Best Famous Bad Blood Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Bad Blood poems. This is a select list of the best famous Bad Blood poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Bad Blood poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of bad blood poems.

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Written by Charles Bukowski | Create an image from this poem

Let It Enfold You

 either peace or happiness,
let it enfold you

when i was a young man
I felt these things were
dumb,unsophisticated.
I had bad blood,a twisted mind, a pecarious upbringing.
I was hard as granite,I leered at the sun.
I trusted no man and especially no woman.
I was living a hell in small rooms, I broke things, smashed things, walked through glass, cursed.
I challenged everything, was continually being evicted,jailed,in and out of fights,in and aout of my mind.
women were something to screw and rail at,i had no male freinds, I changed jobs and cities,I hated holidays, babies,history, newspapers, museums, grandmothers, marriage, movies, spiders, garbagemen, english accents,spain, france,italy,walnuts and the color orange.
algebra angred me, opera sickened me, charlie chaplin was a fake and flowers were for pansies.
peace an happiness to me were signs of inferiority, tenants of the weak an addled mind.
but as I went on with my alley fights, my suicidal years, my passage through any number of women-it gradually began to occur to me that I wasn't diffrent from the others, I was the same, they were all fulsome with hatred, glossed over with petty greivances, the men I fought in alleys had hearts of stone.
everybody was nudging, inching, cheating for some insignificant advantage, the lie was the weapon and the plot was emptey, darkness was the dictator.
cautiously, I allowed myself to feel good at times.
I found moments of peace in cheap rooms just staring at the knobs of some dresser or listening to the rain in the dark.
the less i needed the better i felt.
maybe the other life had worn me down.
I no longer found glamour in topping somebody in conversation.
or in mounting the body of some poor drunken female whose life had slipped away into sorrow.
I could never accept life as it was, i could never gobble down all its poisons but there were parts, tenous magic parts open for the asking.
I re formulated I don't know when, date,time,all that but the change occured.
something in me relaxed, smoothed out.
i no longer had to prove that i was a man, I did'nt have to prove anything.
I began to see things: coffe cups lined up behind a counter in a cafe.
or a dog walking along a sidewalk.
or the way the mouse on my dresser top stopped there with its body, its ears, its nose, it was fixed, a bit of life caught within itself and its eyes looked at me and they were beautiful.
then- it was gone.
I began to feel good, I began to feel good in the worst situations and there were plenty of those.
like say, the boss behind his desk, he is going to have to fire me.
I've missed too many days.
he is dressed in a suit, necktie, glasses, he says, "i am going to have to let you go" "it's all right" i tell him.
He must do what he must do, he has a wife, a house, children.
expenses, most probably a girlfreind.
I am sorry for him he is caught.
I walk onto the blazing sunshine.
the whole day is mine temporailiy, anyhow.
(the whole world is at the throat of the world, everybody feels angry, short-changed, cheated, everybody is despondent, dissillusioned) I welcomed shots of peace, tattered shards of happiness.
I embraced that stuff like the hottest number, like high heels,breasts, singing,the works.
(dont get me wrong, there is such a thing as cockeyed optimism that overlooks all basic problems justr for the sake of itself- this is a sheild and a sickness.
) The knife got near my throat again, I almost turned on the gas again but when the good moments arrived again I did'nt fight them off like an alley adversary.
I let them take me, i luxuriated in them, I bade them welcome home.
I even looked into the mirror once having thought myself to be ugly, I now liked what I saw,almost handsome,yes, a bit ripped and ragged, scares,lumps, odd turns, but all in all, not too bad, almost handsome, better at least than some of those movie star faces like the cheeks of a babys butt.
and finally I discovered real feelings fo others, unhearleded, like latley, like this morning, as I was leaving, for the track, i saw my wif in bed, just the shape of her head there (not forgetting centuries of the living and the dead and the dying, the pyarimids, Mozart dead but his music still there in the room, weeds growing, the earth turning, the toteboard waiting for me) I saw the shape of my wife's head, she so still, i ached for her life, just being there under the covers.
i kissed her in the, forehead, got down the stairway, got outside, got into my marvelous car, fixed the seatbelt, backed out the drive.
feeling warm to the fingertips, down to my foot on the gas pedal, I entered the world once more, drove down the hill past the houses full and emptey of people, i saw the mailman, honked, he waved back at me.
Written by Dylan Thomas | Create an image from this poem

If I Were Tickled By the Rub of Love

 If I were tickled by the rub of love,
A rooking girl who stole me for her side,
Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string,
If the red tickle as the cattle calve
Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung,
I would not fear the apple nor the flood
Nor the bad blood of spring.
Shall it be male or female? say the cells, And drop the plum like fire from the flesh.
If I were tickled by the hatching hair, The winging bone that sprouted in the heels, The itch of man upon the baby's thigh, I would not fear the gallows nor the axe Nor the crossed sticks of war.
Shall it be male or female? say the fingers That chalk the walls with greet girls and their men.
I would not fear the muscling-in of love If I were tickled by the urchin hungers Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve.
I would not fear the devil in the loin Nor the outspoken grave.
If I were tickled by the lovers' rub That wipes away not crow's-foot nor the lock Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws, Time and the crabs and the sweethearting crib Would leave me cold as butter for the flies The sea of scums could drown me as it broke Dead on the sweethearts' toes.
This world is half the devil's and my own, Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl And curling round the bud that forks her eye.
An old man's shank one-marrowed with my bone, And all the herrings smelling in the sea, I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail Wearing the quick away.
And that's the rub, the only rub that tickles.
The knobbly ape that swings along his sex From damp love-darkness and the nurse's twist Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle, Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast Of lover, mother, lovers, or his six Feet in the rubbing dust.
And what's the rub? Death's feather on the nerve? Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss? My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree? The words of death are dryer than his stiff, My wordy wounds are printed with your hair.
I would be tickled by the rub that is: Man be my metaphor.
Written by Joseph Brodsky | Create an image from this poem

Elegy

About a year has passed.
I've returned to the place of the battle to its birds that have learned their unfolding of wings from a subtle lift of a surprised eyebrow or perhaps from a razor blade - wings now the shade of early twilight now of state bad blood.
Now the place is abuzz with trading in your ankles's remanants bronzes of sunburnt breastplates dying laughter bruises rumors of fresh reserves memories of high treason laundered banners with imprints of the many who since have risen.
All's overgrown with people.
A ruin's a rather stubborn architectural style.
And the hearts's distinction from a pitch-black cavern isn't that great; not great enough to fear that we may collide again like blind eggs somewhere.
At sunrise when nobody stares at one's face I often set out on foot to a monument cast in molten lengthy bad dreams.
And it says on the plinth "commander in chief.
" But it reads "in grief " or "in brief " or "in going under.
" 1985 translated by the author.
Written by Marriott Edgar | Create an image from this poem

William Rufus

 The reign of King William the Second 
Were an uninteresting affair
There's only two things that's remembered of him 
That's his sudden death and his red hair.
He got his red hair from his Mother, The crown that he wore were his Dad's, And the arrow that came at the end of his reign Were a well-deserved gift from the lads.
For William were cunning and cruel, Addicted to every vice He'd bluster and perjure and ravage and murder, Apart from all that.
.
.
he weren t nice.
He'd two brothers called Robert and Henry, One older, one younger than he, And by terms of the Will of old Conqueror Bill The estate had been split into three.
Thus William became King of England; And Normandy.
.
.
that went to Bob; Young Hal got no throne, but received a cash bonus Instead of a regular job.
But Bob weren't content with his Dukedom, And Will weren't content with his throne Both wanted the lot and each started to plot How to add t'other share to his own.
Young Hal went from one to the other, Telling each as be thought he were right, And mixing the pudding he roused the bad blood in Them both till they reckoned they'd fight.
So Will got his army together And planned an invasion of France, But HaI chanced to find out what Will had in mind And sent Robert a line in advance.
The result were when Bill crossed the Channel, Instead of t'surprise that were meant, He was met on the shore by Duke Bob and his Normans.
And came back as fast as he went.
And later when Bob crossed to England, Intending to ravage and sack, It were Henry again who upset the campaign And t'were Robert this time that went back After one or two sim'lar debacles They tumbled to Henry's tricks, And joined with each other to find their young brother And take him and knock him for six.
But Henry got wind of their coming, And made off without more ado To his fortified pitch on the Isle of St.
Michel, From which he cocked snooks at the two.
When they found things had come to a deadlock They shook hands and called it a day, But though Henry pretended that quarrels was ended He still had a card he could play.
He came back to England with William And started a whispering campaign To spoil his prestige with his vassals and lieges Which whispering wasn't in vain.
For one day when William were hunting An arrow from somewhere took wing, And William were shot, falling dead on the spot, And Henry proclaimed himself King.
So young Henry, who started with nothing, At the finish held England in thrall, And as Bob were away with a party Crusading, He pinched his possessions and all.