wink, and tossed back a mickey,
Choosing her time, being quite picky.
Natalie searched out that sanctimonious nurse,
And giving vent to her rage, she let out a curse.
She flew from her chair, and let out a yell.
Frightened Nurse Agnes, in fear she did quell.
But Natalie's plan, to take the nurse down,
Fell quite flat, when she hit the ground.
Poor Natalie had totally forgotten,
The chairbelts kept her in, "Oh, how rotten!"
They snapped her back and she hit the floor.
The ice pick she had, flew into the door.
Really now, it's sad to say,
that Natalie the Notorious to this day,
Avoids plots of ice picks and death,
And focuses mostly on keeping her breath.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 5:18 PM UTC
***Our souls are enfettered
By an Inexorable Penance,
Sorrows & Lamentations:***
In pining for
The Light of Transmutation
The Adamantine Wings
Of Stalwart Bahamut
Unburdened our etherealized hearts.
(Speaking for the future)
Spira has lost its
Yoke of Communion
To this Cimmerian Millennium.
Redemption’s Revelation:
Aeonic sin hath reigned
Under the Cathedral of Deception
Forged by the taught tongues
**Of Yevon;
Despotic Lunae
Eclipsed the light
Of a forlorn sky,
Divine Pantheon
For
Numen of Sol.**
Cast a
Stygian Shadow of Sanctimonious Suffering for Souls.
Seems eternal; truly, ephemeral.
**For,
the Hearts of nations
Are
Sacrosanct Luminaries.**
Our tears
Have been shed,
Our vanities
Indemnified.
**Skies shall bleed Empyrean Bliss
And
The Opus of Life
Shall cleanse
This wearied Spira of Pernicious Sin.**
(Amen.)***
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 5:47 AM UTC
They say it scars you for life!
They say it consumes your soul!
They say you never get over it!
They say a lot of things …
Am I so
different?
Or maybe?
I’m
just
Indifferent!
*Who knows?
I don’t know
I really don’t know*
I often peek inside the rusty old bucket of dead babies that I keep in the loft
And?
I feel nothing
Not a **** thing
Feeble
Formed
Foetuses
*Swirling around and around and around
and around and around
and around*
Why is it that I have no pain?
Why do I not crave my dead babies?
I couldn’t even tell you when they fell out
When they made a run for it
When they thought **** this …. I’m out of this *****
Does that make me a bad person?
Would it be more acceptable if I was distraught and inconsolable?
Then you could all pat me on the back and collect my tears
Well ….
Heres the news …
“There’s NO ******* tears here, baby!”
So you all can take your sanctimonious ******** and shove it straight up your sympathetic compassionate arses
In fact
I’ll even lay a wager that if this was
YOU
YOU
would run
through
Imaginary birthdays
Imaginary names
Conceptions
Etc
"Sshhhh ….. Don’t mention babies in front of her"
She is so fragile
Full of so much love
A tiny delicate little flower
Full of so much love
MILK IT *****
COS TONIGHT I’LL BE HOWLING AT THE MOON SURROUNDED BY DANCING DEAD BABIES
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 7:42 AM UTC
Ten years old again,
In a tree ten feet high again,
In scuffed shorts with tangled hair,
And with the boys I longed to be.
Sanctimonious girls in dresses and frills,
Boredom and constraint personified,
Stare up in incredulity
As I heave myself over mossy branches.
“Girls don’t climb trees.”
I do. I roll in mud, play racing games,
Never brush my hair.
“You’d be pretty if only you tried.”
You’d feel alive if only you tried.
The wind on my bare arms,
Dirt beneath fingernails,
Scrapes on my shins
Red and out of place
Like smudged lipstick
On children’s faces.
I’m not you. I’m me.
Boxes serve to keep us in,
Deliver us neatly packaged
To a society which cannot cope
With fluidity,
Individuality,
Uncertainty.
Boo!
She says those two misguided words:
“Make over”.
Impossible. One cannot start afresh.
This is the result of every waking moment,
Of every word heard and spoken,
Each memory joyous and painful,
A piece of art nineteen years in the making.
Not to be destroyed in one act of disguise.
Yet curiosity is my mistress.
She leads me to boundaries
I never knew existed.
Up goliath trees,
Into foreign beds,
To the brink of reality
In mind-bending worlds
Of parallels.
Like a mannequin, devoid of identity
I give my image to you
And you place yours jarringly
Onto my reticent body.
The obliging cheers
At my transformation
Into an eloquent femininity
Feel hollow and worthless.
I have done nothing of merit.
I totter like a toddler
Uncomfortable in my own skin.
I’m on stage, an act,
A project. Not a person.
How bizarre it feels
To wear a stranger’s façade
Of dresses and frills,
When you know you belong
To a different world
Of dirt, and treetops,
And freedom.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
first, make sure you are very concerned with
unlearned or silenced or misread minorities. this establishes that you
are a rarity, a person of charity,
a champion and deity of the small and the voiceless.
you’ve made the right choices
swallowed the right poisons
so now you’re not pointless,
you’re with the top few
of the economic disparity.
do you aver verity?
not so much.
you just make the choicest noises.
second, it is very important that you stud your vernacular
with words like deictic, post-spaciality, and sub-simulacular.
when you, font of knowledge, squeeze out pearls like turds
in twelve-point, double spaced, times new roman rows,
lined up like crows or some other ***** birds,
be sure to write no sentence shorter than thirty words, and
see to it that two thirds of these words have more than ten letters
that even the nerds in their plaid-patterned sweaters have not once ever heard.
when you walk, A paper in hand, from your car to your apartment, past four vagrants, do not look at them.
do not look into the eyes of the man standing in the rain, barefoot, black, green, and yellow toenails oozing and crusting, nodding his head and shouting at no one, and do not wonder whether or not he’d be there had he been educated.
lexicon is not eloquence.
erudition is not wisdom.
intelligence is not a prerequisite for rights.
you have no rights.
take a dictionary and shove it up your *** and
while you’re at it, shove one up mine, too.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
No one has a monopoly on God.
When you hear them say that they do,
Make a dash for it! Don't wait around
For them to impose their merciless coup.
No group has a monopoly on truth.
Of those who say they "know" be skeptical.
If their "knowledge" can't stand up to questioning,
Their mind isn't more than an empty receptacle.
Terror and fear make desperate converts.
Truth and wisdom transcend petty goals.
Some will try to sell you a bill
Of goods that's full of vagaries and holes.
Beware of those with the gift of gab
Who promise to guide you down a path
Of slick salvation and tempting allurements,
Though one false step incurs God's wrath.
Beware of those who say they know
The mind of God both inside and out
And curse your attempts at inquiry
When with an open mind you doubt.
No one has the right to judge you
And tell you that you're going to hell.
Watch out for the crazed fanatic
And the sanctimonious ne'r-do-well.
Put everything into perspective.
Love and compassion should be your course.
Belief should be all about choice
And definitely not a product of force.
- by Bob B
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
The spirochetes of the ages embellish themselves in a mystical quartet, as our respirations reverberate across sanctimonious plateaus of Oedipus and Electra complexes.
Your celestial convictions are tasteful as they wistfully meander through the fuselage of hydrangea bushes and ***** foxgloves.
I can feel the beat of your apprehensive pulse.
As we applaud the demise of this psychological stage-show, where connected separations unravel their shameful mysteries into a vortex of deluded academia; it is evident when someone communicates deep convictions across pulsating swamps of cosmological hemispheres.
So, as we merge into this cataclysmic vortex of enshrinement, let us embrace the past understanding of future ambivalence where the beginning can only be understood within the context of the end.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 12:19 AM UTC
I am quiet in front of the ambient lights.
Confronted among these Ambien nights,
with alluvial life, a hot bed of technical idolatry-
It is hard in the valley of the sun
the people who over-extend
self, carry impotence and
a loaded gun-
The land of geriatrics filled with frolicking snowbirds
who cast out their alcoholic offspring
to grind under gears of the economic machine.
Modern man is genuflecting in the sanctimonious pantheon of self.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 7:22 PM UTC
Sitting in her chair
Wanting out of there,
The Notorious Natalie
Plotted quite frantically.
