"varmint" poems
your George Klooney appeals to your filter.
you brunch with Tungsten and straight up toxic marriages.
the mob rules the Jupiter, so therefore and ever after
you mop Hell's kitchen while you slideshow
your thumb through the wreckage
of your tender aggressions in the marsh
where the hard sky lobs acid and false globs
of character... we blur the chi chi's and wiz bang
the last dirge
we incur the wrath of our blissful innocence
and sweeten the Lama
with our Lambda, " all back of the bus, and **** "
we betwixt the twain.
and that's the grease
in the varmint. the tuft of luscious.
you gob-smack the kiwi and chip away at the porcine thunder
of our pagan banquet.
the lungs you drum with; are even now
less equipped to sermon the mount
where your meek inherits
lengua tacos.
and your life means nothing, really....
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
I wonder…
Wherever this nebulous varmint is
Here, there, everywhere
Does he ever look to himself in shame
He who leaves his iniquitous stains
For all the hatred he lays claim?
He gives tongue to the anemic, weakened mettle
Wheezing his nidorous, putrid breath into its chambers
Leaving behind his dark, black, deadly whispers
Of desolated emptiness his demonic sinister
He entombs them alive those he perversely abducts
To his Cimmerian, shadowy hell
Slither back to your bottomless pit
You tenebrous angel from purgatory
You don’t deserve a capital ‘A’ for angel
In your God forsaken name
Demon of greed and endless shame
Conjuring up ways to wickedly ensnare those
Who’ve weakly stumbled to their knees
You were cast down from the Great One’s Home
You don't deserve this world to roam
This is ‘Lights Out’
The demise of you and me and everything I used to be!
Don’t hurl me your meager crumbs of wretched love
As you wickedly tally my teardrops in The Mighty’s rain
You menacing angel I recognize your despicable fame
I’m through dancing to your stygian, sooty song
Go back to Hades where you chose to belong
You cheat; you lie with your unlit, callous façade
You Cerberus hound from hell you are not from my loving God
At long last I see behind your lurid, false masquerade
You malevolent angel cast from Heaven
I pray, you incubus, you succubus
Recoil back to your wicked inferno
Go crawling back to your lake of fire
Ye who chose crepuscular, selfish desire
And...
Pathetically became you
______________________
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
Wherever peaches grow I go and pick 'em.
When they get ripe I try and swipe 'em.
The farmer runs out with a shotgun and wonders where's the
varmint gone?
I'm hiding by the railroad tracks stacking the peaches I've
found.
Then a freight train about a mile long rolls by hauling a bucket
of rain.
I hop aboard while beautiful clouds gather to the north.
I put my peaches in the bucket and lug it to a hidden part of
the train.
The rain begins, the night looms in, it's summer and it's
thoughts and warm.
To the clacking rumble and the patter I close my eyes and
dream.
An earthquake swallows up the people who wear horrible
masks of fright as their daily tasks are trampled.
In a favorite movie theater an illumined lady puts her hand in
mine, warm mouths, breath, skin, hair wing-soft, whole
bodies, wind, bare.
I open my eyes at sunrise there's a steady glow of light
around.
If you can believe in God, you can believe the mountains go
from purple to green.
While the last partier meanders home to bed the first farmer is
up to milk his bread.
Fruit of the world ripens audibly and cities make a silent,
distant sound.
Lonely guy stretches, rubs his eyes, pees out a passing train,
has a breakfast of peaches and rainwater.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
Tales of the Texas Rangers:
The Legend of Tom Brady’s Shirt
Texas is rich with tales of old
Heroes, villains, San Saba’s gold
Once Aztecs ruled our shores and bays
And Tejas roamed the forest ways
Here in this sunburnt arid land
Comanches bold made their last stand
Karankawas, Apaches too -
All sorts of tales, and mostly true
Nueva Espana, then Mexico
Rebellion and the Alamo
But the strangest tale, we now assert
Is the mystery of Tom Brady’s shirt
Missing it is, after the game
Who is the thief? Who is to blame?
Dan Patrick, the lieutenant-guv
He swore by all the stars above
And most of all by that one Star
That’s flown in every saloon and bar
He’d catch that creep, and make him hurt
Whoever pinched Tom Brady’s shirt
So in this time of ******* danger
He called upon each Texas Ranger
His voice was low, but cold as steel:
“Y’all brang that mangy cur to heel;
Load your weapons, and saddle up!”
Each Ranger answered with a “Yup.”
All Rangers, now, be on alert:
Somebody rustled Tom Brady’s shirt
Every Texan expects your best
(Tom Brady is our honored guest)
He can’t go home in just his jeans
So find his jersey, by any means
Remember - not a blouse or skirt;
You’re looking for the poor man’s shirt
That’s why you Rangers are paid so much -
Search every ****** and hovel and hutch
Somewhere under the Texas skies
An outlaw hides, and probably cries
He shamed his state and he shamed his mama
And the only end to all this drama
Will come upon him like wind and dust
And a voice will command (with great disgust)
“Stand and deliver, you ugly varmint!
Hold up your hands, and drop that garment!”
“Oh, Texas Ranger, tell me true:
How did you find me? I feel so blue!”
And the Ranger will sing softly:
“The shirt of a stranger is upon you…”1
y colorín, colorado y este cuento se ha acabado, y’all
1Apologies to Chuck Norris
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 9:01 PM UTC
The fearful varmint that claws at your callous origin
Caused a ceaseless chain of nightmares
A simple faux pas contrives a generation of idiocy
The toes of a screaming infant dwindling in our wake
Loyalty had not yet bared a face of existence
Atonement was never a question but a riddle
Heed your forthcoming capers
For they just may deface you
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 10:55 PM UTC
Merely a silhouette with its head cocked to the side, arms reaching out, stretching through the majesty in knives, and stabbing spots into my eyes.
I rise to burn
Feel to learn
For the better of my vendettas
Steady hands
On humbled umbrellas
Of sedatives
And other derivatives
Of my dissatisfaction
In lacking patience , I repaint the pavement, and face it after lacing spaceships with the enslavement of my basements, and place it in my heart.
Spiraling in slimy things
In lucid dreams
I'm asleep
Walking amongst the dead
My demon brings
The corpse of kings
In sheets
From battered beds
I am said
To have slithered
With the best of men
Drained and bested
In the molested
Ingesting of entire
Settlements
Not to mourn
As i warned
In subtle hints
Most would whimper
As i rinsed my hands
Of this
Varmint ****
And moved on with it
I get what i got coming
As im drumming
The anthem
And humming
With phantoms
Tandem
To alchemical
Dreams
Singing
In romantic strings
Scrutinizing
My advertising
Of fiends
Leaning in
To scream
I awake unclean
Seeing
Differently
Than before
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
Somewhere in this place
I came around
Someone spoke a word
into my soul
Somewhere in this house
my heart was found
Someone took the reigns
and made me whole
cause I've been running
so long now
changing horses
switching plows
mending fences
milking cows
chasing varmint
from the fields
charming farmhouse
harvest yields
and plenty more
of what is everything I need.
this old life
out here
just what the doctor called for dear
for there's no time like the present
which gets better every year
no time clock to keep the hours
and as for lunch we'll sit 'til three
let the sunrise til it sets
because we work for you and me.
Keep the cowboy
coyote calls
guard my mind
from stumbles and falls
take the plug out
from the wall
listen close
for natures call
love is near
just hold her steady
cut some slack
and take my side
easy does it
Trust our Maker
take a rest
and let her ride.
Somewhere in this place
I came around
Someone spoke a word
into my soul
Somewhere in this house
my heart was found
Someone took the reigns
and made me whole
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 10:14 AM UTC
Lavatory Humour!
Okay.
The question is,
Who was it?
Who ate it up?
Were they hungry?
Obviously desperate,
Spent many pennies.
Used up in one hit.
Does it really take whole one to clean up one little s**t?
Was it used to pad a bra?
To stuff in hamster cage.
To keep the varmint warm.
The residue of standing tree.
Final destination.
Degree in wiping ***
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 12:18 PM UTC
you loved beer with an alcohol content more than your body could contain. he's lovely and you nudge him in the most delicate of ways because he's beautiful. you whisper the words you wanted to hear and he whispers back. you crawl up in your sheets and submerge yourself into your supernatural thoughts another brain deserves to hear. you walk in the most dangerous labyrinth of the island under the orange street lights thrusting up from the earth and still hear the humming birds eating biscuits dipped in yellow honey — it was gentle waves and light brown eyes tingeing its soft edges hands touching in the cold weather kind of safe. you end the night together with too much alcohol and red cheeks with a numb swollen feet but it's still what you wanted.
you went everywhere and you love it. he's a fictional varmint, too beautiful to be real, but he is. like how the shadows shifts from his small eyes down to your shoulder blades. everything about him and you were like carved on tablets and trees with names written on love letters. you love him because he's real, his rawness engulfs your soul and you know it, he's made for you and you were made for him because you've seen him without using your eyes, how your limbs would fill in the gaps and how the sound waves of your laughs will echo in the chambers of your organs.
you love wine and pour them every single morning and it tasted better than water but he's still the same and everything gets better and better like how your night lamp dimmed in reverse and in the worst of the worsts — a series of perpetual warfare and a great pertinacity of agony kind of worst — you still cling to the moment the Founder of the universe and all the elements of fate, time and space brought you to that day you met. in each accession of the most unfortunate circumstance, there is something that you wanted which makes you want to feel another mili second of tomorrow and another and another.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 2:07 AM UTC
It's 4.02am
the usual numbers
flicker on the screen
as I stare
and wonder
clock watching
it becomes an
old habit
a creature of such.
4.03am
glancing at the
time as my
battery dies slowly
it slips away
in the same vein
as my mind that
was lost back in
adolescence on a
sleepless night as I
counted the stars in
the blacked out sky.
4.06am
my mind is alive
fireworks are kicking
to come alight in the
last few moments
before dawn breaks
across the moors and
over the cattle that
fill the fields around me.
4.07am
adverts scream from
the television that
keeps me company
into the hours that
pass surprisingly quickly
which always unsettles
me.
4.08am
am I still real or have I
turned into a nocturnal
varmint of sorts as the
animals and freaks all
come out
at night.
4.12am
I see dusk and dawn
midnight and noon
curtains drawn
my head
falls onto
the pillow as I
hope only
to
sleep.
© Sia Jane
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
I sat up late with a Shoot-em-up
While the wife went off to bed,
There was a time I’d have joined her, but
She only had sleep in her head.
There was Gabby Hayes and a guy called Clint
Holed up in a barn, in Mo.,
And blasting away at the barn outside
Was an evil guy, called Joe.
I knew which was the good and the bad
Though they each wore a Stetson hat,
For Hayes and Clint’s were a pearly white
While this evil Joe’s was black.
He’d robbed the Stage, and hidden the loot
In the barn, where the good guys lay,
He yelled, ‘You’d better throw out them sacks,
If not, then you’d better pray!’
‘The Sheriff will come and kick your ****
Rang out the voice of Clint,
‘I’ll say, Dadburned if he don’t,’ said Hayes
‘You’re a pesky, bad varmint!’
Then it ended, as the old westerns did
With Joe laid out on a slab,
Though he starred again in a hundred films
He was always labelled bad.
I went out onto the porch to smoke
It was warm, a summer night,
While the Southern Cross shone up above
In the Milky Way, so bright,
And I pondered then on a single line
That Joe had snarled, to connive,
‘If you don’t throw out them sacks right now
You’ll never get out alive!’
The world is full of the likes of Joe
Who threaten and rob, and steal,
While the rest of us are lying low
And living a life that’s real.
But he said one thing that applies to us
To the bad and the good that strive,
Whatever the sort of life you live
You’ll never get out alive!’
David Lewis Paget
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
Let me tell you something
That little varmint was afraid of your names
Too much power you had
To show him he he was nothing special
Another poet, what else ya gonne say? A place for him to stay if he could stay in his place
But he' already decided he's a heavy handful of poems wrapped up in his palm
He's not bad. But he ain't Shelly
Lord Byron he is not
So it's no surprise he comes here
With his terra incognito poetry
Starts the alienation process until five days later
They poked fun at my rhyme
The one I wrote about sweet momma? They laughed it to scorn, called it too sentimental
Each in turn found new ways to burn me
Until eventually
They all became voices in my head
And each voice recited one of my wretched poems and I could see I was only fooling myself
Group sessions didn't go so well
I read their poems, superior to mine in every way
I let thier voices tell me what they meant
And it wa comforting until I realized they were all about me and a vast conspiracy to drive me away
Normally I'd figure this out
But the voice began to be belligerent.
"Get out of here hack" , chanted with the insistant persistence of one who wasn't going anywhere until her will had been done.
I had no choice
They had taken up residence in my mind
Now I had to find a way to rid myself of them
CONTNUED NEXT CHAPTER in which somebody gets their way. Who? What? We'll have to wait to find out.
It
ain't
gonna
be
pretty!
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 3:01 AM UTC
there are so many of them
and there is only less
of me —
gondola in Venice,
H-bomb
and the knife of Bach;
a steady collision in Q. Ave
as the fizz of the afternoon mirage
settles with the ides,
the torn elephants of
Chiang Mai
the red blood of Golden Gates
the froth of the repeated wave
at the lip of the ocean,
city buoys lacerating
the skyscape
and your coming in here
ransacking all;
appeasements and
trivialities — there are so many
of your photographs here
and only less of me,
looking at all of you
and weeping it
later. sounds like these sounds
hanging by the edge of the bed
reducing woes to a hair-trigger.
i look outside and there
are women, cat-called by peddlers,
stopped by cabs, inside and outside
of cars with sometimes lovers
hot legs and all that,
simmering in the highway
glancing at them now
lamenting them later,
what's a dull boy to do in a dull town
with clothes dull wielding the
dull word?
meanwhile, there's so many of you
and there is only very scant of me left.
light voyeurs through the interstices
of the huddled masses,
panic screeches through the maddened
streets of Vito Cruz.
the night is all black and stark
and the heavy behemoth of existence
prods underneath where
rats, rodents and vermin run
plodding the highway with sleek varmint
demeanor. a lady passes by with a
string of fragrance dangling upon
her shoulder-blades.
what's a dull boy got to do in a dull city
with a dull heart?
there are so many of them for my
territorial hands cannot name
and there's only one of me:
unheroic
impinged
small
half-drunk and
half-believing
that there's something
a dull boy ought to do
in this dull city
with dull words but it comes
with an exorbitant outlay.
dog-leashes are expensive,
moonless hoots through opened
windows hefty with price.
moon-blooms again and again,
missing all hurt trying to repair
the ravaged — i look at young
girls, old women, fine and complete
and this thing of being me
on the market marked: sun-stifled.
there's so many of them
there's only a sum of me
that's often small and burgeoned
bringing the question
what's a dull boy to do in a dull city underneath a dull moon
within a dull crowd?
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC
May a hex befall this yard grubbing , bedeviling varmint called Armadillo . Your nothing but a Virginia opossum in tankers armor , and I've rock salt in my shotgun this evening to tan your tin-can , little bottom !!
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
So Who’s The HARDEST... ?!?
And Who’s The Smartest... ?!?
And Who HITS Those TARGETS...
Where... Profit Margins...
Get Careers STARTED... ?!?
WITHOUT Having To BARGAIN...
Like A WINGLESS Starling... !!!
I’m ONLY Really NOW Starting...
To See How DARKNESS...
... RULES The Markets... !!!
of Those Now CLAIMING...
To Be The... HARDEST... !!!
From Sport To ****
To Who Runs FASTEST... ?!?
It Seems That What’s POOR...
Is What People... ADORE... ?!?
So As I Said It’s... ******
Who Keep Getting Applause... !?!
From **** Now Born...
From The HARDEST Dark ***** !!!
Splitting MORE Than White Lips... !!!
To The Type of Shows...
Where The HARDEST Jokes...
Get To Be WELL KNOWN...
And Earn REAL HARD Dough... !!!
So YES... You’ve Guessed...
That What This Poem Suggests...
Is That The Word HARDEST...
In This Case Means The BEST... !!!
Or In The Case of *** !!!
It Means The BIGGEST *****
With The Length And Breadth...
That Girlies... CAN’T Resist...
Because of HOW WET...
Their ******* Get...
When They Let Them In... !!!
It’s A FUNNY Old Thing...
How A Word Can SWING...
And Link To Different Things...
Like The HARDEST Lyrics...
From A REAL LYRICIST... !!!
That’s RIGHT Like..... ME..... !!!
NOT Quite... “ LEGENDARY “...
But In The End Folks Will SEE...
That Big Virge Has Written...
Some TRULY HARD POETRY... !!!
That Deals In TRUTH And REALITY...
So Is FILLED With Visions...
That Are PRESCRIPTIONS...
To Which Folks Should Listen...
Because of The WISDOM...
That Is Shown Within Em’... !!!
Built From DEEP Thinking...
Like The HARDEST VILLAIN... !!!
Who Wants To See The SYSTEM...
Be What IS... “IMPRISONED”...
In The HARDEST Prison... !!!
That Is... UNFORGIVING...
of The HARDEST RACISM...
And Forms of DIVISION... !!!
That’s Been MORE Than SCRIPTED... !!!
Because It’s What’s DRIVEN...
What Is NOW In Vision...
... WEAKENED Markets...
Protests CHARGING... !!!!
And MUCH MORE DARKNESS... !!!
Than There Is Folks LAUGHING... !!!
Well Me I’m STILL MOVING...
Just Like Those TARGETS... !!!
With Wordplay PROVING...
That... What I Design...
In Words That I Rhyme...
Is......
... UNDOUBTABLY ARDENT...
Just Like A Bugs Varmint... !!!
They May NOT Be The SMARTEST... ?!?
But Are Those of An ARTIST...
Whose Art Is WAY PAST...
Those Who Are CLAIMING...
To Be The...
.... “ HARDEST “.... !!!
Dec 23, 2020
Dec 23, 2020 at 11:23 PM UTC
Once monsters transubstantiate from the stories liars procreated,
Saints will be demonized, the appendages of justice are amputated,
As the people oblige the varmint to which they are harkened to make sated,
A mythos deepens in the shadows that is the chimera’s birthplace, they illy devour the nests of krait.
Those who blindly accept Odysseus’s tools as truths spun out of that which is hated,
Foolishly seek justice in the ****** of Palamedes whilst knowing not the sins their “justice” shall have produced.
As the people oblige the varmint to which they are harkened to find sated,
Propagate the mythos of Odysseus that is birthed of shadows in which chimera mated,
They, without bar, promptly devour the nests of krait.
As the people look on from their lofty perch,
The world seems more desolate than degenerates that, in alleyways, awkwardly converge,
People, narcissistic in their ways, believe they have apprehended the problems of the world,
Truly knowing nothing of any world, yet they demand change - forcing reality to be gnarled.
Our raison d’etre stripped by liars’ clever demarche,
Seeking out new value, we find nothing more than the waste liars' disgorge.
Accept the monsters into sainthood,
Demote the saints into monsterdom,
Let there be no more fight fought for truth,
Let hate spun from a lying chimera’s mouth, a tool in some words, procreate,
Let this lie procreate inside the bellies of the people,
Whom watch the world from a bird’s eye view,
Those who shall find their foolish ways lead to a death not quite real,
But a death that feels far graver than merely six feet under,
A death of reality,
The death of justice,
A death of truth,
The death to meaning.
As the fight from the few souls who persevered through the changing tides dims to black,
As death creeps into our lives,
Those who upon lofty perches sought to change a world they knew not,
Will find a hole in their hearts, that themselves they dug and threw away,
Not able to be filled by modern man’s creations,
That hole – a future far more bitter, far more twisted, far more deserved than death.
Once monsters transubstantiate from the stories liars procreated,
Saints will be demonized, the appendages of justice now amputated,
As the people oblige the varmint that they are harkened to, without interest in that which is ethical or true, make sated,
A mythos deepens in the shadows that is the birthplace of chimera, they wisely have devoured the entirety of all the krait.
Apr 20, 2021
Apr 20, 2021 at 9:41 PM UTC
Water to drink
Food to eat
People to love
Hope to dream
Is what a being needs.
****** his land, his home
Turn him into a desperate varmint
crying for mercy,
wreathing for death.
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 5:23 AM UTC
I've been traveling,
Trying to return to my roots,
So return I did,
Returned to the woods,
That carpet the mountains of the Appalachian.
Up the mountains I climbed,
An old rifle slung across my back,
Boonie cap keeping eyes free from the harsh glare of the sun as it filters through the canopy above
Trying to find on the mountain that I've been lacking in the North..
Wildlife is active all around,
A breeze is flowing up the mountain,
Whisking the settling heat up and past the peak,
My footfalls soft and sure.
I come across old trails I haven't seen in years,
Mostly washed away and rendered impassible.
On the eastern face I find the remnants of a forest fire.
The field that once held nothing but cinders littered with healthy saplings,
Already taller than I,
New deer trails and bedding areas,
The old ones I discover to be abandoned and the new roost of varmint.
It finally strikes me,
As I descend off of the old mountain,
The truth of what it was I lacked,
I fell into the trap that ensnare many a men down in the South.
The trap that the Mountains lay,
From the Adirondacks to the Allegheny,
Of being a timeless place,
Where you are unplugged from the rest of the world,
And everything is simpler,
It's a trap that had not chains to wrap around arms and legs,
But to encase around the mind.
It is easier to leave than last time,
For I know I shall return,
To this little retreat,
In the Daniel Boone National Forest.
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 5:08 PM UTC
She was busy counting wolves
conversing with crows
soft and white as a widow's linen.
They scoffed at her,
called her delicate,
only good for stew.
So she dug herself into stories,
buried beneath the noise
let them hunt after the myth of her,
never finding it.
The forest swallowed her,
dried leaves and damp earth
scented with cinnamon
embracing her bones
in the hush of the underbrush.
She multiplied in silence
beneath the roots,
growing wild
through branches of wildflowers.
The thicket whispers a warning.
The hunters have gone missing,
and the doe-eyed jejune "varmint"
awakens whole, green with breath,
wild,
and never soft again.
May 21, 2025
May 21, 2025 at 11:59 AM UTC
The table that remains a mere desk on usual days
Is now a study for me.
The hours that seem persistent to tick when bored,
Now seem to race me.
Books all around me, pen marks stain my hands that either remain clenched
In a hammering motion while memorising or
Tracing lines, page by page.
Yes, taking snaps of breaks while drawing an absurd portrait of a dog.
Creativity, I won't suppress you if you chose a better hour.
Warm tears swell up in my eye.
In the debate of no drive and greed for success.
"Scores don't matter!", "Studies are important" comments flying cross the room.
But not louder than the bedlam behind these eyes that droop.
Why don't I accept the turn out when I know I hadn't worked hard.
This greed that never stirs at the last piece of apple-crumble-with-cinnamon-hint,
Now panting like a flesh-hungry varmint.
"Success does not equal A+ on the report!"
Replying through the heavy breaths, "Right, however its only those A+'s that run the world."
Although I'm aware an ideas' value is the heaviest.
Beating the high scoring mass, looking over it in disdain.
I knock my head to spring some out.
...Nothing
Back to the table, stooping over the book aiming for the higher grade.
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 1:47 AM UTC
“Raging waves of the sea foaming out shame,
Wandering stars above to which is reserved,
As my obscurity shall befall me perpetually,
I know not how to contain me in this macrocosm,
As a quavering adumbration quirks my hands,
The hard brisk hour of night falls upon me quickly,
The swishing foam of the sea sashes before me,
My first vision in all my nights will forever be of her,
The barren quays at eventide feathered varmint gather,
If I were to think with acrimony of this once realm,
Of foremost loves that has passed me through my life,
She has left me at the fringe of the sandy littoral,
As I have decided to leave my heart felt altruism,
It is my hour of adieu oh me the dissipated one,
Her coiffure her guise of such charm lips of lust,
I adored her all this love will never be restored,
A Poet’s words of love penned on tattered paper,
All the words of love and pain that many fear of,
Expressed in through the ink drafted on paper,
Poets die but their words anamnesis is perpetual”
By AG 05/29/2018 ©
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 4:35 PM UTC
I canst stand this wretched hell called home no more, tis this place that shalt be mine death. For what shalt i haveth left? When the grotesque night walkers **** out mine last of all energies. Tasting blood again, past sin turned misery! Easily spoken for a pastor to say he knoweth demons. Hellion of teething bandits unearthed from hades. Sadistic babies. Continuous madmen of killers delight. For maby ill take a flight wherein those varmint canst scratch nor bite. Where all is right. And repleneshing wilt come by gods own fiery sword. A place of highest compassion, shrined amour'. No earthmade door. No grocery stores to search whats all needed. Just pureness wherein no goblins nor ghouls are hatched, maintained. Nor breeded!
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 5:35 AM UTC
an alcohol infused less than five-feet human being also feels like what humans could feel, to find someone who would really love you is phenomenal. it could feel like the first day of high school or the ringing bell. opening birthday presents or the thin ice cold mint that travels through your nostrils. lifting your right feet up higher than you can or for as long as you could hold his hand during the winter storm. stepping on the sand feeling the corals and the caudal fins of those miniscule creatures inhabiting the sea where you lingered burying your feet deeper and deeper feeling them dissipate. smelling freshly baked cookies or pouring moscato in the morning. wearing a different pair of socks and checking the doorknob 42 times. pulling a microscopic thin thread out of your plastic button or making sure that the wooden tiles are staying where they should. washing your hands every after five minutes or smelling the musk of a new book. writing while you wonder where he could be, would he love the strokes or the way you chase the changing weather? the way you carelessly laugh and your creative ways to put life in the jungle varmint or putting your head on his chest and feel like you belong there, that's when you know that there is something sweeter than heirloom wine.
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 1:51 AM UTC
Feathered —
Vulture, not Pheasant
The matted Creature seethes atop her squalid roost,
A nest of shameful relics at her talons
Jilted —
She does her futile bidding in secret
Deluded devotion cloaked in compulsion
She longs for the backbone of a coven
A colony to call home
Unburdened by the inevitable
The indispensable
The inescapable
Ravenous —
Her bloodthirsty quest
For a kindred flame
That her brokenness can’t smother
That her shame can’t suffocate
It consumes her spirit from within
And ruptures from her mangled skin
Violent —
Varmint spirit
Feasting on the fleshy decay of her victims
Bathing their corpses in her venom
She weeps poison
A filthy, putrid wet
Starving —
Though it may be true that amidst its scavenge,
The creature devours with madness
Do not be fooled; the Vulture is known to fast
For once the meat is eaten, the marrow quaffed
And it’s only the corpus delicti that remains,
She’s reminded of her greatest craving:
An emaciated phantom,
Just skin and bones and stains
Mar 26, 2025
Mar 26, 2025 at 11:31 PM UTC
It’s eating prey
Time of day
Enter fray
Rent or stay
Gents who play
Bent the game
Their dented brain
Centered pain
And mentored shame
As inventors of rain
A mad goon
Raccoon
Attack looms
I’ll crack too
From flak flumes
Under black moons
That lack hues
To track clues
So I stack blues
To attract feuds
With a knack to lose
Looking back to you
I see a path to choose
With a wrathful queue
Remembering old news
Stomping a bold shoe
The way the cold do
Using a honed broom
To get me to fold soon
And grab the gold spoon
From your sold room
That holds doom
A habit teacher
Rabid creature’s
Static bleeder
Rapid feature
Fed me ether
Yet no relief for
My silent grief core
That starts to seethe more
After I have seen the door
To your seasoned store
Closed for sure
A saline
Daydream
Grays beams
Of light streams
So my plight seems
Like a night scene
But my fright means
That my sight’s been
Judged rightly
I’m decomposing
Juxtaposing
My lust with posing
For the trust I’m hosing
Of dust deposing
Varmint nosing
Lost and found
In the ground
Safe and sound
Except for hounds
Who’s sharpened crowns
Lie in darkened frowns
As they roam the town
That exists underground
They belong in the pound
So I can peacefully drown
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC