"unwholesome" poems
The river is polluted
The skies are grey in falling night
The stars are hidden from our sight
Constellations convoluted
Bilge water and bile
Corrupted hearts so vile
Defile of a sacred form
This is not divine
Only desecration
The river is polluted
The seeds we plant do not survive
And even life is doomed to die
The trees are all uprooted
We want the leaves
We want the flowers
We want the scent of the forest
The river is polluted
Our dismay is all man-made
Unwholesome branch that holds no shade
Our hope for shelter all eluted
Brackish is the water
Swim if you care to drown
We take giant gulps
Deluded with hope
And still we die of thirst
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 5:09 AM UTC
Lays of Mystery,
Imagination, and Humor
Number 1
I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
And each damp thing that creeps and crawls
Went wobble-wobble on the walls.
Faint odours of departed cheese,
Blown on the dank, unwholesome breeze,
Awoke the never ending sneeze.
Strange pictures decked the arras drear,
Strange characters of woe and fear,
The humbugs of the social sphere.
One showed a vain and noisy ****
That shouted empty words and big
At him that nodded in a wig.
And one, a dotard grim and gray,
Who wasteth childhood's happy day
In work more profitless than play.
Whose icy breast no pity warms,
Whose little victims sit in swarms,
And slowly sob on lower forms.
And one, a green thyme-honoured Bank,
Where flowers are growing wild and rank,
Like weeds that fringe a poisoned tank.
All birds of evil omen there
Flood with rich Notes the tainted air,
The witless wanderer to snare.
The fatal Notes neglected fall,
No creature heeds the treacherous call,
For all those goodly Strawn Baits Pall.
The wandering phantom broke and fled,
Straightway I saw within my head
A vision of a ghostly bed,
Where lay two worn decrepit men,
The fictions of a lawyer's pen,
Who never more might breathe again.
The serving-man of Richard Roe
Wept, inarticulate with woe:
She wept, that waiting on John Doe.
"Oh rouse", I urged, "the waning sense
With tales of tangled evidence,
Of suit, demurrer, and defence."
"Vain", she replied, "such mockeries:
For morbid fancies, such as these,
No suits can suit, no plea can please."
And bending o'er that man of straw,
She cried in grief and sudden awe,
Not inappropriately, "Law!"
The well-remembered voice he knew,
He smiled, he faintly muttered "Sue!"
(Her very name was legal too.)
The night was fled, the dawn was nigh:
A hurricane went raving by,
And swept the Vision from mine eye.
Vanished that dim and ghostly bed,
(The hangings, tape; the tape was red happy
'Tis o'er, and Doe and Roe are dead!
Oh, yet my spirit inly crawls,
What time it shudderingly recalls
That horrid dream of marble halls!
5.5k
Down by two
the bruised-blue flesh
of the bronze butterfly's
escape through sacrifice,
flays the emotions..
Unwholesome the silence
that goes before her,
a sound like the heart
bound to beat like butterfly wings...
Gently her absence quick
upon me, inhales the night
and swiftly, the dark
sees only ease to relinquish
her candles sheathed in glass
epitaphs that collapse like veins
to fill the fluent air with the spare
embrace of the blue elements...
Down by two in the bottom of the ninth,
two out, two on, two strikes,
the soul's too tragic abhorrence of details
fails to deliver the impossible syntax
of apocalypse, on the lips
of a courteous Christ, crucified
by light, the night fades
far into the furthest exile...
Under a tropic of cancer,
her un-obscured brilliance
pierces the vault of heaven's vast
gathering of angels,
and their illegible scripture...
Shatters the soul in one primal
instant grand slam dream, quicksilver
through her midnight moment's landscape,
every cherished feature in flight, the light
of the bronze butterfly's escape
through sacrifice, to the silver flame
of moonlight's crucial adieu....
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
When, like a running grave, time tracks you down,
Your calm and cuddled is a scythe of hairs,
Love in her gear is slowly through the house,
Up naked stairs, a turtle in a hearse,
Hauled to the dome,
Comes, like a scissors stalking, tailor age,
Deliver me who timid in my tribe,
Of love am barer than Cadaver's trap
Robbed of the foxy tongue, his footed tape
Of the bone inch
Deliver me, my masters, head and heart,
Heart of Cadaver's candle waxes thin,
When blood, spade-handed, and the logic time
Drive children up like bruises to the thumb,
From maid and head,
For, sunday faced, with dusters in my glove,
Chaste and the chaser, man with the cockshut eye,
I, that time's jacket or the coat of ice
May fail to fasten with a ****** o
In the straight grave,
Stride through Cadaver's country in my force,
My pickbrain masters morsing on the stone
Despair of blood faith in the maiden's slime,
Halt among eunuchs, and the nitric stain
On fork and face.
Time is a foolish fancy, time and fool.
No, no, you lover skull, descending hammer
Descends, my masters, on the entered honour.
You hero skull, Cadaver in the hangar
Tells the stick, 'fail.'
Joy is no knocking nation, sir and madam,
The cancer's fashion, or the summer feather
Lit on the cuddled tree, the cross of fever,
Not city tar and subway bored to foster
Man through macadam.
I dump the waxlights in your tower dome.
Joy is the knock of dust, Cadaver's shoot
Of bud of Adam through his boxy shift,
Love's twilit nation and the skull of state,
Sir, is your doom.
Everything ends, the tower ending and,
(Have with the house of wind), the leaning scene,
Ball of the foot depending from the sun,
(Give, summer, over), the cemented skin,
The actions' end.
All, men my madmen, the unwholesome wind
With whistler's cough contages, time on track
Shapes in a cinder death; love for his trick,
Happy Cadaver's hunger as you take
The kissproof world.
3.4k
One thing I love to do
Is write letters to Grandpapa
Because
You never know where it’s going to take you:
Octogenarians are a real wildcard
And that makes life interesting.
For example, I was writing a letter
To Grandpapa and he likes to imagine things
Because he can’t get around much
So I give the cat meat to feed on.
I embellish a little my romantic situation
And I tell him about M; little M
How she reminds me of my little mama
And that boys tend to look
For someone who is like a mother figure
And we grow into this role
We become more dependent on the girlfriend
Til she becomes like a second mother
But it never starts out that way.
So I was telling him about little M;
And when I receive a letter back
I notice a rather odd sentence
That I cannot help but laugh at:
“Dan, you say M; is smaller than you
All the easier to back her into a corner”
And then it follows on with some
Incongruent sentence about ‘me driving a car’
Now I’m not sure if we got lost in
Translation
I don’t know whether Grandpapa is thinking
I’m going to run M; over (she’s not that small)
Or whether he’s suggesting I invest in a booster seat?
Or whether in fact, he has made an unwholesome
But wholey funny link
Between me staying up all night
And my young ****** prowess
(Which is the same thing I suppose)
But I’m not quite sure why I’d be backing her
Into a corner
That sounds like outright pressure
But I have to laugh
Ah Grandpapa
Maybe one day I’ll show M;
Or maybe not
She may develop an irrational fear
For tight spaces
Which is something
I will never have a problem with...
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 9:08 PM UTC
Music of the street
Reverberates loudly
Out the dumpster,
From the tiny mouth
Of a screaming
Baby
Wrought in the wombs
Of filth, injustice,
Foggy rage.
Tongues ripped out,
On the floor, tastebuds that
Know the pang
of blue blood.
Rusty nails and overused syringes
***** the fingers,
Softly.
The people yell, maniacally,
Yet remain unheard.
Pain becomes evident,
Written on the faces
Of the unwholesome.
A wafting scent of
Their rotten morals,
Forgotten dreams,
Floats, as hot steam,
from the pavement.
Unable now
To decompose.
Across the road,
A pregnant woman holds
Her cigarette, which
Smells of cookies
And cream soda.
Jesus was enlightened,
Not too pious
For the poor.
Yet more than pain
Was written
On their faces,
Missing tongues, missing eyes.
Laid together
On the piss-stained mattress,
Feet to head and head
To feet.
Nonsense was confused
As words, that danced into
Non-platonic humps.
She kissed him, because
She wanted to feel
The texture of his brain.
Pick her up with
Golden hand, though
She may see you.
And the sad image of
Dollar bills
Inspires the mind,
Making it immobile.
Here, where the **********
Stands, more holy
Than the monastery.
Crawling, as they do,
Through unpainted,
Rented walls, like
Hungry little cockroaches,
Creeping for a bite.
The small infant still
Lays on metal, each
Moment crying softer
For warmth.
Though you will not
Hear her tomorrow,
As she’s carted off by
Garbage men
Who, each week, remove
The undesired
Remnants of yesterday.
Hope for sweet
Needles to sooner bring her
A different relief.
Life is so simple
When struggles
Are never-ending.
Mi amor pequeña,
no llores más. El fin está cerca,
aunque no entiende
mis palabras.
Though the buildings
Surrender with
Decay and the sun decides
He doesn’t want
To keep on caring
The music still plays mournfully,
And only the baby can hear.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 7:24 AM UTC
The clothes on a perfectly sculpted mannequin
do not accentuate the garment's beauty.
Rather, it hollows it, makes it unwholesome
and outlines all the more clearly how empty it truly is
to the point where one forgets what one is looking at.
Like a vague pronoun.
The human mind, the decent soul, cannot and should
not be subjected to such a ********** and feels inhumanly
compelled to destroy the effect.
And that is why mannequins are so good for sales.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 3:05 PM UTC
An ancient chestnut's blossoms threw
Their heavy odour over two:
Leucippe, it is said, was one;
The other, then, was Alciphron.
'Come, come! why should we stand beneath
This hollow tree's unwholesome breath?'
Said Alciphron, 'here 's not a blade
Of grass or moss, and scanty shade.
Come; it is just the hour to rove
In the lone ****** shepherds love;
There, straight and tall, the hazel twig
Divides the crooked rock-held fig,
O'er the blue pebbles where the rill
In winter runs and may run still.
Come then, while fresh and calm the air,
And while the shepherds are not there.'
Leucippe. But I would rather go when they
Sit round about and sing and play.
Then why so hurry me? for you
Like play and song, and shepherds too.
Alciphron. I like the shepherds very well,
And song and play, as you can tell.
But there is play, I sadly fear,
And song I would not have you hear.
Leucippe. What can it be? What can it be?
Alciphron. To you may none of them repeat
The play that you have play'd with me,
The song that made your ***** beat.
Leucippe. Don't keep your arm about my waist.
Alciphron. Might you not stumble?
Leucippe. Well then, do.
But why are we in all this haste?
Alciphron. To sing.
Leucippe. Alas! and not play too?
1.6k
The window is open and the wind is cold,
As I lay in my bed feigning sleep, I feel old
The hollowness in my bones speak of stories untold
There will be few memories that my ***** today will hold
I perceive this from the lack of enthusiasm with which I greet the day.
All the actions and reactions that will, with it, fall into decay.
I harbour no remorse for the want of warmth in my stare
And I feel that those who ask it of me shouldn't really dare.
It is not for me to judge the tides of such stirrings
I fear I am not experienced in these whirrings.
I fall short when it comes to simple joys, but to the brim in human ploys.
I am like the moon when she is round and full,
Making you rise up like the waves, gasping at the pull.
I don my hat of deadened emotions,
Human suffering I wear like a fur coat, thick and long
The plight of mankind I observe like ten thousand devotions,
Until the distorted essence of us stops seeming so...wrong.
Because I am more attuned to the dark,
To the quiet whimpers of children taken from the park.
The individual's darkness tears at my conscience
His malignant blackness a disease in his heart
Tell me where do the soft go?
Whose untainted innocence is not abused roughly so?
Whose kindness is not swallowed up by an unwholesome whole?
And the taste of life is not more bitter than sweet?
For I would wish for an otherness escape if it were not so.
The eternity of time when it was still young, and the solitude of the dark when it was empty.
The hardness of diamonds before the fire, and the fluidity of water before the frost.
The immeasurable pillars holding up the sky, and the animation of the body before its death,
And the soul that is tasked to carry all these along and hold up its head.
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 9:12 AM UTC
Purring, the big cat, prowls though the city,
Her grace resonating in the words of youth,
The rhythm of life beating within her heart,
Pulsing in the melting *** of cultural truth.
Unwholesome disenchantments; dispelled,
Crushing obsolete views of old generations,
One World, concepts, sweeping all before,
Welcoming the progress of mixed relations.
A Bohemian feline of change, so constant,
Wisdom, truth, acceptance, riot in her roars,
New wave embracing, all colours, all creeds,
Bigoted ignorance fearing sharpened claws.
The multi-faceted face, of free London now,
Don’t hate those who sneer, offer them pity,
Their time disperses on Thames ebbing tide,
Purring, the big cat, prowls through the city.
©Paul M Chafer 2016
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC
*A Poeme from ye Penne of
ye right learned Professor Peter Buttocke
collected by hysse Pupille Edna*
There is an ancient Shittah in my Garden, eldritch and right dun in alle Aspect
Wherein dwelleth a loude and noisome Ouzel, ye like of which I have ne'er yet seen
Under thysse our goode Goddes fayre Welkin up in ye Skye above us alle.
This foule and unwholesome Beeste, with trespassynge shote-like ****** Effusiones
Hath performed ye veritable Antithesis of kindly horticultural Edulcoration
For whiche Sinne I shall emasculate ye Brute, so God may grant me Pow'r.
Sudating at ye Nostrilles I advance, my trustie Stang at ye ever-ready,
And I prepare to eject it from yon Pollard, having previous shattered
Alle its horryd Frangibles with one brave bolde frampold Blowe.
Thwacke! A last Piffero-reminiscent Warble escapeth loude from its fowle coronoid Appendage;
Right severe Damage and harsh fatal Ruine of Nature irreversible have I caused
To ye shaggie shamelesse little avian Runte, whereon Goddes smile hath ne'er dawned.
Thus descendeth it to the Faeces-bedecked Herdwick, and I titubate triumph'lly o'er its conticent Corpse.
And were there yet a duodenary Set of ye Frass-Depositors, I would not give a Demi-Testrel for their Survyvall
Should they e'er again infringe the sacred Privacie whych ye ancient Shittah enjoyeth in my Garden.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 6:37 AM UTC
You are a thief,
You go around committing mischief,
You fill women's hearts with unwholesome grief,
You make men's lives short, and painfully brief.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
I have been so conflicted lately. Is it unwholesome not to wish, not to desire to place your trust in someone whom you lost faith in?
I feel like I have lost something very essential in this platonic relationship. I do not place my burdensome trust on a fragile shoulder easily and carelessly now. But then again, we are all just human, and my shoulders, like theirs, cannot bear a heavy pressure for long. Don't get me wrong, our friendship still holds true but I can no longer see the best in them.
I feel bad (by bad, i mean an undescribable whirlwind of feelings). I feel jaded, and sometimes I wonder why I cannot simply let go of the resentment and this sour, heart-wrenching feeling of betrayal. And I wonder ever harder why I do not want to mute out that voice in my mind that SCREAMS out : Alert! Alert! whenever I so much as glance at their passing shadows.
I ask myself why your name reminds me of open wounds and permanent scars. I ask myself why with every unnatural hesitation before a forced chuckle. I hate it. I abhor the grating-on-the-ears, awful imitation of genuine laughter. I ask myself why as I recognise our old photos, feeling like one half of a pair of heartbroken lovers, though between you and I, we have lost the title "soul sisters".
But, the answer is simple: We don't deserve it. They don't deserve my trust and I don't deserve to trust someone as easily again.
I wish I am sorry about this.
23.05.14.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
Moving with might
Following potential
refracting metaphorical light
Becoming apart
Of what gives people life
Selfless balance
Of give and receive
If the roots are affected
Then so are the leaves
If roots are
Not grounded,
Not watered
Not nurtured
Some leaves unwholesome
Some wilted
Some lonesome
Little do we know
The leaf is wanting to let go
Anticipating renown
To return to the soil
To avoid the turmoil
Of what it is to grow
" If "doesn't feel
Anything is real
Then it may keel
To avoid the hearth
Creep into the earth
Be lead to ascension
Strong In ground
Trunk,
Branches,
Long to astound
Constant extension
Leaves can regrow
Even when low
Growth can be slow
Growth can be fast
Leaves will come and go
Your roots will last
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 3:15 PM UTC
A flash of light in a concrete jungle.
Hands folding in a mesh of loving flesh
to counter the iron-willed Northern wind,
to counter all these days spent so solemnly.
You press your outer crest – your weight on me,
when all is tired, all substance expired;
to counter separation from the heavens,
to counter all life's unwholesome blemishes
that otherwise shall leave me unfulfilled.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
You broke my heart
Actually pulled it out
Looked at and felt it
Warm and quivering in your palms
And squeezed with all your might
Till nothing was left.
I thought you cared
Was lost in your spell
Until you broke it into ashes
I will forever be broken
Unwholesome,unfinished
Because you're so cold
You destroyed me in a flash
You abused my heart
You annihilated me.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC
to the girl who wrote me asking
me for advice at four o'clock in the
morning when her brain was high
off of an ashy heart: stop
******* around with toxins, and
no, i don't mean the drugs
turning your life into
unwholesome chaos. i mean
your ******* friends who told
you that
your problems are nothing
your demons are nothing
you are nothing. stop
it. you're better than
them.
to the friend who asked
for advice on how to turn
herself into a walking
skeleton: get over
yourself. anorexia and
bulimia will not fill
some hole in your tragic
past, they will ravage everything
good in you until you
are nothing but the flesh
you have despised. do
not ask me how to "become
an anorexic" because all you
are asking me is how
to die.
to the boy who i have
dedicated so many poems
to: god, you are so oblivious
to everything. to the soulless
"i love you"s spoken out of
pity, to the feigned grins, to
the fact that you are ripping
me apart. i was always told
to not love someone
who was sad because they would
drag me to the pit of the ocean
with them, and i should
have listened. there isn't
enough of me left
to share.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 8:47 PM UTC
This bodies taken, it has been pulled away brought out of place.
Weve walked away with a corpse and weve got nothing left to lose.
What can we do with this, this empty shell, this doomed lifeless man.
What a reflection of our lives, what a dance in our minds, where will we go
what shall we do, we are sitting here wasting away without a purpose.
Im always looking forward, but ive got no destination, no compensation.
This unwholesome life this tattered dream, why am I here why dont I believe?
Im looking for answers, a purpose to this routine, where am I going what have I to gain?
Tell me my purpose, feed me some truth, you stand there as if you have something to say but the words never escape
your mouth.
I see this body, this soulless body, who told this man what truth did he receive.
I guess an ending to everything he was or is there something more?
Is this man burning? Do flames consume him? Is he paying for his mistakes or is he paying
for the fear of another mans fear to speak?
If someone had told him, where would he be, would he be with the angels would he be at his feet.
To think where this mans body lays and where his souls seperates, could have all been changed.
To think this mans fate lies within the words of another man, a man sent by the creator but a man who was
a coward, a man who was ashamed, now a man lay dead in his grave and his sould is chained to a lake.
Many men suffer and many men die, we with hold the truth and another man burns.
We tell ourselves theyll be reached by someone else, how can we know their faith, how
can we know where theyll end up.
What a responsibility we have took on, where souls lie in our hands, where some men burn
and some men live in paradise from the speech out of our mouths. Tongues of fire have power to
breathe life into men and death into others. Open your mouth and speak the truth to save another mans fate.
Dec 15, 2010
Dec 15, 2010 at 8:01 PM UTC
some people say
i am an alcoholic
but i always say
i do work like a dog! wor-kahol-ic
i hate violence
coz i do love silence
i hate arguement
coz i do love agreement
people say some
unwholesome talks
but it's okay folks
just do what makes you awesome
i'd rather like detractor's flee
who made them selves so true
and i won't like to disagree with those false praisers
as long as they aren't doing my dislikes
say some people
whose being honest
now and then whom stats are triple-double
treasure them cheerfully in most valuable persons
no matter how they jumbled your word play
just show your moves with an exciting foreplay
express your self on and off poetry but don't become the cause of delay
for sincere Poets Surely save Poem Scripted on their simultaneous Poetic Soul
yours truly,
solEmn
Post Script :
when i come back
i am gonna be posting....
" the cycle of eternity "
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 10:17 AM UTC
Close your eyes
And it'll be over soon.
You won't feel the blows
Or his unwholesome touch.
I miss the one who cared for me,
If I close my eyes,
Maybe I can pretend he's here
And not the one who hurts me.
If I close my eyes,
Maybe endings will be easier.
If I close my eyes,
It will all be over soon.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
Bitter black drop to the tongue,
Vacuum pulling in air molecules
Which are indifferent to the creases
In a disgusted face
When it draws back its grimace.
I thought you were a bad thought,
An unwholesome feeling,
But then I remembered it is beautiful
To think or feel anything at all
How do I court thee, Death?
Infinitely peripheral lover
Itch in the corner of the corner of my eye
Which I cannot scratch--
Impetus of strange feelings
Agoraphobia and claustrophobia
And their sister philias
Black and white magic pattern that belies everything.
Somehow, death, you are not yourself
Just as a vortex in a sink does not really exist, if you understand me
You are the fractal edge of a part of my life
And in trying to define you
I arrive on the other side,
I am somehow me.
And in this way I thought you were bitter,
But actually, you're sweet.
You are the taste of meat
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 5:24 AM UTC
Love is not pure
Not in any form
In order to
Keep my canvas
Unsoiled of these
Unwholesome blots
I am lonely
Clean; yet unseen
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 10:37 PM UTC
I Like You the Most
I like you the most when your
Hands are on my neck.
Your fingers are large and cold and
Mold perfectly to the
Small nape that directs a narrow
Pathway to the
Rest of me.
And,
I hate myself for being hopeful.
I pretend to be
Busying myself with books and papers and pens,
When really,
I am only waiting for the
Light to hit your eyes and
Electrify me.
And,
I am empty when
It doesn’t.
I accept the unwholesome absence of your
Pale arms leaning against
My door frame.
My neck feels cold,
Because I like you the most when your
Hands are on my neck –
Feeling for eternity.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 3:28 PM UTC
You are a thief,
You go around committing mischief,
You fill women’s hearts with unwholesome grief,
You make men’s lives short and painfully brief.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 7:09 AM UTC