"scoundrels" poems
i used to have a potent mind
so full of ideas and thoughts
but then i started smoking ***
from time to time to time
i used to think i had a bright future
i went to school and college and got a degree
but all along the way i had a good, old friend
this scoundrels name is Demon Marijuana
my good friend Demon Marijuana loves me
she comes over and gets me high and then i come
to see the light for just a while longer
before fading back into a fetal curl
i used to think i’d go somewhere and conquer
i went to go and sit some place instead
and stuffed my pipe with grass and inhaled deeply
the aromatic smoke of my old friend
i used to have a potent mind
so full of big dreams and illusions
but then i started smoking ***
from time to time to time
my good friend Demon Marijuana loves me
she comes over and we get high and then she goes
leaving me in the dark a little longer
then fading back into the beginning gray
originally posted on my blog https://sublimeobscenities.wordpress.com/ on August 20, 2014
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 1:52 PM UTC
Ridding the Dark Shadows that lie,
Deep adumbrations of the past;
That lurk within close quarters
Is an ever present cynical task.
By this, I mean, the scoundrels will always be near.
But not to live within us, nor to cause us fear.
Their presence simply affirms that we're living in the light;
Because Shadows are never visible in the dark of night.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 5:12 PM UTC
Patriotism is normal
alive and well
vigorous
flying high
Patriotism is voluntary
is love of
is love of country
is a love of and devotion for one's country
Patriotism is when love of your own people comes first
racism
more than flag
too often the refuge of scoundrels
Patriotism is as dogmatic as the old
a kind of religion; it is the egg from which wars are hatched
conviction that this country is superior to all other countries
no excuse for stupidity
Patriotism is alive in america
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 9:16 PM UTC
Where's the ventriloquist
throwing voices around
like whistling stray dogs
the voice and the vision
a crystal *****
whispering
with mud in the mouth
the ***** doesn't lie
a yammering vantwilaquist
who's voice springs from a blood cream corridor
with electric lips and rainbow flesh
a lost beast dazzled in endless wander lust
in search of a scarlet women
surrounded only
by aspiring virgins
sworn to be true
by desolations caress
in black ash weddings
with white frilly dresses
weeping for delicate cruelties
they will never know
his father a falling star
his soul
an undulating cobalt shrine
to her
who he can not find
a catalog of discrepancies
a noxious experiment
with a wandering eye
lust ******
embattled between reason and passion
is that look your giving me
shorthand psychic humiliation
for my vile indiscretions I'm trembling to visit upon you
I'm wearing my face like window dressing
hiding the obscenity of my true will behind a curled lip
eyes down cast
hoping to use you like a vacant room
to smear the walls and floors
with your flesh like ************ glitter
too bad
i'm outnumbered by good people
there are sky-fulls of them
agitated with moral concerns
ruining my life with logic
those scoundrels
got pedigree
ideologies
religion
folded ears and moving lips
all monkeys see and monkeys do
who are they
and
were
is
their
ventriloquist
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 12:41 PM UTC
Long days seem so much longer.
Distance does not make the heart grow fonder.
You’ve conquered the empire of my subconscious.
Your crusade so short,
Yet I hope your reign continues for eons.
We’re far past passive flatteries,
Instead, we fill each other’s hearts with vows.
You mean them now,
But what about a few months?
What if you decide I’m not what you want?
The torment I am slowly approaching,
Consumes my distant soul.
I can hear the sounds of futuristic loathing,
From when you decide this love has taken it’s toll.
So tell me.
How can I pay this inevitable toll?
How can I save us from Cupid’s malicious tyranny?
His arrow is too far lodged within me,
I cannot remove it.
I can only push it farther and farther
Into my heart until it falls out of my back.
But this arrow, trenchant.
Cupid, the sharpest of marksmen.
Yet colorblind, he is.
He sees not what colors his targets represent.
He draws his bow for the pure love of marksmanship.
Sometimes, yet not often,
He will hit the intended target.
But the odds are scarce.
His subjects are often punctured,
And connected to one whom reciprocated Fate’s desire.
Yet this time…
This time…
Cupid must have hit a target of Fate’s approval.
For thrice he has missed.
This time He and Fate are in sync.
This wound may stretch over time,
But the arrow shall remain firmly lodged within my *****
***** and immovable.
Until you kick it through my backside.
But until then,
I can only endure.
I can only be woo wounded.
I can only survive,
Another ambush of the militant called Cupid.
But I will do it for you,
For by you,
I’ve been so divinely seduced.
Wooed by your lips.
Not by your kiss,
But by the music,
Which your mandibles so express.
I desire not to seal this wound,
But to evade its’ repercussions.
For I have endured a similar wound thrice.
He is winged as if an angel,
Yet Was Lucifer not once an angel as well?
Cupid is an impostor.
A spy of Agony, himself.
He prays on the young, the old, the strong, and the weak.
He cares not who he obliterates in his crusades.
He is a bloodthirsty heathen.
He makes scoundrels of Saints,
And Harlots of Housewives.
Saint Valentine is no Saint.
He is Satan’s nightmare.
At first, his arrows are ecstasy,
But like a cancer,
His poison-saturated arrows
Seep deep within every crevice of your body.
They consume you as if enriched with ******
And eventually rot within your *****
Until it is nothing but dust and a memory.
One day I will assassinate Fate’s Malicious militant,
The one we call Cupid.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
Why the journey
to this extreme?
Where all achieved
illusions of self
are pounded down
in to the gravel
where the footsteps
are **** heavy.
Two young scoundrels
stopped and stared
as I walked
past them:
Intimidation tactics.
Who are these people
and what are they
prepared to do,
and for what?
All I know,
is that I am becoming
less and less;
this fear
that drives my creativity
is strangling me.
This is a plea
to an impossible god
as tears run down my face.
I am afraid.
Jan 21, 2010
Jan 21, 2010 at 6:24 AM UTC
fragile heart she lay ruptured in my lounge chair
grey faced i mumble a few parting words over her
before i lay out the finest bone china
all the makings of tea and biscuits
all the fixings of ******
with the sounds of the snapping of necks
sharp wet sound fresh on the air
she was here to mourn her lover-boy
gone astray
i was here to see the deed done
i was the grey faced hangman
come to get his pennys
in my song you can hear the rope snap
in my heart you can feel the fall from the gallows
and my hangman's noose swinging in breeze
has its own peculiar creaking sound that sounds
like love to me
i was the grey faced hangman
that knows no sympathy
come now you wicked ones
sing my song with me
grey faced i lead the procession
up the graveyard road
the overgrown and thick summer feel to it
claws at the senses
but i keep walking stiffly
with the sound
of snapping necks ringing in my ears
its my song
he had cried like a child as they carried him to the gallows
he had begged and wailed
but my hangman's noose had claimed him
cold comfort awaits
to the tomb they cried out with joy
to the tomb with the scoundrel
while she lay weeping her lost lover-boy
and while grey faced i cleansed the world
of scoundrels like him
while grey faced i silently mourned
for i had run out of rope
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
I’m a stamp -
no, I didn’t say “I’m just a stamp”,
or “I’m but a stamp” -
but I am a stamp
a postage stamp, that is;
unique and proud, in my own class,
for I’ve carried queens and kings and emperors
(I still do)
and I carry Presidents and Poets and Rock Kings
and Pop Kings
and Musicians and Legends and Heroes
and Gods and Nations;
and I carry **** blondes
and old dames who’ve dedicated their lives to others
I’ve borne with no complaints
the weight of genius
and soldiers and founders of nations
and martyrs; and I do not discriminate
and with like gusto and color
I’ve carried tyrants and murderers and charlatans
and once-were-legends now the shamed;
and look, I can encompass the universe
and within the shapes formed by my perforations
I’ve held together flowers and birds
and all wonders of nature
I am each a poem, a work of art
I’m a stamp -
no, I didn’t say “I’m just a stamp”,
or “I’m but a stamp”
(What? You heard me the first time, did you?
Well, I’ll say it again for emphasis!) -
but I am a stamp in my own right, unique and proud -
though, I acknowledge,
the image of Royalty or Heroism or Greatness has
not saved me from various knocks and hard presses
and the ******* bin!
But then, so have mighty royal heads rolled!
but look, hee…heee….heee…
I can be absolutely adorable,
and I just love, love it when you lick me;
and often too
I’m a collector’s item
increasing in value, and even with artistic merit -
though no doubt, there are countless with no idea
of how so darling precious I am
which is I why
I say proudly again:
I’m a stamp
no, I didn’t say “I’m just a stamp”,
or “I’m but a stamp”
(And what? Why do I repeat myself?
Well, there are thousands of copies
of one issue, aren’t there?) -
but I am a stamp in my own right, unique and proud
and I’ve created worlds all of my own
with pen pals and commerce
and industries and clubs round me;
and I’m not alone, you know,
well-supported by relatives
like prepaid postal envelopes, post cards,
letter cards, aerogrammes
all of us served loyally
by unquestioning Gurkha-style postmen and women;
and I’ve brought hearts and minds together
and I do it in a day or days and or weeks
and if I feel like it, I even arrive decades later! –
and there’s nothing you can do about it!
And oh yes, I can see, you’re prone to neglecting me -
you ungrateful scoundrels! -
first replacing me with cold
Franking Machines,
and cheap, unimpressive, unimaginative franking marks
and with postage meters
imprinting an indicia;
and all of you now
deriding my world as snail pace
in your world of instant e-mails -
but I persist, and I still am of much use
for - listen carefully -
and I say proudly again:
I’m a stamp
no, I didn’t say “I’m just a stamp”,
or “I’m but a stamp” -
but I am a stamp in my own right, unique and proud;
and if you, once in a while,
want to show me your loyalty –
come to a local post office and lick my royal ****
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 10:03 AM UTC
You’re the kind of girl
That makes heaven regret
Ever letting you go
It was the biggest mistake
Since She took a bite of the fruit
You’re the kind of girl
To make honorable men better
And scoundrels too
You’re one of the angles God personally knows
He sent you to save the world
From hopelessness and
Lack-luster dreams
You’re the kind of girl
Makes an optimist a realist
Because you’re really here
It’s not just hope in his heart
You’re the kind of girl
Movies are made of,
Flowers are bought for,
And lives are lived
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
Aye well let me tell you here
Bout a man to me so dear
When ever after seemed
Like it was simply meant to be
I wish I was a maiden fair
But eyes did stray to blonder hair
So secrets in the dark did keep
And my devotions left to weep
Bowing low before the throne
And pleading never to have known
The last of men to which I bowed
Before I left the solid ground
Now I sail the ocean blue
And the only men here are my crew
So pop the cork and drink away
The sea is where I'll always stay
Now tyrant monarchs may rule the lands
But they cannot stop our merry band
So call us scoundrels and call us thieves
We live on the water and sing to the breeze
So if you are lost, listen to our sound
The wind on the water tells ya you've been found
The compass will guide us so hoist up the sail
The Last Chance is our vessel for which we prevail
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 11:38 AM UTC
I no longer see
The purpose of your role
When you betrayed us,
And others altogether
As if we’re lowly like
Maggots in the eyes
Of common men.
You’re no Guardian
O’ mine, whence the
Moment you laid
Upon that Hand o’ yours
That bludgeoned this
Childlike glee, wakening
A great sense in me that
You have the face of Janus,
But you do not embody
All beginnings;
It was all but nought,
Making a fool out of me
As if I’m an imbecile
To canonize yourself
As a Patron Saint of Fairy Tales
In which a venerable testament
To those dogmatic scoundrels
That borne the blood o’ *******
Which flows in their veins…
So you, are no Paragon, but a Fool-Saint
And speak no Tongues of Fire;
But full of air and a thorny tongue
That snaps like a whip
Hence, a brute, an imp
That is an uptight ****
A Guardian to the so-and-so’s.
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 6:33 AM UTC
Delightful visions of this bright morning,
Pray awaken to joys arrival;
Put to bed your nightmares of death and darkness
And allow these words to repair your cracked heart.
Ah! What is a nightmare before the dawns brilliance?
But an illusion cast before your eyes,
Only to be shattered by the suns clear rays,
Dispelled, before this immaculate future.
Such fleeting horrors, let them fade,
Do not let the chiding of scoundrels impair you,
Let the lovely beams fill you with cheer,
Together in spirit, we shall journey towards heaven.
Though storms may sour the azure sky,
If you and I walk together, the clouds will obey our command,
The black and menacing, shall be fluff, and white beneath our touch.
And If we wish to dance in the rain, it shall be so.
Together, we shall seize the day, with both hands,
And never let it go, even as night arrives, we shall dwell in brilliance.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 10:15 AM UTC
The gray days pass
On and on, one after the other.
If you're looking for color.
You're in the wrong place
There is none here.
We're all just sitting here. Waiting.
We're just here,
The destitute, forsaken scoundrels.
We're here waiting.
Waiting for something Auroral
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 7:02 AM UTC
I rolled my own tobacco tightly, lips pursed through a gormless grin,
As he, the idle Gean Canach, warming up, kisses a lonesome gin,
This dream as told to be his tonic - the bitter slice - so I begin...
Musing over beauty, his admirable hair, warholic an' fitted to wear,
Of Tartan-clad men whose ghosts have chequered stares,
An' Art, Free Speech, Faith, dipped in batter - much to his despair,
Of people, prickened purple as they blow a silent whistle,
To how the sun beams through heather-fields of shared pistols,
An' those scattered morsels of society, left to nothing but the gristle,
To how more questions than answers affect his whispered speech,
Yet he stirs mulling over youth and language receded to their peak,
'...Come, I'll walk you back to your hiding place – safely out of reach...!'
Back home to talk of MacDiarmid and McFarlan, to agree and feel solemn,
As he explains that a poisoned bee carries but only poisoning pollen,
An' how a love of our country, for its freedom, is all we have in common,
He tells of the tears from the Nationalist, nation-less, who lives in arrears,
Of the ink further dried on the receipt of forced union; of some 400 years,
An' that of my friend the leprechaun; ****** on the burnt grass that he shears,
An' now he exclaims - '… Swallow the pound..! Gulp on its hardened flesh...,
...We are as separate - the reluctant strawberry atop this eton mess...,
The majesty of our homes, as one, forever in a state of undress,
...We shall squander fortunes on entire pleasures dear to empty minds,
The resources of our country fixed to the crown with no benefit in kind,
Computerised Tesco's an' ****** at the BBC is all that we will find...'
It is time to take our leave; he has risen sharply an' yet crumbles into a seat,
The fires of the red sun burn for independence with stomping feet,
My dream recited, I wander still, and turn to the fools an' scoundrels on the street.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:11 AM UTC
My Daddy, ******* Him,
loved me so much
he used to pick the raisins
out of my Raisin Bran.
Every morning he'd sprinkle
the flakes onto two paper towels
so he could spread it out
dense enough
to catch any raisin scoundrels.
After sufficiently flicking
the cereal to-and-fro
he'd put it in a bowl for me,
with just enough milk
so as to make it tasteful,
and not soggy.
(Anything for his princess)
Well ******* Him again
for the second time
in these lines if I don't still
pick those little raisin turds
out of my cereal 22 years
out of the womb.
And ******* him for
biting my pretty red heart
in two giant pieces
and leaving me with
no way to sew them up
except a handful of joints
in one hand
and a bottle of prozac
in the other.
Know what though?
I was eating raisin bran
last night and I bit down
on a sweet, gummy
treat I had sworn to
despise among
all things
and I didn't *****
I didn't gag.
I didn't do anything
but swallow it
and take another bite.
My tastebuds must be
changing.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 7:03 PM UTC
.
A bloodthirsty old woman you see,
a cockroach from Satan’s
“Crisis Committee”,
For long she pillaged,
children she snatched and slayed
their blood she drank and ate,
to rejuvenate.
She flayed their skin,
affixed in place on her own face,
Corona was her name,
The old hag was insane.
When her evil deeds were told,
the airplanes soared,
in aim to **** us all.
On Earth they made the poisons fall.
They had us all locked down,
with muzzles restrained,
padlocks and chains,
ankle bracelets for home detention,
false tests on prescription,
deceived and plundered,
blamed for infection,
medications proscribed,
fresh air they denied,
On our freedom they put boundaries,
halfwits, scoundrels.
And when they “eased up” on their “measures”,
the camps were full over the rim,
large - scale butchering,
looted livers and kidneys,
burning the living victims,
“to prevent the spread of infection”
evidence concealed for our own protection.
She had working hours,
sleeping before noon,
was contagious only in the afternoon.
Half the world she vaccinated,
with poisons injected,
what is going on,
you are going to see,
billions of dead bodies are yet to be!
Forget we must not,
Lest not forgive,
Let’s arrest and sentence them to death,
they should not be left to live!
.
Saša Milivojev
Translated by Ljubica Yentl Tinska
www.sasamilivojev.com
Copyright © by Saša Milivojev, 2020 - 2022 - All Rights Reserved
Jun 14, 2022
Jun 14, 2022 at 6:40 PM UTC
Blazing and looting and feist's
Screaming "surrender!"
Machetes through a violent haze.
A group of scoundrels rioting,
Crashing and trampling as they
Wildly start howling while
Throwing bottle bombs.
Uncomfortably cramped into a secret crevice;
Violets, soothing for a moment.
Then bodies toppled over and
Singled out
Is such an existence for one to
Be devout to?
A sudden breeze, caress the aftermath of
A loosely worn disease.
Sleepy eyes, seemingly far off and
drooping low; solving puzzles.
Gazing with purpose and intent;
A veneer that's out lost upon a pier.
Swinging to a requiem,
Pacing In a retelling.
My friend, again, speak amends and
Shine a light that transcends my
Fears and my tears that prevail;
So misguided In deed.
So sure so certain that
What's done is right
But now the meanings all disguised and
Out of sight.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 4:09 AM UTC
How hidden, how high
How low we search without
Fear or nerve; enamored we scout
Not withstanding our falling out
Every impossibility we seek out positively
No scandals, no scoundrels
We're faced with yearning, grand dreaming; how lavishing
Pouring out every word, every feeling, every tear, every melody
Here theres no melancholy, only harmony
Counting every day, every hour, every minute
Listening to sweet musings
The chords are thundering
We've been lost, no longer wondering; we're hollering
Leaving the world swirling
How crazy we are, not suffocating
Blind, falling we're mindless faltering
But we're mindless just humming happily
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 12:08 AM UTC
I stepped out of my apartment
into the easy breezy morning heat
it was hot,
but not late enough for the sun
to have properly baked the earth
I lost three cigarettes
almost immediately
lost them on skid row:
*** alley
a small strip of city
which stretches from 5th to Jefferson
and from Broad to Franklin
something about that place,
maybe the empathy of the inhabitants
draws them closer
the homeless, hobos, bums, wastrels, ruffians, and scoundrels
sitting cross legged on the pavement
or idly kicking on the stoop of curbs
or in hidden alleys,
hiding from the wind
They live there
and for the most part
they're good people,
not hurting anybody
not proud enough
to not beg
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 9:57 AM UTC
I walked into the garden and gave Themis my flower.
She said, “now you know they’ll lock up men of any age in my name, thirsty as they are”
I said, “what am I to do, to hold back the flood tide?
Scratching out a living with steel wool cyanide, the champion of beggars and thieves, scoundrels and knaves”
She smiled and said, “you’ve got to find your way home”
I took her by my side, held her in my arms, looking deep into her dark eyes, “I’m lost", I said, “and you know what I’m dreaming"
"I’m empty and aching, and I don’t know where to go.”
She looked on me in silence, ragged tears forming in the corners of our eyes. Emotion swelling in our heart spring, somehow, I knew, I must take upon the open road.
We parted at the gate separating my father’s mansion from the path to the wood.
She was imprinted upon my soul.
The flower wilted, petals one by one, falling to the floor.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
Im gone Mami!
And I won’t be back.
Tie me to your hip driving up the strip
Like a strap stab me
Into Alrvarius’ brain
Extract like a syringe,
Mental sirens slip-slap
Fabricate below the cap,
I feel, metal outlasting
Clashing the nevera of my lower back.
I’m gone Mami!
And I won’t be back,
‘Til the heavens send me a message
Of the sins in my souls possession
Mixed with gusts of Ninole’s winds
And my “why”
I say farewell to our memories,
Now, scoundrels of immense value,
Lost in the cracks of our times together.
Now, I say goodbye,
And hello to where the sun sets.
My mother wrapped her arms around me,
Kissed
My
Cheek,
And told me I’ll be back.
Who knew the hardest goodbye
Would be in disguise,
Who knew the hardest goodbye
Would be in disguise.
Jan 3, 2023
Jan 3, 2023 at 12:28 AM UTC
You!
Harbinger of wars
Impeder of enlightenment
I beseech you
Begone, begone with you
Cease beguiling
The weak, the meek
With atonement
For alleged sins
Cease spearing
The flesh of the simple
With your evil seed
Behind the vespers
In the corrupted house
Of your alleged God
For my eyes are open
I see the veracity
Behind the fraud
Scoundrels that you are
You think you own
By lies sown
Spewed forth from
The house of Rome
Intimidators of purgatory
And hell
Inquisitors of death
I pity you
For, you
Rule by fear
And fear alone.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
***** is my drug of choice
It's like an oxymoron
Burning as it soothes the senses
But tonight I took a voyage
With thieves and pirates and scoundrels
There was no burn
In my chest
Until the captain
Kissed my lips
And sent me overboard
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC