"scandalous" poems
Eenie Meenie Miney Moe
You're just another ***
Never saying "no" & NOT **** fo' show
Beyond ****** is where you go
The nasty crust is what you are below
A busted *** ratchet
With a scandalous habit
So bounce ***** with that ****
Or you're going to get hit
Peace out **** it
You need to just quit
Karma is what you're going to get
Because ******* DONT FORGET
You're not classy, just a slutty *****
With legs like a revolving door
Open to anyone wanting to score
But your ***** is stank & rotten to the core!
With more than one new STD sore
Just like I said before
BOUNCE,BITCH no one wants MORE!
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 12:32 AM UTC
i have slept restlessly for nights now, reliving the events that have conjured within the past 72 hours. i think to myself, how would anyone want to bring another into this world knowing the pain they will endure? yes. you will feel pain, indescribable, chest filling, body aching pain from your head to your toes. i wont try to paint a perfect picture of this world and let you down. hating me every moment for the things i never said. you will be beaten down by others, torn away from the connection you thought you had. you will sit in a coffee shop alone, biting your lip with anxiety, and he will call you in the dead of night pleading for you to keep him company once more. you will miss the way you looked at the world, with innocence and purity, reliving every moment of suffering and rewriting its pages. you will invest your heart in people, things that will only let you down. but sweet child this suffering that you feel will be soon over. it is how you overcome these situations of awkward confrontation and scandalous betrayal. because one day a bee will buzz past you and you will jump up and down like a child again, tugging on the end of your own dress, smiling. you will laugh once again because the perpetual love you feel from those who surround you with positive energy will fill the gaping hole of disappointment that the world has so willingly handed you. like i said, i will not paint a perfect picture for you, because every artist has their flaws, but they cover them oh so well. and you should never have to carry that kind of burden.
love always,
me
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 8:07 PM UTC
Hidden behind my desires.
Fantasies of ecstasy
frustrating me.
My body tempting me sensually.
Sexuality turning on me,
arousing my entity.
My fingers betraying me, ****** my body eagerly.
Probing between my legs relentlessly,
consuming my whole body; selfishly.
Weakening my flesh; this tantalizing energy
claiming the deepest depths of my *****
Scandalous imagery, mentally ravaging me,
seducing me, teasing my lips,
guiding my fingertips effortlessly,
long fingers dip, disappearing;
deep inside of me.
My ***** tightens, the feelings heighten.
Warm liquids drip, stone hard ****
pulling and rubbing it.
Wrist twist,palm grinding against my *****
legs clasp, my insides amass giving way,
As I spray, my exhausted body collapses.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
There is an image
Working to free my mind
From violent dawns
It probes at the backs of my eyes
It tells me I am prostituting myself
Here in my bedroom
In incestuous union with myself
I hallucinate and fantasise about
Doctors sons, butchers boys
Teenage thieves, deserters
Drug pushers, scandalous rent boys
Vagrants, pimps, prostitutes
And silk lingerie and don't care.
I sit destitute of thought
An insonce dissonance of macabre music
Playing out melodies of an image in my mind
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 4:42 PM UTC
Harken ye temptious ear
To this scandalous tale
Of the indebted lovely Lady
Sorrowfully saying "For Sale."
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
But are not the scandalous rumors,
the jealous lovers,
and inglorious ********
born of passion?
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
It’s our secret; lets keep it between us.
I rather you not press the issue, rather keep it hush hush.
So I can rub it in, then tease it, with a soft touch.
So I can shove them in, then ease it, love it so much.
Holding it against me, this is far from a grudge.
Handling it on my own, show a girl some love!
Moving your fingers slightly, side to side, feel the rush.
Touching very gently, up and down, you’re so generous.
The sensation, making you feel, so scandalous.
You under the sheets, hiding, and its just us.
Me, Myself, and I, up against our ********
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
a coat of Naughty
a flick of Flirtatious
a dab of Daring
slick on Scandalous
with just a touch of Mischief
voila!
let's go out...
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 10:17 PM UTC
*absolutely scandalous the way you are..
you treat me mercilessly for feeling cheerful ..
so cruel attitude you are ..
thou silent throughout my sense of my disappointment to smile ..
truly evil your touch ..
you whip my heartbeat pounding and carefree ..
indeed bear your concern ..
you fill up my weak with politely invincible ..
really sneaky way you are ..
you stole my heart a dozen years ago to freeze and harden ..
indeed savage your sincerity ..
you satisfy and pamper me until i could not walk on the mainland ..
because you are the villain of heart of mine..!*
┈┈┈┈┈»̶·̵̭̌✽✽·̵̭̌«̶ ƦУ »̶·̵̭̌✽✽·̵̭̌«̶┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
sang penjahat hati..!
sungguh keji caramu..
engkau perlakukan perasaanku tanpa ampun untuk ceria..
sungguh kejam sikapmu..
engkau bungkam seluruh rasaku kecewaku hingga tersenyum..
sungguh jahat sentuhanmu..
engkau cambuk detak jantungku berdegup kencang dan riang..
sungguh tega perhatianmu..
engkau jejali lemahku dengan santunmu hingga tak terkalahkan..
sungguh licik caramu..
engkau curi hatiku belasan tahun lalu hingga membeku dan membatu..
sungguh biadab ketulusanmu..
engkau puasi dan manjakan asaku hingga tak sanggup kupijak daratan..
karena enkau adalah sang penjahat hatiku..!
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before dark-fall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
Umbrage ultraism infrangible extemporaneous incognito edition
Penumbral platitude platonic proxy photics rendition
Interface fenestration imbroglio pandemonium inducement sedition
Wretched infelicitous extant trajectory sordid intuition
Scandalous scavenger squalid anomalous punitive condition
Panacea chiaroscuro parallax emanate imminent perdition
Equilibrist revision exertion suborn temerity imbues
Indulgent zealous discrepancy apparentness cogitation accrues
Heuristic noumenal psychokinesis extrapolation incursion construes
Aura auspicious primitive prism processional reviews
Obstinate tenacious preeminent edificatory omnipotence eschews
Equivocal gumption ratification constitutional manumission ensues
Delusory apparition extravagance peccavi verity tempestuous
Obtrusive obtusely overt indemnities sagaciously obliquitous
Ephemeral anxiety antonym existential exigency alacritous
Fortuitous emendation phantasm ontological ontogeny acuitous
Indemnify veracious infernal infidel impunities iniquitous
Meritorious fulham presumptive extrication expiation indigenous
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 9:20 PM UTC
I have a little secret
That's not ***** nor scandalous
It's just a little shadow
That follows me everywhere I go
I do not get afraid,
But I do have a fear.
It is like an annoying person...
That you want to hit in the face with a brick
I push it down and crumple it up
But it keeps coming back to me.
JUST GO AWAY, ALREADY!
GO YOU LITTLE PESTY FEAR!
Now, as you may have noticed,
I have not said one thing about what my fear is
But you have to remember
That it is my secret fear
And secret secrets are no fun
Unless you tell
Absolutely
No one.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
Loons in the vineyard – sound the alarm !
Satan is milking his metaphors.
Such silly music portends no harm;
call home the cows and open your doors.
Brian Hugh Warner, a paleface freak
after finding his mom’s mascara
darker enlightenment did seek
and crowned himself with Baal’s tiara.
Scary drag-queen, scandalous, vain
Marilyn – the creepy thespian
rolled that fish-eye and snorted *******
like Crowley… how pedestrian.
Flashing his glowing cataract,
he gave the mommies quite a fright.
Censorship launched; no badder act
did sail (or assail) our sinking night.
Gothic dim-wits purchased CD’s
bought the goods, pierced parts, wore black.
(Cause for certain parents’ unease:
MTV’s Antichrist on the attack).
Son of Man – or rather, Manson
Milked to the max his demonic cow;
playing Satan’s naughty grandson
showing the flustered milk-maids how.
Urban legend surrounds this fowl
(those ribs removed – like Adam’s sin!)
Is he a misunderstood night owl –
or a has-been loon in a loony bin?
Rock-stars age (well, most) like a cheap wine.
or else in the way once-ripened grapes
withering, sun-struck, off the vine
transform, with age, into wizened shapes.
No – I am wrong. They age like prunes;
plums thus pass into their glory.
Even Luciferian loons
find lakes of fire at end of story.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
At a Parisean restaurant
In a quarter undisclosed
Unaware of everything
The diners sat exposed
As Clara and the Prince sat down
And prepared to eat their meal
Backstage the musician equipped himself
The theft who had yet to steal
As menus and music case opened
The scene was set for all
And as Rigo Jancsi took the stage
The crowd fell quiet, enthralled
The gyspy was a showman
His weapon a violin
A tune danced out across the room
As the strings began to sing
Playing notes of tales untold
His melody charmed her soul
The music pulled her heart to his
Over her husband's buttered roll
Captivated, entranced and mesmerised
Seduced by another life
And when the gypsy left that night
He took the Prince's wife
They ran away and married
A scandalous affair
Society was most surprised
But our story does not end there...
Hungarian tales tell of the man
Whose music stole a heart
Remembered in a chocolate cake
And puppets, songs and art
One hundred long years later
The guitar boy from the band
Strummed his notes and stole the girl
Heartstrings were played by hand
Two stories a century apart
What makes these stories the same?
Because the boy's band of musicians
Used the Hungarian gypsy's name
Dec 9, 2009
Dec 9, 2009 at 6:23 AM UTC
All i know is the ghetto
And scandalous tricks
In stilettos ya know
Jealousy follows that the
Black society creeds
N i bleed
Through pressure and pain
Since i took the throne
I embraced the reign
Heir of my past pioneers
Listen clear
J Hendrix dropped a tear
Out the sky catch the purple haze
Buzz contact
So all you haters get off my bozack
My folks dont know how to act
Quick to react
Bad temper with the barrel of a gat
Facin' death
Heartbeatin' faster than humming bird
Yup i seen a man die
So **** what you heard
This is for homies thugs drugs dealer
Murderers to serial killers
Representin' real hits
Penetrate the heart of the beast
WASHINGTON aint never been fair
So if you see us mobbin' yo hood
We dont care
But this is for my homies
I got a tear stained letter
From my one of my homies homies
Who got murdered by a 9 baretta
Cuz he came up short on the cheddar
Instead cuttin' em slack
He wanted his life back
But aint no reasonin' with a gat
Pointed at ya pate
Seen death servin' on his plate
Two shots execution style
The killer smiled he knew it was foul
But thats the way it is
Things will never change
It makes my skin mange
Wish i could rearrange
The game
But fools rather remain the same
Wither it be pistols to glocks to shot guns
There's always a soul on the run
I bet i can dance underwater
And not get wet
So go ahead and send ya death threats
Cold covert mission is eyeing me
Keep my middle finger to society quietly
Riotin' the scene
Takin' enemies along with me
If ya know what i mean??
But this is for my homies
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
Father and Mother, and Me,
Sister and Auntie say
All the people like us are We,
And every one else is They.
And They live over the sea,
While We live over the way,
But-would you believe it?—They look upon We
As only a sort of They!
We eat pork and beef
With cow-horn-handled knives.
They who gobble Their rice off a leaf,
Are horrified out of Their lives;
While they who live up a tree,
And feast on grubs and clay,
(Isn’t it scandalous? ) look upon We
As a simply disgusting They!
We shoot birds with a gun.
They stick lions with spears.
Their full-dress is un-.
We dress up to Our ears.
They like Their friends for tea.
We like Our friends to stay;
And, after all that, They look upon We
As an utterly ignorant They!
We eat kitcheny food.
We have doors that latch.
They drink milk or blood,
Under an open thatch.
We have Doctors to fee.
They have Wizards to pay.
And (impudent heathen!) They look upon We
As a quite impossible They!
All good people agree,
And all good people say,
All nice people, like Us, are We
And every one else is They:
But if you cross over the sea,
Instead of over the way,
You may end by (think of it!) looking on We
As only a sort of They!
3.2k
You wouldnt like me when I'm drunk
Or perhaps you'd like me too much
Push pins sting
As they slide into my skin
But after long enough
They go numb
Can hardly notice the blood anymore
Second
Third
Fourth skins are shed
Leaving a raw innocence in it's place
Uninhibited by restraints
Such as logic
Or forethought
Blinders on too tight
Choking out anything that would be
Scandalous in daylight
A deafening scream
That's part siren song
Vice grip fingers
Holding on for too long
The Devil's wife has come to dance
Please walk away
Or I promise we'll both hate me sober
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 3:27 PM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before darkfall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 5:51 PM UTC
perfect human imperfections
the gentle roll of a teardrop
down a sun-beaten cheek
falling from eyes of incomprehensible depth
ocean eyes
endless moments in time
snippets of absolute joy and content
small eternities of a life that's been lived
sleepless nights
early morning hours
of peace
of solitude
a mind, a silent fortress
deep breaths on cold days
stinging lungs
seeping warmth from a hot drink
the slow spread of a smile
the result of a scandalous idea
a wisp of smoke from a house-chimney
conjuring images of a cosy, loving family
all the little things
the little bits of beauty
are what to live for
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 10:51 AM UTC
Stored up enough,
but the energy now takes on its
own purpose.
If only I could draw;
I'd create picture books
on exactly what the ending looks like.
Rough sketches left collecting
for many months,
before I ever once thought of putting
color to them.
The why, would be as mind trancing
as tracing catch phrases into the many
levels of dust accumulated.
I'd write something so cliché, like,
"With this oily finger I remove the collection of time."
or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut
through time."
I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget
where I left off, and distract myself
again with writing.
A small recluse emotion of mine
objects viciously, but my attention to every
words incentive laced meaning would
leave the visual to again rest unchanged,
not colored.
So's the plight of one who likes to think
himself an artist. There's that scandalous
narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up,
reminding you just how beautiful your words
are, and how small in intellect those who
don't get it are.
Upon that shelf your pictures sit.
I can only write as a narrator,
because our "philosopher,"
"philanthropist of word volley, our
genius of word play,"
is once again too caught up in the
descriptors to finish the real
picture.
Not that this idea will stand the
test of time, but I do believe more
writers will commit suicide, selfishly
of course.
Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing
so enigmatically that no one gets
your "deep soul."
While upon that shelf,
within a fiber of your overrun
writer's ego, there's a drawing begging
to be finished, colored, maybe even
shared.
But just where does it reside?
Did the alternate you place it
in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found?
If it's too early it just can't be worth it,
can it?
He'll have to learn to put down the pen,
rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers,
set up an easel, squeeze out some paint,
and realize there are other mediums
where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations.
Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist,
sweeping arm, no words, images
are now your letter blocks to construct with.
Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen.
Stop being so foolish "Writer man,"
if your ego clings too sharply to words,
simply remind it,
"This could be another pen name."
"...I love that idea, what would it be?"
"Narcissist Ugly."
"So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
The Poet is the language,the mystery of Monalisa's smile,
the brush of Caravaggio and the finest painting of Vangogh.
The Poet is the sonnet of Mozart anf the symphony of Bach,
a tragedy of Shakespeare and the saddest verse of Pablo Neruda.
The Poet is the blue Danube in waltz and the Swan Lake in Ballet.
The Poet is the renaissance of passion and the remnant of life,
the dilemma of morality,the shadow of deed,and the ombra of sin.
The Poet is the fantasy of each Sunrise and the illusion of every Sunset,
the wave in tide of wishes,carried in a bottle to dune drunk shore.
The Poet is the believer, dream lover in a hot passionate crazy affair,
the magician who creates fables and fairytales from a deadly reality.
The Poet is the worker who works and works to survive,to cope in this
demanding,sophisticated,stigmatic concrete hypocratic world.
The Poet is the thief of time,with eyes flutterin on late nights,
Still loyal to the pen,His thoughts in verse,bleedin fragranted words.
The Poet is an Omnipotent servant,with a will to ask and crave to learn.
A Philosopher,whose always an amateur in the pursuit of wisdom.
The Poet is an eternal slave of His Muse,the beverage of inspiration,
the spouse married to literature,adulterer of lyric,deceiver of prose.
He Knows no lapsus in all that is scandalous,royalty or sacred.
He is the artist, musician, actor,the clairvoyant of destined paths.
He is the cheap clay's mold,carved in the sculpture of the next century.
The Poet is the unfinished book,the chapter in yesterday,
He is the Nobody of today and the bookmark of tomorrow.
T H E POET IS YOU ! ! !
Nov 6, 2010
Nov 6, 2010 at 10:29 PM UTC
A ride in the metro
is always an adventure.
Getting coins for departure.
Waiting for the trains.
with baggage in hands.
Roughed up buns.
Messed shirts.
Oversized sweaters.
skinny jeans.
converse shoes.
Green bag.
Glasses on.
earphones in.
The metro runs like a bird
running for rescue
of her child in trouble.
Blows off all the hair.
trying to gather balance,as
it almost blew me off.
getting in is a mission.
for first timers like me,
we like to be polite
and let others get in
and get out
before we could.
even if it meant you have to
wait for another to come in.
Getting in was an
ACCOMPLISHMENT.
with all people staring at you.
like you are welcomed as
an angel in hell.
i manage to get a hold of a handle.
surviving till your stop is
horrendous.
ranging from
smelly armpits
to foul smelled oiled hair
to watching cheap gel
used on scanty hair,
to seeing weird chick humming songs
as if nobody;s watching them lip sync
as if they were
auditioning fro their life's
biggest concert
to people staring you
like you'll just get *****
to guys reading scandalous and
****** news
deeply interested
to people who like it
when girls fall on them.
Its a funny trip.
to girls talking about how
romantic is their friend's boyfriend
to couples getting an excuse
to get close to each other
and holding hands.
Wow.
A metro ride is
a new adventure
altogether.
everyday.New people.
New places.
New experiences.
NEW life.
NEW everything.
I liked it today.
for a change.
sigh.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
Umbrage ultraism infrangible extemporaneous incognito edition
Penumbral platitude platonic proxy photics rendition
Interface fenestration imbroglio pandemonium inducement sedition
Wretched infelicitous extant trajectory sordid intuition
Scandalous scavenger squalid anomalous punitive condition
Panacea chiaroscuro parallax emanate imminent perdition
Equilibrist revision exertion suborn temerity imbues
Indulgent zealous discrepancy apparentness cogitation accrues
Heuristic noumenal psychokinesis extrapolation incursion construes
Aura auspicious primitive prism processional reviews
Obstinate tenacious preeminent edificatory omnipotence eschews
Equivocal gumption ratification constitutional manumission ensues
Delusory apparition extravagance peccavi verity tempestuous
Obtrusive obtusely overt indemnities sagaciously obliquitous
Ephemeral anxiety antonym existential exigency alacritous
Fortuitous emendation phantasm ontological ontogeny acuitous
Indemnify veracious infernal infidel impunities iniquitous
Meritorious fulham presumptive extrication expiation indigenous
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC
A transgressional constant,
For a world made so pure.
A backbone bricked love,
For the same world so hurt.
Through the history and the ages,
A splendorous, scandalous gust.
Brought down from heavenly storehouses,
To be used by all of us.
This back bone bricked love,
Holding my soul completely together.
Only backbone bricked love,
Can help us find each other.
Small words past on,
As history has died.
Say a simple word,
Of what really rings inside.
One heart beat for another,
Two parts sing of a melody.
Three simple words they are, yet
Four meanings for I love thee!
May your love be bricked up like a wall,
Strong and lasting never to fall.
The backbone for any person to call,
Is that of undying love for your all.
It's the only thing that's true,
Because it's all I can do,
I backbone bricked love you!
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 9:50 PM UTC
Scandalous, you running in your underwear
Droplets like dew, dripping from your hair
If you didn't think it was odd
I would try to catch them
We dried on that rock lying lazy in the sun
Sidelong glances at each other, one on one
Neither of us could stand to look too long
As if the vacuums of our eyes
Would create some black hole
You spoke and the little hairs
On the back of my neck
Stood in applause
Your hand brushed my hand
Goosebumps rippled from that point and
Through my body,
Alerting everything,
Like electricity
I was instantly alive
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC