"wolfed" poems
The name was Antappan.
On his wedding invitation
He printed the famous words
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi -
(Today it's me, tomorrow it will be you.)
Whoever asked
“Are you nuts, Antappaaa?”
Got a voiceless laugh in reply.
In native tongue
The laughter said
No quotes are quoted
Except through one’s own life.
Though not a charming name
It ‘s true that from that day
Antappan came to be called
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan.
Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Wolfed down the pork and the beef.
Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi CrasTibi Antappan’s wedding
Gifted pretty sums of money in envelopes.
Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Said nasty comments about the bride.
Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Asked the sound system guy to play
You are lucky I am lucky loudly.
But before that a small incident at the church. As soon as he set his eyes on Antappan who was a grave digger the Chaplain forgot the wedding and without asking who died began to set the church bell tolling in that rhythm reserved for deaths. The senior Priest who heard it came running and opening the small prayer book for the dead began to sing the song the seeds sprout in the fields when it rains. Hearing that the girls in the choir sang the rest of the song when they hear the clarion call life sprouts in the dead and went on to the prose portion I call you lord from the abysses. Seeing that the boy who helps with the communion lighted the candle and incense stick for the dead. (Meanwhile the bride’s naughty song you who is not dead yet will you not **** me tonight also rang in Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s ears.) Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan who realized that the same flowers meant to be wreaths at some house of death were now adorning his ***** as a garland laughed his famous voiceless laugh.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
THE TRUE STORY
The wolf sat on the ground.
Little Red Riding Hood
sat at his feet.
"Well, well, well, so
here we are again!"
said Mr. Woolf in a faux
English accent
he had picked up from watching
Peter O'Toole be Lawrence of Arabia.
"Some apple juice my dear
have some apple crumble do!"
enquired Mr. Woolf of his
fairy story cohort.
"I baked it myself you know
molasses instead of sugar
gives it that dark flavour
oh and a little touch of ginger!"
Little Red Riding Hood
wolfed down the apple crumble.
Sipped...slurped
noisily through a bendy straw
annoying the silence that
gathered itself around her.
There was a piece of apple
crumble on her nose.
For a little girl she
had a big appetite.
The wolf ate nothing.
"We can't go on like this
any minute now a child
somewhere in another
somewhere
will start our story
by opening a book.
I will be called upon
to eat you and Granny up.
I don't even like
grannies for gawd's sake!"
Mr. Woolf had tears that
refused to fall.
It's got...it's...got
to somehow stop!"
Little Red Riding Hood burped.
"Pardon!"
So, when the child I used to be
opened the story once
upon a time it was
simply not there.
There was nothing there.
Nothing but a great big ****** blank.
Somewhere in another somewhere
Little Red Riding Hood
swung on a swing
Mr. Woolf pushing her
higher and
higher into
a summer blue
sky.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 3:27 PM UTC
When I think of that matchless night
with your hideous face on the pillow
your disgusting body spread eagled on my bed
unwashed and rancid like stale fish stew
I recall nothing but putrid filth
and how the memory lingers on
of your staggering halitosis flavours
filthy foulness oozing from broken teeth
and gum abscesses so deep no tongue could
fully probe them without coming through
the other side covered in warm pus
and you left in the morning
leaving my sheets looking like
a patchwork quilt of many colours
after having elegantly wolfed down
a huge bacon and egg fry-up
accompanied by loud squelchy farts
presaging a dump in your knickers
and you never even suggested
we should have another date
so that old story about the ugly ones
being grateful is a load of *****
but I can't be too fussy really
now I'm pushing eighty-eight.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 6:58 AM UTC
Your song, like fire, burned into
the daylight skies over Mexico.
The cactus words stripped my hands.
These hands which held the
Universe above you for a long
Steel barrel you called Daylight.
I heard you when you said you
loved me, saw you ride away.
The cactus leaked and I watched
Your name form on the sand.
You turned and mixed me with
Jose Cuervo until I was footed
and could say goodbye.
The skies, painted by numbers,
wolfed down the landscape
In which I have been
erased.
Caroline Shank
9.20.23
Sep 20, 2023
Sep 20, 2023 at 9:45 AM UTC
It has been quite a while,
since I saw you this up close.
We were seated across each other at the rounded table,
having home-cooked dinner, the way we used to with your family.
We had the usual dishes, served with light hearted banter
and bits of chatter about every day’s trivia.
Big brother was humming a song,
and there was a chime of little sister’s laughter
because Dad told another joke while recounting his days.
You were pretty much the same.
Hair neatly waxed, the way it is after work.
Combed up. To the right.
I recall wondering how distance and familiarity
can co-exist in such harmony.
Quite a cinematic setting, is this scripted?
I must be acting, or dreaming.
You wolfed down every mouthful,
as your jaw clenched and relaxed
and your chopsticks scraped the bottom of the ceramic bowl.
“Eat more! Eat it all!”, Mother teasingly chide
And your eyes darted across the room,
crinkle into a smile, before it hit me –bullseye
as I glanced away,
I caught a glimpse of that silhouette,
that girl by your bed idling and
swinging her legs.
I knew better: we were each other.
Possibly going by another name,
a different face,
just that I was ahead.
She leaned forward.
Our eyes met.
And in that split second
of silent confrontation, I was reminded
that it was my duty,
to be happy for you in this realm –your reality.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
the upshot constituted a figurative straw
that broke the virtual camels back
where yours truly fingered as scape goat,
who meekly, passively, and subserviently
felt the stinging crack
of wooden, smooth,
and oblong paddle and stands pat,
asper innocence, though now
(myself more than two score years
orbitz around sun) remains more defiant
for purportedly causing Roberta -
not her real name flack
and clears that blot (now a composite
of petrified spitballs) as a hack
writer of poetry, feels jilted like Jack
donning many major protagonistic ruffian knack
nursery rhyme roles, which fables never didst lack
for upstart precocious, kickstarters impish grin,
as if he just wolfed down a swiped Bic Mac
and goose that laid more than one golden egg
McMuffin running from the Giant,
with spindle shank for each leg,
and sliding down the beanstalk, which didst peg
world wide web Marathon record
suddenly the envy of Queequeg,
which way word ness
far off course from the theme of this work,
hence hold tight
to hazmat bag of **** pin jay dreck,
while poetic license allows me to twerk
intended story aye (captain...
oh captain) moost not shirk,
lemme reel yar attention
back to the classroom of missus Labosh,
hood didst whistle and perk
unbeknownst to me, my scrawny derriere
unaware what quaint, hence danger didst lurk
for letting passivity
find me singled out as the bona fide ****
wishing Moby **** could swallow
hook, line and sinker
with a slight even Steven crane
of his neck, every mother plucking bird brain classmate
deemed Scott free, and Chutzpah didst gain
while this smart *** wannabe took a crash course,
sans weltanschauung "Artful Dodging
Spitball Shooting Maven" in the main
quite heavy on Physics and Trigonometry as became plane.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 1:13 AM UTC
The brave are always the first to die.
So as it was it came as no surprise
That the last man left on earth alive,
A coward to the core,
Who sold it all, for the twinkle of an eye.
Alone with the wind and tumultuous sky
He looked to the heavens and prayed to die.
Left to pick up all of the broken pieces
Of yet another fallen species,
Adam walked disheveled and defeated.
Picking off the scraps of fallen bones,
Humanity long forgotten and disowned,
Foraging through ashen fields
Where the seeds of death had long been sown.
As thin as a rake,
Vultures followed in wake
As he warred and carved his way.
Through ghostly roads
Derelict towns and abodes
Down past the streets of decay.
And just when he felt he could endure no more
He found himself at an abandoned mall.
The word 'Eden'
Carved upon the wall.
Ravenous in hunger,
Adam slathered and growled
When he stumbled into the reptile house
And saw what he had found.
A snake rich in protein,
Sustenance abound
But Adam was not the only one
In that house to be found.
A scurry,
A shadow,
The faintest of movements in the air,
But yes,
Something stirred,
A woman in rags, teeth bared.
Adam handed her half of his snake
And for a moment all was still.
Till she wolfed it down at the speed of sound
A feat you would never believe,
She looked sharply at Adam
Eyes narrowed and said,
"I'm Eve."
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 9:28 PM UTC
feral dichotomies
have already wolfed
down the pre-bitten
hand.
burping unapologetically.
there are Table Manners
too impeccable.
a sign of appreciation in any
culture of bad blood.
made good.
Mar 1, 2021
Mar 1, 2021 at 6:04 PM UTC
It was after the funeral service
In the church at Calder Rise,
Hoping to catch a final glimpse
Of you, where your coffin lies,
I’d waited until the others left
And the church was quiet and still,
Then crept on round to the vestry door
And felt a sudden chill.
The coffin lay unattended on
The bier, by the font,
But someone was standing over it
Not someone that you’d want,
He raised the lid and he looked on down
Where you lay in your wedding dress,
Then reached on over your folded arms
And placed some bread on your breast.
He bowed his head and he muttered words
Of some Slavic, Eastern State,
I wanted to interrupt him, but
By then, it was too late,
He took the bread and he wolfed it down
And gagged on the slice of rye,
And as he did, your body heaved
In the coffin, and gave a sigh.
‘My God,’ I gasped, as I staggered in,
‘What awful thing have you done?
What spell could possibly interfere
With death, but an evil one?’
He turned to me, was taken aback
That I’d seen the thing he did,
‘Don’t mess with what you don’t understand,’
He said, then closed the lid.
He started to walk back up the aisle
But he choked, then doubled up,
He started having convulsions
Then his face became corrupt,
His brow was furrowed, his jaw was locked
With his mouth, an evil grin,
‘I’ve taken away her path to Hell,’
He groaned, ‘I’ve eaten her sin!’
While back on the bier the coffin lay,
Began to open its lid,
And you sat up in your shroud of death
And fluttered each dead eyelid,
You stared at me with a great intent
And muttered, with words like ice,
‘He’s eaten the sin of you and I,
So meet me in paradise!’
Your corpse collapsed on the coffin’s side,
Your arms were reaching for me,
I backed away in a panic then
And hid in the church vestry,
We’d lain together the month before
And the sin was deep in my heart,
The Sin-Eater was dead on the floor,
My guilt would tear me apart.
I knew I would have to cleanse my soul
If you were to meet with me,
Though you were headed for paradise
I didn’t know where I’d be,
I came again when the church was dark
And knelt, where the man was dead,
Crossed myself, and I laid it down
On his chest, a slice of bread.
David Lewis Paget
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
i prayed to god, but
the only one listening
was the NSA.
neither equal nor
free. merely prey. a morsel
wolfed down by the State.
while the donkeys bray
and elephants bluster, the
wolves of Wall Street feast.
and we are their main
course, mortal morsels on a
chessboard of happenstance.
survival? fat chance!
an American Dream, robbed
right beneath our feet.
the penalty for
refusing to acquiesce
is dire indeed.
you could very well
lose everyone you love and
all you cherish.
or you can choose to
refuse to play their game. be
the change you wish to see.
it's clear to all who
won't be blinded by borders:
we're what's for dinner.
if you don't like the
way the table is set, flip
it the **** over.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC
The country is a vicious dog
So feed it what it wants
De Pfeffel looks on gleefully
The mongrel slobbers as it chomps
The mutts were not to know
As they proudly wolfed It down
The chocolate lies now sickly
The dog has been put down
Dec 13, 2019
Dec 13, 2019 at 11:52 AM UTC