"varmints" poems
implosions are for starfish and our mission is clear. we have nowhere to be from
and that's half the battle. we are seldom unbridled in the chastity of our carnal bluff...
and our cages are breathing. we are finally designing our most daring Inertia.
both mum on the details in the devil's flotsam. we jot some of the names of the nameless...
on the outside of Dixie cups. like mint julep promise to a tangerine honest.
again and again, we ache through the breeze of our soothing traumas. we court the verity of a sham.
we blast through the congregation of our adversary, snipping varmints from a stale camp
in the southernmost of our due south,; where they fear the bonfire until a vagrant maps
the flaming tongues to a long kiss.... and we crash upon the shore
of Never Asked.
but regret This.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
Shot a rabbit two days ago, it was a good shot taken at distance from height. The rabbit died instantly, it had been digging holes in my lawns, it had to go.
I watched it die and I had cause to ponder the death from a religious angle, where believers say we go to another place when we die?
I know where this rabbit went, he went into my vegetable garden, buried deep with all the other varmints and critters that have crossed my path.
Over the years we, (my wife and I), have turned that patch of barren volcanic ash into a wondrous source of lettuce, potatoes, onions, rhubarb, tomatoes and leek..by adding the carbonaceous remnants of not only these creatures but of composted vegetation, seaweed and selected fertilizers. We also grow the most beautiful roses and deliahs and crysanthemums you will ever come across.
And do you know...in the dark of night other little rabbits and bugs and things come out and nibble those very creations...unaware that they are completing the circle of being.
This is the true spirit of creation, as I see it, where deep in the garden, the motes of nutrition transmogrify beneficially from one entity to another, eventually, for the common good of all.
This is the basis of my belief. Feet on the ground...
What is....most definately is!
M.
Taranaki NZ
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 3:32 PM UTC
another
smothered lover
in the Hollywood hills
unbag the bottle
crack the seal
oh the appeal
of intake
for the sake
of intoxication
so meek and unique
in gurgled screams
a pixie in the hand of a king
compelled
to discretely
capture the beauty
in eternity
expelled
i just felt
i had to nest a shell
and befell
clearing her residual
flirtatious signals
even in the squirms
and even in the squeals
even though i know
she yearns
to be hooked by her gills
dragged through landfills
in a projected field
where she would yield
and kiss me.
i'm gonna pretend
to love her
as i tenderly
shove her
in the river
of our love
take her under
my loving thunder
and plunder her
when drugged
dazed in her wonder
i hold her under
from above
if only for a moment
we locked eyes in love
she fit me like glove
remnants
disposed of
in a rug
posed so beautifully
for the smack
hack and rip
one pretty *****
dumped
in an irrigation ditch
triumphed
our wordless
relationship
its over *****
move on with it
in the mouths
of varmints
oh
charming
as im clicking *****
on key chains
sticking misfits
with loose lips
usually homeless
decoys
here to destroy
nothing
in my twisted ploy
to employ
maximum points
conjoint
my addictive anger
to something a little stranger
im going to dangle
her entrails
in front of her eyes
while i'm bangin her
shes looking so surprised
from every camera angle
the mangled piece of ****
what a lamo
hypnotized
in the passing of life
in the
blood
the ***
the ****
and the knife
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 9:22 PM UTC
I'm a graying aged gunfighter
Time to get out of the game
I can not see to shoot my gun
I can not see to aim
I used to be the best there was
The top of every list
Now I can't hit a **** barn door
I shot at one and missed
I could out draw anyone
Who faced me on the street
Now, I'm more than likely
To put a bullet 'tween my feet
I play a little poker now
Spend my days just passing time
I break even mostly
The way I play, well, that's a crime
No one round here knows me
They don't know about my past
To them I'm just a codger
I don't do one **** thing fast
I noticed things were changing
Ten years back I'd say
I had a gun fight in Dodge City
And it didn't go my way
I threw down with some punk kid
He was drunk and really ******
I got my gun stuck in my holster
He fell down, he shot, he missed
I walked to him now laying
In the street, out cold, not dead
I took his gun and holster
And then went home to bed
A gunfighter of substance
Would have killed me where I stood
Was I lucky he was drunk then?
Or was I losing it for good?
I packed my stuff up in the morning
I left the town later that night
The next fighter might be sober
And I'd not survive that fight
I took off for the desert
Made plans just where I would go
A state where I could hide out
Where my past, no one would know
On the way I stopped and practiced
Shot some cactus and some trees
I was shooting though at rabbits
I can't survive here eating these
One day, a rogue coyote
Came and took me by surprise
I shot a tree, it fell on him
I aimed between his eyes
The sooner I got settled
The safer I would feel
Too much longer in the desert
I'd end up some varmints tasty meal
I rode on in to where I am
I can't tell you just what town
I've got to keep it secret
Or I may just get shot down
I have a small room at the hotel
I play cards to pay the rent
I speak with a slightly muddled accent
I try to be a southern gent
I've been here now for near six months
The town is growing fast
So, my time here might be cut short
With the future, comes my past
For now I just play poker
An old gunfighter at heart
One day I know they'll find me
I'll go to boot hill in a cart
I'm an aged old gunfighter
There's not many still around
I'm hiding now from my last gunfight
That will put me six feet in the ground.
Jan 5, 2020
Jan 5, 2020 at 10:07 PM UTC
where our daisies nightly… and our minds politely -
just might be
the rightly garments of
our inner varmints.
or Something has just
Might Be.
but something precisely -
has dawn in a vice. armaments shiny.
and all of our beautiful
dying -
dying ignightly.
parentheses.
so Love is outside
We.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 7:37 PM UTC
From across the room i watched with gloom in hand
Trembling of the soon to be lost temper of my severed tranquilities, swiveling on my spleen
Fueling the surrendering of my dreams for one squeeze to lead them all
Fear only stalled in my cause for alarm
No harm shall come before the storm
No spawn of thought beyond the forlorn
Here to see
See nothing
Nothing to see
See something
Something amiss
Amiss of the somethings
Some things are best
Best left unsaid
And unsaid is where they burned
Turned out
Out turned
Turned doubt
Doubt turned
Confidence
Confidence with delicately sculpted prominence over loose targets
Scurrying like varmints
Not to tarnish the cries for help
6 flashes for silence, and a taste of hell
By demon be driven, as we all sell when pressed against hell with the means to end it all
Let the chips fall where they may, as in jail i can prey on bigger things, and emerge a king
Solitary confinement will refine my shrine to stardom
But the martyrdom of ***** is quickly forgotten
Spoiled rotten in self indulgence
Emboldened in molten rage
The pages folded before fading away
In cindered fairies playing with my pain
Falling
As Jagged glass from window panes
Empty walls
Walling in the wisdom
Wisdom calls
Calls for blood
Blood from all
I merely heed the call and fall fashionably
Rationally broken in the cities hold on me, in claustrophobic scolding for my holdings in heavenly weapons pointing to the cure
I expect nothing but the allure of spatter, patterned out to the tune of my doubts, coagulated in lieu of the claps, looping through the traps of no take backs, and collapsing to my synapses crackling in the rain.
Smash my brain, in suicide by cop, I jump atop the bridges that i burned
I turn the other cheek
Just to wink at the weak
Before i leap
And never learned
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
It is not just the way that you move, much more or less the way in which you
dress. The caliber of your presentation: it has no scope, no measurable standpoints.—
For you are a poem with feet, and at one point God called you a star.
But you are a song, who is gently prancing melodies that cure my maladies. And
I want no one else to hear you when you sing. Because I want to be the only one
who listens…listening until the day my bones run dry and no flesh, no carcass
is left of me. And vultures shall feast upon my cruel skin, shivering in the dark rays
of night, leaning over the crevices of my teeth. My teeth, the size of piano keys.
You stick to me, and **** the life out of me like a silky, black ******* leech. And I
love you too much, and you, perhaps too little. Giving you each and every inch of my purple heart; still not being enough. And still when you speak: it is with outstanding
purpose and resolve. You spoke of love, even when love did not exist. As all
eyes look towards you, and all ears lend their time to you too. As if you were a
magnet that connects two distinguishing charges: grace and charm.
Your wicked ways will be what I will die falling in love with. For every time I
breathe slowly, and calmly, and every step I take, it is with confidence. I am not
a broken machine, living in this mechanical planet:
I will eternally, faithfully, and all of me will rise to you whenever you shall
move
dress
sing
**** me off
speak…or…
whenever you shall too love me, just enough.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
I don’t rightly know
What there is to say
About truth, justice
And the American way
Except it’s never
Fully been on display
Ask the indigenous people
Who are here today
Ask ‘em about the treaties
That were never kept
And the opportunities that
They might have had, but slept
To insure that their land
Was fully swept
Of those invading varmints
They learned to regret
Truth, justice and
The American way
The Superman announcer
Used to say
Before we started chasing
Immigrants away
Or we started treating greed
Like it was okay
God blessed America
With a gift
But the American dream
Is becoming a myth
And what the rich have
Can be taken away swift
If the people of this country
Keep getting stiffed
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 3:13 PM UTC
They're coming, they're coming
Running, jumping, and floating
Zooming, racing and abseiling
JUST A DOGGARN MINUTE
These are not for sleeping
They're are not very woolly
And not going over fences
They're going into my mind
What are these varmints
I know , yes , I know
These are words, sentences
Paragraphs , and silly ideas
But they'll not help me to sleep
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 2:24 AM UTC
I sit and wait on this date feeling emotions I hate.
Emotions of hate , so I back track and track back to the oceans I've made.
Relieved the motions of fate, notions of safe, so I throw back this potion of sage.
Self destruction coaxing with age. A little red button toting my name.
Poking my brain, can't think straight, believe I can't to this it came.
I sneeze and visualize my carpet with a blood stain.
Theirs no ***** in my eyes, I seize varmints but don't have Thud's aim.
I'm not playing a thugs game, but I see carnage, I'm not saying I claim sane
But I've slain Satan so many times I claim Saint. That red, I claim paint, That shame I frame fate.
I just want to go back to to where I came from in the first place,
But that gate is not in the same state.
The hand I have now is different, I don't got that same ace.
Its just not the same case, From the back of my hand to outer space.
Its like, If you look into a mirror, Do you see your own face?
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 11:24 AM UTC
The unequivocal sorcerer of slaughter,
I touched the altar and altered my saucer.
Also, I'm flying off the couch like a mortar;
Hoarding powder for that elusive boarder.
I'm bombarding the forest with sawdust,
Open up the squealer and I'll absorb ya.
Kirby the paupers, never mind impostors
From monsters to varmints via carnage;
I'm taking hostages from a cockpit locked in orbit
While you're too busy getting lost on shortcuts
Through the forest, like some forgotten tortoise.
I dream of beanstalks taller than the tallest,
All chopped up as fodder for my fortress;
I'll Trojan horse your forces as a florist
Then harvest your gardens with ordnance.
Ready the warships with torches-
It's turnips versus turrets,
And my furnace is fuming for your service;
No need to be nervous, I'm steady like a surgeon
And concern's always been for the toucans.
My archers carry shotguns for the turbulence,
Your thoughts hang like moss against a blank canvass
While mine climbs like vines towards madness;
I'll finish this with a sickle
And end up myth of the labyrinth.
-SLuR
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 2:18 PM UTC
like a forest inhabited
by varmints
are my hands
wanting that again
that close-enough
of a slouching to nirvana
that demands a higher
price, to have that between
parched lips again
even if my body
still aches
even if my mouth
still has in its dungeon,
the aftertaste
like a garage for autumn
abluted by the picking.
in this room of my mind darkened
by a gnawing desire,
its most secret deaths—
impending, singing and almost—
i have you now in my hands
sealing my fate.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 12:53 AM UTC