Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Raj Arumugam Oct 2010
Is this true
darling
what I hear
that the cult you submitted o
won’t let you see mum and dad?
And little Tom you left behind?
That the leader takes you nights
to tell you
God wants him to
explore your body and give Him an account?


Is this true
darling
what I hear?
that the cult you submitted to
has convinced you
Last Days are here
and in the fear of it all
you **** in your pants?
O lucky you
you’re the chosen one
you make holy water
so call in your cult
and let them drink it
or let them all lick it off your legs
tell them
darling
‘Here drink of this
the holy water
or lick it off
salt and urea
produced with faith and fear’

Give it back to the cult
tell them it is benediction
of Last Days
and they who drink it
will be amongst the elect
and those who lick it off
will sit on the right hand side of God;
and darling
produce prodigious amounts
as in the time of the Great Flood
tell them to queue and not squabble
there’s plenty for everyone of you
and if they say
they’re hungry
if you could
bring in holy food
tell them
a visit to the Scurvy Dogs Pound
can easily be arranged


O is this true
darling
what I hear?
that the intelligence
and mind
nature took so long to make in you
you blew it
on charlatans and nincompoops
and yourself became one?
Raj Arumugam Oct 2010
Is this true
darling
what I hear
that the cult you submitted o
won’t let you see mum and dad?
And little Tom you left behind?
That the leader takes you nights
to tell you
God wants him to
explore your body and give Him an account?


Is this true
darling
what I hear?
that the cult you submitted to
has convinced you
Last Days are here
and in the fear of it all
you **** in your pants?
O lucky you
you’re the chosen one
you make holy water
so call in your cult
and let them drink it
or let them all lick it off your legs
tell them,
darling:
‘Here drink of this
the holy water
or lick it off
salt and urea
produced with faith and fear’


Give it back to the cult
tell them it is benediction
of Last Days
and they who drink it
will be amongst the elect
and those who lick it off
will sit on the right hand side of God;
and darling
produce prodigious amounts
as in the time of the Great Flood
tell them to queue and not squabble
there’s plenty for everyone of you
and if they say
they’re hungry
if you could
bring in holy food
tell them
a visit to the Scurvy Dogs Pound
can easily be arranged


O is this true
darling
what I hear?
that the intelligence
and mind
nature took so long to make in you
you blew it
on charlatans and nincompoops
and yourself became one?
El puño labrador se aterciopela,
y en cruz en cada labio se aperfila.
Es fiesta! El ritmo del arado vuela;
y es un chantre de bronce cada esquila.
Afílase lo rudo. Habla escarcela...
En las venas indígenas rutila
un yaraví de sangre que se cuela
en nostalgias de sol por la pupila.
Las pallas, aquenando hondos suspiros,
como en raras estampas seculares,
enrosarian un símbolo en sus giros.
Luce él Apóstol en su trono, luego;
y es, entre inciensos, cirios y cantares,
el moderno dios-sol para el labriego.
Echa una cana al aire el indio triste.
Hacia el altar fulgente va el gentío.
El ojo del crepúsculo desiste
de ver quemado vivo el caserío. ,
La pastora de lana y llanque viste,
con pliegues de candor en su atavío;
y en su humildad de lana heroica y triste,
copo es su blanco corazón bravío.
Entre músicas, fuegos de bengala,
solfea un acordeónl Algún tendero
da su reclame al viento: "Nadie iguala!"
Las chispas al flotar lindas, graciosas,
son trigos de oro audaz que el chacarero
siembra en los cielos y en las nebulosas.
Madrugada. La chicha al fin revienta
en sollozos, lujurias, pugilatos;
entre olores de urea y de pimienta
traza un ebrio al andar mil garabatos.
"Mañana que me vaya..." se lamenta
un Romeo rural cantando a ratos.
Caldo madrugador hay ya de venta;
y brinca un ruido aperital de platos.
Van tres mujeres.. ., silba un golfo... Lejos
el río anda borracho y canta y llora
prehistorias de agua, tiempos viejos.
Y al sonar una caja de Tayanga,
como iniciando un huaino azul, remanga
sus pantorrillas de azafrán la Aurora.
Cameron Haste Jul 2014
Laying on the saline scale beach,
barren,
staring at those vaguely African trees
while the breeze
claps with their leaves.
They applaud the
Tesla bitten thunderstorm
brewing on another shore,
its tar black clouds,
sticky with tobacco residue
&
plasma spit, flaunting
In the salty starlight.
& here we are.
Tangled in each other.
Tripping over lips
&
tumbling over mumbles,
we try desperately to vocalize
the scene that has comfortably
Presented itself.
Oh how that galactic beast
threw itself over the countryside,
skulking in southern wind
like a cliche heartbeat
running on urea
and ***** electricity.

We hoard our secrets
for nights like these.
Watching a thunderstorm with a girl
Causticji May 2015
Something stinking this way comes
not just the nausea of cobblestone
on Sundays and all public holidays
'neath the stairwell of insidious intent
hooked onto the static line for ages
the suicidal fish sinks deeper in the
pool of bile but cannot drown, so he
toes the line of the drama queen via
the lament-laden path trodden by
god's servant, past the corner where
foreignicating correspondents collide,
turn right or left – doesn’t matter
which way he chooses, it’s wrong.

The misfortune of being missed by
a Fortuner, he proceeds to jump off
Tilak Bridge and is hit by Range Rovers
endeavouring to hit and run after
the mundane Meru that lost its wind
shielding itself from the tyranny of
daddy's little boys with flaccid toys and
***** mouths and itchy trigger fingers,
misadventure interrupted they pause to
douse the flames of the dying but
urea isn't carbon dioxide; it's piscicide.

Something Kafkaesque calls him but it's
masked with the aroma of ******* served
in the nick of time from 22 through 71,
past Lahore Chowk down Baker St.
Pedestrian rat on the wrong side of
a one-way expressway to your skull
about turn into pitch black cul-de-sac,
scurries in through the out grille gushing
acerbic symphonies from the basement,
storm-water drain up against the tide,
never learnt to swim yet he tries.

After a while, she'll be home and dry.

The low ceiling makes him slouch
in and out through endless maze,
daily grind never takes a break
no room to turn around walk out,
yet again he forgets not to stretch
yet another fresh bump on his skull
now there are four score maybe more
benign, perhaps, who knows?
rats can't scan, only cats can.

The ache's spread to the limbs
the head and the hypertensive heart
then anterior now posterior
the costive claustrophe bleeds again,
it's a duct with a view downstairs,
he's a ****** not entirely by choice,
tom cat jerry kitten eating in and out
the pie is beyond grasp, at the exit
lies a mousetrap sans the bait,
nothing else for him to do but
work his fingers to the bone.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2017
~~
for Danel Kessler^
~~~

in the early morning
of one's youth,
going to synagogue,
quite regularly,
a fabulous, honorably believing,
father's sole request,
more than a half-century ago

time eroded,
the fallacies of organizing a public meeting time
with a deity who seemed unavailable,
when most needed

instead we chatted
in the late of night of the early morning,
a time and places of my choosing,
for human fools do like  a setting regular,
comfort food for the divine spark within

rising/writing for early morning
poetry mass,
was a noted feature of the twofold meaning
of my latter years

where and whence, now and thence,
irreverent dialogue
tween the invisible one,
that would be me,

(can you see me now?)
and the visible one,
the you-know-who-
maker-of-custom-suited souls,

(can "you" see me now?)

*had become  
quite the regular artistes salon

witty repartee, elegiac conversations,
the residuals, in a rain drain trapped,
products collected by the light of  the early dawning,
apres skiing of an all deep-night long mournful body scoring,
poetic raconteur-ing

heaping spoonfuls of two-way mutual chastising,
paeans to the divinity in human-inherent,
regular debate team features of a
contested dark bedroom,
lit only by tablet light bright,
one if by land, two if by sea,
which the shining path to be taken by
itinerant signal comedic essays,
crafted aboard frigates and kayaks
voyaging on turgid, turbulent rivers,
mean city streets, 
swath cut by switchblades of greed,
exploring stories of the dying lands
of an aging man
fed by the streaming videos tubing down
the veins and arteries of an aging poseur

so in the sleep hours,
when I did not dream,
instead nail bled from my hands
words upon  a cold sweaty screen
from fevered fingertips,
diatribe prayers of hope ever after,
after every
dialysis of the arrogance of human nature,
removing, diabolical urea of our tainted beings,
replacing, with granular molecules of wishful thinking

then it stopped, for unknown reasons,
unbegotten creativity, chilling like
***** and champagne layabouts,
on the upper shelf of a mind's refrigerator,
always ready, just in case,
say
a new borne terrorist atrocity,
a seasonal wistfulness flu,
a cold virus blue through the heart,
love came and went with nary a
how-the-hell-did-that-happen,
even a new born babe joy
to the family est arrivé,
comld torch that heirloom/heritage seeded
inert patented creativity
into anime wakefulness

so here, so hear, I paid-pause,
conclude-delude, at 4:44am on
January Seventeenth of Two Thousand and Seventeen,
winessed by numerals white on a blackened background,
of a digital alarm clock with time, temperature and
the lunar phase of a madman
who twice was Christ told
would be a poet/story teller,
like his mother

a bountiful clock telling,
precision information detailing,
a tale that tells about nothing about a man,
who no longer requires
an alarm reminder to attend
his own moring reborning mass,
on a regular basis,

for his disheartened verbs,
runaway convict adjectives,
con-nouns, whimpering exclamations,
all on the loose,
nice sounding,
but of no earthly use

his lips like (the book of) Ruth's,
move in silent prayer,
only two can hear,
but the low priest observing,
disbelieves, thinking the piety of the poet
is just drunken emotion, not devotion,
kens not the broken poems
of the morning mass service no more,
but for
this one, irregular,
unacceptable exception
5:18am 1/17/17

^
I don't think I can write a storytelling poem much better than this. So happily gift to Denel, who serves the gods of poetry and our works with devotion, and who wrote this and inspired me

You must begin early
while it is cool and your head clear
discernment, a sharpened tine
probing the rocky darkness
for all things latent and destructive...

You must delve as close
to the origin as possible
or the **** you think eradicated
will bide its time, germinating
in the still secret ground

waiting for light
to penetrate the moist earth
waking the sprout
who voraciously pushes up and out
a curled blemish

in your otherwise carefully tended garden.
Charles Barnett Jul 2012
I'm smoking cigarettes
to the filiters, inhaling
carcinogens and rat poison
and urea like oxygen,
while you're dancing,
dancing around words
and the bedroom floor.
Martin Narrod Mar 2014
Departing life, grandeur of elysium. Daylight and strife.
Mid-minimal ocular display, see it if you do.
The ****** morale is scaly and prickly as coral flowers, within
The rut of cornery blossoms, ransacked by pronghorns in rut.

America, corner of the second century. Title of the thermopolium and its Lintels. Chests of coals from where fox kin stuffed goose meat and wild fowl.
Anchors us into the Earth. Salt vibrations echo through narrow thickets of Grazers. Undulates flaunt urea on every cleft of green, this shelf of plateau, Any gall stone thrown this way or that way.

Underneath the hours, under nine, we sample ginger and sugar snaps under Our tongues. We race, like royal rats, through the timbrels, down the trail, Out into the outer-woods, down the ravines, up through the terrace where The hedgehogs go, and out to the quay and rills where father fits the stream With his string laps and lanterns. Margaret loves roe while I can barely stand Anything that breathes underwater. Except for the sharks, I am crazy for Them, how there quill-like teeth paint me into oblivion and my amazing Flight for death.

Mommy hates the subway, she says it's gritty and for trollops and beggars, But I say it's an adventure. We have our own tunnel, and George comes with us too. I wonder if his daughters in Cropredy come too, or if they have to. And papa taught me to listen for them. 1-2-3-4-5 CRASH!! 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10 BOOOM!!!! They fly over to us, from France papa says. It's the Germans he says, "but by '45 it'll all be done with, America can't keep its hands out of our pockets, and when they come everyone will go home." And I ask him,"Even George, even George will go home?" And so he told me no, not then. Not ever really.
Today I ****** In The Sink.  

couldn't hold it to aim toward the toilet,
I drank too much soda and I had to go *** bad
there my engine was cast went right for the sink
can't even wink to dismiss this earthly bliss with a time well spent in thought

In my experience, men who *** (or tip their *** bottles) down the sink, don't tip it straight down the plughole - they tip it down the sides of the sink first.  They also decide to economise on water to the extent that they make no attempt whatsoever to rinse the *** off.  This means that before long, like a few minutes as the water evaporates and the urea becomes concentrated,  - YOUR SINK WILL STINK!!!  And, as the sink always seems to be the one you want to brush your teeth in, this means that your first task in the morning is to scrub out the sink else half way through brushing your teeth you will suddenly feel rather ill and probably throw up down said sink, which will then need an even more thorough clean.  But the sponge you scrub the sink out with will then need to be hidden from the rest of the family who will otherwise attempt to wash either themselves or the tea-cups with it.  Our sink is a pretty basic one with a straight tube draining the waste water away, but if you have one with a u-tube thingie fitted, it will always retain some *** no matter how much water you use in a futile attempt to rinse it out, and every time you approach the sink your stomach will clench in fear of the stench that will rise from the plug hole as you reach for your toothbrush.
Ryan O'Leary Jun 2023
USA
They bombed the road on the
bridge to Crimea
bombed the pipe full of
gas, not urea
They imposed sanctions
on Putin
Flour salt yeast and gluten
But this Dam blast is
America's Korea

— The End —