"supped" poems
We thought we had the vampires done,
Cornered as we raised the stakes.
The fiends were caught against the font,
An end to this for all our sakes.
How foolish to believe
That the stake would push itself,
How blinded must we be
To think we'd help ourselves.
We fell back in confusion
As their eyes lit stars of blue,
Our fiery brand burned red in fear
But the flames sputtered out on cue.
We faced the devils in their line
But they withstood our empty threats,
And took us off one by one;
It was time to pay our debts.
They laughed at our misfortune.
And gave us back our forks,
They pointed at our dampened brand
And sent us back to work.
They drank from tattooed necks
And supped from elder veins,
And bled the middle dry
And fed upon their brains.
They tore up all our rights
And placed death upon a throne,
Who drove out justice in the night
While Liber's throat did moan.
They sold us all as slaves
To merchants draped in skin,
Cut from children's backs
As the devils slowed their spin.
So now we work until we drop,
Exhausted in our penury.
We're fed from blood banks on each street
While we think that we're still free.
The vampires grin within their church
And play at pious once a while,
And watch with glee as all they cut
Divides us up in our denial.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
I walked into the guitar store
simply desiring to change the strings
not knowing at all
what this lovely day would bring
I sat my acoustic on the counter
and picked out my string set
Martin Acoustics, always trusted
a purchase I never regret
I sat and played on my Christmas present
A baby blue Fender Strat
into the shop walked My lady
with a figure like an hourglass
She said she was in the mood for some excitement
I was always willing to provide
I said but darling were in public
she said I don't care, I want you with those deep blue eyes.
so I snuck her into the repair shop
surrounded by tools and parts
I kissed her deeply and traced
on her ample ******* a heart
I slid her pants down and drank from her womanly cup
I heard her moan and whimper
as deeper and deeper I supped
she decided to reciprocate
and slid down my jeans as well
I looked to make sure no one was coming
because this would be hot I could tell
She laid me on the table
kissed up and down my neck
I rolled her over
so I was on top of my lover
I stood proud like a soldier
After the first ******
I kissed her and said you ride next
she bounced on me so hard
I felt more and more of her soft heated flesh
So after our day in the guitar store was done
she held onto my tool like a loaded gun
she said this belongs to only one
woman on this earth
me and you better always be ready to fill me with your girth
;)
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
Draped in fresh-knitted pearls
we traipsed
into saccharine peach orchard
The summer heat loped about our dew-kissed ******
****** - appropriated from dawn spent on neatly shorn plantation grass
Ambling into the knotted palatial arbor
we sat each in our own tree crux
behinds nestled upon ashen bark
Juice dripping in our grip
down our cast nets of flesh
sprawled about the branches
inset with gravity-defying liquescent orbs
dusted in translucent mink
painted with smears of
citrine, coral, amber, and ichorous
clinging to brass stem
The rondures secede to mandible
taut between palms pull and polished ivories
- torn-
Fluent in dulcet discourse
We cloak ourselves in provocative juice tatting
Until such time that our congealing garments
were found mapping the bark's topography
A saccharine map to the breath of soil
Bloodstone ants found our map
and had begun traversing - portent
to seize our treasure
We surrendered our jewelled cages
and took flight
to the sun-drunken lake to bathe
and swim
until heavy lids kissed moistly
heavily supped on the draught
sleep - beckoned transience
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
The stylish kitchen
was where the chicken
had to be prepared
and couldn't be spared
by the good old chef
who was known as Jeff
on that fateful day
with the baking tray
placed in the oven
heated to govern
the cooking of which
was a dinner pitch
for that very night
with the stars so bright
in the sky above
everyone would love
who were invited
and be delighted
on that occasion
without persuasion
to share in some feast
not saying the least
that could've been said
if it was just bread
with a bowl of stew
for some hungry crew.
And so it happened
they were all fattened
by the food they ate
as they supped 'till late
and when the time came
the guests couldn't blame
the chef or the host
for the chicken roast
and the side dishes
which pleased the wishes
of all the guests there
who enjoyed the fare
with many a thanks
without any blanks
and there it ended
the night presented.
All the guests who came
did not leave the same
because of the food
eaten that was good.
-------------------
Sep 30, 2023
Sep 30, 2023 at 10:16 PM UTC
The thing about dancing,
Is that it surely was invented post the 'mighty invention of music'
The might of music was such,
That the then tensile souls couldn't do much
And when some ******* back in the day
Thought he could probably get away
With being cheesy, without getting hit by a rock,
If he put down his words in a tune and wore a dancing frock
Whilst he was going at it on a cheese license, trying to compose a 'song',
This other bloke from down the road wondered where this
'sound' is coming from?
The music got to him, for he was the first to hear it apart from it's maker
He growled and stood up, to put his ale down in a magic shaker
And so he thought his colon would erupt
If he didn’t tap his feet to it with that ale he supped,
Completely unaware of the fact that shaking his head would be
soon to follow,
And so to speak, rest of his body, headed in a direction
that seemed perfectly hollow
And thus he made some gravity defying moves one after the other,
Hitting stacks of bread he just yelled, "Happiness rediscovered"
That piteous drunk soul was unaware that it would go on to
be know as ‘dancing’
If he were smarter or sober, he could have told it to the world himself with pride while prancing
What made him do it? Probably the music, probably he got laid twice the previous night,
Or his ex got divorced, yeah that would really end the fright
So he pounced on some meat and again shook his *****
Like he owed it to the world, like it was his duty
Whatever was the reason, in that magic season
The consequences of it gave us dancing & made mankind elevate
It was henceforth branded as a gesture to celebrate.
So let’s.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 2:14 AM UTC
fed the birds.
fed the birds a
book about
my dead
weight.
fed the
birds a heavy.
fed them from
my thin
hands. The words
that live.
The birds ate.
The birds ate words that
lived and always
lived
in
separate
houses. if...
and i mean if
and only if
they
could afford
it.
if these
clever pagans
ever had
a dime.
they found
it boring rich
folk to
death.
i fed the birds
my indigenous
nomads. they dined
in high style...
dined black and
fancy
on
shabby
addicts, as they
hopped
trains . i fed the birds
my
swarthy tribe.
and they supped.
i fed the birds
a monologue
with trains of
thought
the words i fed
them... the vagabonds...
hopped
trains.
of thought.
I fed
the birds.
i fed the birds just
outside.
i sat
and fed them
black light and Harmalade
fed them blackly
fed them with
piano keys; the black
ones, the ones
that radiate
i fed
i watched them. watched
them fancy peck. and peck
and fancy
pluck.
i watched. they dined
on serene defeat
by technicality.
it was surreal
to watch a blackbird
pluck from black
keys - peck
a morsel of glum
from
the black rays, yes.
the black rays with
opposable thumbs
and a
lifeline. the only one i
know forbidding gypsies
with three eyes.
an open
palm.
a paranoid
black radish
white dwarf star
with piano keys
for black rays
of
nimbus, yes
mine is the hand that bites the hand
that writes the book
it wants
to ban, that ain't
a fan
not at all. just an appendage. a pen dirge ? What ?
i fed the flock lots
I fed
the black ones -
with dolls'
eyes...
tucked
under
wing.
i fed them, yes.
a book
about the size
of any welcome
malcontent.
i fed
them sorrows
and ellipses with
adjacent lawns.
wutherings in
stately manors, squatting
on either side
of memory
lane, like
a bourbon and
coke had
practically crawled
across shards
of hard
things to break,
with a drink
in your
hand
and crawled, well blended
down the hatch
of enormous, well appointed
gothic frogs, that -
were mostly refurbished toads
with odd columns.
i fed
the birds,
broke out the
Good
Chi
na
hang the tantrums !
yes
One should expect
a rich metaphor to want to
watch you
eat it's every
word
or
by extension;
lick the toad with 15 rooms,
three stories, unfit for children
and a full staff
of Adjectives,
highly trained
to
short-sheet the Bedlam, and fluff the pillories.
one should sip the liqueur
off the floor, inside the huge
and tipsy
gorgon
and be thankful
for the dank
and
the solid gold flyswatters.
they're complementary. take one
as you leave out
thinking
" toads, eat flies.... so it follows...."
apropos of nothing, on the
' Good China ',
now in the belly of birds, well fed
an unwell.
a book about
my dead-weight's
dream
to eat fewer
flies and
more
steak.
to grow wings.
yes.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC
Has your soul sipped
Of the sweetness of all sweets?
Has it well supped
But yet hungers and sweats?
I have been witness
Of a strange sweetness,
All fancy surpassing
Past all supposing.
Passing the rays
Of the rubies of morning,
Or the soft rise
Of the moon; or the meaning
Known to the rose
Of her mystery and mourning.
Sweeter than nocturnes
Of the wild nightingale
Or than love's nectar
After life's gall.
Sweeter than odours
Of living leaves,
Sweeter than ardours
Of dying loves.
Sweeter than death
And dreams hereafter
To one in dearth
Or life and its laughter.
Or the proud wound
The victor wears
Or the last end
Of all wars.
Or the sweet ******
After long guard
Unto the martyr
Smiling at God;
To me was that smile,
Faint as a wan, worn myth,
Faint and exceeding small,
On a boy's murdered mouth.
Though from his throat
The life-tide leaps
There was no threat
On his lips.
But with the bitter blood
And the death-smell
All his life's sweetness bled
Into a smile.
2.3k
She is the cold fire that snaps at my skin
Making me long for the heartburning
That scalds and scars the flesh within
Dark hair dark desirous eyes
Dark nights of passion till I realize
That she has drained me
Supped the juices from my lust
Drunk from all the fury my love gives
And suddenly she lives
Like a vampire
Mesmerizing
One blood drop at a time
She slurps me up like I am some cheap wine
And I swoon under her power
Consumed by her hunger
As she completely devours me
Till I beg for more
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
I've seen you there
amongst the lavender fields
when you thought no one was watching.
Memories that dance
a longing daydream,
weaving strings of lilac through my veins.
I knew you would plague me,
but my eyes supped upon you.
Supped and supped again
until lavished by an allure
a thousand French patisseries
could never usurp.
Your taste inspired madness -
a craze you too endured.
We turned over pages
and bewildered them with Eden's of ivy
that flourished within our skulls.
If Van Gogh were a writer
he'd write like us.
A fable of seraphic beauty
and lucid insanity,
knotted together
with existential philosophy.
"Being and Nothingness"
(Sartre understood)
but we were 50 years too late
to the Café de Flore.
Those were memories of yesteryear,
sealed with the rosy hue of antiquity
I was always fond of.
I can almost lick that scent of lavender
that clings to the photographs,
but I fear my tongue may bleed.
So I admire them on a mantelpiece
in a dust-soaked room
where all that I love
(and have loved)
may live.
I know that room not by daylight,
for I dare not be seen to enter.
Only the high rise moon knows
that those footprints
belong to me.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC
we met in Mexico,
slept rough in the back;
the seats folded down levelled out
and tacked down with two springs
we went by cities
not knowing their names;
stopped at payphone kiosks
shamed our pasts with left messages on answering machines
we stopped at toll booths,
paid for more road to play on,
to drive over smooth,
to cross another border before the noon
we deciphered restaurant menus,
ate with fingers crossed and hoped
the chicken was just that,
left a tip lost in another used ash tray
we wore sun cream
to screen us against the rays
and the glare reflecting
off the mineral water, natural bays
we walked up to bars
asked for drinks in cold bottles,
sipped and supped until kisses rolled out,
left holding hands like mannequin models
we kept the trip a secret,
kept it secure between you and me
and the folds in the bed sheets,
we only exist in hotel cheap suites.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
The mosquitoes supped histamine limpets into our puckered flesh
dew gilted grass entombed our feet in dappled domes
refracting the overhead fireworks
smears of whirling color
accented by smoke mote ghosts
I forgot to wear my contacts
my near-sightedness
makes you giggle nervously -
a hard full body ****** of a laugh
it arches your spine
pulling our hand-holding into an expansion
only the lining betwixt finger inlets
galvanized our pulse
well, that and your voltaic laugh
its flourishing timbre
resonant
reverberant pyrotechnic
thickly glazing aural canal
lascivious tomes penned themselves
densely
upon neural plane
dendrites imprinting chemical insignia
moment captured in impressionistic blurs
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
Three men hung the corpse of a shark
In a tree for its enlightenment.
They hefted rifles,
Pierced its side with bullets.
“We’ve taken him a long way from the sea,” they said.
The dead shark swam in the tree,
Its rancid blood raining down like manna,
Its eyes bulging, thick with burgeoning wisdom.
It lay in that tree for nine days and nine nights,
Soaking up knowledge in its mute way.
By the end of the ninth night,
It had supped fully on enlightenment.
A moth appeared before the shark
And landed on its shiny nose.
This tipped something already on the brink,
Freeing the shark from its ****** form in a sag, a slow burst,
And a mass of vermin churned forth.
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 10:24 PM UTC
Time sits slouched,
Whisky supped from a shoe.
Space takes his place,
Beard smothered in brew.
Hope sprawls eternal,
Smiles, on the face of the few.
The night is masked,
Casked honey dew.
Amber obscures,
Procures,
Distorts the view.
Glazed by a hazy
Feint green plume.
Time takes a sip from
Weathered worn out shoe.
As space wipes his face
Hope yawns on que.
The night is released,
At least for now, until
The fall of the morning dew.
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 7:44 PM UTC
I make no bones about it;
I’m as common as they come.
I have since lost interest
In things coming undone.
I’ve eaten of black mutton
And I’ve gnawed a serpent bone,
A multitude of oranges
In a pomegranate home.
I’ve supped a core of cedar pine,
It’s bitter on my tongue,
A slimy sea of candle wax
A wicked xylophone.
And on a rosy-bowered swing
I’ve heard whispered all alone,
“I will love you until the day I die.”
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 4:48 PM UTC
I’d walked back home by the clifftop path,
I’d only been gone an hour,
Rounding the point, it came into view
The sight of our Black Stone Tower.
Its ancient mystery suited me then
We’d picked it up for a song,
Nobody else had wanted it,
At the price, we couldn’t go wrong.
They said that a king had built it there
Far back in the mists of time,
And soldiers climbed by the old stone stair,
But now, thank god, it was mine.
A roof to shelter my Evelyn,
Though we supped by candlelight,
And drew our water deep from a well,
Made love when the stars were bright.
But now a breeze blew up from the cliff,
Was chill, and ruffled my hair,
And something about the Black Stone Tower
Was strange, a sense of despair.
For weeds had grown where the weeds were not
When I’d left, an hour before,
And someone had painted a bright red cross
On the Baltic Pine of the door.
It was only when I had got close up
That I saw that the red was blood,
And the door was half off its hinges,where
It was splintering, as I stood,
Then shapes began to appear to me,
Of soldiers, battering in
The Baltic Pine of this ancient door
To slay the soldiers within.
There wasn’t a single sound to hear,
There should have been clash and roar,
A mighty battle was raging in
The Black Stone Tower of war.
I called and I called for Evelyn
But there wasn’t a single trace
Of the love that I’d left alone in there,
That now, most terrible place.
I ran outside to the edge of the cliff
And stared down into the bay,
And there was the foulest, evil ship
Sails set, for sailing away.
And Evelyn strode down on the beach
While a soldier pulled at her hair,
Dragging her into a longboat as
She fought and struggled down there.
But this was a different Evelyn
To the one that I’d left at home,
The girl on the beach was dressed in peach,
My Evelyn dressed in bone,
And not in a full length courtly dress
Like you see from the days of yore,
As her ghostly shadow stepped in the boat
And sailed away from the shore.
I turned again to the Black Stone Tower
And the door was back in its frame,
There wasn’t a sign of the ****** cross
That had been there, just as I came.
And Evelyn staggered from out the door
As I cried out, ‘Where have you been?’
And she said sleepily, ‘Don’t be cross,
I’ve had an incredible dream!’
David Lewis Paget
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
A female Buddha,
the way she sat, not
love making, that some
other. Cross-legged,
he remembered her,
on that blue sofa, the
Mahler playing from
her hi-fi, her oval face,
soft features, that loud
laughter, the Glaswegian
accent cutting through
the attempted English
tones. The bottle of whisky
opened, the glasses filled,
supped, sipped or what
ever the word is, it happened.
It’s no good taking some
people out of the slums,
she said, you need to take
the slum out of the people.
She looked then nothing
like the former nun she
had been, he thought,
perfume invading the nose,
her hair piled in some out
of date Beehive, some
French queen prior to
revolution, she sat, glass
in hand, other plump
hand toughing his thigh,
rubbing her fingers up
and down. She wanted
to stir his pecker, wanted
motion through his jeans.
He listened to Mahler,
gazing beyond her at the
painting on the wall, that
tat she collected. Her
hand rubbed higher, her
soft tones suggestive, her
talk of slums and slum
dwellers put aside. An
evening of *** ahead, in
bed or on the sofa, with
the female Buddha, her
plump ******* thighs,
arms, maybe lost there
amongst the folds of flesh.
She despised his Marxian
philosophy, loved his
****** prowess, his proud
perfect pecker. He loved
her whisky, her soft to
touch skin, her spread legs
to allow him in. The female
Buddha gone now, her
heart gave out, he was told,
and looking back, years after
years, his youth misspent
at times, too much *****
*** and moral lack, he had
moved on, improved, but
loved to smile and look back.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 2:57 AM UTC
I hold my heart when thunder claps,
I hold it when the courier raps
Upon my door—to feel the beat
It often hides—it drums so sweet
And then subsides to tender taps.
My heart is shy when only maps
Can dare expound what hungry gaps
Consume the ground between our feet.
I hold my heart
And tear the envelope that wraps
The lifeblood printed on your scraps
And feed my veins like summer heat
Is supped by rains. Until we meet
At last again when storms collapse,
I hold my heart.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
I am a practitioner of art,
said Alice, oil and canvas
are my daily bread, charcoal
blackens my fingers, darkens
my soul, my dreams are of
*** and men lost, I bed sad
men in my thoughts. My art
keeps me from asylums, takes
me from the doctor’s couch
to the lonely studio, the air
full of fumes and stale food
and my unwashed body.
My mother was a slave to
the kitchen sink, her life spent
in domestic chores, in my father’s
bed, in the worrying times she
popped the pills, drank the
bottles dry. I am the spyer of
secret lovers, my sister’s men
in her double bed, the laughter
and tears in equal measure,
the flowers and bruises all fondly
kept, the split lips and black eyes,
she wore with pleasure. I am
the painter of other’s souls, images
oiled in with the darkest colours,
their features blended with the
darkness of their lives. My brother
sat with his demons, supped with
them in his lonely hours, injected
the nightmare makers with the
addict’s skill, he slept uneasy in
another’s bed, chased by his
demons and women until he died,
a bullet in his head. I listen to Parsifal
on the old Hifi the Wagnerian opera
is my secret drug, my opener of days,
my closer at nights, the background
to my daily arguments and fights.
My father was my only healer, his
loving touches healed my hurts,
stitched my cuts and wounds, he
watered down my temper’s scorns;
he alone shared my soul’s foul deeds,
knew my heartaches, my scars of ***
and doctored my soul’s lack. He was
cornered by the cancer’s hold, its
icy fingers in his bones and skin, its
deadly smell in his breath and flesh
and his parting words were lost in
the final rattle. I am the artist of life’s
dark wars and ancient wounding battle.
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 5:48 AM UTC
I have reached the end
I am at last triumphant
I am pedigree of pious desire and knowledge eternally sacred
I have welcomed the pilgrims
I have guided their yearning will
To the celestial comforts of feathers’ yellows and sanctity’s whites
Whites white as my waving robe and now my thin white gown
In which I await my appointed time
My tongue is wriggling
Circling across my gums
In sensuous reveling of my life’s most blessed and greatest times
For I have laid eyes upon the glory of life’s highest gifts
For I have laid hands upon the most succulent succubus fertile hips
And I have supped of hymen’s glisten
I swam in Bacchus’s wines
I have recited doctrines of worship
I worshipped saliva’s shine
And I have observed communion
I drank it with ***** dust
I have read the hatha yoga
**** as the first man forged
And I have anointed blossoming ******* beneath the holy sigil
Sputtering laughter
Only trottel bows in truth and believes I dispense
A cleansing and redeeming eternal salvation
Have you no eyes to see my body’s common human shape?
Do you think I’m fat from God’s great love?
I cackle in the presence of such unwieldy weakness
Although my bones are sagging
More sagging is my wrinkled brain!
My memories are mating and birthing strange chimerical forms
They’re flooding and blending
Into vivid dreamlike collage
I see the faces of children I’ve taught
Atop necks of ****** I’ve known
The cheap locations of ****** have grafted with the echoing halls of cathedrals
Bizarre lights of nightclub glow are dancing upon spiritual texts
I hear an angelic litany
Sung through a stripper’s lips
I feel sheep’s wool
In the tousled hair of my boyish youth
I taste sweat in the bread of religion’s stoic privation
My air is growing more ragged
With every pitiful inhale I take
I feel light although I still see my heavy gluttonous flesh
My spirit is peeling away
Beyond my body’s earth
Arising high above from mortality’s curse
I am ascending into the holy realm
A realm with gates inviting
Like opened lotioned legs
I can see my own corpse
Surrounded by genuine reverence
They don’t even notice the shot glass
Still clutched in my pasty fist
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 6:44 PM UTC