"vicars" poems
Build me a slow boat to Timbuktu via China
Heave down a fleecy cloud and let me float to Nirvana
Hunt me a unicorn and let me ride to the Enchanted Forest
Find me a giant eagle and let it lift me to Outer Mongolia East
'please don't leave me here amongst demons with human faces'
Show me a Church and I'll show you a hall full of Sinners
Point out a wife and I'll reveal a liar and a fake and none dimer
Call a Doctor and its a Monster who betrayed the Hippocratics
That Government Boss is a cruel heinous snake without ethics
'please don't leave me here amongst demons with human faces'
See that Preacher and see a spineless hypocrite back-stabber
That lover was nothing but a sick deranged false **** twister
My dear acquaintance a heartless corrupted shyster unhinged
A Newsagent full of pitiless, gloomy, vile, psychotic joy-suckers
'please don't leave me here amongst demons with human faces'
That friend of years a bloodsucking Judas who betrayed and stole
Uncles who rained terror with sadistic pleasures in parts unwhole
Show me nieces and find two-faced ******* with poisons in veins
Neighborhoods full of silent killers and Rapists of truthful genes
'please don't me leave here amongst demons with human faces'
A vicars' daughter wielding angst axes better than a viking
The pathetic Moors zombies tearing flesh on masters beholding
The dead-eyed Arabs salivating madly or at daggers drawn
Contemptible Men-kids with pin ****** used as King's pawns
'please don't leave me here amongst demons with human faces'
Build me a cottage in rolling green fields with blue skies
Find me a fair maiden with a true heart and warming smiles
Show me a place that holds fairness and justice real and dear
A world with humanity we're all sisters and brothers for care
'please don't leave me here amongst demons with human faces'
[email protected] August2018
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 11:44 PM UTC
The party starts at ten to three.
On the second floor,room twenty two
two vicars who had come down from Crewe were wondering just what to wear, to the shindig going on down there.
They collided,both decided to put on crimson frilly frocks,this was not a 'do' for cassocks or for smocks.
Room forty four up on the forth,was Lucy Ann,a double barrelled name of course,a horsey type who came by invite to liven lively up the night.
In number ten slept teacup Ken,who had never once imbibed,the porter was slipped a twenty,but was bribed to keep his big mouth shut, as ties were cut and Ken found Zen in a brandy glass,
and discovered parties were a gas.
The police arrived to room fifty five and found Miss Sterling doing the jive around the severed head of Fred the cook,
poor Fred never had any kind luck.
There is no escape from the party at Lancaster Gate and those who come are those who'll die
but the party is so flamin' good I'll try to sneak in,got to take a peek in room number twenty seven,where it's said,that the lady there can show you several kinds of heaven before you meet your doom.
Got to get in, get a room,check in time expires at noon.
I shall no doubt expire,naked by the fire in
room, one o one.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
I truly fail to understand
Why it’s gotten out of hand.
It seems so very odd
There are so many God
Is supposed to have ordained
Some aren’t even trained.
There is an absolute dearth
Of an actual true rebirth
In the revivifying blood of Jesus.
It’s almost like allergic sneezes.
Pastures full of pastors.
Priests and beasts.
Defectors and rectors.
Pickers and vicars.
Bleachers full of preachers.
Clerics and hysterics.
Papal delegates and celibates.
Televangelists and Adventists
And hostile Pentecostals.
We are becoming overrun
With an ecumenical kind of fun
In which before we can holler
Another puts on a backward collar
And starts tell us what to do.
When the rebirthing is through
They are on their park soapbox
And ******** about our Xbox;
Telling us what we should watch
And the coffee in our coffee klatch
Is unGodly because Jesus never drank it.
Makes me want to grab and spank it
Before it multiplies. Jerks, those guys.
Pastures full of pastors.
Priests and beasts.
Defectors and rectors.
Pickers and vicars.
Bleachers full of preachers.
Clerics and hysterics.
Papal delegates and celibates.
Televangelists and Adventists
And hostile Pentecostals.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
In the chapel of the glitter ball
in the hall of the dance machine
I am the suburbanite alone, a
dream on a white
horse.
On the steps to the crypt where many
angels have slipped on the wrappings
of condoms,
the silent ****** plays.
The vicars in hobnails prey on those
who travel high trails,
like vultures from the mission and
there's a ****** of churches all flocking
as one to ****** the kindness that once
flashed in the eyes
of his son.
**** them with kindness his Highness demands
but his blindness defeats him and the white horse
will only meet him
half way.
In the chapel of the glitter ball where we
see nothing but the diamonds fall and in
the hall of the dance machine his Highness
becomes the Queen.
It's all alter it now and we'll take refuge somehow
in the flower of the sixties
where 'please please me'
was an anthem for young men.
I can't see, but I think that suburbia's a skating rink
and we are the skaters darting away from the sharks
to be eaten by alligators, or
to be saved at some cost by the one on the cross where each point that he points to
is a station that I've been to.
So I shuffle the view and turn the glitter ball on
and everything's gone
like it used to be
except for me.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
a friend of mine popped in the other day
to have a chat
we got to talking about the town's past history
and more especially about one of the Church of England vicars
she had a litany of information
relating to his many female conquests
he'd been playing around
quite a lot during his period
as the local rector
one day he was caught inside the church
with his pants down
he was administering
to one of his female parishioners
behind the altar
the fellow who used to do the light maintenance
was most astound at seeing such close contact between
the vicar and a member of his flock
a few days after this occurred
the Bishop of the diocese informed the vicar
that he was going to be sacked
for his indecent conduct within the walls
of a place of God
the female parishioner
was given her marching orders
by her infuriated husband
my friend and I like talking about our town's past history
as there are some events
which are truly worth recalling
to memory
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
Did you hear what that old man was thinking?
Morphic resonance is the experimental name,
I think we are served by nodes on a net
not spread in the sight of any bird,
a chthonic net of stone,
girdling the globe in granite, crystalline granite,
take it for granted, these boulders are the witnesses,
the scars of catastrophe,
causing us to wonder
how came this to be? Think Yosemite, Ansel Adams POV
Think Matterhorn und Mt.Blanc,
Old Rockytop, and
Dos Cabezas and Long Valley Mountain, all that granite,
old as earth.
Listen.
Time is the idea we share at the moment,
Earth's is the life we share at the same time.
This is Spaceship Earth, looping Sol as Sol loops Sirius,
and there is no mothership,
no resupply.
This is the only earth, it has survived several civilized
monstrosities. As you know, some mortals can't
imagine not surviving with it, so
we words of earthbound muse,
let slip the bands of pride in time to see,
we are the music,
we make beauty behave as will believes, voluntarily,
it seems,
we choose beauty with little de
liberation, no need to
unlock ledgers and boxes of known safe knowns,
we imagine ourselves
defying the
de-ified con instituted authorities warning,
given us, they swear by the very vicars of the oil:
We warn you…
hell's the price, they swear, that we,
the people, pay for heresy,
dare not think those-
no, no, nor hear and see, or never imagine thinking
a selfish thought,
one you find curiously comforting, for you, your idea,
but
stop…
one heresy breeds another,
soon we shall have a collective
of individual minds agreeing at once,
as all see a particular arranging of colors, in a sunset's
single effortless existence as a thing
with mortal mindable beauty,
did you belive the sunset, or may you, if you wish?
__ unravel, and re ravel to save the thread,
it has lead through the maze before,
I have a witness who tests ifies.
Great unquarried granite, but that forms another story
upon precepts as yet
unglued, un-coagulated, ah, curdled, precepts cultural
curdle and clump together.
Biomes are adjusting the rethinking of pathos,
ethos shall follow,
as night follows day, just wait.
Patience is formed from memes more than experience,
you bet the old man was not lying.
Slow and steady, wins the grace. Take it easy. Fade away…
Sep 19, 2020
Sep 19, 2020 at 5:03 PM UTC
An unholy night,
these two know those nights well,
it’s raining God’s blood
‘to the cracked gates of hell.
The demons are out,
the lechers and fiends,
a good chance to rob, ****
and listen for screams.
The Vicars head’s been cut off
on Joralemon street.
And such Neck-rophilia
seems just shy of obscene.
But that’s not why these two
are out on this night;
They want little kids
to make Angel’s delight.
You’ve never heard of it, have you?
It’s quite delicious in fact.
First they start off with the skin
from their ungrown, weak backs.
They’re peeling away
where their wings would soon grow,
but made too sore to fly
they fall down below!
And so catch them the wings,
shave them into a cheddar,
oh, but if it’s a girl,
make sure you be-head her.
Then break the legs like wishbones
and twist off the feet.
Make sure to save all that,
sssllurrrpp, succulent meat.
Last off’s the marrow
de la moelle épinière.
Get every last drop,
And let sit in stale air.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
That's Right My ANGER...
Yes... My ANGER... !!!!!!
Is PERFECTLY Fit...
For A... Poetic BANGER... !!!
You See My ANGER FEEDS...
Poetic Seams That Most CAN'T Believe... !!!
That's NOT EGO Peeps'... !!!
I Merely REPEAT What Some INDEED...
Have IMMEDIATELY...
Said Upon Hearing Big Virge Poetry... !!!!
Ya See My Anger... " Simmers "...
Before It Glimmers And Makes Heads SHIVER... !!!!
Like Walking In Slippers In A BITTER Winter... !!!!!!!
What My Anger Delivers....
Has Made Man QUIVER...
Who Thought They Were BIGGER...
Than... Heavenly Figures... ?!?
My Scriptures Paint Pictures...
of Anger That's SICKER...
Than ********** Vicars... !!!!!!!!!!!!
My Angers' Religion...
Paints... Dark Matter Visions... !!!
That DO NEED...................... DISMISSING.........
Because of... DARK Thinking... !!!!!!!!!!!!
That NEEDS To Go MISSING.... !!!!!!
By This I Mean...
Anger That Rests Inside of ME...
Is Something UNWORTHY...
of...... " Humanity "...... !!!
It's Something SO SCARY...
That YES It... SCARES ME... !!!
Because of The POWER...
of Its... ENERGY... !!!
From Poems To Flowing...
With... IGNORANT Peeps'...
My ANGER Is Something...
People... Have NOT SEEN... !!!!!
They... THINK That They Have...
Which PROVES I'm A Man...
Whose Coolness EXCEEDS...
Much More Than These DUMMIES...
Could... EVER Conceive... !!!!!!
If I … EVER DID...
Reverse FLIP The Script...
And Let My ANGER FLIP...
From Words To BULLETS... !!!
And Moving Like VILLAINS...
Whose Anger Would LIVE...
To... NEVER FORGIVE... !!!!!
You Kids Should RUN QUICK.... !!!!
Because There's A DARKNESS...
That Lies... " DEEP WITHIN "... !!!
BEYOND... " BAD Lieutenants "...
And... DRUG Dealing Fellas'... !!!!!!
SINISTER Vibes' ....
Would Direct My Mind...
So PLEASE RECOGNISE...
What I Say In These Lines... !!!
Because I Am Nice...
When I Greet The FIRST TIME... !!!
But REALLY DON'T LIKE...
People... Crossing The Line...
of RESPECT... I Live By...
It RUNS DEEP In Me... !!!!!
Like... ANGRY Legacies...
Bred From … IGNORANCE...
That's Now Seen On Streets... !!!
So PLEASE HEED My WARNING... !!!!!
These Words AREN'T For GLAMOUR... !!!
They're Born From EXPLORING....
What Lies In.....
...... " My ANGER "...... !!!!!!
Jun 25, 2020
Jun 25, 2020 at 10:03 PM UTC
Parishioners gather around me
God has taken my mind
My god is splayed before me
Forming dust from thought in time
The ones like us
The ones, they've never come up
And all the ones, they don't deserve
And I
I don't deserve love
Silently burrow
Burning bright
Guiding light
To find me
The organs groan, than make me high
Each new motion besets me
My god is burrowed into the sand
Mocking me
As I am mocking you
My motives burrowed into mind
And you won't survive me god
Every six months, my thoughts change
Any time is too long
Every hour is droning on
Before I wake up, incomplete
We've cast aside distant memories
God is dead
What was once old is still old
Carry on
Robotic
Antibiotic
Symbiotic
Still we remain...
My newly bothered brothers
And sisters, so lovely
So come with me
Into this night
We are the new vicars
The world will bow
And we are the new gods
The sum of which is god
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 4:19 AM UTC
Where the sky is as wide as the smile on your face..and white clouds interlace with the heat from the sun.
Where the fun in the day is found in the words that you say..is where you'll find me.
Just to be..
..near..
..to you.
Involved..
..in..
..The things that you do.
And when the darkness comes which it always must.
Where love and lust are deaf and blind.
I shall find..
..that inner strength..
..go to any length
To see you shine..
..Love..
..Be mine
At the start of it..part of it..for a bit is tough so take the rough with the smooth..
Suffer bruised Egos along with bruised shins..Life's little banana skins have a way of making you slip.
If you just rip into her day..there's no way she'll say thanks.
But if you like driving those sorts of tanks then join the armed forces..
It's horses for courses..
Ships for the seas
Vicars and teas..
..She's..........your desire..so go out and buy her a gift..give her a lift..wait at the factory gate at the end of her shift.
Do everything well
Don't sell yourself short
If you're caught unawares..the only way out is to face down hostile stares.
Just look to her smiles and your troubles are already miles away.
Call her to hear her say
"So glad you are mine"
Fine.
Look in the mirror and see..
..yourself shine.
Love..
..Be mine.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 5:45 AM UTC
The air is wet in the moist tears of the sky
vacant, and full of the fragrances of the hill flowers
Lone bird flying tither, looking for shelter.
adorning her forehead dishevelled the clouds
Looking confused, Phantasm woman hair
the early crescent moon looking lost,
Long travelled, when the soul longs for home,
there is none but the parnaked sky. Some warm clothes
familiar arms, a favourite soup. mirages a thirst.
When all is lost, there is hope. There is soul.
Wide earth, Call upon your vicars,
to learn your language and to be as you are,
to sing with the echoes and vanish with the shepherds.
I come here in homage, find me a home,
staring at the floating lamps dotting the dusk
distant hamlets in salsa with the stars.
Alight, for here, the bus stops.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 5:24 PM UTC
If there's a God up there
he must be sleeping and
keeping the best bits
'til the last,
But there's a new Master,pumping
out verse on a second hand ghetto blaster,
I heard it at five from the
newscaster and the pastors are checking the terms of their contracts,the vicars have packed up and gone off to Butlins,saving some sins from the high church,Jehovah is perched on the bed post,hosting a party fresh in from the West coast,toasting the end of the East side,
I think the newscaster lied.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
There is no cover to speak of
So one cannot help but
break horizons....
This hour-glass of grassland runs
through circles of these optic nerves
to impotent obscurity.
There!...
Three fields out and dangling
in a filigree of lark song...
Lapwings!
Gust-waft synods of ruffled vicars
from Heaven's addled cashmere, asking
"Did we?..No, we didn't...did we? "
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 3:58 AM UTC
Conduits in a guarded hall
The millions of souls singing in unison
Of a similar silence of not fulfilling their vows
The music dances in the canopy of mosaic
Vicars garner sanguine spirits with a dance that sings
Old castles have inscriptions of the dead
And sagely spirits that haunt these very verses
Through these conduits run the blood of religion
Only the monks seem to be silent about it all
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 5:59 PM UTC
In the eyes of the eyes of the man that I am, created by chance but that wasn't the plan, in the eyes that see life when support is switched off,
John Doe carries on,
where wrong's the new right and the night becomes day and the devils that hoodwink begin their final play and the sky's inside out where the clouds are below and the time reaches zero for me and John Doe.
I begin the new chapter when the laughter dies down and the maids of the forest move back to the town
where the mayor casts a challenge to all who will hear, it is the eyes of the eyes in the man that I fear.
No God makes a sin for the son he will lose and no son of mine would I choose for that task,
I ask for more always seeking the less and give blessing to poor men who if I confess are all me and where destiny wings me it sings me to sleep in the eyes of the eyes of the man.
The monitor blinks and I think
God's winking at me,
it's a quarter to three and he or she
should not tease me like this.
I lay a kiss on the cross
the vicars loss
my gain
and switch off
the pain.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC
It was a fine Sunday morning in church two bins
one of blessing ,
the other for my sins .
the sins that lay before me to many for me to count ,
my blessings in Christ Jesus like falling stars on a cloudless night .
Now I had never had chocolate before this very morn ,
there it was from the vicars tin handed out .
It tasted not like nothing else I had had before ,
Just like Gods love in Purple robes and thorn ,
just like Gods love sweet in crimson snow .
How the birds at the calling of the day gather their nests ,
and fly away for food ,
yet even these things don’t bother me .
Did you know the raven and the eagle circled Saxon battle fields ?
The ruddy noon day heat ,
and hover over the soldier with fallen shield .
Now with open wound
Peck ,
and tear and feed .
His sword yet ****** stays embedded in the mud ,
his helmet fallen encased my blood .
For the passing of the years a
prayer from this mighty warrior to God so he might find rest .
in this battlefield of love .
A monk gives him water and bandages and cares for his head .
These cold stone walls lay waste against the enemy deadly spear ,.
For against the flesh he must conquer against Satan’s evil deeds .
This earth we cannot count for days of short or long ,
Our battle is everywhere ,
So to victory our cry ,
so long .
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 3:23 PM UTC
Dear God,
when and if I get to heaven
will you make me pray?
I think I've done enough,
its snuffed me out,
so if I get up there and shout,
'please let me in'
don't you be thinking of my sin and
insisting on a lot more prayer,otherwise
I won't come there.
I'll show my face in that other place,where
indeed my friends will be,I'll
drink wine with fallen angels and invite
vicars in for tea.
On the whole I think for me that heaven
is the place to be,
it's just the praying I can't stand and why
pray when it's the promised land?
Dear God,
I know that I'm an awkward sod but allowances
must be made and
if you are the maker I will meet don't ask
me to kneel and
pray at your feet.
I know,
that praying stuff is 'buff' but really
I've done quite enough.
Yours sincerely nearly there
your humble subject
Yogi bear.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 6:38 AM UTC
Waiting here and waiting strong
waiting for the end of days
which
the Devil tells me,'won't be long'
He also says,
'get in the queue,
there's plenty sinners just like you'
It's just my luck,
I know it's true,
just got my life back
now
it's through.
lots of people here I know
can't really name them,
(just in case), so
think of singers,plenty sound
lots of vicars,milling round
Politicians
by the score.
I wonder what Oprah's
waiting for.
(and that's a joke,
sometimes there is fire without the smoke)
I'll wait my turn
get in the ***
an eternity of torture
what have I got
to fear.
I'm waiting here and
been waiting long
perhaps the forecast was
quite wrong.
it's not the end of days at all
just
Winter at the end of Fall.
( and Fall is Autumn in english,English)
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 9:07 AM UTC
the godless Dawkins
The Professor Richard Dawkins had stroke which made him say
when feeling better: “There are things we will never know.”
I think his sudden revelation or insight is gratifying.
For those who do not know the professor he has written books
about anti-god and made fun of those who do believe in a religion
God is an abstract figure which I knew when nine years of age it
is easy to laugh at vicars and women wearing crosses, but for me
the subject of god is boring
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 9:03 AM UTC
Church has a strange allure.
A fishing rod thrown out to capture the impure.
Pure of heart are welcomed in with holy words presented.
Opportunities for absolution of sin.
With singing and dancing and praising the lord.
With hymns and psalms,
The finest spoken word.
Words of vicars, priests and pastors.
Preaching good God's love and laughter.
Time on Earth be heaven sent.
Much too brief, life's only lent.
Sinners,brothers and sisters.
Hold your hands up high.
Repent at night before you sleep.
Guard your soul so safety keep.
(c)Livvi MMCV
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
There's a smell of Sunday in the air
roast beef, two veg and
vicars everywhere,
there's the 'sally army' with the band
marching on,
I'd give a hand,
but mine are tied to eggs
I should have fried.
She has breakfast on the lawn, flakes, I think, made out of corn and tea from China, I have wine (communion) a cheeky little vintage from a vintner in the town.
There's a taste of sin that floats on by, the sinners maybe getting high on bible verse,
the bells are worse, ****** dang, **** they're out of tune if I'm not wrong,
but putting all my moans aside, it's Sunday so
'abide with me'
She,
has other plans,
wash the dishes, clean the pans, dust the table, shine the floor.
Sunday
is what
Sunday's for.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 5:41 AM UTC
First of the part of the journey
The sea washes
The sand castle
In a hassle of moist touches
Shaping my future like God's touches
I feel blessed
As the empty red sunset sky watches
Looks like the faces of the dirt and the dust
Lay the waste to the degrees of the deserted fields
Cause the spring time rains on the
Heads on the bickering rabble of the lost civilizations
Where has out water gone?
Where is our respect?
Smirking MAGA kid convicted of arrogance
Pretend to be docile to bring out the silence
In your enemy
Provoke disgrace by being free
Out of the trees
Of last vicars
That make the yellow tainted spruce
Meant for the civilized truth
Darkness cannot drive out darkness
Only love can do that
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 5:23 AM UTC