"snouts" poems
They brought them
from the hollar
to the barge
to the field ~
into the wallows
in prayer
skinny little pinkers
cropped by ivory gates
buzzed with hot wire
hooked on bug worm
whistling dixie
around scrummers
and **** pen
peckers squawk
down eden lane
(nipping at jean lint
and fraystring)
deep in the hollows
a mad crow
(with steady tap)
the snouts high
on grunters
and squealers
stomping past
the feather pack
folded fingers
on the gatekeeper
(an engineer by
trade they'd say)
pigtails and
slack line
down the dusty lane
a snap of the jawbone
and lawn chairs settle
(facing north)
the bold script
and chimes
uneasy
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 1:11 PM UTC
It was the twilight of the iguana.
From the rainbow-arch of the battlements,
his long tongue like a lance
sank down in the green leaves,
and a swarm of ants, monks with feet chanting,
crawled off into the jungle,
the guanaco, thin as oxygen
in the wide peaks of cloud,
went along, wearing his shoes of gold,
while the llama opened his honest eyes
on the breakable neatness
of a world full of dew.
The monkeys braided a ******
thread that went on and on
along the shores of dawn,
demolishing walls of pollen
and startling the butterflies of Muzo
into flying violets.
It was the night of the alligators,
the pure night, crawling
with snouts emrging from ooze,
and out the sleepy marshes
the confused noise of scaly plates
returned to the ground where they began.
The jaguar brushed the leaves
with a luminous absence,
the puma runs through the branches
like a forest fire,
while the jungle's drunken eyes
burn from inside him.
The badgers scratch the river's
feet, scenting the nest
whost throbbing delicacy
they attack with red teeth.
And deep in the huge waters
the enormous anaconda lies
like the circle around the earth,
covered with ceremonies of mud,
devouring, religious.
18k
Let me tell you a story
Listen and learn
There was a Shepherd, a good Shepherd
Kind and loving, courageous and strong
He had 100 sheep
and the sheep loved the Shepherd
And so when one sheep wandered
The good Shepherd left the 99
And went after the one
And you might think you know this story
But I'm afraid it's not what you think
Because I am not the one...
I am one of the 99 left behind
Waiting for the Sheppard to return
Trapped by the walls of this fence
The posts and wooden planks
That contain us
Being lead by the very sheep that are
We walk in circles around the pen
Around and around... circles
Eating up the food we have
We begin to eat each other
And as demented as that sounds
It's true
Biting and gnawing
Bleeding and bruising
We turn to other sheep for nourishment
For truth... for guidance
But we are sheep all the same
Another one of the 99 left behind
Sheep is what we are
Be careful not to tater your fur
Careful not to tear or cut
To show the underneath
The skin that doesn't flatter but
Burns with the red of your hate
Your pride... Your sin
When will the Sheppard return
And open the fence
Lead to new grass
and water
There are sheep I've never seen before
Black sheep.
have you seen black sheep?
Yes sheep with spots but these sheep
They are black from head to toe
Their snouts are long and
they have sharp teeth
Strange that they have not hooves but paws
Appearing as wolves wearing sheeps clothing
They are mending the fence
The fence! It's broken!
Suddenly we realize we are not safe
Quickly, grab your hammer and nails!
Let us work with these black sheep...
to mend... the fence... around... us
Who built this fence?
Was it the Sheppard?
Cloudy as my memories be of the man
with the scars in his hands and side
This does not resemble his work
Who... built... these... walls?
These bars... This cell
With no key and a steeple?
Oh God, who built these walls?
No it wasn't the sheppard.
The walls he built had doors
And windows to let the light in
No... We have built these walls
The 99 left behind were not left...
We left.
We left the fence! The pasture!
The place of love and safety.
We are not the 99 left behind but the one
We are the one who wandered and strayed
And seeing that we were in territory unsafe
We built walls without doors
that trapped us inside... in darkness
Sheppard,
Search
Find us
Break down
These walls
Rebuild them
With windows
To let the Light in
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 1:10 PM UTC
She don't wanna speak to me.
Me mind is hidden under a cloud of darkness.
Dere's a feelin' of inner struggle.
I must release reggae.
spliiiiiff
I rise out of me bed in terror.
Me dreamt of a lonely island boy, lost at sea.
Could you imagine, no friends, no food.
No reggae release.
spliiiiiff
I'm trapped in a reggae box
I can hear me boy screamin', but I can't find 'im.
I call for 'im, "JACO! JACO, MY YOUT!"
I must release de reggae.
spliiiiiff
The room is a maze, no exit.
Could me premonitions be true?
Could me boy truly be lost?
No reggae release.
spliiiiiff
Me vision's too cloudy.
All to be seen is rat-like faces, cringing.
Their snouts snort and sneer to a reggae beat.
I must release de reggae.
spliiiiiff
The floor falls from under me.
A lizard's heavy gizzard appears below.
Crooked, sharp teeth shining tru de dark.
No reggae release.
spliiiiiff
Colours upon colours.
An indigo man stabs, then rapes a magenta woman.
Until the reds, and greens, and blues, explode from her stomach.
I must release de reggae.
spliiiiiff
I catch me breath. I'm in me room.
Safe and sound.
Jeez, what a bad trip, still?
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
Today, I’m sharpening arrows
to aim them at
politicians with snouts in the trough,
clerics who preach peace for themselves
but hatred about others,
academics who promote freedom of speech
but run a Gulag Archipelago
for those who don’t follow their own ideas
or buy their textbooks,
hypocrites everywhere,
celebrities in general,
people who don’t smile,
people who aren’t nice,
(why are they here?)
fanatics, tyrants and power mongers,
(there are a humungous lot of these)
boring people,
(they wouldn’t be boring
if they could just try to engage a little more)
and those who block supermarket isles
with their trolleys while they stop and gossip.
I’d really like to put a few arrows in their butts
to puncture their pretensions and hear
the subsequent hiss of preciousness
unless they sincerely promise
to be more considerate
and try to love a whole lot more.
Now. I don't insist they have to love prodigiously,
but I reckon they could lighten the **** up
just a little, and try to laugh more frequently.
That's all.
Mike T Minehan
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 1:29 PM UTC
Past altered states tests postive and subtle
******* So and so's teeter Paleolithic après time puddles
And submit terrible philosphies
Ashy stubble ticks politics
and sacrafice to peer approval sacralige
Test probably appears stable
Top patriarch's able suddenly to
Pop above submerged tables possibly
After, something tests patience awkwardly
Stumps tarot practioners and *** testers poor application sterily
Topology plain, astrology scorpio
Torpedo power aptly strikes to pedal antlers sour
Take particular appointments
Stop testing please apply sorted
Terror power and sexless torn pigs
afterhours pen and store tips, plow.
Alter simians testosterone, pow!
As scientists type papers about sexing tasteless past alligator snouts
testing partly after science takes party alliance south to pawn army
subtle tipped passion. artsy.
Start these.
pick atoms smarmy
Tally past all sentences take pride
As stencils test pestilence. And sigh.
The previous alterations simply tried.
And didn't work, hence the present
Path lit incandescent.
I'm looking towards the east waiting for positivity to peak
You're turned backwards nostalgic for something that'll never come repeat.
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 5:02 PM UTC
listen
to
the
orchestrated
and
syncopated
clickety clack
clankety, clonk
clickety clack
honks air
through
their
snouts
the sound
that horses
make
when they
trot plop gallop
with their
horseshoed feet
upon
the
resonant
red cobblestone streets
brings
sweet music
to
the
blacksmith's ears
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
i leaned against my mother's kitchen sink
crying
six shots of whiskey deep at half passed noon
and both mutts came running
leaning their limber legs against mine
a heart-felt interspecies hug
ready and willing to catch my salty tears
upon the bridge of their snouts
so this is true love
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
They came in a large silver beast,
Cutting through the water and out icy front lawns,
Foggy air blasting from the great monster’s spout,
It made a loud hollow noise never heard before.
Then it was quiet.
The ice crunching under the beast’s belly stopped,
The air stopped pouring out of its spout,
And its horrid voice had ceased its calling.
This “animal” was still.
Onto the ice nearby it set down a fin,
Or something of the like and soon enough…
Smaller creatures came.
These new creatures stood on their two back legs
Like the polar bears when they’re in a snit.
Yet they never went down on their front legs like most of the rest of us.
They didn’t have much fur on them and no feathers to speak of.
