"venereal" poems
A few things for themselves,
Convolvulus and coral,
Buzzards and live-moss,
Tiestas from the keys,
A few things for themselves,
Florida, venereal soil,
Disclose to the lover.
The dreadful sundry of this world,
The Cuban, Polodowsky,
The Mexican women,
The ***** undertaker
Killing the time between corpses
Fishing for crayfish...
****** of boorish births,
Swiftly in the nights,
In the porches of Key West,
Behind the bougainvilleas,
After the guitar is asleep,
Lasciviously as the wind,
You come tormenting,
Insatiable,
When you might sit,
A scholar of darkness,
Sequestered over the sea,
Wearing a clear tiara
Of red and blue and red,
Sparkling, solitary, still,
In the high sea-shadow.
Donna, donna, dark,
Stooping in indigo gown
And cloudy constellations,
Conceal yourself or disclose
Fewest things to the lover--
A hand that bears a thick-leaved fruit,
A pungent bloom against your shade.
4.5k
Larry, the man who terraformed Mars, has a scar over his left eye.
Maggie, his younger sister, could not make up her mind.
Her brother was a Star Man. She was left behind.
Maggie swam in the ocean
Larry paid a fine.
Maggie liked tequila
Larry was back on Earth.
He liked snorting space rocks
By the basement furnace hearth.
Larry got a parking ticket
Maggie passed out in the sand
She did not feel a single thing
When she was ****** there by a man.
The baby was coming in April and
Maggie went to the clinic
Larry thought about Venereal tides
While he was out having a picnic.
Larry, the man who terraformed Mars, has a scar over his left eye.
Maggie, his younger sister, could not make up her mind.
Her brother was a Star Man. She was left behind.
Maggie swam in the ocean
Larry paid a fine.
Maggie is now a single mother
In the house with a furnace hearth.
Larry never came back down
The last time he left Earth.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
As I walk through your museum,
I admire all the art.
I admire the postcards and love notes
carefully stuck the home of
your beloved.
As I walk through your museum,
I wonder what time She comes home.
I see how everything in her existence
has been tainted by you,
as I quietly reassure myself it won't be soon.
As I walk through your museum,
I see you turn to face me;
and I feel my heart flutter so hard
that it must have flown out of my chest.
It doesn't matter, I tell myself,
He only wants you.
As I walk through your museum,
into your venereal grasp,
I feel your certain hands
pull away at the little modesty which remained.
You do it as surely as
a bee follows honey.
As I walk through your museum,
into that place where everything changed,
I can't help but see how
lovingly you gaze upon Her.
It's in all the frames affectionally placed
on the walls of the place, She calls home.
As I walk through your museum,
and I feel your hands begin to empty me
like a pumpkin on hollows eve,
I see Her. I see everything I knew I would see.
I see the pain at what you are doing
and I know that I have made a girl like me.
As I walk through your museum
towards the door with a choir of screams and tears following,
I remember how it felt to be a girl like me, on my first time.
And I smile,
peaceful with the knowledge that
I am not the only girl like me.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 2:44 PM UTC
Thatcher vacuum seals nicotine
Slurps cigarette like mosquito
Ravenous lungs gnaw and grind for the slow pander,
Thatcher’s just another name for the labeling
We plaster and pine for an out,
Stitch that finite lie beneath squeamish child skin,
Thatcher’s the black lung paradise,
******* infancy coddling cigarette stifle,
The caloric crack of his canines fletching out lust and sickly groove
As he’s scopes out fiend and vexed vandals,
Clutches the sick theistic **********
Cuddle those bruise licked hips
Give God the gross percent,
Cause heaven’s in those greenbacks
and God’s in the ******* kick,
Suckling bout the American tip
The Christian capitol,
Seething on shadow puppet ****** and American dream,
Gods got nothing to do with the slickened crinkle of gain and glamour,
Thatcher’s just the candy man give and cult,
Cough the crutch of contagion greed
And clutch the cuff of your porcelain sleeve,
Thatcher gleans your blackest suite tight,
Struts raven blade shoulders perched on American made spine,
Thatcher does as Thatcher please,
Thatcher thinks as Thatcher bleeds,
And Thatcher bleeds venereal blend,
Gout with the American veneer of broken girl and scabbed moral traumatic,
Trauma tastes as the hollow pixies give out the get out,
Bandaged baby girls,
The teenage horror show,
Just another blazoned hit of one two take the hand me down generic give away,
Desensitize the humanize,
Girls got to get the days glossy puff and sniff,
Thatcher’s content to satisfy,
Callous coroner a spectator suckling Marlboro lick,
Lodging thick smoke and toxin between spittle slick lips,
Albino plumes clotting and unfolding,
Thatcher clicks back the cartridge
Filter and cigarette,
Thatcher gulps back the need because brain’s got a favoring kink for the buzz,
Thatcher sings with the screaming in his straggling lungs,
Hums the western creed
Laughs fickle with God at his need,
Thatcher’s the true American dream
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
I sing along to drown out the voices
My sad playlist and I sit
listless
and I stubbornly ignore myself
If you can't say anything nice
then take your fingernails
and curl off my skin
starting at the genitals
effectively preparing me for taxidermy
Off I search
Alone is notsafe
Alone is smiling crookedly
from empty bones and a few yellow teeth
My naked pieces scattered carnage
on the dank floor of my cell
covered in hotel carpet
So ******
it almost gets me off
Reminds me of venereal hookers
and air freshener
which always results in tainted pleasure
So I put on my dark circles and bags under my eyes
to fit in
and I leave the thousand unlit cells
some empty
some containing rancid bits of pancreas
and I keep climbing blindly
I lost an eye in 14D
I humorlessly squished the other as I bent to pick it up
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:45 PM UTC
'LOVE IS BLIND'?
'Love is blind'?
what nonsense!
then how come we have
'love at first sight'?
Shakespeare in one sentence
had hoodwinked us since 1616
true, he wrote great drama and poetry
but we must note
he didn't study medicine
nor opthalmology
and mind you
we are living in the 21st century
with all the science and technology
surely it would be the greatest folly
to just quote the bard's cliche blindly
the eyes have it
ask the ophthalmologist
without the eyes
the lover would not see
beauty
and as a corollary
how could you love somebody
if in the first instance
you were blind id est--you couldn't see!
careful, so careful we must all be
to differentiate between reality
and the ranting of silly poetry
if this myth were to perpetuate nilly-willy
mankind would look really silly
that would look good not even to the slightest degree
and one more thing
please bear with me
and this is the bard's secret history
he had chancre--venereal ulcer
for which he received treatment
could he have written 'Love is blind'
being affected by that odious malady?
London's brothels he did visit frequently
when he was away from Stratford-upon-Avon
he drank a lot too--there is ample evidence
he also had anasarca (oh mercy!)
result of mercury-related membranous nephropathy
( we shall not defile him further-
but his alopecia was due to treatment of mercury
for his syphilis---what a medical litany!)
in conclusion
we could somehow see
that England's greatest writer
was not as bright as he had been taken to be.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 10:25 PM UTC
I need a vacation.
Maybe a trip to Italy.
I gotta revitalize.
Maybe, Pompeii.
I am feeling starved of my vim and vigor.
My words are lukewarm.
There is only one option:
rekindling my virility.
I could vivify myself vicariously:
the sensuality of the city's verve,
all the daily livings of people,
venerated in an intense blaze;
might make me vivacious again.
Input daily routine.
Output socially valued norms.
My vivid, vermillion passion
has been layered with ashes.
I am desperate for veracity.
Did my igneous, poetic life temper
to an obsidian verse?
The beat in my heart
has felt industrialized,
monotonous,
a steady assembly line of chaste gray;
a vexing variance of my vitals.
Revive me: my virtuosity
will ventilate me with
venereal voraciousness.
What is left to me,
a choice of perspective:
a plunge in to the devouring,
a dive in to the radiant;
both, a swim through a viscous sea of wildfire
in Mount Vesuvius.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 5:45 PM UTC
A busy night last night, heaven knows
Must have had more ****** than a rose
Love the money, of that there's no doubt
But I'm really ****** completely worn out
It was my choice I know, to become a *****
But not sure how much longer I can do it for
***** breath , fat old farts grunting and groaning
Me, pretending I'm enjoying it with fake moaning
Was only sixteen when I first started in the game
Head, hand jobs or ******* to me is all the same
Happy to try any game the customer wants to play
As long as they have money and are willing to pay
I caught the ***** once from some ***** old ******
Another time I did catch the dreaded venereal disease
Other than that I have kept a nice clean and healthy box
Guess condoms and good luck have kept away the pox
As i get older though, I think more about settling down
Maybe one day I'll be able to rope in some rich old clown
Don't want to live forever in the fast lane running wild
I would even like to give birth to my own sweet child
But now it is day time and I really must get some rest
Because again tonight I'll be out doing what I do best
I'll be ******* policemen, doctors, lawyers and scholars
And again I'll come home with another fist full of dollars
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 6:18 AM UTC
Left to remain
Anything to quell fear
Seized opportunity
Sold soul to fear
Parallel vision
Past and present collide
Time recalled of time without fear
Haunting specter
Wild cry
Wild sound of devotion
Old quest uncovered from the dust
Old wilderness restoring to old glory
Firing from old expended
Reservoirs transferring water
Into coffee grinders, to dust
Chained in a crab *** at the bottom of the sea
Pelted with repeated blasts of particles of light
Until the matter is compressed into a singularity
Or breaches on the matter anyway besides
Unleashing rather than a sinkhole trap,
A flash flood over everything
Coating vision with a venereal sheen
Inundated in a fluid silk connective fabric bond
Until the matter reaches
Into pockets of relief
And miracles of situational
Restorative advance
Particulate regenerative
Relationship encounters
Debris from space accumulating
Hoping in some arcane sense
To be reformed together into beasts anew
While similarly fossils of
An ancient swarm of locusts
Are unearthed
They’re met with magnets
Positioned counter to the flow of electricity
This array is aligned to the magnetosphere
Of that old planet
Where I have lived before and left kinsmen behind to grow a colony of their own
But my own magnetism is calibrated today
To the wildly different magnetosphere of my latest home
To put it mildly, out of wild instinct, exiled from an old society
Of innocence/intelligence
A pretense over bell curve
Environment restrictive of
Fraternization ***********
On a day too perfect for itself
The stage-play left upon my table
All the actors meandering about
Chance encounters replaying dramas.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 8:00 PM UTC
I've survived heartbreak
in all of its many, many forms
I've survived being stranded out in the middle of nowhere
with no way of getting back to civilization whilst visiting a distant country
I've survived seeing the true colors of my so called "close friends"
when I needed them the most
I've survived growing up in an alcoholic family
I've survived religion
I've survived low points in my life
where suicide looked to be the only answer
I've survived countless pregnancy scares,
venereal disease scares,
and psychotic girlfriends
of all shapes & sizes
AND HERE I AM
STILL STANDING
STILL SWINGING
My tombstone will read as follows...
CAME: SCARED SHITLESS
LEFT: GIGGLING UNCONTROLLABLY
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 12:37 PM UTC
scabby matted hairy patch
sour incandescent colour
crabby splattered scary ******
our adolescent mother
sores are sordid, sold and scorched
broken out in carmine stain
***** implores on my front porch
smokin' bouts of welcome pain
beaten, broken, ****** and used
spanking, pulling, thrusting, please
me, i want to be abused
**** me and fulfill my needs
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 8:03 AM UTC
Her pixie dust that I envy
His hands were coated with it during daylights,erstwhile
Dust that turned red
Under the full moon nights
He might have undone her woven stitches
Loosen the twines and strands
One by one
With his learned needle-less hands
She seems to radiate the rainbows
That he steals and his face glows
We watch him baptized
In several shrines
While his shadow casts a merciless bovine
Enticed by the fragile
His facade thrives
Sinisters shriek
On one and another's atrocity
Eerie evaded by his enshrouded arms
Hugged in delight
Those violent eyes
Glimpse venereal walk,preying,on road side
In this city many have died.
Mar 18, 2019
Mar 18, 2019 at 3:28 AM UTC
Unprovide my mind, please.
Lest I care about matters of the flesh.
Listen to my expostulation,
as I am prostrate bowed.
I do not want exoneration,
for lust stains will remain
but I can no longer stand
the tenacity of it.
For it no longer can command
in guaranteeing its veracity.
So I long for someone to fetch
this excellent wretch from me.
The inner dome of Heaven has fallen
and with it, this wicked thing's ethereal appearence.
Revealing the venereal act planned from the begining.
I run far and hide from Daystar.
No longer enamored with its lustful glamour.
I wish for its allure to be nullified
and so it may unprovide my mind.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
History doesn’t repeat, it reproduces,
It ***** us well
into the darkest hour; we hold it so holy as
it wholly condenses, contracts, cracks, grasps and
Moans. It’s a venereal haunting,
ghosts of a ruthless world that doesn’t give
a **** and only cares about ******* **** up and *******
to be the fittest, survival of the wittiest.
You all want to reproduce your kind
but with the reproduction of your kin
your kind comes out sludge—
the soggy excuse of an abandoned mind
rotting away into “we’re not the first—
it’s always happened, all the time, is that a crime?”
Wreaking havoc amongst a species of your kind?
**** Me! Yes! It’s serious!
To trudge the earth for proof
that birth of war was something
of divine? Is it fine that people die
and never know of the privileged life—the life
We ******* live, ******* for Capitalism
But still getting ****** the same—
Like parents—if you won’t ******* take the time
to ******* notice what’s there and what’s right
what’s not and what is, sometimes—
what is sometimes more than one or two times;
The world is your baby, you can’t just decide
When to care and when to pretend you do
It’s true, getting ****** we all have—just a few
everyone is getting ****** in the entire ******* world
***** ******* with their ********** only want control
Hypocritical ***** in the government—they’re the ones creating ******
We the people, America the ****** swallowing what’s ********** from stores
Money’s flashy in that aspect it can buy whatever fetish
It can satisfy and pleasure
It can torture it can ruin it
It can break a nation’s soul;
Does Earth seem like a hole?
It gets ****** objectively, free of sentiment or affection,
It gets pillaged, ripped and hurled. It fights back
Vulnerable and totally ordinary—rare for our kind.
Who gives a **** Earth doesn’t have a gender,
It’s not going to tell anyone,
You had a lot to drink,
It was social influence:
It was the way of human kind,
******* for any kind of benefit,
Privilege, artificial sentiment
******* to keep going
Like everyone else
Maybe one day we’ll have a family until,
Until,
they too, will die.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
It all starts with an Idea,
an idea like a distant thunderstorm
like cold rain on your skin
and then, let it seep in
and run wild through your blood
like a venereal disease
and let it enter your brain
and let it grow in the darkness like moss.
And there you will find a Dream,
absurd and absolute,
a dream impossible to chase,
and so keep quiet.
Let it grow inside you
like a little parasite
until it is all there is.
And then, let go.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC
I miss your touch
The taste of your skin
Sweet like chamomile
and honey
Dancing on my tongue
Like venereal ballet dancers
It's only you that can light this fire,
Carnal desire,
Lay your head back,
Let me take you higher
And know that I'm not a liar
When I say your eyes drip liquid lapis
On a world that's only known
Black and white
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 8:11 AM UTC
What a blessing to realize
That the gynecologist in my dream
Is not real, that his diagnosis about my ****** are not real
And that my ****** is not real,
And really was just bits of subconscious particles, cerebral filaments shuffling up
My cortex and flowing through my pathways
To my post-memory. And that her reports
About my venereal disease was only a screenshot I saw two days ago while perusing
The internet; I opened a new browser and still was without a ****** And my ex-girlfriend
Curled like lumpy milk in the backseat of the car I don’t own was also without venereal disease, but that she wasn’t also driving this
Dream that I was driving. This dream built of syntax and broken promises.
Though I wish the publisher that put my book into print had been real. That the newspaper with its four-star review had been real. That the gorgeous woman at the party who assumed I was some famous poet and lead my hand up her panty-less dress had too been real,
But was in fact an explosion of Azeroth, as was her twin succubus kissing my neck passionately when my wife approached from behind. And her lips fell off of me like autumn leaves onto. Pond, and her twin shriveled into a scrap of paper,
And the wind took them out into the sky,
Far above my eyes. Her taste dissolving heavily Into my mouth with only an inky taste of her
Dulciloquent compliments to remember her
And the way she tasted like my 20-something
Debaucheries. I’m already forgetting them, and forgetting what it felt like to have men only Want me for the ****** I’m already
Forgetting that I had. I’ve already forgot their Names and the words they used to address me.
I’m already minutes away from the days of that,
That inky dream where they undressed me
Sticking their tongues into my throat. And I had four throats and twelve Eyes. I was an idiot to believe that I was the only one in the world
Worth never forgetting. Which for that moment
Was worth having venereal diseases and doctors
Calling me during parties on weekends. It was worth all of it, and the disgraces, and now
Now it has all vanished, along with all of them in it, and this short blurb of words is all of their existence that remains
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 4:04 PM UTC
you've a childish touch
a stroke of imagination
your words will not make
sense to me but i will overlook
my suspicions
your death is not
real
because you were never real
baby, you were never alive
but i still see you everywhere
laughing and drinking with me
every shot of whiskey i took
alone
send me love from wherever
from whatever ghost you came from
to haunt this broken mind
you've childish blood in you
my dear, i've lost my venereal scent
and it's witless of me to be so cruel
and deny your existence
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 10:56 AM UTC
It all starts with an Idea,
an idea like a distant thunderstorm
like cold rain on your skin
and then, let it seep in
and run wild through your blood
like a venereal disease
and let it enter into your brain
and let it grow in the darkness like moss.
And there you will find a Dream,
absurd and absolute,
a dream impossible to chase,
and so keep quiet.
Let it grow inside you
like a little parasite
until it is all that there is.
And then, let go.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 3:15 AM UTC
She’s using the word smooth like it’s a venereal disease
Says I have too much of it
Doesn’t want to catch it
Says I’m too rehearsed
Too programmed
Too automatic response
Wants to hear a genuine thought from me
Like every 90s rom com from my childhood wasn’t a lecture in a class I was taking on this very moment in this very bar
I mean what else was I supposed to do when you fell into my lap after tripping over a bar stool
I was just supposed to let you walk away without comment
I was just supposed to say bye
I some how wasn’t supposed to ask you if that fall from heaven hurt?
I mean don’t be ridiculous
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 1:50 AM UTC
A loves so sweet.
No one could beat.
That would be neat.
Here have a seat.
Next to me propose and get on one knee.
Give me a diamond ring.
and pick a song and start to sing.
Harmony that's what I bring.
You can be my king.
Will you take me under your wing.
Show me the castles of Ireland.
The Sparkles and dazzles.
The wonderful view.
A love you once to knew.
It's table for two.
A sky so blue.
Gentleman like you are so few.
Walk with me on the countryside.
I am someone you can confide.
To be on your side.
Will you be my guide?
Hand in hand we will stride.
Love me let's have some tea.
Ireland that's where we'll be.
You and me watch and see.
I might not make headlines but we can still dine.
I don't drink wine.
I am just fine.
Will you be mine?
We can hide in the trees of pine.
And I can save enough cash.
To make the dash.
I can be there in a flash.
You my mother will try to bash.
My ex smokes hash.
That's beside the point.
But I hate people who smoke joints.
They can go away.
Far & there they can't stay.
I love you Ariel
thank God the ***** donor never gave me anything venereal.
How would Ariel Farrell sound?
Too profound?
I hate being trapped here in America and bound.
Dublin is where the love is I haven't yet found.
I want a puppy from the pound.
Is my **** too round?
Maybe it's just too flat.
Too much at work in this chair I sat.
I never wear hats.
But I love cats.
I don't know any bats.
I hate rats.
Am I too fat?
Do I talk too much?
Have you heard anything of that such?
Do you want to go dutch?
My **** you cannot touch.
Do you think I'm odd?
If so just nod.
Do you believe in God?
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 3:59 PM UTC
“I’m sick of you
always
trying tobe a poeton
a balcny in the moorning
at
4
with-nough
whhiskey in your gut to **** a mule the size of a man twice yours”
Metal tastes the way beer does when your can is filling in the cut it opened in your mouth.
The same way words do with meaning.
“You don’t like
it?twhat’s the matter?”
“It’s the word
mainly, listen to the sound,
ppuuuuudiinngg.
It sounds like the sop
from an unkempt venereal disease.”
“You ,
your fuckinwords.”
PlllaaassstiUc,
sounds like rain on a bucket with holes below the line you need it to be whole for, to work for collecting water
when you slap the bottle from my hand.
“Plastixs
cheeprthn
glash you devil
bitsh”
Off again into another night on may be the same bench till may be rain or rumble or a lack of water find me in the morning.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
one two three times i said i'd stop
one more time i give in to the talk
you say my eyes are a saccharine delight
when all i see is eyes not deserving
of a man with this many issues
i know that all this talk about your past
must be exhausting but you call me
and tell me how everyone wastes your time
i **** myself with my own thoughts
glide off the earth like i'm one less leap
from a perfect reason to be happy
why am i only ever able to sleep
when i realize that the real monsters
aren't under my bed anymore
but right in my cranium, making a home
and scaring the living **** out of me
when i crawl back into darkness
is when you leave me the most vulnerable
this habit is a venereal curse
i am clogged up with unwanted urges
and emptied of the strength i need
and when i want to be smothered with love
i come back to the one place i know best
and repeat the cycle of torture
we all call the great big search for happiness
but there's no happiness
in a temporary love
you see, i want what's best for me,
yet i scream when i think of someone
even putting up with this disastrous tempest
i loved once and almost drowned
so pardon me if the water feels cold
i'll just as soon drown myself again
if i don't slow the **** down
and find the time to breathe
it's been much too fast lately
that when i take the time to look
i am terrified and praying for safety
but as i glide off the earth and the moon
the stars blast me with a supernova
and suddenly my prayers are answered
that's the day i wait for every night
because if i lose myself
i lose the stars, the cosmic journey, the hands
of a person with the answers and the control
of a vulnerable miserable old soul
because i'd like to think that this hell i'm in
is to lead me to a place of bliss
but these days scare me
and i'm too cold to be warm
too broken to be fixed
too troubled to be calm
sadness, they say, is a *****
but i embrace it with stride
fall asleep to the sounds of no one
i'm too afraid to be filled with pride
my prescription was ready, they said
came earlier than i had thought
so i left home with my coat
started the car in the cold
entered the uncomfortable atmosphere
placed my hands on the table
and asked for what i hadn't requested
you'll thank me for this they said
i'm still waiting to see if they were right.
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 3:01 AM UTC