"sodomize" poems
Star soldier with the rocket arm,
you bleed silver, gold,
and product placement.
Smile big for the camera,
the media will sell its soul
for a new bankable face.
Party hardy, Heisman candidate,
******** your semi-steady's
sorority sister,
then ask to see her again
sometime after the **** kit.
It's quite alright,
so long as you have talent
beyond this hemisphere.
Why even the fatherland, ESPN,
will gladly call you "son."
Mar 9, 2021
Mar 9, 2021 at 11:37 AM UTC
So much to do, my mind is buzzing. My fingers are dancing with perverted excitement as my lips form words with more syllables than letters. I feel as though I were a more capable Atlas. May the world rely on me, I shall hold it higher than an aeroplane as it soars through the sky. Our skies.
A testament to the ingenuity of man the turrets, ******** the weak, and credit God; the asexual ****** he is.
This is no song for the hipsters to play as their ringtones as they feel for each other through their LCD screens. They search for other brazen articles of humanity trapped within their social networks, a web of faces, **** smiles, faces and words with us wherever we we go. An inextricable mass that haunts like schizophrenic vocals droning out the real life. But there is no real life. We are all just like Him.
***** Not natural. Filthy. Unclean.
Today, I grabbed a handful of sand just to see if I could feel it. Ten years ago, I would have felt every grain as it passed through my fingers; crisp, sharp, invigorating. Now, it’s dull. Blunt, rounded, indistinguishable. ***** Not natural. Filthy. Unclean. Nothing for our worshipped deviant to see.
My life is pornographic; an infographic of my exquisite taste in infectious lies, in the slaughter of old days, in the times immemorial. A map of things that don’t relate to me. A chart of things I don’t care about. I have too much to do, so much to write about! To write about...me.
***** Not natural. Filthy. Unclean.
My mind is buzzing.
Until the next day, when my bones fall sluggish and my mind thinks plainly of its singular desire: Sleep…dirty, sleep...filthy, sleep. But I can’t.
So now...I work. I am alive, alive, alive a lively beat of my heart as blood runs like an inmate from the bars of confinement. From my body: a testament to the ingenuity of ********** My body. Where my heart is beaten.
Beat, beat.
Sleep, sleep.
Fly high.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:13 AM UTC
No longer let our voices fall to a whispering
march of death. Jam your baritones and
inflections through songs for a god gone
dead
Make the earth shudder under your footsteps
as you let the wind take the pages like
a flickering flame
Make your presence known through the howling
sleet and rain - scream in the faces of distorted
kings, spit on their robes and **** in their eyes
Cast your fury like the waves and witness the smoke
of god vanish in the shadow of a cat, feast upon the
words that wither like the grass
Smear the self indulgent prophets in sweat and mud,
drown the child of the Euphrates and **** on his
holy stone
Go horse in your burning wrath, ******** wretched
Isaiah, suffocate him in the wallowing tears of Job,
let the blood of your hatred flow like wine
Drink of your consummate supplication steeped
in rage and disgust.
Let it sustain you to shake the pillars
and columns of his temple to the ground
Dictate your commands and bask in the boundless
power your existence brings to bear upon the weak
and know you and the fake god you hate
are one.
This is an old one from my depreciated poetry blog found here: http://www.letthewords.blogspot.com/
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 7:55 PM UTC
Imagine this man, my father or dad
Would guilt trip his children, this story's so sad
Takes half a weeks pay, waves it under their nose
Demands that we write him or the check it will go
You crazy old man, you make me so blue
Do you even remember how you made me so *******
Pay attention, a lesson I've learned, so will you
You only get back what you give, here's to you
You told me when I was a lad of thirteen
Don't come around I have other family
I don't need them getting confused nor upset
Just leave us alone, the skunk is our pet
Or how 'bout the time I was just only three
When the neighborhood mobster did ******** me
You told me "don't just sit there call up the police
But, I have to work so please excuse me"
Or how 'bout the time that along with my sister
You let that bad man take his creepy **** pictures
Sue often referred to her dad as her dooshie
And he'll never know what she baked in her cookies
You think I don't know how you spoil your son
Normy gets all he can handle of mile high fun
Fine season tickets to all sporting events
For how many years now, since he was ten
I had a neighbor, competed with me
I'm sorry I troubled you, what did I think
That you cared? That you tried? Did more than nothing?
'Cause you're old now, your children, should they be so loving?
C'mon who ya kiddin'? You had more than this comin'
You should have been locked up to protect my dear cousin
If you're all alone with no one and feel blue
What goes around finally came back to you
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
By Arcassin B & Wendy R
AB: Searching for a part I never thought i'd find in myself
carrying guilt in many ways from a cry of self help,
A tally every time for all the times , those simple times,
where it could've been easy,
life is a common cold and I've been sneezy.
in a world of pure uncertainty,
they ******** your energy,
brainwash your thoughts through a big flat t.v screen,
we work for things we've earned,
if you're not stupid , you'll learn,
that everybody has a purpose,
don't let evils scratch the surface,
they like to show up where your worth is,
It's just a casual Sunday,
the love we find.
is the love we hide for ourselves.
The love we find.
they want to see how it felt.
WR: If humans were a floriculture
Some might call me a ****
Poetry, my way of
Spreading forth my seed
Just like a **** in a perfect line
I do not grow, you will find me
On a venture clustered down
The untaken trail
To spread the seeds I sow
I sprout sporadically
Throughout the year
My motivational bloom in life
Is to conquer all fear
Constant growth is my goal
Endurance of the tragedies of Life
To enrich the blooming of my soul
Purpose to bloom above all strife
IT'S JUST A CASUAL SUNDAY.
AB : the love we find.
is the love we hide for ourselves.
The love we find.
they want to see how it felt.
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 10:25 AM UTC
latin poet catullus was often called too personal by contemporaries,
he didn’t write about gods and monsters or heroes or epics,
he wrote about himself and that was terrifying.
catullus wore his heart on his sleeve
and his heart was ugly sometimes, this beating, ****** thing
that would never shut up,
chattering between the line breaks and skirting around the meter.
the opening line to his poem carminae XVI was
“pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo”
which translates pretty literally to
“i will ******** you and face-fuck you”
my latin teacher called him “incredibly ******
i call him “the realest mother ****** to ever live”
catullus was the first person to ever write
an open letter to his senatores,
julius caesar burned at the stake of carminae LIV and LVII.
catullus wrote about his boyfriends and his married girlfriend lesbia,
who incidentally was not his beard
or one of sappho’s lovers.
catullus buried his brother in the shrine of carminae CI,
left offerings of wine and bread and coins over his closed eyes.
catullus always made the ugly sound beautiful, eloquent.
you could taste the blood in his mouth,
the pearls and gravel between his teeth.
when i translate his work, he’s the only classic poet
who feels like he’s still alive, laughing at me from his grave
and writing invective epigrams about my grammatical errors.
catullus was a little bit of an ******* but maybe so i am sometimes,
and catullus was a honest *******
that’s more than i can say, some days.
he never shied away from himself, not even
from all the ****** parts that are hard to make quiet.
he always wrote about himself because
he understood what ovid and vergil and horace were still learning:
you can’t write about anything if you can’t write about yourself,
if you can’t look at yourself in the mirror
and call your demons by their names.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 8:57 PM UTC
O Sweet almighty my lover lies-
Carried to mountains that silhouette skies.
By a demon mightier than your power-
Scheming to ******** force, and abuse her flower.
Who wolfs such hate, vile and cruel?
Me! For I am the beast that fathers no rule!
Ignorance envenomed my scrupulousness ears-
And gave tribute for lust to find what he hears.
My compass became dwindled but pointed true-
Such guidance, yet pique and repulsion grew.
She watched my footprints with rapt eyes-
And scoffed at my kind-furred disguise.
O why was I a fool to a lover so dapper!
Now the water runs unclean in the cold shower.
Rancid is a man who records his ***** being,
Grim is the one that goes without seeing
Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 7:08 PM UTC
***** AND GOMORRAH
A perverted city
Whose occupants
Unseats the natural order
Wonderful city of mysteries
Where truth smells martyr
And falsehood wallow in legitimatecy
A *****
Where sodomites ********
Hookers bookers
We find solace in our deeds
Smokes from hose
Fills thé house
Yet we call on the lord of host
So in empyrean we might get a post
Skulls as Cups
Bloods as wines
Sacked bills
Paralysed our conscience
We never got to understand
The temporality of the temporal
Our city,
The euphoriant
Which makes the ticket of empyrean
Slipped away from our palms
In the temporal space
We will rest but not in peace
we are sodomites
Forever we will be
By
LAWSON À MICHAEL
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 3:31 AM UTC
A perverted city
Whose occupants
Unseats the natural order
Wonderful city of mysteries
Where truth smells martyr
And falsehood wallow in legitimatecy
A *****
Where sodomites ********
We found solace in our deeds
But the opportunity of the second phase eludes us
Skulls as Cups
Bloods as wines
Our existence grace dwindle
We never got to understand
The temporality of the temporal
Our city,
The euphoriant
Which makes the ticket of empyrean
Slipped away from our palms
In the temporal space
We will rest but not in peace
Because we are sodomites
By
Michael A Lawson
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
Yes, I
Pitter patter
On a bitter pattern
Of broken memories that I chitter chat about with little matter
And according to the middle latter statement
I'm a little out of place when
I reminisce about that nasty past
That mask... THAT mask.
The one that covered the area where my face belongs
Which matched PERFECTLY with the shoes I would step in **** with
Telling myself:
"My socks are still clean"
Thinking I could use more chemicals than a Sheen to be Pristine
But that's just artificial heat from a blanket with no seams..
I try to tear apart this quilt
Threaded with empty promises in vain
Inside veins that don't pump blood
They pump shame
I'll never be wrapped in this again..
Covered in unfamiliar skin
Wearing a questionable grin
When in the hell did I begin this transformation?
Self surgery.
Murdering false idols!
******** the very fabric of entertainment.
(Yes I can be a ****
But I rock an S on my chest over the D..
I'm so sick
My thoughts are so vile
They will leave you ill on your lying lips
There is no use in trying to switch
The shattered reality you now have as a dying wish
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 10:01 AM UTC