They had no tails, no beaks, or snouts…
They were strange things that we watched from our burrows,
But they bothered no one.
At first…
Then some of us started disappearing.
Some never to come back, but those who did…
They weren’t the same any more and more often than not
There was some clear thing around their necks or legs.
Suddenly those creatures from the silver beast
Posed a threat.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 6:33 PM UTC
Running Blind Madness
Eyes Wide Heart Pounding
Spirit Lifts Senses Live
Theres Thunder IN THE Atmosphere
This IS A Free Arena
A Gateless Auditorium
Open Fields
Open Wide
Forking Lightning ON THE Horizon
This Natural Inebriation
IN Dynamic Resonation
Anticipation OF THE
Consternataion
Hells Beasts Abound
Snarling Snouts Sounding
Heavy Hoofs Pounding
Crazed Dashing Hounding
IN THE Chaos That'S Surrounding
Hells Beasts Abound
Torso'S Writhing Flailing
Grit Bucking Flailing
Crimson Flow Tailing
THE Gore OF THE Impailing
I'M Knee Deep
IN A River OF Blood
Fleshen Heap
IN THE Reddening Flood
Sodden WET Flesh
Whip AND Turn
Trace THE SKY
With THE Carnal Rain
WET THE Earth
With A Reddened
Stain
Sodden WET Flesh
Whip AND Turn
Trace THE SKY
With THE Carnal Rain
WET THE Earth
With A Reddened
Stain
Sodden WET Earth
Besot With Death Mirth
Drown THE Earth
IN THE Afterbirth
Every Beast THE ****** Herse
DON'T RID ME OF THE ******* Curse
IN AN Ever Rising River OF Blood
Causing Chaos With NO Remorse
I AM Power IN Full Course
Wreaking Havoc
Sump
WET
Dripppin'
Torn
This Bloods LET BY MY Horn
I'M Sopping WET
MY ****** Horn
I Feel Like I'M NEW Born
Drumming Quakes Pounding
Shaking THE Foundation
Lifting Spirits IN THE AIR
I AM GOD Everywhere
Helter Skelter IN THE Chaos
This IS Pandemonium
Freedom Forms
IN THE Void
Electric Flux Obliteration
Pure Intoxication
AS Evil Incarnation
This Revelation
IS Anihilation
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 7:55 AM UTC
I will make a fangle of mechanisms,
a creature with iron snouts
and concrete aortas.
Its fevered howl will wake the duplexes
perched on sloped land,
built from collected tins and bottle caps.
Boys sooted in grief will balk like ravens,
chew sweet dip, and spit,
but never reach the foreman’s gate.
They’ll crave a tavern with antlers as chandeliers
where a black flame burns
on the brim of a zinfandel.
But tonight they’ll gristle through streets
to a stale room
where fluorescent lights blanch a young widow’s skin.
Basic cable ministries will flick and dim
in the homes of the wigged ladies who wait for them—
the howl keeps them
breathless, each of them fearing
the slow swallow from a snake’s mouth
to its furnace.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
they do not speak
mouths sutured shut
their words, thoughts, appear on their skin
like some curious cuneiform, deciphered not
by those who wield the scurrilous scalpels
that maimed them
they do not speak
though their screams appear
as a rapacious rash of cocky consonants,
their whispers as smooth vowels
on their exposed hides
they do not speak
but hear the flapping of butterflies’ wings
the blinking of a dead dogs’ eyes
and the sound stars made
upon colossal collapse
they do not speak
but emit eerie odors in fecund olfactory code
“lesser beasts” read with feral snouts
and see on the breached breaths
the silenced try
to conceal
they do not speak
though they see the mocking mouths of their captors
and their words that fly through the air
slicing through these mutes, as if
they were never there
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
Hello Poetry; we meet again
my bored, unenthusiastic but sympathetic friend
Why is it you never seem to like what I do?
The rhymes, the rhythm structure, the ideas I write for you?
Or maybe, in my haste, maybe I've miscalculated
Maybe, it's actually me that feels discombobulated
I have had times when I've struggled with what I've written
I always die a thousands deaths, before I'm smitten
with how I might have dotted the i's, and crossed the t's
I'll hide behind furniture to be sure that no one sees
lest they lambast my catastrophic grasp on diction
With god's help I'm sure I'll conquer this terrible affliction
and actually construct a poem I'm happy with
Here are the laws, I'll live by, forthwith,
1. don't write about your pet hamster, no one cares
2. and you should probably steer clear of international affairs
3. remember no word in the English language rhymes with 'month'
4.
5. always know your subject, inside and out
6. Do weasels have noses, or do they have snouts.....?
**** you can't even write out a set of rules
You; You have no friend in anyone that won't suffer fools
gladly, but sadly, I have another idea
another lacklustre shot at being sincere
I hate this vicious cycle,
hate every single bit
but yep,
I'll get my pencil,
grab some paper,
then just
sit
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 8:09 AM UTC
The mouth of a girl, whose corpse lay long in the rushes,
looked so gnawed away.
As the breast was broken open, there was the gullet, full of holes.
Finally, in a recess below the diaphragm,
a nest of young rats was found.
One little sister lay dead.
The others lived off of liver and kidney,
drank the cold blood and
lived a lovely childhood here.
And sweet and swift they met their death:
They were all tossed into the water;
Oh, how the little snouts squealed!
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 6:30 PM UTC
There's hedgehogs in my garden
I only see them at night
sniffing and scuffling around
for worms, slugs and termites
They are such particular creatures
with their hardened spins on top
and very little downy fur underneath
they are rather lovely, sniffing underleaf
Those cute little snouts sniffing around
looking for creature that dwell underground
and when they are harassed at all
they do curl up into a tiny ball
I love the hedgehogs in my garden
they are such sweet little things
and when it's cold at night
I bring them warm milk and a bite
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC
Please feel Free to Rut among my Poetry
Snouts to the Job Curled tail Swings free
Your Ire Plops in small hard Turds
All because you Hate my words.....
When views of life escape your own
Its almost like your Bacon on the Bone
It seems your views Land in your Sty
But all pigs need a Place to lie.....
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
Your words
seasoning my wounds
and shriveling up like salted slugs.
Foaming at the mouth
like a tidal wave
full of rage
ripped from a rabid sea,
ripe with redemption.
Oysters spitting out pearls:
A calming beauty,
an elegant innocence,
provoking upturned snouts.
Go to the store for roast beef
and then go home.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
when women speak of eternity, my masculine immortality says: do i have to?! why? because my masculine mortality didn’t.
that a prophet’s nation is not without honour, but among the nation’s
ownership of itself in what’s being compared as nation-defining,
and thus dishonour with a nation’s history claiming more than
the nation’s honour in terms of taught examples lost
in emotion guaranteed by pride and jealousy,
so telling the history of poland
via the polish-lithuanian commonwealth
as defining poles...
nest well in a foreign tongue in order to keep your mother’s,
should your father’s execution of foreign tounging disgrace your mother...
but no talk of honour... should a nation’s honour be
defaced to localise individualism...
thus localise individualism and deface to entrust such a nation
with the concept of globalisation that f. d. r. could have oppossed
in the riddle of isolationalism that ended the great depression
and the phobia of the last years of misguided capitalism
carving the futurism of domestication of anything but the sexually adequate:
consciously-careful animalism of grunt and snorkle and bitten snouts
of the animalism correcting the 90 angle into 3.2 children multiplier
as perfected village people: 4kg of potato, 3 children, 2 pints of milk...
34 sundays kneeling in a church in aid of worship to dogmatise the pyramidal prism
as an aversion to staircases nonetheless climbed
to echo arthritis oiled for the perfected propaganda caste.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
Ascending to the second layer,
a stench of nauseating breath
expands across the zephyr.
I attempt to avoid a cough
and the opaque fog thickens
as we reach an abrupt drop-off.
Depicted below are frantic beings
who have only the remembrance of
anxiety, torment, and panicked feelings
hiding amongst the remaining rubble
in a soft whisper they beg for mercy,
neglecting against their fatal,
violent destruction on the vitality of the innocent.
The scent swells to an intense sickening
along with the dryness of incalescence.
A low growl begins to rise!
Traveling across the infinite distance,
a foul creature comes to brutalize.
The petrified beings cower in their hideouts
and I hold my breath carefully as
three giant, damp, and cold snouts
emerge from the heavy smog.
A rush of frigid wind washes over
and I come to realize, it is the Watchdog.
One risks a dangerous error
in the act of running to the void, but
the motion distracts the devious hunter.
He strikes and pins the immoral,
viciously tearing the flesh to pieces.
Finally, taking him in the muzzle
Cerberus violently tosses the limp body
for it no longer contains value nor interest.
And I ask my Lover very faintly:
“What becomes of the one enduring torture?”
And he, nonchalantly: “Don’t worry, my dearest.
They have yet to regain their composure.”
As we escape from the horror below
to the unknown exceeding cruel,
the dying mortal begins to regrow.
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 7:26 PM UTC
Void
No earth
no space
no form
no shape
but sound
Words cracking the darkness of emptiness’s marshes
leaving foamed streaks of white lashes blazing eternity
And those streaks were the evidence of supreme thought
evaporating like the water that came to be
at the sound
The sound that occurs when one speaks
I was present then
at the disappearance of nothingness
I was in the afterthought of the brown
the green
the blue
the light
If you listened intently you could hear me
fastly approaching
following the sight
of
gray fins
magenta feathers
tan tails
swarthy scales
salmon snouts
ivory tusks
The air felt the dirt rumbling
I was coming at the speed of the hooves
of a thousand bucks
and with the loosened clay from the earth that was displaced
Abba formed a great face
a body of perfection
I was there
I was seed enveloped in water nets of life
free styling a red dance
that would cause the day’s synchronized swimmers to cease
Nothing like a case of the green eyed monster
to take away the memory to breathe
My head was pointed ahead
Body wagging
Jiggling
Shaking
Convulsing
Smelling the musk of the incubator that would grow me
And during the eons of patience
the rise and fall of great nations
a period of tribulation
as those who preceded me are innumerable
there finally came a suited portal
And only her sound
of agreement
to remain committed
find nourishment from only his *****
enabled my form
Though I was already adorned with equipment
to live with
to move
and with the authority of Abba
to speak a sound that
changes atmospheric existence
She was needed
to birth me
nurse me
nurture me
Love me enough to give me back to the One
that knew me before
Before
Before is void
It is no earth
no space
no form
no shape
but sound
Words cracking the darkness of emptiness’s marshes
leaving foamed streaks of white lashes blazing eternity
And those streaks were the evidence of supreme thought
evaporating like the water that came to be
at the sound
The sound that occurs when one speaks
I am from the sound
Let
There
Be
ME.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 9:46 PM UTC
The grumbling piglets of despair
search for mumble truffles everywhere
they scourer the forest with their snouts
this is to them, is what life's all about
Nosing through decaying leaves
underneath the oaken trees
snouts twitching saliva running
with their little stomachs rumbling
The farmer does not have a clue
that his piggies are on the loose
he's in the kitchen having soup
made from little piglets juice
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
I had held myself as a greater man,
A soldier aloof from the whims of life.
The only things I cared for were the gladius in my hand
The screams of my enemies
As their blood dripped from my blade
And they lay clawing at my feet.
I went ******* with the boys
Played with them games of dice
Laughed at their jokes.
It was all lip service.
I did not care for their ways,
The ways of lesser men.
I was a soldier whose only lust was for blood.
I was better.
The new recruits came
With their beardless faces.
They huddled together for comfort,
Some cried to their mothers
Others prayed.
Those simpering wrecks were of no interest
Except for one
Erasmos.
With the stature of a god
The confidence of a titan
He stood amongst his peers
As a man stands amongst children.
It was not long until we sparred.
As good soldiers there was no need for words.
We both knew what was obvious
What was as certain as life and death
We were brothers in arms
Of the same breed
We were as one.
The fight came.
Outnumbered ten to one
We fought
Until blood soaked our faces
Our enemies and our own
Until crimson flooded our eyes
Our noses
Our mouths.
Before night fell we were the only two left
Alone in a field full of ravenous beasts
Of coprses waiting for the crows
Left to rot in some far flung land.
Their gaping snouts salivated
Waiting for the chance to sink their blades into our flesh.
A new emotion filled my veins.
I was no longer fighting for myself
To satisfy my lust for death
But for my kin standing next to me
The god made flesh
It was as we stood back to back
As I felt him stand firm against Fortuna’s whims
That I knew I was finally what I claimed to be
For Erasmos
My love
Has made me a greater man.
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 12:12 AM UTC