Best Guillotines Poems
Western wars brought to foreign fields
Bullet barrages blocked by grim guillotines
Petulant petrol fans the flickering flames
Courageous captains solder soldiers together
Teething tigers ripped from mad mothers to
Carry demented decisions from bribed bullies
All hail the casket caravans of yesterday's youth
A.W. Nutter
“Off with his head!”
“Off with his head!”
What sin did I commit
To become your obsession
You forced me to submit
To your physical violations
A frightened little child
Bowing to his master
As the soul is defiled
The crowd grows louder
“Off with his head!”
“Off with his head!”
Pain, I learned to embrace
The torture haunts my dreams
Is this why I fell from grace
Depriving you of my screams
You lay me gently on my back
Viewing the guillotines blade
Blood sprays as it severs my neck
My vision lingering before it fades
Fully awake gasping for air
Emotions overtaken with dread
Believing it was another nightmare
Hearing the whispers beside my bed
“Off with his head!”
“Off with his head!”
There’s a forest bizarre neither nearby nor far,
full of sights somewhat scary to spook a soul wary.
The deep, darkened jungle, I think you’ll agree
is never a safe place for you or for me...
The vicious antihistamines attack unwary gabardines,
while hungry, snarling mezzanines will slither on the ground.
Meanwhile, some frenzied proselytes are hiding from the troglodytes,
who, angry from the zwieback bites, are swarming all around!
Inside this jungle, quarantines are known to suck on guillotines
until stampeding nazarenes charge in and scare them both.
The tetanus fights the diocese, as scallions snack on c’est la vies;
they all avoid isosceles, who hide in undergrowth.
The snarling tracheotomies stalk the nonsequitur
and scare defenseless equities that fly from Equador,
while swarms of green parentheses infest the feeble pinafore
for blood.
The buzzing twits and hypocrites gnaw on palaver bones
while fat, lethargic amulets are chased by chromosomes.
The sleepy, sluggish genuflects had best avoid the palindromes
in mud.
You may never have heard of a place so absurd,
you may opt to believe it a myth.
But if ever you visit and wonder, “what is it?”
just ask a nearby monolith.
Harpoon raised,
the chaser boat in full flight.
Coiled rope, explosive head,
cold steel reflects
the fading light.
Oil spill blood
surrounds the ship,
a flag aloft with Japanese crest.
Shouts of glee, victory sweet,
the death roll,
this pathetic conquest.
Flencers cut like guillotines,
their knives always the sharpest.
Flesh and bone, it’s all the same
to these murderers,
these licensed rapists.
Great barnacled
mammals of the deep,
at the mercy of the harpooner.
Their kill lies on the plate
of some old world
foreign consumer.
One day children
will ask what’s a whale,
what happened to the species?
And why is the only thing
left of their home now
graveyards of the seas?
Written: circa 1994
———
Wrote this many moons ago
but sadly the hunt still goes
on in the name of science.
Who in the darkness follows me
Now I hear a sound very near
I turn around and almost faint
What's going on tonight is so bizarre
I see weird things all the day
Footsteps and shadows make me prey
Ghostly figures fly the air
I'm about to lose all my wits
I want to race home so fast
Witches cackle right past me
Vampires in flowing long,black capes
Bare their fangs and look so ghast
Who in darkness follows me
Scaring me grisly and silly
My heart is beating like a drum
Around me the air is turning chilly
Tonight, the night is so shrilly
It's the Night of Halloween!
Goblins,demons, witches and guillotines
I am turning sickly and green
It's Halloween Night!
Children in costumes go trick or treat
Door by door to every street
And they carry bags filled of sweets
It's Halloween Night!
