"strumpets" poems
There was a woman with an ecclesiastic body.
I found out I was just one member of its congregation.
She was a soothsayer when the lights were down,
When she proved she was a succubus -
But what the **** I've never been a saint.
She put the screws to me.
She used to belong to another man.
Now she's putting me through my paces.
If I had paid attention to the signs,
I could have seen my fate before it happened.
There was this dude I knew who was hard pressed.
I thought I might could offer him a place to crash for awhile,
So he could get his **** together.
Apparently demons have an appetite for gutter ****
They took a ride in my ride,
And didn't forget my checkbook.
They didn't neglect to clean my house
Of nearly everything inside.
It was just a reminder,
Cause it really ain't no surprise.
That there's a burning lake
And gnashing on flesh,
Yeah, it's nothing but any empty, cold black well.
It's a Godless place,
You're on your own.
There ain't no honor among thieves.
Remember this,
There are no friends in Hell.
There are accusations to bring me down,
It's like I'm already dead.
They throw down their gauntlets,
They make every pledge.
I don't trust a word they say.
They're liers and deceivers.
All they want is whatever they can get.
They prey on fools and their believers.
They'll prophesy, then pass you by
Unless you've got an edge,
The dusty demons, dryer than a dessert segde.
They took a ride in my ride,
And didn't forget my checkbook.
They didn't neglect to clean my house
Of nearly everything inside.
It's just a reminder, but it really ain't no surprise.
That there's a burning lake
And gnashing on flesh,
Yeah, it's nothing but any empty, cold black well.
It's a Godless place,
You're on your own.
There ain't no honor among thieves.
Remember this,
There are no friends in Hell.
She never failed to cause me woe.
But, I'm not an innocent soul.
I guess what goes around,
Comes back around.
When it's harvest time, they'll know,
They done ****** with the wrong one.
Everybody reaps what they sow.
They took a ride in my ride,
And didn't forget my checkbook.
They didn't neglect to clean my house
Of nearly everything inside.
It's just a reminder, but it really ain't no surprise.
That there's a burning lake
And gnashing on flesh,
Yeah, it's nothing but any empty, cold black well.
It's a Godless place,
You're on your own.
There ain't no honor among thieves.
Remember this,
There are no friends in Hell
There is no such thing as kindness here.
I'll save troubles for another day,
They only multiply.
The more I see, the more I know
That strumpets belong with urchins.
They never will know,
Until they are each other's paroxysm,
But even then, they won't care.
No good deed is without a price to pay.
They took a ride in my ride,
And didn't forget my checkbook.
They didn't neglect to clean my house
Of nearly everything inside.
It's just a reminder, but it really ain't no surprise.
That there's a burning lake
And gnashing on flesh,
Yeah, it's nothing but any empty, cold black well.
It's a Godless place,
You're on your own.
There ain't no honor among thieves.
Remember this,
There are no friends in Hell.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 3:02 AM UTC
Two rows of towering oaks
Line the water.
Stronger than concrete,
Their trunks spiral up,
Supporting a labyrinth of limbs.
After the Spring’s renaissance,
Thousands of leaves wave
In the salty, summer breeze,
Protecting the cool park below.
Ripe with age, he walks beneath,
Never venturing out.
Across the asphalt, down the sidewalk,
He tastes sweet sea's salt
As he forgets to breathe.
Gray fluttering strumpets, those winged rats,
Fighting for what’s left as he follows stale crumbs,
His from yesterday. Once, twice around,
Through the middle, the garden’s heart,
The white gazebo, the painful memories.
He climbs the stairs, pausing every few steps.
Grinning at the top, he lights the corncob.
The moment fades quickly and deliberately
Into the next like frames of a movie.
He sits across from me, I get a look.
Deep eyes, hidden behind aviators;
A rough grey beard;
His father’s green jacket.
“Son,” he says,
A small plume of smoke rising from his lips,
“I’ve walked this park before,”
His tired eyes shut,
“And I remember more shade.”
His eyes open for the last time.
Slowly rising, he fades away.
I taste the sweet sea's salt,
And I forget to breathe.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 11:21 PM UTC
a teeny tiny
whited-out blank space,
the tenuous boundary that separates,
higher man from untamed beast,
so powerful when respected,
the crowning hallmark of human acclamation
we all do wear by right of birth and breathe
you see it right?
that invisible peaceful white
spatial, tiny yet palatial dot that separates
us from rack and ruin,
the mighty differential pause between
in civility and incivility
come not to preach or harangue,
my counsel kept within the
between beats of a mournful drum,
respectfully and slowly banged
each silent separation a prayerful plea,
the inserted peacekeepers of our spoken words,
employ well those powerful pauses that refresh
the speaker and the listener so well
leave behind your
self-righteous disbelief in others' beliefs,
that morphs into no toleration,
an arrogant surety,
that surely the anal-ytical results of
your thoughtful processes,
inevitability correct and brook no resistance
the shrill strumpets
of either side
confidently worship at no church
but to the false gods
of their own mirrored reflection,
who smiles back approvingly
at those who scream the loudest...
outlaw the outrage of your rage,
come to my white clothed table,
put aside the wrath of overbearing,
represent your disparate conclusions
with harmonious, breathable pauses
to reflect and respect
our distinctive and distinguished differences
no one ever lost a reasoned argument
that began with a considered, well tempered
good morning
*what has this to do with
only love poetry?*
***well, everything...for you must love thy neighbor
as you love yourself***
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 9:38 AM UTC
Did it begin rain
In seashore?
Weaving web
With strands of rain
Waiting for prey?
Does it remind
The lassie of first love
When we parted
On a rainy day?
Is the strumpets
Stripped their ******
Licks the scratchy privates
Of the world?
Do they protect
The vicious world?
The rain
Flows thro' satellite veins
Fluttered,churned.
Thinking of
Music of rain
Felt the nausea of the
Great ages left?
Rain in the seashore?
Who knows?
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
obscenity isnt always
in the words written or images sketched
but sometimes in the hearts and minds of
thouse you look within for it least
sometimes the images
overwhelm the idea within them with their simple verse
and he must hurry behind and clean like a proper butler
dusting and polishing to meet the standard
making a home for the love felt
a true home for the misbegotten
but these come thundering out of the dust and noise
hard and swift on massive waves of
untamed emotion
like the sudden shout of peril of the last watchman standing
knowing his warning falls to deaf ears
but he must fulfill his destiny and creed
to be the only one who could have stayed the downfall
but within the sweet reprise of finding
is the void and capitulation
as if the celluloid heroine
steps gently from the screen to the empty room
your weeping occupy's
to comfort as only true royalty of worth can
as only dignity's angel can
you are left with your own cage of
your own doubting thoughts and tread-worn dreams
while she journeys onward with her own
on a cold mist strewn road
far to the north
in some unforgiving land of harlots and liars
the end of this night approaches
bearing its regrets
gently in its arms like comfort and peace of mind
can be purchased with well wishes
and happy thoughts
the last solider limps slowly away from the battlements
wailing his souls song of friends fallen
and blood that never should have been spilled
over such foolish proposition
as words spoken are equal to those written
as such an expensive toll should be paid for some rich mans pocket
overflowing and wasted
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
On the desert stretch looking a perfect wretch trudges along the guy
In heavy boots ravaged on route where eagles dare not fly
His hairs braided his face shaded under dark olive hat
The man alone to all unknown most perilous terrains chart!
His face wears many months’ stubble weathered brown like rock
Scars many on his hands bony his lips are rusted lock
He staggers on his eyes stubborn in predestined vision
His cheeks are hard men take all guard he’s out on a mission!
Wearied frame but ain’t no game he reaches a place at last
Where a tavern stands amid dusty lands, a little rest is must
As the gate opens, he puts two pence on the old man at the bar
He needs a drink few sleepy winks for he’s coming from afar!
He little cared bad guys stared strumpets around they laughed
He breathed deep drank first sip in parched throat softly coughed
In his ***** gown, his face bowed down they thought to have some fun
They little knew there were only few who could match his skill in gun!
The one eyed Jack leaving cards pack called him by ugliest names
They let off steam ****** jeered him joined by the fallen dames
Not a hair’s rustle he didn’t bustle swallowed unfazed his drink
They tried so hard each one ******* to drive his patience to brink!
He held his leash in no flourish though his hawkish eyes burned alert
Watching keen amid all the din for the mischievous to make a start
One filthy gall let woe befall taking him for weak and mute
Grabbed one girl with skin of pearl threatened to have her shoot!
Our man in hat though he hated a spat had soft corner for women
On the table his gun was not the one to make such thing happen
His anger chilled bone it was well known in all corners of the west
In a moment was done by his blazing gun it sent the **** to rest!
His mission done he wasn’t the one to wait there anymore
He rose up to go with the end of show summoned the pearl-skin *****
As they left the bar to go afar to a land beyond mountain
The lights were on audience gone, came down the curtain!
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
Becky knew Eli ha taken another wife
leaving her alone on the sprawling
farm, Eli Jr. doing most of the chores,
selling **** at the crossroads &
trying to **** his sister, Becky Junior,
who was too young & clueless for him
to get very far & she loathed the aroma
of **** Eli's youngest Joshua already
evincing signs of effeminacy, Becky
attributing it to Eli's long absences; she'd
conjured in her head her wayward spouse
drinking & reveling with naked women,
rock star groupies and movie strumpets;
having flown over to see for herself, she
knew she was right. Hearing Eli had
married again brought an inexplicable
sense of relief, & taking up her needle
work, Becky sat in the porch rocker
waiting for her two oldest to show up
for supper. Becky Junior stuck doing
Eli's chores while he ***** little Emma
from the next farm over; I'll not be
gettin' ina heaven, Eli Simple! the girl
scolded. Eli Jr, grinned, 'English Heaven,'
he said, 'That's where my father is.'
the girl's face paled & her pink mouth
swung open, "That rightly be hell!
I seen the little lit-up boxes they all
be talking to now. Some's got wires
comin' right out they head, like men
from Mars..." Emma was talking while
Junior rolled a blunt with a corn husk.
Men from Mars & little boxes - u've
got some imagination, missy, he said,
blowing the smoke at her; coming
beside him, they lit up the barn with
the pungent odor of Jr.'s Homegrown.
It's them English, She railed, Turnin'
theyselves into robots! Shut up, he said
at last, My dad throws paint on canvas
& he's good at it too, so I don't need...
feeling the vibration in his pocket, he
knew he to take the call. Here, smoke.
I've gotta go take a *** He went out &
Emma lay back smoking contentedly,
giving herself the chills with thoughts
of evil English robots all connected by
wires. Figuring she'd keep, Junior went
down to the crossroad & didn't get back
until after sundown. Emma was gone,
but left a note scrawled on notebook
paper: 'I went home to supper emma'.
Feeling peckish himself, he picked up
the fat roach she'd left & lit it with a
kitchen match, smoking as he walked.
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 2:16 AM UTC
If you put the question to, say, one Ben Haramed,
He would, as befits a wily old desert jackal,
Find such notions of faith and fidelity quite amusing--
(*Following stars in search of something ephermal,
With no fixed exchange rate?
Will these specks of light find you shelter
Among throngs of shepherds and sundry fools?
Will your mewling, puking infant provide you succor in that cold city
Where no one makes time for you, save the pickpockets or strumpets,
Each of whom would pawn your drum
For a dram or string of brightly-colored beads?*)
And, indeed, if you happened upon a certain wise and well-off trio
Ensconced comfortably in their lodgings several streets distant
From the temporary residence of the object of their pilgrimage
(*It is only fit that we pay obeisance,
But to actually stay in such a place, well...*)
They would certainly forswear any notion
Of the primacy of the gold piece and the blade
But if you caught them in a more comfortable, unguarded moment
You may able to infer quite correctly that,
While they would express themselves more elegantly
Than some rude wilderness bandit,
You could no more expect them
To exchange their coin of the realm for philosophy
Than you would expect the fold and kine
To keep perfect four-four time.
And yet we believe, in spite of the first-hand knowledge
That the descendants of Balthasar and Melchior can elbow their way
Past whomever they choose, and be greeted, all smiles,
By the bank manager, the lawmaker, the chairman of the board
That our works and our constancy
Shall be recompensed at a sound rate of return
(How could it be otherwise, for didn’t Our Story Teller herself,
Through stiffness of upper lip and fealty
To all things bright and beautiful,
Weather the Blitz as beautiful, as inspirational,
As a cross-Channel Joan of Arc?)
If only we are as steadfast as the chant of the Dies Irae,
As unwavering as the straightforward beat of a single drum
Which follows the procession down the main thoroughfare
As we make our final homecoming.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
From Tangiers, to Rome, to St. Bonifacius,
to the Alamo, to the great wide divide,
to the moon, to the stars, to the planets
make believe,
To the hearts of corrupt men,
to the mouths of babes,
to the sacrilege of Dodger stadium,
to the horn swallowed backings,
to the secret north,
to the abundant sand,
to the wild tranquil forest,
to the bars in lonesome towns,
to the sickly cries of organs,
to the carpets in the calls,
to the strumpets on the corner,
to the craters of the face,
to the markets and vultures.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
No matter how vile a man might be,
Even viler than ****** and more terrible
Than the devil; he will nonetheless
Have cheerers--his own people.
Witches and wizards loathe light--
Day is never their buddy but night,
Like ritualists and robbers and strumpets
Who prefer to blow the trumpets
Of their acts mainly in the darkness.
And however "good" you are, as Jesus
Christ of Nazareth, many shall be
Your foes in the Sadducee and Pharisee
Of the world. Though truth be killed; yet,
It shall undoubtedly again resurrect.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC
In form and figure, in sweep and scope,
This is a masterpiece of art.
Its maker, long since returned to dust,
died of a broken heart.
In life his work was “Avaunt- garde”
and never won acclaim.
He passed away at forty three-
Not a penny to his name.
His eyes conceived light differently
than an ordinary man’s.
Street strumpets were rendered beautiful
by his knowing, loving hands.
This piece just sold for millions
and has garnered much acclaim.
(He sold it for a loaf of bread
To one who bought it for the frame,)
It might have made its maker smile
At the irony, in passing,
That what his age deemed worthless
Has brought him fame everlasting
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
Air ring ma thoughts - no matter aye ham
juiced one twenty first century mwm ape
serves as genuine s cape
to fly (during pitch black hours of night)
on his witch a ma call it...
to escape temporarily the cares and concerns
of an uncertain world,
where as n outlier from the madding crowd i gape
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
at the sheer inanity
trumpeting strumpets donning an innate
prejudice and senselessness purr
blind faith toward self avowed demigod --
seize ***** viz Cesar
his hair coiffed and puffed like it whir
wind blown kickstart ting mobs to stir
paying bodyguards to evict ruckus-causing murmur
oh...how the masses will let this country
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
go to hell in hand basket
and rack up stratospheric global debt
cause zing this one measly mortal male to fret
that totalitarian rule will force every man,
woman and child to march....het
two...three...four, while the billionaire
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
turns a third blind eye
speeds away in his reo speed wagon
foo fighter jet
argh...heavens to Betsy,
how the fickle finger of fate let
this pompous ***
vacuums up majority votes
across world wide net
to finagle vox populi,
and groom hooligan nasty ruffian thugs
with smashed face s as his smart pet.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
GoLong Daddy story short -
pondering my rental circumstance
will be upended if this ret
chad, evil, googly-eyed, gastronomic,
narcissistic bullish don will set
the spark for world war three -
via gone ah re: ha...ha...ha...to all vet
tureens within the american crucible melting *** -
with backs whet
unless....Katrina and the Waves, superman
or the Sabrina can oust him yet!
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 2:27 PM UTC
the commercial the billboard
friends snarky comments
National EnQuirer wonders how you are
there in whipped cream strawberry land
in which yellow Strumpets and ten pences bellow
the lies become real truth truth wilts
into letters written
on every website you attend
LIberty has her arms crossed stern look under her crown
Attorneys at her call
to defend
thousands of propaganda things
and throw women with children to the dogs
of El Taco whilst
tax rewards flow
for
richer and poorer we wed
this orange *****
now unfortunately
sadly sickly
we gotta sleep
with him
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 2:10 AM UTC