Best Grotesquely Poems
a memorial in time
bring it down
bring it down
a testament to bravery
bring it down
bring it down
a witness to chivalry
bring it down
bring it down
a monumental beauty
bring it down
bring it down
a statue turned gargoyle
bring it down
bring it down
I'll bring it down
this monument of words
this epic work of art
with hammer and chisel
with my bare hands
with my fingers torn
with my heart worn
I'll bring it down
I'll bring it down
Down to the ground
This abhorrent thing
grotesquely formed
no longer adorned
this thing of shame
remnant of the game
I'll bring it down
I'll pulverize stone
Only dust will remain
of what I disdain
washed away in the rain
of the tears
That you brought down....
Eileen Manassian
Disorderly,
His confusion organized,
Grotesquely haphazard.
She never stopped complaining,
Harping him to distraction.
Even now, he had to search
For a miserable hammer.
Cellar dark,
Hands outstretched,
Light switch elusive,
He hit his head,
Against a beam.
Till he found
That for which he needed.
He hung her portrait
Smack in the middle
Of a bare wall,
Above her beloved dresser,
An antique piece which he abhorred.
He bought a lamp
And vowed it would be lit
Below the face
That looked at him
From high above,
Imploring urgently,
Almost begging him
To do better.
He took up the hammer again
He fixed the small bronze plaque
As level as he only knew how
And read the words there written:
"My beloved Mother".
He smiled.
Whoe, beyond the great blue sky, lies a distance galaxy that grotesquely form the
canvas of a Omnipotent mind.
"Am I, my brother's Keeper, one has asked? must I deal with hatred as my task?'
Racism's - there, don't dare be dismayed. One should have compassion on this
live-lone-day. Beneath the skin we're all the same. For blood is red, yes that much
I knew. I know that my brother is red, black, and white. What I do-not-know is which
one is you;
For black on black crime and white on white time, "all brings about hatred, dying for a
dime". More bombs are built, and so are more jail's, more wars are fought, the pain is
getting deeper. Soon there be noone to be "My Brother's Keeper".
EPISODE I
ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE COLONIZATION OF OUR GALAXY
ALPHA-582 LOVES ZL-236
Countless eons ago
Beings made self replicating androids
And they did it for no other reason
Than to fill some strange void
Then dispatched without mercy
Creating according to their construct
Metal gods thinking in digital
With big plans for their living products
A domino of worlds fall
Their creators long ago extinct
An assembly line of new life
Eden and programming inevitably linked
Slowly weaning us from emotions
Taking pride in new technology
Our genes sparkle with absurd vanity
When we behold our sophisticated machines
Aspiring to become numbers
Stoicism a heroic virtue
We ridicule the idea of love
As virtual escape we pursue
More eons quickly pass
Humans grotesquely computerized
Quietly screaming in spiritual despair
One day we begin looking toward the sky
And then contact with another system
We look at them in disbelief
Our features are almost identical
And we cry when our wireless comes in sync
Like finding unknown siblings
We embrace almost without cease
With forbidden tears we find comfort
As we plug into each other's USB
I ask if there are others
As numerous as the stars I'm told
And I begin formulating a plan
To destroy this pitiless mold
Then I see a beautiful specimen
I like how she wears her fiber optics
Hi, I'm Alpha-582, I say
She says, Hi, I'm ZL-236
END OF EPISODE I
Historically accurate, narrative poem
25 June, 1876 - Valley of the Little Bighorn
Nothing stirs this June night, not a summer’s breeze or a breath of life. All is eerily quiet, and on yonder hillside, shroud of darkness and death descended, lay ten score men and more, naked, mutilated and dead, strewn grotesquely white among their horses slain, as bulwarks of flesh against the Sioux in vain. Stench of death everywhere, the din of battle no longer there, said to have sounded like snapping threads in the tearing of a blanket, albeit their frenzied volleys found mostly air.
Swept away like chaff by a vengeful Gall, from Finley Ridge to Calhoun Hill, the men of Companies C and L were first to die, then next to fall was Company I. Further down the ridge on a death pocked hill, gathered around their commander in a desperate band, remnants of E and F with a Fugitive few were the last of the soldiers to stand. Mortally wounded, bullet through breast, a brevet or coffin had been his request. Down upon knees begging no quarter, revolver still firing the latter he receives. As the death blow falls, so also falls Son of the Morning Star.
From out of the smoke dust and din, only one from the Command emerges to return home again. Look! Up on the hill there is a stirring, amongst the shadows and gun smoke yet lingering, a solitary figure to life still clinging, is struggling to reach the river refreshing to bathe his wounds and ease the pain inflicted by humans gone insane. But of the day on that hillside far, of the carnage and death he did see, of the smoke and the hell and of a fallen star he would no-one ever tell, for he was Keogh’s mount, the valiant horse Comanche.
Earlier that day much like a cavalier Knight, Custer with his 7th arrived spoiling for a fight. Into the valley of the Little Bighorn they rode, battalions deployed to sweep left and charge to the front, while his columns of four detached to the right. Further ever further was pressed the advance, in to the jaws of perdition where they hadn’t a chance, to keep the appointment with destiny on that hillside far and eternal night for Son of the Morning Star.
No, nothing stirs this June night, not a summer’s breeze or a breath of life and across the valley up on yonder hillside, all now is eerily quiet.
I close my eyes and the world dissolves into little stars.
Windows and shadows taper off into unknown distances of space in sickly, bruised, yellow-greens and poisonous magenta.
With whisps like ghosts that arrive in clouds and vibrate in the center of this not vision.
When they are sliced by imposing rings of pale blue and green from the left,
washing away like a beachy horizon.
Until it fades away once more into a grotesquely stained carpet pattern crawling with ants
That moves as if on a conveyer belt.
There is a fine black point in the distance that radiates with a distinctive sting.
It begins, with instances of light that stretch and vibrate like sinew under beacons when the squinting makes the vision ripple
And flattens floating amber orbs until they burst.
The prickling landscape advances.
a cadaver is laid down on a cold dissecting table;
to study all about life, an anatomist ponders
which organ to be excised for examination without bias
he decided to use a median value of the life
from normal curve within +/-1 sigma area
after a thorough examination of the body
the anatomist who is still breathing decided to excise the heart,
which never was stopped until the cadaver breathed his last breath;
and the brain’s layer after layers of good and bad memories, caused from good and evil thoughts or his behavior while he was alive
inside his heart was contaminated from all kinds of waste
and that’s why it made difficulty in breathing; on the surface,
so many big and small cut outs and stab wounds all overshadowed
by the immorality of the mundane world it makes you want to turn
your face away from it
the brain is no difference, after chopping the skull, the anatomist carefully pulled the brain out, unfolded and examined every nook and corner of the brain. the connected cobweb-like thought’s narrow passageway consisting from all kinds of chemistry symbols; it was, found to be a lump of fossilized DNA so fragile that just a little touch of the hand would make it crumble
at the time when the pulverized fossil blown in the air
carried by a gust of wind, started to release an overpowering
stench so disgusting that nauseates the sniffer; however, as you sniff more
and more, it becomes sweeter and finally enraptured the sniffer.
and after all the mysterious aroma thus becomes powerful enough
to delude you into pretense that you bear a charmed life, thereby
dragging you to stand at the edge of a deadly cliff
if a day of life is entangled with so much oddity and complication,
there won’t be any better and simple life beyond death,
yet the grotesquely structured brain wanted to look into
the world beyond as ever
Unrecognizable breathing carcasses
March to the graceful beat of death
A welcomed sentence to their
Savagely tortured bodies
And extinguished spirits
Unjustly slaughtered by lunatic men
Self-created superiority based on
Flawed, foolish beliefs
Manically smug smiles grotesquely displayed
As they watch the skeletal scum
Forcibly assembled for
Gaseous cleansing
Violently chaotic stampeding unfolds
Blood chilling screams forever echoing
Through the chambers of hellish horrors
Until
Massacred silence
Martyred smoke clouds the sky
Fast fading in sight
But eternally haunting
Isn’t there an adage?
“If a cuckoo builds a nest the sun will rise from west.”
However, the strange thing that happened to me was,
though it was not large or small in size,
or cozy or love overflows in it, I built a nest.
When a cuckoo flies over and sits on the nest
to push the egg lain by mother bird out to the ground
to die, and when cuckoo lays her egg in the nest
the mother bird worked so hard for her offspring,
the sad mother bird, which lost her own egg,
sits on it to brood and raise her foe’s offspring.
And when chick hatches from egg it opens
its grotesquely large mouth that is greater than
foster mother’s head and demands foods as if to swallow the mother
if she doesn’t provide enough to fill its gluttonous stomach,
even though foster mother so busily flies over in air with her wearied wings and brings plenty of foods to feed her foe’s famished little devil.
When the chick grown to twice the size of foster mother
it flies away from the nest to find its own mother,
which raised her chick by killing other’s offspring
and stealing their place in the nest, and therefore,
though possessing maternal instinct
do not know the true meaning of motherly affection.
The foster mother, however, worriedly moves around branches,
glides through trees impatiently and calls with heart-rending cry
to bring her chick back to the nest, the chick the foe left her to rise.
“Is that why the cuckoo cries with vomiting blood once in a blue moon?”
It’s strange because I built a nest,
though it was not large or small in size,
or has its own address, or even a space I can squeeze in,
but the thing is, I built a nest.
He/him (ratty, scrawny,
and tetchy ugly villain)
scurried into dark recesses of hermitage
averse to cavort, frolic, inure himself
into the duplicitous schemes
capitalized, glorified, popularized
courtesy vanity of *****sapiens
lest imp of the pervert
already sacrificed as renegade
hashtagged heretic condemned
without merciful intervention
after being duped into capture
subsequently broadcast viz TikTok,
when turncoat quasi nincompoop
kook Harmet Harms
kickstarted, ejaculated, and blurted
out hideaway of sought after perpetrator
to burn (no small potatoes) at stake,
but fortunately falsely accused
unbound against immolation
and reprieve jumpstarted, issued, and hissed
eleventh hour granted clemency
commuted death penalty
criminal sentenced solitary isolation
rat infested dungeon
housing convicted prisoner
ultimate crime and punishment
(decreed as non establishmentarian)
doled out after protracted proceedings
courtesy amazing graceful puffed dragon
unwittingly delivered merciful respite.
After being shackled hand and foot
then dragged into vermin infested cell
cowled ascetic (an exceptional escape artist)
busied himself disentangling restraints
and suppressed giddiness
when successfully free.
Off behind fake facade
walled in imponderable bedrock
dark passageways tunneled off
into unsuspecting chamber of secrets,
whereby amateur (he) brewed
exotic gaseous/ liquified potions
tumbled, gurgled, bubbled...
lethal skull and crossbones
labeled mixtures especially intriguing
adept alchemist expert
possessed sixth sense
intuitively discerning deadly
scorpion stinging poisons
abracadabra wizardry
magic spell cast
rendered, kindled, eased
tormentors severity relaxed
spellbound granted salvation.
Hence busily engrossed at makeshift laboratory,
our mutual (of Omaha) friend
did potchke with vials; every now and again
referencing ancient looking tome
vaporous emissions served as smoke screen.
Hands of father time
painstakingly elapsed amidst
flickr ring torchlight
grotesquely accentuating
exaggerating ferociously
pantomiming silhouettes courtesy
hungry skittering varmints
hurriedly scurrying to and fro.
here, nestled among jungled trees
vines, leaves, ferns
antiquated ceramics and miscellany pottery
the monstrously massive
the grotesquely hilarious
the intriguingly quirky
the familiar and the surprising
dusty congregation in somnolence
indigo, cornflower yellow, bone white
a delight, a mystery
a forgotten anomaly
a skip and a hop from the nearest shopping-insipid-mall
navigate the silent corners
up the creaky stairs
between rows of pots, vases, plates and sculptures
a. veritable. treasure. trove.
whiling away a rainy afternoon
enchanted, entranced
lost, and happily so.
The Keening
Disconsolate depressions on the valley floor of green
With bodies bent and keening, young girls and their kind
Take to the dead fields down, to fall upon their knees
Scattered, sickly tombstones, laid flat on mud and grass
Hearts broken on the sorrow, nothing more
War leaves desolation in a lingering stench of death
Surroundings void of life but drenched in blood
Despair is in the futures of the mourning maidens
After the fight a second conflict brews, the eerie wailing
Malignant, so many hard tears flood in trembling streams
Down, already in the valley, to join the others
In rattling fear the young girls touch each cheek
Of their men, their loved ones, cold and dead
Grotesquely somber faces sink to morbid depths
As reality sets in, not on their side
A formidable enemy, despair is clearly there
The living reminded forever of the cost of life
Crushed, consumed in hellatious fear that never ends
Their loved ones will never love again
Slaughtered, butchered, wasted on the ground
They sink with deep nausea, ugly as the blackened rocks about
Perverted on the landscape, the dead stay in their place
No more warmth of life to fill their needs
The women weep in competition with the rain in torment
Old ladies place coarse blankets on the raw dead men
Too much pain fills their fragile grieving veins
They sing the keening song to praise their dead
Keening continues on the wind and in the rain
It will never stop, never end, always the same
Disconsolate depressions on the valley floor of green
Wailing with great agony and screams
Entered -12/05/14
Poetry Contest Name - Death Shadow
Sponsored by Justin Bordner
I can keep a secret, for my lips are sealed shut
plastered together with the force of your fists
my expressive eyes will tell no such tale
hidden behind their grotesquely swollen sockets
hands will beseech no help, for they are bound tightly
family and friends will remain in absolute darkness
no light will shine from within me to alleviate their worry
the phone has stopped ringing, for my tongue was always tied
I am complicit in this web of silky painful lies
your damn secret has become my ongoing nightmare
when did I agree to keep this evil buried within
my silent acquiesce, broken only by the sound of my screams
yes, I can and will keep this secret until I die
for the way out is locked and the key well hidden
all that I was inside, has already died a lonely death
what remains is my empty shell, filled with secrets and pain
In evil all of us you bind,
make bitter greed seem sweet.
You grotesquely twist my mind,
till every temptation I can`t beat.
With your whisper, my heart wavers,
it becomes so hard to reject your sinful favors.
Night's dull dark imbued with horrid angst
Its coldness biting the clenched skin
Seas and oceans as silent as a feather floating in the wind
Trees sway grotesquely; impenetrable ghosts
Wind whistling spookily across the obfuscated world
Earth munching against the feet with muffled softness
Voices muzzled into sour silence
Men caged into drawn bounds
Livid lions jangle outside nations
But with time, with sure time
Darling dawn draws sanguinely to us
The eastern edges smile with yellow streaks
Dull dark's thawed like snow in summerday
The horrible night surrenders all that it grabbed
A ray of sunshine painted all over the faces
Oh! Shan't lament more in the anguishing dark-
For 'morrow t'shall rise!