Best Depravation Poems
Did I know this dissention might come to be?
Yes I was aware of its probability.
Did that make me any more prepared for the situation?
No I was not nor am I now.
I guess some things are best walked away from;
And you old love must be one of them.
In the hospital cafeteria an old man asked me to sit;
So I did and he talked about his wife dying.
Did somebody send me a vision of coming tomorrows?
Who knows but I can’t go on like this anymore.
I’ve injected, dissected and intertwined many angles;
But inevitably it seems to always come back to here.
As I slowly sink deeper into theses quagmire of depravation;
I seem to have worked my way down from hero to zero.
And my life is hell reflected in slow motion;
As I live out these many fractions of time.
And was it wrong to love you;
The answer escapes me.
And am I sorry now that I did?
I think sometimes I am.
Stinging eyes, lifeless
I'm longing for my pillow
What will tonight bring
good morning
good night
i walked the shadows of hidden meadows until there was a sign to the right,
you were bathing in the light, then it all fell flat
good morning
good night
ride along and sing a song with vague attempts of interpretation,
a transatlantic whirlpool of twisting and turning emotion,
good morning
good night
i'm sorry that karma took a small hit,
but it wasn't my intention
good morning
good night
perhaps this connection is a singularly demented projection upon failing stars
whose shine still glitter but with shadows of fear
good morning
good night
smiling involuntarily is a beautiful thing I'm sure,
especially at matters of such insignificance,
good morning
good night
one strides a rhythmic cadence as the little one jaunts with such carefree joy
and big picture indifference
good morning
good night
it's memory prevention week so I'm setting traps to bring the backhanded troll
to justice, it's a pretty penny to forgive and forget, my inheritance a bitter
serenity absorbing youthful anxiety
good morning
good night
stars cluster unaware of our constant stare, some have the look of shame,
masking hatred, they're twinkling smiling faces protecting the ones to blame
good morning
good night
nothing takes aim at the gaps and empty spaces that go on and on, and then
even after that they go beyond, not so much as a truth or dare of importance,
more or less an allowance, an embrace
good morning
good night
of course there's courage but it's arrogance that gets the job done, with a split
personality the lion awaits a cautious blend
good morning
goodnight
the truth of the matter preys pretend and colors splatter in a failed attempt to
matter, one way is the same all day, baring stops an road blocks along the way
good morning
good night
the hours played sleepless depravation, no breeze, no oscillation, a simple man I
am not, from where I've come a curious lot
good morning
good night
after all has been said and nothing has been done, there is the missing, and the
knowledge and the truth, but in the end we'll start over again
good morning
good night
Remembering TV of the 1950s
By Elton Camp
About TV, this little account is told
From when I was twelve years old
Because it was along about then
When TV fascination did begin
The programming choices were few
The channels we received were two
A massive antenna was the only way
There existed no cable system to pay
A flat lead-in thru the window threaded
The possibility of lightning was dreaded
My father looked at the sky with a frown
“Disconnect it and throw on the ground!”
All programs were black and white
Which we watched by a TV light
Brighter lights were then taboo
Only a darkened room would do
If the other channel we’d get
Get up and walk to the TV set
Commercials at beginning, middle, end
Just those three so unlikely to offend
At midnight, stations signed off the air
At six the next morning, they’d be there
It was only a test pattern for a while
Daily adjusting our set was a trial
Controls on the back so we couldn’t see
Whatever the results were going to be
Horizontal & vertical hold to reset
So that a viewable picture we’d get
“WBRC now begins its broadcast day”
Some disembodied voice would say
The national anthem was played
Sometimes a preacher then prayed
Whatever vile programs, we didn’t care
Rather, we’d sit and mindlessly stare
Technical interruptions we might get
With, “Please do not adjust your set.”
The set was costly & likely to break down
To houses, the repairman came around
Daily life would almost come to a stop
If he had to take it away to his shop
This situation was inevitable because
One TV set per family’s all there was
Multiple receivers was then far away
We didn’t foresee the present day
Flat screens, color or streaming video
About such things we didn’t know
We never heard of high definition
To avoid “snow” was our ambition
But any sense of depravation we didn’t feel
With Gleason, Berle & Norman Vincent Peale
“What’s My Line” was everyone’s delight
“I Love Lucy” dominated Monday night
By writing this poem, my age I betray
“Can this be true?” young folks say
Yes, this is the situation we did see
Without Netflix, ESPN, or even MTV
A. W. Nutter
Firestorms struck, killing man kind
Ivory towers quickly turning to dust
Treasures and fortunes all left behind
Melting, burning and gathering rust
Nuclear winter, locks the world in ice
Destroying the rest of God's creation
Man's destruction brought on from vice
Fitting testimonial to his depravation
Sun unable to penetrate the clouds
The rain continuing its endless siege
Cleansing the once fertile grounds
Nature reclaiming her lost heritage
Forests grow, at accelerated rates
No longer barren, fields turn green
Animals, the only creatures God creates
To inhabit the new garden of Eden
The wind is bickering with the night
My poor house caught up in the middle
Pawing and retreating then pouncing like a cat
It drums at the windows and
Haunts a ricochet around the room
Of some rendez-vous echo where
The downtrodden beat downward
Into my valley, the new address of Lillith
Or Hydra, the war waging outside
Breaking careful silence like a train
Chuffing me slowly away with
The cars zooming in the wayside
Burnt out, the relay challenging
Me to find my own way into sleep
Depravation or a Concentration Camp
A womb must sound like this
Haunted and forboding. But, what foetus
Could ever know much better
Than to be scared out of new skin?
Calling for Hercules or a prescription
Some tablets and a glass of gin
To wipe away the world
Reentering anonymity and concentration
Camping myself in the ocean, a bag
For the dead, that little gold fish
Floating around within the carrier
Tonight, I sleep in the womb
Thanksgiving Day
~ pretty weird that it is necessary to have one day allocated during the year to give
thanks to the harvest or anything else we might and should be grateful for during
the year and I do not suppose that turkeys approve of this pagan feast when we
stuff ourselves with bird flesh digestives condiments from the gravy train of riches
Hallelujah for burgers wine and soft drinks Coca Cola Mc Donald’s Gallo’s Alamos
on consumption’s battle fields entrenched in modern living praised be the Harvest
Queen the God of Wall Street the Guns and Drones that feed our seeming needs
the wants of affluence and exploitation the fig leafs of sweet environmental humility
You sow the wind and reap the storm and flatulence and bloated waistlines waste
lines of reason’s indigestion shed fatty malnourished winds of tempest’s thunder
Armaggedon in the waking waiting helplessly for paradise at least in our neck of
the woods the Global North’s power broking houses of doom injustice domination
Far from honouring the beauty the Dominatrix yes mother Gaia is female and
should protect ancestral love and kindness from the milk and honey breast of
feeding body mind and soul and spirit communal comprehension ancient modern or
just timeless cycles of sustainable responsibility we pilfer rape and pillage desecrate
One day of feasting praising what we otherwise forget lest we remember leaves
three-hundred and sixty-four periods of moon and sunlight spinning out of all
control and we’re oblivious to the warning signs of plenty erase the gift we should
pass on to our children lineage progeny now left with massive mess and no Messiah
Were we more honest we would solemnly acknowledge that what we’re praising
in hypocrisy and neglected conscience is human depravation the demise of dignity
loosing the plot the fields and garden from where our harvest needs to prosper
would in frank and serious good faith admit that what we garner and amass is
Genocide…
05th November 2016
At Customs
Delayed fatigued grumpy and miserable there was I
yet another queue at Oliver Tambo on arrival another
Check scan body search and
mind games in my baggage
Damascus had been an unusual holiday destination
had firmly attached a couple of splinters just a bit of
Shrapnel trauma displacement
on the movie of my soul
Amena breathing the rubble with one foot detached
collateral damage digitalised toes in my camera
Home still smouldering siblings
Riham and Yaman with Allah now
Sayid coughs up the message of
how the planes came planes came
again and again planes came planes
then mother and father had vanished
Assel unable to talk it is difficult to
speak without jaw when brain leaks
upper jaw lower jaw who
cares who minds the statistic
So many images am I importing the
injustice depravation guilt shame
‘Not in my name’ nameless no
frame in the hierarchy of evil
Destruction of a sovereign nation and
the king makers in the global North West
export and import in trauma and transit
memories narrative existential angst
In the queue at the airport OR Tambo
and the tambourine major plays human
beings sacrificed on the altar of a simple
custom of exporting terror and malice
I am importing so much on my return
from Damascus yet choose the line
‘Nothing to declare’ but sorry I cannot do this
there is no time and you don’t want to know
So much pain so much anger on my mind…
but I have too much to declare
And here I am again completely weird
But the clock it just keeps on ticking
But not the only reason why I'm tired
And my eyes they keep on flickering
When outside all these flashing lights
The sound of cars keep whishing on by
It's no good all these sleepless nights
If I could get some blink in shut eye
I keep on telling myself sweet dreams
Though most of the time they are vivid
It's like I'm jumping in and out of scenes
And only leaves one restless and livid
Yeah I defiantly need some more r,e,m's
It's like this bad case of sleep depravation
I'm often asked where is it that it all stems
Though I've never been one for relaxation
I need some more rapid eye movement
If I could get some of those sweet lullaby’s
Of course that would be an improvement
To those bags that are under my eyes
Thoughts keep going round in my head
If I could give some rest to my aching bod
I've just got to start getting myself to bed
Though still trying to find the land of nod
Something wanted to write about for a while
couple of verse not to happy with might update in futre
just getting some thoughts out of my head
im sure a lot of people can relate to this
when in my ywenties did not need as much
but so much going on at times find it hard to relax
get in to that third stage of sleep
WRITTEN BY MY SELF DAVID SCOTTFE MARCH (2013)
INSPIERD BY ALL THE COOL SOUP MEMBERS ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
Standing in the school yard
Alone and all forlorn
Trousers all threadbare
Jumper all torn
Eyes wide and frightened
Hair closely shorn.
Taunted and humiliated
Nobody on his side
No one knows the secrets
He's buried deep inside
He keeps them safely hidden
If he told they'd say he lied.
The filth and depravation
Of the place he spends each night
Unwashed,unloved, uncared for
As the world ignores his plight
Cold and hunger his compatriots
A bare bulb his only light.
The taunts and jibes they haunt him
As he lays down to his rest
Oblivious to the ramblings
Downstairs,of drunken guests
Blotting out the fear of shame
If by chance they called his name.
He dreams of being normal
To have a mom and dad who care
Of not fading to the background
Of not pretending he's not there
To have a family to protect him
Would be a reverie beyond compare.
But he'll survive the years before him
Be strong, become a man
Even though no one wanted him
He will achieve the things he can
But born as he was of mortal sin
He will always be that lonely "ragamuffin".
Ubuntu
P andemonium the polymorph perverse un-reflected paradigm of our time casts
A narchy tumultuous turmoil killing sprees beheadings senseless hatred and results from
N ihilistic never-ending bombing wars hatred colonisation kills for money oil and land
D istinct in death demise and depravation dogma causes hunger poverty disembowelled
E ntrails blood and gore splashed for the highest bidder of murdering virtue and emotion
M oulding peace with weapons is like having sex for virginity so stuff some flowers in guns
O nly nuances of push and near extinct pull away from total insane annihilation’s madness
N ests and nurtures compassion communal sharing un-consumerist tradition
In kindergartens schools and homesteads sporting fields of lived experience in
U niversities higher learning centres TEACH ‘Ubuntu’ Nguni Bantu human kindness
M ake love not war with heart and soul and refuse to be abused in pandemonium
27th July 2016
I wish I would have met you
when my heart would move
at the site of a tender colour
at dawn by a blooming flower.
before my gloomy past shadowed
my eyes later were clouded,
I would have made an effort
to know you a little better.
with naive love embracing,
due to sleep depravation, thinking
would I have played a different part
If tomorrow I need not depart.
Among the million estranged
into wind I be shattered
to start all over again
zillionth time in pain.
Every time I change places
I am lost in the minds of mazes.
this will be a work in progress...with my b horror film afficienado friend
john....suggestions under comments welcome:
For near two hundred years
The house spewed death
And fear among the land
All tenants died horrible early deaths(TB)
The first, a young termagant Virago,
many a foolish man,
walked through her door
never to walk out the same. (Christy Hardy)
For their tongues became lame,
They would not speak her name
Their eyes never focused again as well
After having been through such hell(TB)
And profane prayers to
The Evil One,
Are whispered in her halls
Ghostly visions of
Sin and depravation,
Curl within the mists
of misery witnessed there-in.
The Journey from Crimson
Orange chakra on stage two of the journey perennial sacrum’s waves getting longer
a sensual colour accomplished spraying moistening waters tides and you
the rider surfing growth in lengthening wave swell searching for meaning
riddles comprised enter-prized rising let flow webbed intermingled for
pleasure desire escape from orange agentic mushroom fields of human depravation
longing in what is here for now yet to arrive amber whiling push-pull of senses
Tangerine like Kama Sutra’s challenge in naked nocturnal novel nirvana mirrored
layers of sensual vital living skins the secretions the challenge breathlessness
ascending from carnelian climax from joyful attained building blocks on the path and
unfaltering voyage to peace condensing violence to kindness
27th `July 2016
Indolence and procrastination took me by the hand
And standing there I didn't care for anything too grand
I wanted to sit back and rest but couldn't find the heart
So I stood there contemplating why I'd ever thought to start
Insolence and fascination stole me from that pair
I stuck my tongue out at them both They really didn't care
But I watched the way they didn't move a single caring bit
And wondered at their attitude of condescending wit
Innocence and reservation rescued me from falling
Into depths of depravation from spell inspired reviling
I couldn't see the wrongs they'd tried and didn't want to chance
Another couple stopping by to swirl me in a dance
Inference and imprecation walked right by and laughed
I chased them down in indignation for who were they to know
Deduced at once and scorned as much as any willing fool
I smoldered at the reference to being a chooch shadrool