Best Cadavers Poems
Man so mighty and wise
still has to define this
that another living being's life
has the same value as his
Boasted, brazened
written in stone
raised above
these highest places
where power reigns
crushing down
in white
clenched fists
gripping so tightly
to "history"
squeezing
draining the meaning
out of good intention
Those stones are weeping
as grass grows quietly around the edges
The future
chipping
crumbling
forgotten
Differences
are best listed
to be used like lines in the sand
some seen on the skin
most are though beneath
tracing
tearing
a cross marking
the surface
this land of the free
that the privileged paid for
from sea to sea
with the lives of lesser men
and their women
up for "grabs"
The women
best when big breasted
beautiful and begging
feeding their daughters
dreams of a better tomorrow
when that white clenched fist
stops squeezing her ****
before slapping
lips against her
drooling over her
in her ear
whispering
something sweet
like
"Honey
you're mine"
What lines of defense
Those lines lie on paper
written, signed and etched by those
elected and chosen
statesmen stating authority over your body
their dolls
their toys
smiling
serving their purpose
the good Word stenciled in stone
Equality
carved out in flesh
fresh cadavers
swept under the rug
serving their purpose
Gravestones weeping
as grass grows quiety around the edges
The memory
chipping
crumbling
forgotten
Keeping their hands clean
they wipe their mouths red
blood on their stained sleeves
the polish from their shiny shoes sully
the stars
and stripes
stripped of the value they once held
when they stiched us all together
and brought so many strangers home
How white clenched fists
hold power and privelege
held so high in esteem
like our stars
and stripes
teetering, unraveling
the threads shaking
as if stripped naked
and forced to wave
above that Capitol Hill
pivotal
and still
unchanging
unmoved
Our Lady
liberty
holds a tattered gown
I have no spirit.
I have no soul.
I am nothing more than a terrible troll.
I’ll never see Heaven,
And this is my Hell,
To be shunned by all men and the fair mademoiselle.
I was made by a madman,
Assembled from parts
Of decaying cadavers, and life from a spark.
My twisted existence
Of needles and thread,
Malodorous materials from realms of the dead.
I entered this world
One dark stormy night,
My creator’s repugnance foretelling my plight.
I opened my eyelids
As lightning bolts zapped,
With howling of winds and thunderous claps.
I was thrust into light.
I knew darkness and cold.
I was thirsty and hungry, a sight to behold.
A blind man took pity.
I did not offend.
He was my one unconditional friend.
And then he was gone,
But I needed someone,
A partner to witness what I had become.
I wanted affection,
But all that I fetched
Was fear and revulsion for this awful wretch.
All I desired
Was someone to share
Ups and downs of a life filled with sorrow and care.
Alas! My creator
Reneged on our deal.
In spite of my honest and urgent appeal,
He butchered my bride.
I butchered his, too.
But first I killed Henry. That day he will rue.
The way I’d been treated
Only heightened my rage.
Yet my maker perished before the last page.
Soon I discovered
That I could not die.
I’ve lasted for decades. Death I defy.
And my punishment still,
As a tragic outcast,
Is to walk among gravestones of people who’ve passed.
Life, as a pseudonym,
Drags its shadow's shadow, which snarls
Itself around traffic cones and
Streetlamps, tearing at its skin
With deliberate intimacy
To alarm light witnessed
Only through strained peripheral vision.
A lace-stitched veil
Slips through sidewalk cracks,
Unisolated windows,
Cataract smooth eyes.
The flesh of the matter invades
Such as the Red Death
In living color--Vibrant
Cadavers speak the language of Love:
Mortality;
It slides over possessive nouns, sticky
As salivation,
Push and rattle and harbor themselves against
Warm, wet cavities eroded
In the backside of actualities
Sweet Tooth.
Authentic miasma, honest illness.
Any footprints discarded in covers of dust
In which Fear has been recognized
Yield into thoughts by persuasion
Of waves.
The age of premonition and belief in false speculations…
A firm believer of the grace now devoted to inelegance…
All it stated was an untainted fib…
Darkened fiend now restive within…
Falling by the force of an ill-defined revelation…
Swimming through cadavers of lies…
Illusive delusions cast before my perception…
All hopes are sedated by my hands…
Sheer inanity I commit exhibiting my buoyant stance…
Imperceptible shadows ridicule a common jest…
And those divine shall affix to fantasizing…
…As the rest battle with a fettered fiend within…
Sightlessly chose to pursue the affectionate call…
Veracity being a neglected constituent…
Sedated hope – call of the day…
…As aspiration thaws endlessly to oblivion…
Hope tends to soar higher by the progress of the seconds…
Peak exists for all which tends to be limitless…
Crash the new-born hope which unites with obscurity…
A premature plummet is beneficial to the torn essence…
A moon once elegant now darkened by the malevolent night…
Haunted by the iniquity ever so fervent…
And I run towards that which proffers solace…
Hands of murder soaked in the blackest blood…
The despaired yearning silently for another sunrise…
Darkened soul haunted by notions of a dim collapse…
Equipped with a blade ever so assertive…
The green earth now stained with blood of the fallen…
And desires for that which lies in the other realm…
…Endlessly distant from the dream which was once breathing…
Attempting to never dream for the unattainable…
Sedated hope – call of the day…
Frankie boy, go get my gun
Here comes those
pitchfork carrying citizens
They’re so scary angry and uninformed
Holding torches, they plan on
doing more than burn crosses on our lawn
Frankie boy, load up the old shotgun
Time to send those
trespassing rabble rousers on the run
Lead pellets gonna spray paint the yard
Red is the color
of the devil’s favorite corpse calling card
Frankie boy, tap the trigger on the gun
Time for us to start blending in ...
acting American
Tap the hair trigger on the gun again
Assimilating more metal violence
will make us double blessed American
Frankie boy, you’re my only son
Time to teach you
the wisdom of the smoking gun
See all of those jackrabbits run
Some got unlucky feet,
now they’re dead and done
Frankie boy, cool the gun barrel’s hot metal skin
It’s a frosty good start to blending in ...
acting like real Americans
Frankie boy, I loved you since day one
Go gather the cadavers,
the lightning is soon gonna come
Time for you to have some brothers and sisters galore
So go tell your doctor father and Igor —
we’re Americans, we ain’t acting like monsters no more!
She brushed after
every meal
scrubbed every
fruit.
She had copious
concerns
re contamination
but had a blind spot
when she ate cadavers
of animals
deprived of animation
Ossenburger, the business genius,
when he graduated from college,
he started a budget mortuary service.
Five dollars a corpse!
He was the Wal-Mart of death.
Burry ‘em, burn ‘em, float ‘em down the river,
get ‘em by the gross like a bag-o-chicken wings.
Bodies stacked like cord wood rotting beneath an eve,
he had a secret process for sorting, storing, and disposal.
He hoarded the cadavers like a squirrel hoards its nuts,
buried and forgotten,
never wondering where they’ll pop up.
Dough rolling in from all the strapped families,
Ossenburger was the drug lord of putrefied flesh.
While puddles of fat caramelized within the soil,
he donated excess funds to his fondly held private school.
He wrote off all his charity,
he hoarded up the dough,
with more babies born daily,
he kept profits up with our death toll.
Pencey held him in architectural esteem.
For all his generosity
they used his name
for their new wing.
Tell us Ossenburger about your fancy car,
how you dream of stiffs between each shift
and Jesus ignores our prayers to say how lucky you are.
Our only bit of justice, some smidge,
some smear of slight relief,
is hearing Marsalla’s flatulence
during your puffed up prep school speech.
When I'm through with this vessel, this is what I wish to have done.
First, any useful organs of mine must be removed and given to anyone
who may need them to enhance their life or maybe to extend their present one.
Once the above has been honored, this is now what I wish to have done.
The remainder of my remains are to be given to the science of medicine.
Perhaps its study will serve some use in saving the life of someone.
I've come to learn though that with any case of cancer no organ donations can be given
nor can those possibly infected with HIV or any other harmful contagion.
Science also can't use these cadavers either. I'm not really quite sure of their reason.
So if the above does apply when yours truly does die,
my wishes are to be applied in the following fashion.
My remains are to be given to what is known as a "Death Farm."
They might use my remains to be locked in the trunk of a car,
exposed to soaring temperature in the hot summer sun
and/or to sub zero temperatures once winter has begun.
The data from my remains will greatly help the science of forensics
and may serve helpless victims who may have died like this to their final form of justice,
possibly resulting in the conviction of they who disposed of their victims this way.
If I can bring Justice to these unfortunate people,
I'd be honored for the small role that I'd play,
but if by chance the death farms don't want me, then this is what I wish to have done.
Dump my earthly remains on Africa's Savannah plains,
perhaps it might provide the starving wildlife there some very needed nutrition.
If I haven't left behind enough cash for such an expensive depart
then do what you want. Follow your heart.
It doesn't matter anymore. This vessel and I are now through.
What to do with it now is all up to you,...
...and I apologize for laying that responsibility all on you.
Nature's gone insane;
Cannibal cadavers creep.
Zombie apocalypse...
Beneath the full moon's illumination, two darkly dressed
Figures are quietly digging, gentlemen collectors, of the
Cadavers of the undead, desecration's henchmen of
Greed’s loosened purse strings, murders of the dead flesh
Trade.
Grave diggers for hire, the fresher the body, the more
Coin is made, Burke, and Hare always say, cash only on delivery!
What will it be Sir Professor of medicine, or science, large or
Small we provided it all, young or old, care we not, just tell us
Your preference, money does the talking here, sir!
So what will it be than, what's your pleasure governor,
Say these the body snatchers, of Edinburgh Scotland!
Shadow hunters with clubs of diversions in hand,
Tempting the male with passions of the evening,
Alluring co-horsts, walk their living dead victims,
Into deaths pleasure zone, then flee as the fatal
Blow is struck, by their gentlemen companions!
The Doctor you see, pays better coin, if the corpses
Cadaver is still warm, smothered, bashed, or strangled,
It’s all for the betterment of Science and medicine.
These sadistic serial killers of the past, rightly
Believe, and joking laugh, in the cold evening air,
Of this city’s seeder side of the tracks,
We’re doing this for the just cause, of
Humanity’s sake, ha ha!
Criminals after all my good man, is a harsh
Word to use, is it not for the future medical
Professional’s must be taught with the best
And freshest material possible after all, right governor!
Times are hard for the working man, we have
To fed are own after all, Burke and Hare
Relate, so if one unmissed individual puts
The spoils into our cooking pot, what the ####,
Simply does it really matter!
Let the gallows swing high on their reckoning day,
For sixteen lives will these guilty men pay for,
In their dearest bloods shedding, but in an
Eerie twist of fate itself, their bodies will
Go to the same medical professional,
So you see the joke is really on them in the end!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
This is a true story, it happened in England, and these men were
Were eventually found out and hung, there bodies were than sent
To a university for the betterment of medical research!
wind blew with the strength like a monster on that night.
a creepy sounds ,roar in every corner haunting each ears of those alive.
a big blast pushing each shanties that it passed by, wrecked and destroyed.
the strongest surge came to orphaned a lot of souls,
left thousands breathless cadavers scattered when the sun arose.
a trembling sounds of widow cries for the love that's lost.
on her arms hold the body of her baby ,died in the flood.
an old lady look for a shade to hide, faintedly starving.
another man screaming for his family buried in mud.
a five-year old girl looks for her siblings,her mom and dad.
wounded civilians, dead people and hungry souls,
washed away by the most deadliest storm.
one beautiful paradise, a haven to everyone with life,
has become a wide grave of people sleeping in Sheol.
a broad lawn for a broken hearts, wounded souls.
the sun shines only to dry the tears from their eyes.
and the wind blew consoling a child flying his kite.
** 1st Place Winner in SKAT A.'s Contest : Saddest Landscape **
the blood of soldiers shout for justice.
the battle field tells story of defeat.
come by the sword,die by the sword.
bears million of widows and orphaned soul.
tragic memories of wounded hands.
rebels and soldiers cursed as one.
fight for beliefs and motherland.
mislead the future of beloved ones.
light of sun rays shines bright in morn.
forsaken land of Sheol had abandoned.
blood in their hands washed off by tears.
flesh of cadavers buried in dreams.
the King of kings will stand up alone.
the sword of justice will save His throne.
no other leaders will stand up above.
devil's sword will be home of white dove.
“The poem begins again”
Of all the poems of all the dreams
I breathe all of you back into me
And out again
Like standing on wet sand
With the salted sea
washing over and underneath
my bare mind, my bare feet
Trying to drag me out again
I watch the horizon
sunlight drowning
the winsome hope unseen
it's a contradiction
shimmering,
like the horizon
that straight hard line
It never sinks.
The poem begins again
Candide Diderot. ‘25
“You’re the window of the ocean
The breath of the wood
With no waste away and no yesterday
No bad and no good…”
Elysian Fields
“Do you know what a poem is, Esther?'
No, what?' I would say.
A piece of dust.'
Then, just as he was smiling and starting to look proud, I would say, 'So are the cadavers you cut up. So are the people you think you're curing. They're dust as dust as dust. I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together.'
And of course Buddy wouldn't have any answer to that, because what I said was true. People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick or couldn't sleep.”
Sylvia Plath,"The Bell Jar"
“I did not rush to be seen
Floating in mother’s warm
Dark Sea endlessly
My resistance wore down
On a Friday near noon
Piercing the light
Too soon, too soon …
I met the world slowly, slowly
Thought I was a stowaway
Caressed me into being
For nearly nothing
Thought I was a stowaway
Guess I was a stowaway…
mostly not visible but to the air
mostly not visible but to the air
mostly not visible but to the air
shadow of the living light”
Elysian Fields
As I entered the dissection hall with trepidation
My insides churned with disgust
When I set eyes on the cadaver
I felt scared and squeamish, but to continue was a must
I slipped on my gloves
And held up my forceps in my hand
As I looked around at my comrades
I felt I was far from wonderland
Our teacher told us to look down
And appreciate the structures we see
All I could think of was
This is a dead body in front of me
I knew I had to overcome my fears
As medicine was my life
I mustered up all the courage I could
And plunged my forceps into the cadaver like a knife
Everyone was horrified
At the unforeseen cadaver destruction
But I had a strange feeling
Of relief and satisfaction
I knew this was the only way
To rid me of my fear
Now I felt I had triumphed
After having murdered a cadaver
I knew that was technically not possible
After all the cadaver was already dead
I knew I wont go to jail
For severing off a dead head
Now my fear was abolished
The next day I walked in with confidence
What I didn’t know was
I would have to do a harsh penance
My teached made me dissect cadaver after cadaver
Meticulously and carefully
This went on for days together
She showed me no mercy
After a point I began enjoying it
The smell of formalin became appealing
I reveled in the dissection
And slowing my anxiety began retreating
Today I’m thankfull to her
For believing in me
She didn’t let me give up
And made sure I grew from a sapling into a tree
Today I’m a cardiothoracic surgeon
And cadavers don’t excite me anymore
Its beating hearts that do
And long surgeries are therefore never a chore
I still remember my days as a medical student
While meeting the deadlines at the 11th hour
But the day I remember most fondly
Is the day I murdered a cadaver
Last words...last rites...no more day...no more night
Sweet surrender...fever...fright
Taking that south bound subway ride
Eternal exit...entrance in
Running and never replinished...darkness diminished
IT IS FINISHED
Anger...hatred...all on fire
Chariots they crash...wreck the weak
Marching madmen...barking beasts
Rising...falling...waking sleep
Creeping...crawling...cold as ice
Insanity and ignorace...darkness diminsihed
IT IS FINISHED
Deduction...drained...subtract...sustain
Dirty needles...wounded veins
Queens bring pleasure...kings bring pain
Tears of terror...trenches...treasure
Misery it has no measure
Diamonds...ditches...skidmarks...stitches...darkness diminished
IT IS FINISHED
Sinners...saints...winners...losers
Junkies...clowns...cadavers...cruisers
Carnivals for criminals...length of lies...subliminal
Pennies...nickles...dimes...quarters
Execution...follow orders
Nails in crosses...flesh...blood...bones
Knocking loud but nobody's home
Rise to Heaven...Fall to Hell
Tell the truth and time will tell
Marked for madness...final feast...darkness diminished
IT IS FINISHED