Who in the darkness follows me
I see grinning witches and Jack 'O lanterns
I'm racing so scared, as they follow me home tonight.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2014
October,31,2014
Naught for the Faint in Heart
Harrowing bloodcurdling decapitations, decomposing cadavers, and spine-tingling minions of apparitions,
that unravels in this gothic horror too spooky for the sane,
a haunted house wizard's necromancy as orbs creeps out the culled to unnerving extreme conditions,
with levitations abound as specters possess those they drain,
a witch incantations o'er boiling cauldron with the eyes of newt, whorling bats, hooting owl renditions,
arched black cat hissing as the mangled mouse shrieks wane,
hair-raising tools of chainsaws, pitchforks, guillotines, scythe, thumbscrews, and fatal games of volitions,
petrified palpitations immeasurable to read a pulmonary vein.
2020 October 30
*5th Place*
8 Lines of Spooky Rhyme
~~Tania Kitchin
Screaming Guillotines
I.
I sit on the wide veranda of this house called America,
And I can see the Beast Boys coming our jungled way,
Coming like wild torrents of lapping flames over the astonished landscape,
Coming with black eyes squinting and staring for a feast of blood.
I sit trembling with mouth wide open, waiting for the whistling hearses to come,
And the inevitable silent tap upon my evading shoulder.
And far far away into the green enveloping expanse,
Of consuming trees and obliterating American skies,
I can hear the screaming guillotines serenading the ghost dancers.
I can see the whistling hearses bringing in the crimson nightmares.
II.
Time to take my knife again and lacerate the flesh of this dead thing,
This once-breathing creature that felt nothing but the slash of profit.
Time to spit out the long thin hairs entwined around my teeth.
Time to wonder whose hair this belongs to, as I pull out the long strands slowly,
Like pulling out long segmented worms from beneath the dirt of a rock.
“Ah, do you know the time? Is your sister coming by today?
She knows my name, and she can hear the screaming guillotines when they drop.
Will she spend some time with me here on my soft bumpy sofa?
Will she at last listen, at last hear, my remonstrances of lost love,
As we devour this dead, unbreathing thing,
Inside this salty steaming stew?"
III.
The Profit Boys are back in town,
And Jess and Jim are drunk on whiskey.
John Jupiter and his new bride, Isabel,
Are eating chicken and dumplings without a frown.
His new suit, in whisky-laden tatters, is
Hanging propped on a sweat-stained hall tree.
“Lordy those two are riling me; but shucks, it’s my wedding day!”
Then into town rides the Domino Kid from Abilene;
He’s looking to escape the screaming guillotines at Lansing.
John Jupiter and Isabel drink a toast to the future,
Their happy hearts pounding with hopeful glee;
Then he bashfully presents a wedding ring to his dimpled bride,
And kisses her sweetly under the tall Dragon tree.
But now, inside their barn, with soft lamplight aglowing,
Amidst the rambling rawhide, and a cracked cowbell,
Jess and Jim Profit set fire to the hayloft, a fire that is still growing;
The Domino Kid lies asleep, eternally dreaming of Isabel.
strike the serpent and the slaves all scatter
i just cut the hellish head off of another demon of disaster
who's your master?
which one do you serve?
do you serve a God of love or a devil of disgust?
do you live in law and order or is anarchy your scene?
do you hide deep in the shadows or in sunshine do you sing?
strike the serpent and the slaves all scatter
false prophets at the pulpit all get more enraged with anger
stray dogs and lost lambs that they once owned
now they leave those falsehood fields for greener pastures up above
like runaways on north bound trains
they follow what is real
like a bright and shining star that guides them through the night
they pass through lands of lies and plans...
destination the divine
strike the serpent and the slaves all scatter
guilty ones in guillotines
severing sin from hearts of hate
their blood it flows into the depths and boils in a fiery lake
screaming now with vengeance are those preachers of perdition
confusion turns into clarity
exposed is misconception
the misled and misdirected now make u-turns down in vallies
they climb the ladder of Gods love while demons roar and rally
God knows the score and the tally
He fights for us each day
I strike the serpent and the slaves all scatter...
because that's my fathers way
[email protected]
Oh hello mr afternoon said miss morning! Midday didn't stay for the late breakfast it went out walking down the street towards the restaurant. Midday chimed today. It was very very noisy too. No need. Unnecessary. Most unwelcome. Bridges. