Best Bastard Poems
"All Children Are Beautiful"
His heart of white, deep shallow wells, -yet beautiful
He smirks with a grin, an ego that won't let me in' -he's beautiful
Bastard of beauty, running ashes without a name
A face with no claim, a young man pound from shame
What is his sin, -he's beautiful!
I want to breathe from his ashes, swim through his veins
I want him to come into my light, like a good man
I sing and tell a tale, "A Bastard through the night"
His eyes I wage a thousand times, young and poor, I felt saved
Lying down in the arms of my white knight
My hair perfectly caressed, he came to my light
The furnace burned, the night was fast becoming trite
A lover, he did it well, then went back to his wife
A moment of gold, the ages live, his son is born
"He Was Beautiful!"
Another Bastard brought into this world
Life is a bastard son, prodding the fertile horizon
poking into places tender, tearing the expanse of dawn
he taunts, rude and bellicose, so full of himself
spewing into the weakest streams, a wet dream.
With platitudes he prances, son of a fearsome father
promising eternity, singing a lover's song of praise.
Light bearer, holder of the golden scalpel, night cutter
leaving glare where softness once held sway.
May the abyss, the gentle dark, the yin forgive you..son.
From the pear-shaped loins of sister Eve, you have burst
washed in the waters of she, a caul of white adorned,
pray, stay your hand, do not bludgeon your better half.
Existence, endless, fleeting, meld and join this randy pair
for universes swing between this bastard and his dreams.
Dedicated to my muse Brenda Atry
please read her "Black Diamond Night"
The Rough Slouching Beast
has been born
in Washington.
Upon its birthing
what bastard sunrise
were we promised
to relinquish our souls?
What white dawn
in darkness
was actually
immune cells
rallying
to fight
a growing cancer?
Now that it has begun
metastasizing
upon our national flesh,
tell me,
O toothless sages
of our faith,
what is your plan
to restore
our birthright
of azure, blush mornings
while we can still live
to see them?
Like a penny, lost and worthless, woman
mother, and buried within the origin pit, dark
she brought me like a Jezebel into her life of mourning
mistress of the stage and child to horror
born, and off he ran, forced flight my father, loss
the hussy dies but on Edgar lives in awe.
Blood and death and pain feed Poe’s awe.
Why she had done, what soul had she, this woman
leaving him a found fledgling of loss?
“Why, why, bring me into this hellish dark?”
Coal black the pit and pendulum of this zealot father’s horror
the devil’s drink brought penitence and forced, mourning.
“Bastard child!” his stepfather screamed in mourning
as his new Mother looked on in awe.
And, his new brother watched on in horror,
the lash was not spared nor kindness brought by woman.
In the starkness of his mind there was only dark.
Abandoned child, Poe, and his rescuers brought only loss.
“Run, leave, you villains all!” He cried. “There is only loss!”
So on, he wrote into the dark and mourning.
The ink the Prussian blue released the anguish his dark.
Intuition, and superstitious fright will feed him awe.
Cousin, sister, wife, would be his woman
the banshees cry, her bloody death became his horror.
“Alone, alone…” The corbies’s caw brings horror,
but for the devil’s drink, he’s naught but loss........
“Lenore…..” He’ll wall his tainted heart away from woman
and make his blasted soul the start of mourning.
“To hell with you!” He screams at those in awe
of his blank and burned out hulk of dark.
Bricked in or deep within the ripest dark...
“God, so alone……….” He hides in horror,
forlorn, depraved and not at all in awe.
For there is no romance found in loss
no beauteous bounty in the dross of mourning,
no family, friend or wife not tainted, born from woman.
So, Poe lives and dies in awe of the dark.
Where woman’s deepest depths bring only horror
and loss is all he knows in light of mourning.
Here lies Harry Horsman
2000-2066
Oh Lord above accept this man
please wash away his sins--
It will be his first shower
in 66 years
© Harry J Horsman 2010
Conceived in earthen tomb
when she was young,
and in our time,
we missed the signs;
old faithful contractions.
For we are doomed
to be consumed
in ashen tomb.
From crust of earth
she'll soon give birth
to a beautiful bastard.
Our time on loan;
from Yellowstone.
Love you bastard devil to be;
I know because I am God and
you are insect; when before there
was no bang or street corner gang…
you lovely bastard Satan angel.
From sin to speeding galaxy,
I’ll not be fooled….
SALACIOUS BOY!
The words beg, haunt incessantly push to be
heard -Dripping forth like a venom- too vile-
about to kill it's own master
Poisonous desecrator
The scream, they push-
I offered refusal and they gathered together a great
army to slay me,
ME! Their owner, their creator- their God!
Soulless bastards each and every one of them
No peace- not ever
Sometimes they will wake me in a cold tremor
Pushing to remember (fu**ing) with me
They then concede into dark corners waiting...
waiting...
Oh! how those bastard words love to trick me!
In conversation they allude me- just barely out of reach
daring me- daring- as I spatter on like a fool!
Then finally when sleep decides to come-
(oh sweet sleep)-
They crowd, screaming, jumping all over my brain!
Daring me- but the body says no.
They love to scream,
those little elusive bastard words
For days and weeks I can search
behind every rock
or blade of grass
They are as free as any bird- at times
they take to flights a fancy-
Other times they are as the wily fox- just never...
can- quite
reach-
them.
Those bastard words never come when I call to them-
begging, crying, pleading with them- driving me to the
ragged edges of sanity-
but those words, always around the next corner-
or down the road
And when- finally I give up-
(I swear I heard them smirk) they
breech the threshold - offering themselves
Those little bastard words.
She mastered a bastard custard
His husband was a bit flustered
He invited friends
And forgot his lens
He saw a plateful of mustard
Born to different fathers they were never that close
But their mother insisted they keep in touch
They never had much in common apart from the love for their Mum
One was drawn by the magnetism of corporate trappings
The other mesmerised by wailing guitars and thrashing drums
Hair looking like a ruby ball cactus, eyes wild and piercing
Did he land face first in a tackle box? No one can be sure or is game to ask
Whilst Prada adorns the chiselled body of the astute looking banker
Clean cut freshly shaven with a healthy amount of Giorgio Armani evident
Hours of pain are clear to see on the colourful skin of the punk rocker, all with a story I’m sure
Many a brow is raised and resembles a plague of fox moth caterpillars at a rave party as he enters
In the up market drinking hole he’s as inconspicuous as a free roaming Emu in a supermarket
White collars fill the air with murmurings of big deals achieved and salary bumps
It’s a Friday afternoon and an air of animation is evident in the words of many
The banker orders another round; more beer and water promptly arrive
Concern is forwarded to his brother fearful of him falling in with the wrong crowd
Genuine unease for the circles of friends in which he chooses to associate with
Party drugs, binge drinking, womanising and all night benders all entrenched in his everyday life
Why can’t you just go home to your wife baring flowers like you used to he asks?
A grunt is all he can muster as he swills on his beer, your losing touch with reality!
And then like a boxer waiting for his opening he hits him with a sympathetic plea for more money
A look as if his team had just lost the “Big One” with seconds remaining decorates his face
I can’t keep doing this he replies; He then calls their Mum “it’s time for intervention!”
The ink covered rocker is in tears as his brother embraces him; I love you he whispers together we will get through this
He escorts him to his private limousine waiting out front
One of the many perks of being an internationally acclaimed artist.
My manager knows this great facility…..
THE BASTARD
Oh! Poor bastard!
The end product of
flirtation
Shamefully brought
to the world
By his slutty mother
A dog she is
Caressed by that
dog-Nature
Father
In an ungodly manner
Oh! Poor bastard
Living a life of
shame
Of not knowing his
Father
So unlucky he is
Never having to know
the
Love of his parents
So unlucky he is
Oh! Poor bastard!
Traveling for nine
months
In the womb of a dog
Facing difficulties
Battling with drugs
Refusing to be
aborted
I must survive, he
says
What a poor
creature!
I must survive, he
says
Refusing to be
aborted
He enter the world
of shame and pain
Dumped by the
roadside
At night
By that slutty
mother
Who refuse to
embrace motherhood
Oh! Poor creature
Oh poor bastard!
Picked up by the
nuns
Cared for by the
nuns
He grew up to love
the nuns.
Desperate to know
his origin
Who are my parents?
Where am I from?
He asked every now
and
Then
He embarked on a
journey
A journey of
discovery.
You can’t be my
mother
You are not worthy
You rejected me
T detest you mother
I loathe you father
I reject you
Now in the street he
is
Wandering and
wandering
Searching for
survival
Oh! Poor creature!
Unlucky creature!
Oh! Poor bastard!
This poem is written to my “brothers and sister”, and those
terms I use lightly, I must say.
It wasn’t my fault mom ran off with my dad. That she packed up
and left you that day.
I always felt that you all blamed me, for the day you woke up
and she was gone.
At least you had each other and your dad by your side.
Not like me. I was out there alone.
She threw me away also, to anyone who would take me.
But it was always about you.
Like you didn’t even have a little sister.
I was tossed aside like an old worn out shoe.
I guess you never knew about the night I spent,
under a house, on the ground, in the snow.
No, it wasn’t my choice, but it was cold outside,
and I had nowhere else I could go.
I couldn’t wait for the morning to come. To
find some place to go to get warm.
I ended up downtown in a department store lobby,
just wishing I’d never been born.
There were lots of times I found myself out on the street,
not knowing quite where I should go.
Alone and cold, in need of something to eat.
Where were you then, is what I want to know.
Oh! That’s right! You were all too busy! I forgot!
You were all so wrapped up in your world.
How did you go on without giving a thought,
to what was happening to this little girl.
I know that you’ve all been through hell and back too,
I guess we did the best with what we were given.
But I spend a lot of lonely hours wandering if you even
care that, I too, am still among the living.
To sum it all up, it wasn’t my fault that she was
a confused mom and wife.
And, I just want to say, that I did always need you,
And wish you’d been part of my life.
Copyright: February 15, 2006
I got this confusion,
I simply cannot sleep
My heart is aching badly,
but I found no reason to weep
A news from the men in the front line
That the war is near to ending,
Yet nobody can ascertain
which side is going to win
I pray for the brave men
To be home soon alive and safe
A sound sleep for their children
They left home before bed
I feed them with the hopes
That their daddies will win the fight
They'll be back if not the morrow
Maybe after the next three nights.
I am a yellow bastard
Who refused to join the rest
Of their effort to gain freedom
While their own lives are at risk.
I can see the shame on my face
I can taste my own disgrace
My way of self-redemption
Is to wish our men all safe.
Date & Time of Writing
August 11, 2007
1:11am - 1:53am
A bit of history:
Lt. Gen. George S. Patton, at that time the commander of the Seventh
U.S. Army (but he was more popular as the commander of the Third U.S.
Army towards the war's end), visited a military hospital in Sicily on
Aug. 3, 1943. He walked past the beds of wounded soldiers, asking them
about their injuries. Coming to the bed of a soldier who lacked visible
signs of injury, Patton inquired about his health.
The soldier, 18-year-old Pvt. Charles H. Kuhl, had been initially
diagnosed as having a case of psychoneurosis. He told the General that
he couldn't mentally handle the battle lines. "It's my nerves," he said.
"I can hear the shells come over but I can't hear them burst."
Patton, so enraged, slapped Kuhl across the face and called him a "Yellow Bastard".
Surfing her parks hanging out at the johns
Playbook play writes recipricated his southside
Invasion rock their dock in red rag love make-up wardrobe ?
We knew of a bit it was your solo show and she really likes her numbers
Makes the _itch feel somehow secure while their slobbering about someone's
Fornication playing songs as cutting lines desperation pegged in tears surfing this goodbye.
keep your eye on the sky boy
keep your eye on the sky
and your guns all trained on the day-
for the bastard at last is a thing of the past
and there may be hell to pay boy,
there may be hell to pay
now stay on your toes boy
stay up on your toes
and weep ye no tears for him-
tho'the devil now sleeps with the fishes down deep-
and his virgins don't know how to swim boy,
aye,they never learned how to swim
so have no regrets boy,-
have no regrets
for taking the life of a toad-
as there's plenty more where he comes from for sure
and he only reaped what he sowed boy,-
he only reaped what he sowed.