"vituperation" poems
Why did it take us a year to fall apart?
Did we ever fall in love in the first place,
Or did we meet each other just to replace
A lonely void we dreamt to erase?
Had I known you were that sort,
I'd never have let you hold my hand.
I'd never have let you make me smile.
I'd have never allowed you into my heart, into my mind.
Had I known you'd laugh and lie
With the same lips that used to kiss mine,
I'd have never let you near
To all those things that I held dear.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 4:08 AM UTC
Dark waters ripple thought.
horse drawn carriage tread
voltaic wires, throbbing brain.
lorn elation until osculation
of lips dreamt nightly.
nectarous skin float
between fingers raptured.
everlasting sand blown
from ashes wrought with
doubt.
paroxysm of senses like electric eels
wreck ties bound by vituperation.
Breath like honeyed vapor,
encased rouged cheeks.
savored time in bottles, minutes
turned to minerals mined.
hours of golden flecks
splashed in synthesized
unison.
New always, love evermore.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 5:33 AM UTC
Words are fun to play about with -
to rhyme sometimes, or simply shout with.
Textured words with rich deep color
that vivify those words much duller;
phrases culled from a private stash
to give your expletives panache.
Cause shock and awe - gain admiration,
with erudite vituperation!
So let your language soar unfettered
away from tired words four lettered.
Jul 2, 2011
Jul 2, 2011 at 3:06 PM UTC
Omigod, Donald T. ****
You unconscionable creep,
You are disgusting enough
To cost us all sleep.
If lies were US dollars
You sonofabitch
You would truly be
Obscenely rich.
It’s not enough for you
To have gold water faucets,
Crystal mirrors everywhere
And marble floors in closets
Now you want to play at
Being a savvy politician
Stands for Christian principles
From the missionary position.
Omigod, Donald T. ****
You unconscionable creep,
You are disgusting enough
To cost us all sleep.
With a changing cast of women
You call your lawful wives.
And you’re the one who wants
To control our very lives?
You utter your vituperation
At poor and the non-Christian.
Is having the world hate you
Part of your final mission?
If lies were US dollars
You sonofabitch
You would truly be
Obscenely rich.
You also want control of
Our country’s financial hopes.
If we fall for that stupid tale
Then we are a nation of dopes
Because you have bankrupted
More than the Monopoly game
Would allow a toddler to have
And that is quite a shame.
Omigod, Donald T. ****
You unconscionable creep,
You are disgusting enough
To cost us all sleep.
If lies were US dollars
You sonofabitch
You would truly be
Obscenely rich.
No, Mr. T **** please do
What is proper and fitting;
Call up the press and say
That you are finally quitting.
Tell them you were just testing
To see what the others would do.
So, kiss our collective ***** goodbye
And take with you that dumb hairdo.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
buried in my chest, a young lass sleeps
warm and safe in her haven.
not a thought goes towards her action.
she's merely a figure i created;
to convince myself she exists.
note the way her breathing
differs with the seasons.
now she's silent,
but soon she'll be screaming;
the influence of my vituperation.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 4:09 PM UTC
the anger pulses thick,
hot, eager yet sluggish
in my jagged veins which
touch the air at erratic intervals,
spitting crimson beads that
conglomerate then fall
like tears of a sacrifice.
my eyes focus, unfocus
unable to fixate through the red haze
snaking across my vision,
and the barbed thoughts,
picking inside my brain then
bleeding out through trembling lips;
venom and hatred
ripped from my tongue
to form an acrimonious cloud
of vituperation that i assure will
lacerate your vile fragility.
i despise you.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
When we are within the tavern,
we care not for earthly matters,
there, brows soaked in sweat,
we find ourselves among the gamblers.
What happens in the tavern,
where money is host,
you may well question,
and hear what I say.
Some gamble, some drink,
some behave without discretion.
But of the gamblers,
some are stripped bare,
some win clothing,
others dressed in ragged sacks.
Here, no one fears death,
instead they're throwing dice for Bacchus.
First comes the payment for the wine,
Then the drunkards drink in line:
They drink once for those in prison,
thrice for those a-living,
four times for all Christendom,
five for the faithful departed,
six for the sisters of loose virtue,
seven for the soldiers of the forest,
eight times for brothers in error,
nine times for the scattered monks,
ten times for the sailors,
eleven for the argumenting,
twelve times for those repenting,
thirteen times for those advent'ring.
For pope and king alike,
all drink without restraint.
Drinks the mistress, drinks the master,
drinks the soldier, and the pastor,
drinks the servant with the maid,
drinks the merchant for his trade,
drinks the black man, drinks the white man,
drink the wrong man and the right man,
drinks the settler, drinks the wanderer,
drink the fool, and the scholar,
Drink the poor, and the sick,
drink the slow one, and the quick,
drinks the stranger, drinks the exile,
drink the Jew and the Gentile,
drinks the boy, drinks the elder,
drink the brother and the sister,
father, mother, wife and husband,
by the hundred, by the thousand.
Six hundred coins have no duration,
when no one drinks in moderation,
although they drink with jubilation,
we receive vituperation,
And so we are in destitution.
Curse all those who slander us,
and may their names not be written the book of the just.
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 12:29 PM UTC
Vituperation
is an acquired taste
of the devil's guise
in a ghettoclysmic
paradise
Mar 12, 2025
Mar 12, 2025 at 2:52 PM UTC