"whorish" poems
In this obscene photograph secretly sold
the policeman mustn't see) around the corner,
in this whorish photograph,
how did such a dream-like face
make its way; How did you get in here?
Who knows what a degrading, ****** life you lead;
how horrible the surroundings must have been
when you posed to have the picture taken;
what a cheap soul you must have.
But in spite of all this, and even more, you remain for me
the dream-like face, the figure
shaped for and dedicated to Hellenic love-
that's how you remain for me
and how my poetry speaks of you.
4.2k
O America, wake up from your dream.
Your top of the hill
Perception.
I plead, awake.
Awaken from your false beliefs, your
Warped view of the world.
Believing it is yours to buy and
Consume, while others starve.
O America, I see your shadow,
Cast over your deprived. A desperate
Attempt to hide the desperate,
The lost and the depraved.
The waste of your creation,
Left to wallow in the filth of
Your existence. The broken
Pieces of your people. Invisible
to your people.
O America, I see your wretched youth.
Apathetic and sadistic, desensitized by
Your lifestyle. Enslaved by your media
to buy any which way.
Your whorish children, your joke of a generation.
Raised like cattle in shameful schools, reared in
Broken homes. Self destructive and stupid.
O America, turn off your television prophets,
Preaching their gospel of guilt in exchange for
Credit card numbers. Bastardizing science
And teaching bigotry.
Protesting human rights and feeding fallacies,
Indoctrinating children with fearful remorse.
Extorting their sheep to build their steeples,
Making sin out of human nature.
O America, I pray,
Wake up from your nightmare.
Before you collapse upon yourself, before
You're swallowed by your unfeedable mouth.
Arise, before you die. Cut the strings that
Manipulate you like a puppet. Reject society,
The cultural cancer.
O state of damnation, awake.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
The wake of nevermore
To be forever and more
Flowering
Through the doors of metamorphosis
With whorish twists
To twine the submissive slits
Into bracelets bracing for a face lit
In joyous glee
Cheek to cheek!
The sheen of sheep
Greased and ready to eat
Oh Gristlesworth
Smiling from a bag
Bahhh!
Don't eat the tag
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
Of the world's most handsome poetry
Of the champagne of the tongue
The rapt lovers of cursive stroke
And the sweetest, most decadent paper caress
I like the cheap beer remarks and the box wine conjunctions
The whorish, scribbled word on the back of café napkins
The bitter inky graze and the rancid graphite touch
Some days
I have drowned in a sea of elaborately dressed words
With less intent than proud showmanship
And most days
I’d rather float on a Dead Sea of salty wit
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 1:28 AM UTC
Momentary lapses of shyness within pretentiousness the size of a non-la-hat
offering shade from the sweltering sun,
confused the boy still residing beneath an
exterior of brashness. A wooing of rose or
lotus petals? Did she not enjoy such frivolity?
What of a bard letting words slide through
the air like silk, for I didn't possess such
romantic poetry.
____
Instead, I embarked upon a journey of false-heroism, took a bullet, figured it to shape me
into a man. I showed off the wound, blood soaking through the bandages--you seemed far from impressed by this display of stupidity.
Yet you played coy, bending over,
letting sunlight play through a thin
summer dress, highlighting inner thighs,
lines arching up into a dome of dizzy-
delirium so sensual it almost appeared sinful.
At night you'd undress before a naked
window, let shadows flirt across moonlit dew.
It was all I could do to keep eyes averted,
instead, living on dreams of unwrapping gifts
under the influence of feverish waves,
even though I never forgot to take quinine.
And after all the games, I had only to stay
still long enough for you to complete another sketch, take its lines, breathe together a new poem, unleashing torrents of words into my ear. A funny sort of unconventional, tactile courtship. You wanted for me to listen,
to test my patience, and once your head
was emptied out, heat arose from the bloom, enveloping me in soft petals, vanquishing
my fever, with a different feverish embrace.
Your eyes almost felled me with their complexities of virginal innocence and a whorish lust. The thrusts,
lips and fingers, the blended push-pull
of rhythm and wild abandon
caused me to lose myself long enough,
to find your soul drifting alongside my own,
amongst the stars that had always been shining amongst the light already written
before our birth.
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC
What steps he took, after losing his edge
Cocky **** running wild in days, never slept
Took drugs, took women, took men
Never slept again
What cliffs she admired, after seeing the edge
Tormented in fuzzy daydream childhood afternoons
She came down and stayed for days
An obsession with time to the point of stasis
I think I'm losing my edge
He thinks he's dead again
She lost the bed again
A faceless man was sat on a bench by the seafront
Hood high, said goodbye
Told me his missed the old style, wants more
Told him I was tired and this is whorish
What vines are these, that bound my ankles
and I was screaming into vacuums, grand clocks, strange houses
Safe houses that become embers
Magic men, shaman, shaggy hair, danced there
To use words in multiple places, placing clues
A whole story, absolute, read it backwards, forewords
iTunes shuffle function, on the poetry of the soul
(if it exists)
But he lost his edge again
Yes he went to Africa, saw the face of God and the Devil, unification
Iboga, uneasy stomach, vomited and killed them all
Watched the world burn, and children dance
Bluebell Lucy on arrival, back home
Taunted the skies, saved the proletariat
Grew wild roots and sang, some seraph
Admittedly not an architect, or a poet or **********
How many people have made these allusions
Sold drugs, killed men, ran home, all there, ghost of government
Hedgerows grew wild, were noticed and cut down
Still praise beatitude, Ginsberg, love-made, Kerouac, still plays
She was Hannah and she was Malcolm, also Marvin
He was them too, all the same, transcendental self-infatuation
Peach trees, coloured blinds, ashy scattered floorboards
Burnt home, music playing, popular culture
All free-form even with formality
A stream of conscious way of life
Outlook unsure
He thought he lost his edge
Turns out s/he never had it
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 12:26 PM UTC
Barely nineteen, he shipped for life.
On a cold windy Pacific shore
carrying relatives?
Old polluted tin cars,
and refugees mailing brown letters;
Silently noted
his lover of his depart.
One July dawn,
when the boat calmed.
He knew his biggest regret sailed too.
Later, with new wife and son,
he’d scan the lake for her scooner.
Kawartha grasses grew deeper.
He had a daughter Rosemary,
his past, only a cinematic keeper.
A smirk and a pinch meant “love”.
He ate jam on toast at 7am sharp.
His daughter wore whorish nail polish,
another mistake he’d eventually forgotten.
At Eighty, trembling his hands;
he put on the nights hockey game
meeting death on a shoot out.
Embracing the warm uncertainty
of the son he left behind.
Only to set sail again.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 1:35 AM UTC
a mishap fudged together in a blur
by the onerous fate autonomy
a throw away girl
death addict
in a racket of echoes
fingernails
******* and spit
for relics of witchcraft
in a foot licking satanic ritual
she picked him
like a con mark
for the realization
of her shadow dream
to escape from form
in a shaking bed
spread herself wide
feeling the black sound
like musical water
to drown in
with weight
that holds immovable storms
of brazen villain's and glistening *****
who pumped her mouth like gas
for obliterations throat bashing she loved
causing the hideous end of herself
splayed straddled a ****** archaeology
of kisses withering in an ancient pudding
razor peeled ******* blooming
betrayed whorish curdling screams
in a deviant propulsion
glitter mucous and blood
drizzled from her lush red smeared lips
with tears of mascara
in a ghoulish basement
an object of desire for demons
on the ceiling
she abandons all hope
lubricated her **** and ****
opened her thighs
for a freakish novelty
of soaked vibrating machine gun tongues
for a hemorrhaging orgiastic suicide
her blade slit tongue
still undulating
and pinned it in bits
to a **** toy
******
for valentine's day
her love and guts like a buffet
glamorously featured
with photo pics
in Mademoiselle magazine
smiling cockeyed
drugged and staggering
she put a rope
around her neck
as if in an embrace
and blew her brains
a spiraling horror
of diabolical appeal
in a ghastly enterprise of roulette
of pants off dance off
scattered gauze bikini
and a head wreath of hair
glittered like a half-eaten pomegranate
under disco lights
Aug 18, 2020
Aug 18, 2020 at 12:01 PM UTC
hard soft i'm large and groaning a fit of plastered excellence in my ambrosia fountain of giggling fornication this city is grandly exalting and flustering mightily incense of femmes du *** who art graciously ******* with a their boisterous choir of laughing *** or the men groping seriously their frail fair trackmarked beauty and they finger their air and lush and spit gratuitously their eyes upon their *******
and they like to laugh with their haughty whorish
breath a longing barely chained loosed slowly in splattering
abscesses of lust
; asinine men go and plead sourly your heads in thighs sweating
anorexic *** your Are
is
just
cosmic
lice
Dec 1, 2010
Dec 1, 2010 at 10:50 AM UTC
In a world where horrors lurk on every corner
When terror's found on every news report
When violence is celebrated at the movies
And death is seen by elders as a sport
It's no surprise that Halloween is hip
That costumes and liquor are our daily bread
And that the "scariest" 'guise people can think up
Is a **** whorish version of the dead.
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
(1)ones laughing like a dog with 2 22's
who're like 3: a whorish slightly giggling mess
3 prods the carpet by footed semblance of leather
assembling her flesh in the left corner of a lazy
rectangle cinema cube. 1nes still cackling throat
******* cords vibrating stupidly on every face with the 2 maybe 23's
mouthhanding and eyefucking with his fat grunt syllabary. 3's uncomfortable
atthe sycophantic panting of her 23's atthis masculine discharge
wetting the silence a pulsing ***** of tongue barking vomit . as an usher ushers fleetly our
moist intellects to the quiet little. the quiet little notch. of waiting excited
screaming visuals a screen crucified blathering.
the 1's ungiddy prance detonates by the skinnyjeaned legs pumping fetid motion. in company of long femininity. and the ovals of 3
grate swift bile at they're lump. and they swallow inthedarkness
his moronic spit. and puke . . .
Nov 15, 2010
Nov 15, 2010 at 10:17 AM UTC
time it is
she beckoned
time and I ate of it
the dread
the matter of her
no kiss of her
from her
honestly
no doubt, I knew...
it was dinner time
"eat me"
she labored
as dog in heat
spread her legs
as on stirrups
I be, the muzzle be her divorce from me
yank my collar, chain wrapped
about her hand
beckon me
"eat"
chain be her love I desire
collar be my patience given
but appetite?
mine be love
her beest pleasure
I have no appetite for
merely
pleasure
neither hers nor mine
sans love?
no appetite at all have I
eyes so weary of wanting
that I melt
as Salvador Dali prophesied
mine eyes droop
her thighs
wet my fantasies
as ice cream, on the hottest Sunday,
I am weak
weary of denying myself her
she, a mere rainforest of beauty
abundant in plural, though singular
her flower
droop me 'tween mine legs
raise me, as the dawn rises zenithly,
she pies me,
my piper, my charmed being
I'm pied
she has me
dancing, midriffly, with ****** fervor
mine eyes cast down
as shadow in sunset
lone tree in the wilderness
redfern shadow
a mile long
mine eyes cast down between her legs
seeing all my heart's desires
"eat"
and all my hopes dieth there
"eat"
despair, I mourn
I pine
"love me"
I opine, my lover love me
be not pleasure the measure of our stay, in bed, this Sunday
love me, as the Father hath given us this day
be not Eve of the forbidden love
be Dawn of the day we won eternal life from the devil's death
that my fruit be of your nectar drunk, that I be your pleasure,
and you be mine
that I succor thine fruit
hour by hour that you writhe
not as snake but as mountain shook
as mountain moved
faithfully, you love me,
let that fantasy be mine drink
and thine offering due my thirst
that love sate me,
nay?!
"eat!"
and all the world looketh empty of light
"eat! **** you"
and all the world be afright with wonder that I be man, yet, eat not my ****** that
she be heathen of love, still, my ****** she be,
simply,
that mine eyes drink her in
beauty beyond compare
but that mine ears deceive me not
for deceive me, her flesh does
but her forked tongue
as lightning streak
she shat the bed
that streak be her ****** blessing
dashed across her whorish ways
be that time
I linger in wait
wanting, but that I eat
she trappeth me
that all I be good for
is her pleasure
but be not fit
for her love
"eat! what are you good for?!"
nay, irony be that
time told
clock struck truth
"eat!"
nay
"what my flesh be, here, then?"
a trap,
and I say nay
for I be a lover
of such supple,
gorgeous,
womanly flesh, not, merely,
a ******
"eat"
I be not hungry,
for a *****
my flesh be purchased
but nay that my heart he purchased
neither my soul,
by merely, lust
I, too dearly, pine for you
dream of you
romance you deeper than form
and fit
time
and merciless pleasure
to be,
of you,
lustfully...
so, I say,
nay...
but,
that ye should, learn love me
perhaps,
that day
perhaps
then, yay
Mar 13, 2025
Mar 13, 2025 at 1:45 PM UTC
The cold is my commander, it taunts me, while it steals my sheaths of warmer cleaving skin sections exposed by its notions and collected conscious. The sounds are complicated, the moons azurean hue resembles the coldness of my cigarette's embers blue, and then the commander shucks my final breath away. It isn't something that I barely feel, but rather something that lightly see. It's hoarfrost births its fickle shell of hardrime on the last of those interstices I once called my fingers. And from this choke, this frozen voice is detained by the vox ice amplifier that steals each noise. Besides, in an interruption I hear our whorish neighbors score of shouting scripted shouts, and screaming scripted screams. Each day she becomes less and less like any real human being. It's hard to believe that behind these walls that shield me from the albicant and atrocious heraldry winter casts me through, these sounds are concentric like limited Earth words written in the prompts that some ill and wanton succubus would. If only to lure herself from the pains she gained while lying to those amidst her closest ties. I am further distressed, though fully dressed narrowly watching bits of frozen water interlace themselves beneath freezing in the corners of my mind. When until the shaking and commandeering of my mortal sounds, disperse amidst the ferocity that Spring white snow absconds. The tremulent vocal chords are hailed by a hard-rimed **** who ensuingly rips the cantering spirit from each last place it stood. Only those who know this wind could speak about the way it genuflects and obsesses on these rules. This freezing genuflection hails to every servant of its rein, I can barely exhale the inspiration that rises from the head, until any skin exposed to air is reclaimed by my commander for good. Then each neighbor's head may lilt upon the piste, and pray for something more balmy than negative eleven degrees.
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 2:25 AM UTC
I'm here. These texts these sacred carnivorous words
this verbal membrane
(read carefully I summon you read twice!) :
curtain meninx electroshock therapy
blanket straitjacket
bed-sheet ***** placenta
I praise this osmotic verbal membrane
I give you I get undressed I curse myself
Ah! my repressed whorish pathos:
I give you lucidly
Any poetic art is written in ink
(I calmly assure in public)
in fact
in these mortal neurons
Darkness and dust
These texts these words I've picked from books and streets
Only this ultimate membrane
(precious like the *****
fragile like soap bubbles)
still separates me
from the psychic space where you've pushed me
as towards the springs of the Nile
from the psychic place whence I try - cautiously
painfully - to pull out:
my hands my paws my brain my heart
What is beyond? darkness and dust
What is left? a poetic art this darkness this dust
these cracking neurons
Marta Petreu
translated by Liviu Bleoca
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC
Dreaming of Mountains
Words flowing from the fountain
of my mouth, but ignited in my Brain
and it all catches flame
suddenly I'm insane with thoughts that I can't keep
my memory's not that deep
I need to save them, nourish them
I write them down and flourish them
this whorish pen, that always puts out
loosens my fears and all my doubts
I've gone without, in order to Go
the key to life is Living to Know
But I can't know it all
That's why I roll the ball
of curiosity, into everything I see
and I wonder
I wonder so much about so little
but the little things matter
there's no cat without the fiddle
theres no cake without the middle
the filling is what tastes good
I've done some bad things
but I mix them up and make good
with myself and this Universe
a potpourri of stars
mixed with soil and fabric and electric-slide guitars
I know who I are, and I know that's bad grammar
but I take pen to paper
and go harder than a hammer
I don't stammer, I don't stutter
my mind is in the gutter
but I speak like a queen with a Dream
and I'm only nineteen
I've seen some things but freedom rings
and the bell is on Earth
so forget about Hell
cause heaven is tangible
if my life is merely manageable
and I can do it with strength
and my dreams at arms length
they inch closer to my fingers
as the breath of beauty lingers
I grasp it, I gasp, spit
**** make this feeling last!
The past, it's over
I take this bulldozer
to my attitude and solitude
with gratitude
it's Solid, dude.
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 11:58 PM UTC
Apathetic sloth,
Your whorish ways bring me down,
**** you, filthy ****
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
there was drooping violet
spate generally on the still noble sky
by who ridiculous punctuation slammed
unsleeping winds all about this lean laughing
hound of plural singulars bounding intaglio rivulets
slightly rosy chunks of love
and love was
punching gradually
every lips
and lightly whorish
bruises slapped the pavements
by the
B!r.Ea k I,N;g' surf
Oct 16, 2010
Oct 16, 2010 at 10:53 AM UTC
Mirages caress the air in celebration of hope once lost
they will breathe now but wither at dusk
when the sun has lost its patience seeking a worthy companion
no one ever shines like him, he thinks
not in arrogance but longing
in an exhaustion of otherness
and he knows he has busy hands.
whorish and predictable
he will always leave eastern shores for western ones
gently touching bodies of water
or angrily scorching the audacity of land still being there without him
at times the earth trembles at his powers
breaks
protests
and the sand's shoulders go limp but rest assured
tomorrow
the sun will ****** those lands not in heat
and will still be lonely
will still not know the life he gives
or hope to barren lands and northerners
still not know that he's a part of everyone.
he IS the celebration
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 5:29 PM UTC
Outside the crop has wintered,
tall husks of green lopped over
and fumbling for sunlight.
There are rules to the arrangement.
The limits of energy and
abundance, lost somewhere in
a fray of hot sound, cold
Frame for the crop to weather.
Let it slip away. Humble yet
whorish for warmth, bare skeleton
of being from which to frame the
Praying, hand scraping concrete.
Find that voice. Put it in a box.
Punt that box into oblivion, a fire
of sunlight, warmth, a burning skeleton
Begging for life; hollow shell.
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 12:59 AM UTC
She's as wild as a wolf,
As wanton as a whorish witch,
As wicked as a werewolf;
As woman's allure bewitched.
She rules the dark night
In magnificence of full moon
And reigns with sunlight
As glorious splendor of noon.
Eyes lensed with emerald;
Whose stare hypnotizes and kills.
Her synergy an evil herald,
To bloods of the souls she spills.
Her innocence's deceptive,
Her beauty men just couldn't resist;
Mistaken as being receptive,
Their unbridled lusts cease to exist.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 10:50 PM UTC
nor very cool to feel for every ***** or beggar or
low-life
there are just a multitude of them to cry over
it doesn't pay me a ******* cent
walking to town to watch the whorish
wave down traffic
angry is a bit of what I gnaw on
the gum of **** that makes me gag
almost or puke or wanna ****
any mother who allows their child,
yes we all, even the low cast out **** bottom
basement ******** for a dime ****** ***** got one
lets her child become this , **** her **** yes
god **** the *******
god **** the dripping *****
that walked away tucking their ***** of brains
back into their shorts onto the streets , oh what hustlers what
cruel ******* idiots
even them, even those ***** donor dead souls,
it is too much to feel for,
etc....
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 1:43 PM UTC
There is no time more bleak and promising than the break of dawn.
The eggshell sky beckons with a powdery blue which promises of nobler and greater things just beyond our ever reaching grasp.
Rain slaps the pavement,
Low thunder grumbles, hungering and thirsting for more,
For me.
Shrill bird calls
the homely call of the crow
speckle the air with a spirit of understanding
(and a building intensity)
that simply cannot be felt ever again.
At any other time.
And I light a cigarette.
And I light a cigarette
because just like that.
The Beauty is gone.
Because in the time that it takes to coat the innards of my lungs with just one more layer of sludge,
The Beauty is gone.
The soft blue is usurped by a dull grey,
--a great that could only dream of the powerful
sting of a steel blade.
And people come alive again.
And my heart is broken.
Again.
Again, again, and
Again with the pathetic whorish promise of what could be,
but has not been,
and possibly never will be.
And yet I still hope,
And yet I still yearn for the promise of the powdery blue.
Jul 8, 2011
Jul 8, 2011 at 7:57 AM UTC
Save me, dear nightmare, from the monster I will become
Your darkness alone can shroud me.
Of blinding sun and free thinkings of the day no more,
Only to the shadows do I profess my intimacy.
Breathe your worst down my neck,
With scratches of your fingernails I implore you to infect
The spotted mind, the burning woman
Lost in her own vagrant fantasies.
Feel her fire coursing in dying veins, for,
You told me once that empty veins do burn.
I’d rather they burn than grow cold from lack of touch,
Explode with misplaced passion than be forgotten for later.
With a dying breath my sanity asks your permission
To be torn to shreds from these beasts in the night
Rather than let you meet that fate.
Take your whorish damsel, your hero friend, your family too
But remember the fiery heart that remained monstrous for you.
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 7:49 PM UTC
AAHHHHHHH
ahhhH
AHH
AH
A
PIECE OF ME IS BITING
AND ITS CRYING INTO MY FLESH
I CANT STOP BEATING MYSELF INTO DEATH
MAKE IT STOP YOU ******* ****
I WANT THE NEEDLES TO STOP PIERCING
I WANT MY GUMS TO STOP BLEEDING
BREATHE DEEPER AND DEEPER
I WANT SOMEONE INSIDE ME
FEEL MY PAIN FOR A CHANGE
WHILE I TAKE YOUR WHORISH PLEASURE
IM SEARCHING FOR TREASURE
ITS BLOOD AND GUTS ANS MEN
TALL DARK DRUGGED UP
GIVE ME A HIGH
I'VE BEEN TOO LOW IN LIFE
IM DISGUSTING
IM MUTANT
IM GRUESOME
TAKE MY ARMS AND BREAK THEM
TAKE MY NECK AND CRACK ME OPEN
**** MY INSIDES
IM ****** UP
MY HOLES ARE BURNT
MY HEART IS GONE
SPIDERS CRAWL UPON ME
I SCREAM AND SEEK SANITY
H E L P
H E L P
H E L
H E
H E HURT ME UNTIL I DIED
I DON'T REMEMEBR BEING BORN
I ONLY KNOW DEATH
AND THE TASTE OF YOUR BREATH
ASHXHXJ[DJDNKDJDM_FN!DN]
Djsksnsn
DksoJSJSNSNS
SKSKSKS
SJSISOI
AISSK
Aisji
Fhi
Di
I break down and break down
Into meaningless nonsene.
I pray that one day it'll calm down
And form meaning behind the scrambled
Maybe even the smallest amount of peace
All I can say is please
Oh God please
Aug 13, 2019
Aug 13, 2019 at 3:31 AM UTC