Mind absorbed in many plots,
Its a wonder she didn't develop brain clots.
Hearing her quarry coming down the hall,
She wheeled herself closer to the wall.
She spoke so low with all due sobriety,
"Here goes the plan in all its entirety."
Giving a wink, tossing a mickey,
Choosing her time, being quite picky.
Catching sight of that sanctimonious nurse,
She vented her rage, let out a curse.
Flew through the air, and let out a yell.
Poor old Nurse Agnes sure did quell.
Natalie's plan, to take the nurse down,
Ended badly with her on the ground.
The belts snapped her back and she hit the floor.
The ice pick she had flew into the door.
And even now that she's forgetful
Natalie's heart is still regretful.
Avoiding plots of ice picks and death,
Focusing mainly on keeping her breath.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 8:51 AM UTC
The cosmic river of placidity our spiritual
Graveyard, laden illuminating the resevoirs
Of the sun serpents mineral kingdoms created
As the desecrated flowers of the
Universe decay,
The barren Earths machinery immortally
Combative rebirthing deaths plague.
Akashas victorious joy reflecting the
Sillohettes of times ardititious travellings
Fleeting, the strength of withered spirits
Collective daydreams upon solacses fallen
Fields of despair, redeeming justices
Patience provocating abeyance.
The irredescent golden amber of an iron
Roses kindling flame; katabolisms landscape
Transcending sunsets incarnate pharisaical
Clouds defying agonising temptations rising
On the wind of sanctimonious whispers
Working the stagnate temper of
Choas' repining heart.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 10:59 AM UTC
The Notorious Natalie sat in her chair plotting the downfall of Nurse Agnes. She did not notice her quarry coming down the hall as her mind was absorbed in plots of murder. Having only recently attained sobriety, she took the picky Nurse Agnes as being a sanctimonious old bat. Startled, she looked up into that very old nurse's face, and lunged at her with her icepick in hand. Unfortunately for Natalie, being forgetful as she was, she tripped over the walker she was using. The ice pick entered her easily and put an end to Notorious Natalie's plotting for good.
Thus Ends a Terrible Story.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 4:18 PM UTC
In theory, we're demoralized,
In practice, neutralized,
But with force we analyze
What happens around us.
Sanctimonious ********
Pulling our plastered limbs
To an ever lasting fight,
Against forces of evil? Where are we?!
Black veils on their faces
Dark tears in the traces
Marked by the graves that are left behind.
Apathetic pathetic pythons biting the bits and piecing the peace that pits you against your brother.
Pompous posers pushing pampered ideas into our polluted brains.
Anti-idealistic contenders competing for riches and a nice comfy throne.
Plausible pseudo-righteous imposers asking for an applause for all the ill-witted words they shed.
Rectify the wrong wriggled reason riddling wibble fed to feeble citizens.
We sit here waiting for divine intervention,
Well divinity's gone! Not to mention the tension,
All these factors and factions, the fact is we're dying, and they're not helping.
Something drives them, something we don't understand, but who has the guts to ask them what it is?
Our blood has become the dividend divided among the not-so-united lands that fall under a geographical, categorized country of hell.
In this hell we live in, we've become minions of liberal less-than-mediocre minds ironically not minding their own business, feeding off of ours.
Intertwined, undermined, understand the outer line, see the truth, feel the crime, freedom's yours. Freedom's mine.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 7:08 AM UTC
Why do I guess?
Trying to assume
Again
This is not, not, not,
Not! how I do things
Those nuggets
You know the ones
doubt
of self and
people and
situations or
events
Slippery Suckers of
Sanctimonious Sacrilege
Guesstimate
Approximate
Fuck-a-mate
See the pattern or
Be the pattern
Maybe just...
Be
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 11:31 AM UTC
Messiahs and martyrs
And saviors
And saints
Sacrosanct
Sanctimonious
False idol feints
Behind gates,
Palace walls
Fortified in a lie
An elaborate,
Enduring
Mythos we contrive
And apply
To the lives
Of misguided lost souls
Filling holes
With the answers
Of what never knows
How to be of this world
Without more to assign
What is so picture perfectly
Flawed by design
Intertwined with
The years we spend
Spacing in time
Agonizingly trying
To find
Our own kind
Out among the expanse
Starry satellite trance
Higher intellects seek
And destroy
To advance
The agenda, to claim
A new age
Under orders
Anointed upon
The consent
Of the heaven-sent
Nuclear bomb
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 9:31 AM UTC
Sanctimonious priests and their **** Biretta hats.
Tell me of me of gods praise and a world in its hard collapse.
Where were you when I needed you.
Breaking hearts I suppose.
Wilderness and forests breach out across the hills.
Sunshine and rainbows will bless our day begin.
But I'm not watching anymore.
There's no need to get preachy.
And I reek of desperation for another mans touch.
And there's none to hear me scream I've got a pretty good hunch.
Do you even seem to care?
It's not very nice over here.
Harbor buses ship Asian businessmen back over gentle seas.
The city is alive against the saintly laden breeze.
I reach out to the stars.
They turn away and blush.
And I'll be ****** if I ever admit its not you its me.
And I'll keep up this facade, I'm over here and I'm free.
My body wanes past the flowers.
Their beauty turns to coal.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC
False prophets, you dig our graves with sinister divinations,
Bestow unrepentant indignation, and neglect to hide your shallowness.
Cast condescending shadows from high upon your sanctimonious mount, but
We wear our pride; our faith and love, our shrouds, and we will not be buried in the night.
Oh, I say woe unto them that call evil good and substitute darkness for light.
Oh, weary we may be, but forsaken we are not. Tread lightly when with lust and greed you choose to cast your lots.
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 11:31 PM UTC
They tried so hard to banish me
To eternal non-entity;
They resented my voice
They denied me a choice;
I had to be the type of soul
Adhering to their own goals.
The don’t care what we suffer
They speechify and don’t stutter.
They haven’t been secretive
About the way they’d have me live.
They bellow and bawl their mind
And little of it is anything kind.
They have no obvious compunction
Behind their every injunction.
They point and label me something odd,
Invoke a two thousand year-old god.
They drape themselves in our flag
And shout names like queer and ***
And tell us we are abominations
Not fit to live in Christian nations
But they forget that we all free
To choose what our religion will be.
In truth, they do not seem to care
About anyone’s opinion but theirs.
The hardest thing of all to bear
Is for all the venom they share
Is that this country has rules
That they ignore by being fools.
They want the right to tell us all
Who we can bring with us to the ball
And who we can love or marry.
What a heinous load for us to carry.
There may be nothing quite as egregious
As a congressman all sanctimonious
Who tells us we must not disparage
The sanctity of heterosexual marriage
Whether is his bride number three or four
That’s exactly what the Christianity is for
Because didn’t Jesus himself say
He didn’t want no homos today?
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
The stigmata within our soul is clouding all judgement,
a blood red mist casts shadows on our clarity of thought,
the clash of apathetic steel resounds out as we battle with the demons within.
Yet Christ is nailed to all our souls,
his blood falls as acid rain, acrid, vile,
tainting our vision,
polluting our vestiture of lustful thought,
sanctimonious vibrations, sent to our darkest depths,
the spirit sighs under such lofty duress.
© H V Swan
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
Religious zeal and explosive prowess make incendiary bedfellows
searing calculating moralism where all fall short and deserve to suffer
self righteous corrupted calumny put forth in a sally of sectarian selectivity
your ilk is heading for Hell and I'm (already there) not
fanatical zealots marginalize intellectuals with their mythical mire of mucked up claptrap and copious lack of a priori specificity
a glorified preposterous plethora of pompous pontificating platitudes
the sins of others they deplore but of themselves they don't keep score
Sunday's best is Sunday's worst
you sanctimonious ******** just can't leave people alone
who elected you to point fingers anyway
Jesus was born in a barn to an unmarried woman
And your mommy got shtuped when you were conceived too
you don't walk on water you insolent impertinent fool
the brain police can't wait for Sunday's
oh the satisfaction of a mutual admiration society
knee-jerk hackneyed pavlovian dog speak
Is anything anymore real if you jump around and shout about it
recipients of adulates get accustomed to sycophants
fawning complacent obsequious kiss ***** and Sunday suck-ups
pass the plate
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
He was parked up a hundred yards from her house
imagining Louisa
not too picky, judging from the run-down old houses
several were boarded up.
He was becoming quite absorbed with one of those.
A bad place. Soon to be notorious, a good house for a woman to be afraid in......
He had dug through all the Metal tapes in the vw.
Found Pride and Glory. Played Harvester of Pain over.
Till he was ready.
I'll show her hearts and love, god he was mad.
Hope Daisy gets to watch, wow that excited him.
The light came on early.
He waited until dusk, then walked around the back of her house.
Then in.
****
**** she had a cat.
Old as well, would it starve?
Then he saw her in the chair.
Jesus! Older than the cat.
And smiling at him.
He drove away an hour later.
Felt like hell inside. Forgetful old ***** thought he was her home help.
So he made her a coffee, fed the cat.
Sanctimonious cow gave him money.
Her husbands photograph was on the wall faded brown like she was.
Died in the war, drowned practising for D-Day.
So he spared her, for that and for the sake of the cat.
He stole an old bottle of whisky on his way out.
No sobriety test on the road to hell.
Six hours later he kicked a teenage ********** to death.
Dressed like that, you can't have a mother or a mirror.
Left the old ladies money on her corpse,this one's for Her.
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 1:13 AM UTC
*dreams in colors that don't exist,
and 'mares re dear sir, deadlines missed,
wrestle~arrest poet,
instant awake
in the wee time,
pouring liquidity,
fluids and words,
puddling, stinking,
coming,
from the
always dangerous,
always interesting temple inner inside,
sanctimonious no more sanctum*
this particular sleep,
shortened, irretrievable,
bookmarked "closed,"
chapters,
hours too soon,
this rest business,
arrested
filed in an ugly
grey metal file cabinet,
in an unfinished manila prison
with your other unimportant poems
*the dark room universe
populated by
hints, shadows, voices,
waiting, welcoming,
mirrors on the walls
unified in one voice
deep, obtuse,
demanding recognition
"hither hither come"*
forced march
to a visitation,
to the the parition,
of your reflection,
clearest ever seen,
in the black pitch,
uncovered by guise, feathers
the clothes of normative pretenses,
the man-made borderlines of
preservation falsehoods
*seen your own semblance,
parts rearranged,
uncanny,
the mirrors are screaming:
shameful lovely,
this, our artistry,
your apparition,
now accurate,
reflecting your under-
lying
condition,
at last,
an accurate portrayal,
of your inaccuracies*
do you find yourself attractive?
this new balance,
the unregulated pieces
of you
before your dissembling,
discerning,
dissecting eyes?
*feeling the valence,
an introduction,
a physical magnetism
any attraction
any resemblance
to the semblance
that writes
this s.o.s.?*
answer us thus,
do you up
and like yourself
unvarnished,
grunge, swag,
truth trammeled,
don't you want to kiss yourself
goodbye,
or better yet,
fare thee hell?
*go ahead,
ask yourself now,
that one question
that prevents conception,
from your inception,
what is it that
makes you exceptional?*
don't you realize,
everything about you
ends in a question mark?
*how dare you write poetry?
you are the false poet,
you live on the division
tween artifice and self-deception,
this, your only precept,
and now that you are
clarified,
answer this,
knowing you know
nothing
but artifice,*
how dare you write poetry?
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
No horror.
No horror?
I feel no horror.
No fear or disgust.
Wasn't this red, dripping paste
A rational person
A distant friend
A battle-buddy
an hour ago?
His dreams, hopes, desires are splattered on the truck.
His life and loves are a chunky puddle soaking in the sand.
A torn boot found freedom in a parched field.
The foot stayed with the rest
It had grown quite attached after carrying a lifetime of recently splattered dreams.
The horror! No horror.
A lingering sadness.
A detached coldness.
I feel unfeeling.
The treeline is leveled.
The joy! The cheering!
The enemy paint the river rocks red.
Bury them in splinters!
What a waste of human courage.
Homeward now.
Stand tall for the customary congratulations
And hear sanctimonious cowards explain the meaning of it all.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC