"underhand" poems
Dull lips give way to a finely sharpened tongue.
Soft skin slides underhand like roughly hidden scales.
*You asked of me to bare my blood.
Both times I cut my veins for you.
Both times you asked for more
And I bled once again,
for you, my Prince.*
A hand touches my soul; held within the demons greedy paws.
All the while, I wonder why, I let you continue to rein over me.
An insufferable plague you have bestowed over my brow.
Nay...
My heart.
My heart quakes from Lust's tightening grip.
My veins bleeding for you...
A card dealt from the sleight of a devils right hands.
A dagger in the left, aimed for the back.
- Hark -
The call of darkness beckons me on-wards.
Calling me home through the red fog and the vile pit of hatred.
*When you asked for me; I was yours.
Then, when you asked for another,
I withdrew...*
You are an enigma, in your entirety.
Oh, sweet angel
burden with a devils twisted soul.
You shall burn forlorn in a delightful blue flame.
*Alas, ask once more my Nephilim Prince.
Ask;
and I shall bleed my veins for you.*
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
She’s underhand throwing words with her mouth
The boy leans in past natural borders, to study the agenda in her eyes
He is built like a bent paperclip,
with bottlebrush forelocks, a barracuda jaw.
Between her bare legs, she gently squeezes
a cup of iced hibiscus tea.
She reaches down and lifting it to her lips,
I feel mine part, in thirsting sympathy…
Her upper thighs blush wet with condensation as
The boys eager fingers click on her knee,
like ice cubes in her sweating berry hibiscus,
floral melt cascades down her throat.
Fairy breath lands on my shoulders - my silk overcoat
It makes me dissolve with memory
of my beloved tea picker,
a cocoa skinned Sudanese girl
traveling the road to market in Al-Junaynah,
swaying in the truck bed under a warm sun,
dreaming of red karkadeh flowers
and a paper clip boy.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
Up very early on this particular morning
couldn't sleep not unusual.
Trillions of thoughts racing in his brain
leaving his lovely wife in bed!
knowing to well the problems he'd created
met another himself he hated.
Nine months Jamie had been having an affair
his wife asking why he was late.
On numerous days his mistress wanting him
easy to say it just happened!
How could he let his fling get out of hand
he knew it was underhand.
Couldn't rest his conscience nagged him
no children with his spouse.
Practically one less worry for him to resolve
now his mistress was pregnant!
The usual cliche he still loved his wife
aware this situation was rife!
This didn't help sort out the mess he was in
what was the solution?
None of the answers were fundamentally good
but could not escape the truth.
It would break her heart to if he were to leave
who he never wanted to deceive!
With a deep breath he prepared for honesty
it had been a long time coming.
Prided himself in being an upstanding man
not noticing how low he'd sunk.
Seven thirty approached he heard Emma stir
he had to go and tell her!
With a burning guilt consuming his whole being
he made his way for judgement day!
The Foureyed Poet.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 7:59 PM UTC
His hands ring in the upper classes.
There, in the morning light, his will
Is forged, bent, as truth, on ruling
This place, underhand, underfoot.
With shuttered ears divining his voice
The dim pupils see only what is said.
The top hand schools, topples all words
Ringing hands sing the song of fools.
How Headmaster trains on the heel,
A dagger strikes, the paper cuts
Exalted, his close minded hands,
See a Czar in the stony swagger,
And the student body, submissively lies
With his feet. Outside the college
The headmaster is heard. Grossly,
He is their dream and only shepherd.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 9:48 PM UTC
His hands ring in the upper classes.
There, in the morning light, his will
Is forged, bent, as truth, on ruling
This place, underhand, underfoot.
With shuttered ears divining his voice
The dim pupils see only what is said.
The top hand schools, topples all words
Ringing hands sing the song of fools.
How Headmaster trains on the heel,
A dagger strikes, the paper cuts
Exalted, his close minded hands,
See a Czar in the stony swagger,
And the student body, submissively lies
With his feet. Outside the college
The headmaster is heard. Grossly,
He is their dream and only shepherd.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 8:18 PM UTC
The staff, who are stuffed full of paper,
stapled, on white,
are to be circulated with minutes,
full of minutiae,
but only the chosen staff will receive such chaff,
intricate, in triplicate,
and the others will have to wait for memoranda,
definitely not grander,
on subjection, objection and rejection
for the weary and unwary.
The brochure on staff conduct
will be grosser,
and superannuation won't be super.
There will be no more staff resolutions,
no revolutions,
so that managers can preserve the status quo
and hasten slow.
Talent is banned,
promotion is underhand,
ass-kissing is in,
no sin,
and perks,
no jerks,
are for the executive few.
***** you.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
His hands ring in the upper classes.
There, in the morning light, his will
Is forged, bent, as truth, on ruling
This place, underhand, underfoot.
With shuttered ears divining his voice
The dim pupils see only what is said.
The top hand schools, topples all words
Ringing hands sing the song of fools.
How Headmaster trains on the heel,
A dagger strikes, the paper cuts
Exalted, his close minded hands,
See a Czar in the stony swagger,
And the student body, submissively lies
With his feet. Outside the college
The headmaster is heard. Grossly,
He is their dream and only shepherd.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 10:44 AM UTC
His hands ring in the upper classes.
There, in the morning light, his will
Is forged, bent, as truth, on ruling
This place, underhand, underfoot.
With shuttered ears divining his voice
The dim pupils see only what is said.
The top hand schools, topples all words
Ringing hands sing the song of fools.
How Headmaster trains on the heel,
A dagger strikes, the paper cuts
Exalted, his close minded hands,
See a Czar in the stony swagger,
And the student body, submissively lies
With his feet. Outside the college
The headmaster is heard. Grossly,
He is their dream and only shepherd.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 1:50 PM UTC
His hands ring in the upper classes.
There, in the morning light, his will
Is forged, bent, as truth, on ruling
This place, underhand, underfoot.
With shuttered ears divining his voice
The dim pupils see only what is said.
The top hand schools, topples all words
Ringing hands sing the song of fools.
How Headmaster trains on the heel,
A dagger strikes, the paper cuts
Exalted, his close minded hands,
See a Czar in the stony swagger,
And the student body, submissively lies
With his feet. Outside the college
The headmaster is heard. Grossly,
He is their dream and only shepherd.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
I wrote it on the back of my hand one day, I told you that I needed you – you wiped the smile off my face with your thumb, like I had smudged the words right out of my mouth. You taught me invaluable lessons I am sure never to forget, I was schooled by you, in ways I never really understood. I was a child, innocent by the very lapels on which you grew me up. Dragged me up, scuffed my shoes at the front and back. Untied my bra strap with your little finger and told me, listen here, love, I know exactly what I am doing. Made me believe in you, you did. Made me fall for every word. Made me fall for every whisper of love. Tenderly I was hooked by you.
You were the machine of my creation. Your greatest ever work of art. You sculpted my very inner being, tied me to my soul with burnt fingers and made me believe I was worth nothing more than **** Your purpose was excellent. Completely fooled I was, your succinct underhand ways grievously ruined my sight. No longer could I see reality, living in world prepared for, cooked up and served by you. I lost a lot of blood in those first few years, a lot of good stock died. My passion became my greatest detriment, for should I talk you would take the words from my mouth and mark them in the air; deconstructed with a red pen you would make me realise my mistakes.
Thank you for all you have done. To me. For me. With me. My ear is no longer connected to your mouth. I can breeeeeathe without having to miss a step. All my love that I was proud to possess had been given away, but I was proud to have failed you, I was proud to weep under you, I was proud, to have loved you and not gotten away with it. I take full responsibility for all my tremendous actions, the ones I gave for you, laid down in honour for you, to wipe your pretty little feet all over the back of my head. I turned around to face you and slapped that face right off your mouth
Loved I was by you. Needed I was by you, to be, you. I wrote **** you, on my ******* fingers and shoved them up your **** Now you talk my language, now you wait for me to see you. Now you know I am no longer your dishrag, your teatowel or your muse. Got it back I did, got back my heat, my fury, and glory. Action packed with honour and fire, loving and loved. I learnt from you lessons which I shall never forget, I was schooled by you. Wanted to thank you, for I am no longer afraid, my sweet ****** of you and your heart. This is a glorious world, one which you will never feel.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 4:58 PM UTC
manicured fingers
manipulate,
masculine muscles
to submission.
Dec 10, 2011
Dec 10, 2011 at 11:24 AM UTC
His hands ring in the upper classes.
There, in the morning light, his will
Is forged, bent, as truth, on ruling
This place, underhand, underfoot.
With shuttered ears divining his voice
The dim pupils see only what is said.
The top hand schools, topples all words
Ringing hands sing the song of fools.
How Headmaster trains on the heel,
A dagger strikes, the paper cuts
Exalted, his close minded hands,
See a Czar in the stony swagger,
And the student body, submissively lies
With his feet. Outside the college
The headmaster is heard. Grossly,
He is their dream and only shepherd.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 1:15 PM UTC
I kneel in a field of wheat grass
catching grasshoppers.
I scoop underhand into my jar, another
at the height of its jump, a third.
I put my jar by the stream, pull one
out and I grab it, force my barbed steel
hook through the belly still trembling.
I cast long loops of line into the drift
below rocks where current
froths and whirls.
I stand mechanically slightly ashamed, uncomfortable on that shaded bank
where trout strike hard.
I let them swim, then hold fast, reeling one, exhausting him, wrenching him
into air, his tail drumming against the sky.
Hanging from the line
his fat belly flinches.
All his life of riding rapids, hiding
in flats embraced by waters’ fast flow,
by red rainbows in his scales.
I didn’t expect that open mouth,
that whiteness, the gills stop twitching,
the eyes caught in that open stare.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 8:49 PM UTC
How I long to understand
Why we are so underhand
And throw away our lives for ownership
Who owns blossom on the tree
The gardener or the cherry
Should the bumble bee own the scrip
Twist your tendons and minds
Embers fly as the axe grinds
Just to avoid tongues cracking whip
Drunken on your earned credit
The latest "must buy" on Reddit
Who knew owning could be so hip
Time ticks and you get old
Till the day your body's cold
Then all your stuff cast in the skip
The bee flies from the tree
Pollen laden to the colony
Careless of your past "ownership"
The dollar turns into a cent
All you "owned" was just for rent
Space owns time, which owns your little blip.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC
Came I hither with all the gold possess'd,
Came I hither with all the wisdom gain'd,
Came I hither with all the truth and jest,
Beauty, health, kindness, luck, thou'd'st have complain'd
That I came hither with an underhand
Desire of something greater thus exchang'd,
Unable to conceive or understand
How one who offers free is not derang'd.
Came I hither with all the gold possess'd,
And came I bearing rubies and pearls, too,
Came I hither bearing all the rest
To thine own mortal self, still erring true;
Came I hither, and ask'd nothing, giving
All that I have, and more, and still I err,
For the Lord ask'd nothing of the living,
But sacrifice is matter of a cur.
Mistrusting as you do, with sense, I see,
Love's made not for this world, nor I for thee.
Feb 17, 2024
Feb 17, 2024 at 7:24 PM UTC
When I was in the third grade, I spent a lot of time camping at a campground in Redhouse and a lot of time by myself. One Summer day, I was playing in a creek when I spotted a frog. I had a very active imagination as a child, so I decided to play with the frog. The first game that came to mind was the game of catch. Excitedly, I scoured the surrounding area for something to toss to my new friend. After a few minutes of searching, I found a hand sized rock. With the rock in my hand, I exclaimed, “Get ready, here it comes!” Then, I underhand threw the rock to the frog. I eagerly waited for a few minutes for the frog to throw the rock back to me, but the rock was motionless. With much haste, I slid down the creek banks and picked up the rock. There in front of me was the smashed remains of my amphibious friend. For the first time in my life, I was faced with death. Tears began to roll down my face because I realized it was my fault that he was dead. I was now alone again and I had nobody in which to discuss this event. That frog was the first and last thing I ever killed
Ever since that day, I've had an eye on the man in the black robe that's waiting patiently in the back row. I know it's not normal for someone my age to think about death, but it helps me enjoy my life. At any given moment I could combust, stop breathing, or get smashed by a rock, so every moment that isn't spent in death's cold arms is an absolute blessing. I regret that it took the life of another living being to teach me this lesson, but I will not let that frog's death be in vain. I have to make up for the life I wasted, and if my flame for life starts to die, I visualize lifting up that rock and my soul is instantly stoked. If death is going to catch me, he is going to dance around the trail of fire I leave behind because I don't only believe in death, I believe in life.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 11:23 PM UTC
Sort of my tears
Downing from my drowning years
Misplaced by the thoughts and the fears, the way I volunteered
Gutted with the truth
Peeled from honesty command
Reprimand every plan that you have in ill hand
Grasping my inner thoughts
Forcing life’s demands
A fascination with illumination at grand, we need resources so you folks can understand
Understand the apocalypse
That this earth creates withstands
No underhand punishment for all our services undertakes
Aggression that reflects submission of a ****** decision
Finessing bad investments that does pay diabolical visions
Visiulizing the future
With expectations of a better nation
Memorizing the gratuitous grids investigating relations of races
Ripping my dedication
To eradicate your personal needs
Reinventing the seeds to ********** these eternal breeds, steadily free with a force feed so like paleo we crossbreed
Bleeding for a greater oppression
Wishing for a better revision
Exceeding admissions teaching lessons for a better concession
To all who receives the valuable lesson
By: Lyrical C n Glen Edward Bush Jr
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 10:34 PM UTC
Paint in acid
scream into static
through perceptions pallid
with desires archaic and elastic.
It doesn’t really matter
who lies at the other end of the ampersand
smoke and mirror shatter
grinding from glass into sand
yet here we stand
malleable and plastic
underhand
and egocentric
hallowed by introspection.
Our shadows long lost in the tide
with the whispers of deviation
I guess, I shouldn’t have lied
but you were my only means of abstraction.
Now,
we’re just timelessly out of fashion
now,
we’re recoiling from the passion
that was once instilled
visceral
riled
so sweetly sacramental.
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 8:21 AM UTC
It’s lonely only finding truth in philosophy,
when only phenomenology can tell us
that we are just compounds of need
falling into traps of manipulation
set by the veiled hunger others
There can’t be two sides to every story
if we are just navigating altered perceptions of reality
warped by insecurity and ego
using endless disingenuous promise
as a means to an end
that we can’t see
or understand
so underhand, we take all that we can get
to sate some innate desire that devours us
never letting us see its teeth.
Aug 9, 2021
Aug 9, 2021 at 11:54 AM UTC
One in the morning and I can't sleep
A billion times I have closed my eyes
A couple of shakes and I try to escape
But time has me, I sit and realize.
I focus on the clock that sits
And stares me down like a lion
My eyes are dry and I'm tired, I feel it,
I squeeze but I really can't start crying.
Time ticker strikes two and I yawn pretty big
I lay down so I'll be sane in the morning
But I guess sleep was not quite my motivation
Because I find reality, really, quite boring.
Quarter to four and my mind is a bore
I still sit and question my size
I'm small and mortal and dying, I know,
I'm nothing compared to the skies.
But the time is going, it still bores on,
It rambles like my thoughts on this night
And I won't go to bed because I know it won't stop
Clocks don't freeze at the first sign of life.
We're caught in the spiral that I've come to get
So I spend all my time imagining it gone
But here on this morning, when five rolls around,
These thoughts are not leaving at dawn.
I was thinking that maybe if I think hard enough
If I think all of these problems right through
I'll understand why I'm insane in this way
And why the clocks don't even care if there's dew.
Closer to six and my head hits the pillow
It's not time that I've seemed to understand
I really get, now, that I've been thinking too much
And I'm truly on the underhand.
I'm come to terms with the fact that one day
I'll just be words and thoughts and 'remember her's
My legacy will, one day, not exist
And my ideas will not be much of a blur.
I'm starting to see, as it's now seven o'clock
That the clocks are simply running the race
They're in the lead, slowly beating me,
Time is just the subject of the chase.
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
In the depths of the bloodied waters
stones were dissolving -
via an echo the wind was telling me,
the rain brought back to my hearing
rhythms of an ancestor song
with one ear stalking the other
I was beginning already to be divided
monologizing - dialogizing
let us go to sleep maybe the reality
we lost will come to us in a dream
the coldness which came from a misunderstanding
had a touch of nobility
then out of pride came scorn
then hate, then we came
to inhabit the same body
like two convicts in one cell
who are fighting underhand
but suddenly stop when they hear
the warden's step
I am myself scarred on the inside
and have no right to pronounce harmony
between you
but take out the ashes while there is time
give the spirit shape
Ioanid Romanescu, from Time's Expansion
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
The Kingdoms of the Mountain Cross
Part I
Praise to the king,
As light shows upon he.
Life can't be without
All the leaders we bring.
As part of the plan,
Divine rule underhand.
Life can't lack its choice,
As taught by the king.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
Lowly, ornery moments, viciously crusade
Whispering damnable, through tempestuous winds
Seeking the core being of auspicious people
To wreck the wholesomeness they hold
Without merit; without claim; only with lurid enmity
These satirical shadows lurking
Crave our every fallen promise
Of living a full life of exemplary character
So they can manipulate susceptible thoughts
For their own ghoulish behaviourism
The tacky underhand played by cruel intentions
Mystifies the drunken stupor of our senses
Who strive to live abjectly without fear
In the torrid aftermath of our foolishness
Are left the maudlin remnants of our self-esteem
When harmony within us is weak
Tomorrow is left to renew
The rambunctious craze of melancholia
Hiding behind contemptuous eyes of disturbia
Propensely echoing through our minds
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 1:04 PM UTC