I can churn stomachs, with a stench of truth
An abscess filled with maggots, pus profuse
As I feed off gunk, new nerve ends take root
Raw language in my words, not gross abuse
Yes! I am disgust, old wounds fear my fruit
To late for contest
This ship here is sinking,
To the murky depths below,
It's got me worried sick and thinking,
About life imitating an art show.
Wonders lie in abscess,
Hell the unimaginable,
Pain is the remedy ready for access,
Tolerance for it is a gamble.
Should I die here alone,
Bury me by the coast,
My sins do burn me till I atone,
Raised glasses for a jocular toast.
Fingertips click a
desperate breakbeat
as eyes glaze over
in blue light baptism
please overwhelm me
Binary jungle,
you glowing cesspit
through the clipping
curtain echoes a choir
of post-post ironic
agoraphobics.
Dopamine is a myth,
an expired meme
deemed mega cringe
Let the file rot into
informational abscess
Here we all wait before
Heaven's blockchained gate
tired of partaking into
a satire so removed from
a cogent solution,
It is simply void.
Here is coldest oblivion in
this stupid cyborg machine,
but the world is so
Y2K heat death-core
Whatever that means
It turned a generation
made us abandonware
Just to feed us nostalgia
for times when we
would bother to care.
For one to a thing access
There is often a process,
Its full name: Laid-Down Process...
In schools The bell for Recess,
Accounts auditors assess:
We all wait for Due Process...
And nurses have craved process
While treating patient's abscess.
Nothing is done in excess,
Not while there exist process.
Process now means True Progress,
Absence of it: True Regress.
But it does mean, too, Duress.
Letters starting with Address,
Programs demanding a dress...
Even robes one wants to press.
Process, Process and Process.
The vagaries we grope with
The triumph of temptation avails
as the wind claws
Each heart is an ineligible abscess
Twisting lanes
Eternity scatters west
it all goes on paper
searching for a lunar shrine
a secret of scribbling sands
amongst the discounted heart
Simple squamous epithelium
That lines the frothing orifice
Of politicians and wine-soaked braggarts
Cytoplasm
That flows equally
In justice and infectious regurge
Genes
That transplant the ghastly
Pale-light abscess of custom-made drivel
God, Ph.D., you too?
With irascible words, she continues to bemoan
Writing about poets with whom she picks a bone
Chastising those who like to compete in contests
She's infected with hate, like a pustulant abscess
Her bitter sarcasm abounds for quite a few poets
Shaming their competitiveness, then she blows it
She adds POTD beside her poem title when chosen
but her attitude is not what I would call ambrosian
Her "truth" is not what all of us choose to believe
It's so sad that she tries to offend us and aggrieve
She doth protest too much, and it's unbecoming
She's muddying the site with so much chumming
Many of us write what lies deep within our hearts
But we're not what she calls arrogant or up-starts.
We don't need our wrists slapped, like she has said
Leeches try to draw blood. We don't need to be bled.
The Paying (I wish) Public marvels
at what comes out: those explosive, star-spangled
phrases and melodies (the few times I get it right);
but what of the great-real that went in, the life-struggles,
the tears, the soul-smothering isolation – not to forget
the little left of me, squirming squiggly, imprisoned
with the many nameless, sparsely filled, crumpled-up
white-pulp battlefields in the wastebasket – my inky piles of bones –
clawed-out guts (the years of painful extraction,
likened to going to the dentist, then being told, that I have a serious abscess,
needing an immediate Root Canal, though unfortunately
Covid has prevented our delivery of anesthetic)...
Oh well, here goes again:
Roses are red – so is a poet's blood;
The moon strings silvery, strum-able beams –
myself too busy to play them, running on a
treadmill, going nowhere, in my Write-blocked-nightmare,
ominously pulled from words my stalled mind should be chasing...
So, my Love (Poetry), she does
and she does not – till one
mightily fit for publication:)
Birds of similar feather
conspire together
when sores of society
open chaotic doors.
A boiling abscess
provides easy access.
Statesmen must team up
before angry masses teem
and cross the threshold of justice.
Jan 11, 2021
an octelle
Inherently feral, protests
have morphed into a foul abscess.
Our formidable nation
spent from false adoration
incites fulminations widespread.
from forged arsenals of hatred.
Inherently feral, protests
have morphed into a foul abscess.
Angry bewildered dissidents
teeming ‘mid brutal incidents,
are leery, believing lies.
Meanwhile broadcasters devise
blindness to ominous truth..
Their solution? the voting booth.
Angry bewildered dissidents
teaming ‘mid brutal incidents.
July 24, 2020
The ***** burns bright **** set afire
A *** the universe is **** and ***** holes
****** from beyond
In the ***** of the abscess
we *** all within **** minds
ah *** ** *** *** *** ****** **** *****
God ***** ***** ** *** ****
***** **** in the ********* **** *****
Then Twilight becomes **** and ***** *** ********
**** explodes in ****** **** then *** ****** winds
Abscess
confessed
obsessed
digressed.
A government abscess confessed test,
power play in obsessed digressed mess.
1/23/18 Kim Rodrigues's contest for tyburn.
Process With Most Progress
We must be prepared to accept process,
Which will result in the most progress;
A wise old owl
Said root canal;
After you already have had an abscess.
Jim Horn
Depression you have Become My Obsession©
Depression you have become my obsession of every waking moment
and oft while I sleep which is never too deep
You threw my marriage under thy carriage
and the carnage dost continue to this day I dare say.
Cloudy days bring you hither to my door and with them
mayhem that underscore how I dread thee all the more
You have taken me to thy brink such that I can no longer think
clear thoughts to lead the way to that better day
Taking pills is no thrill and makes my head fill with shrill
to avoid those awful thoughts that may end up to mine own kill
At my own hands no less, what a royal mess
is there anyone can who can bless me of this abscess
So I cower in the dark and harkens back to the good ole days
when then things were cheery with my deary
Those times when a hug and a squeeze be the cure
and sweet Louise that was for sure
Now, I must be patient or my physicians will makest me a patient be
and sit idly by as they apply their best effort...
To make me whole again
Andreas Simic©
Silent words and invisible smiles now,
Rule the tiny world under your dark cowl,
Teach its people to fear you, it's success!
Drain all the pus from this horrid abscess!
The heart is a weak fool, pay it no mind,
It cannot rescue you while in a bind,
Obey, listen and don't incite any waves,
You'll only rise to power when you're slaves.
Accept things as they are and move on, boys
Blind your eyes and be drunk on my bright toys
Be loyal in exchange for pasty pearls,
Who are you to change this nightmarish world?
This is the only way to build a nation,
You cannot win against my tradition.
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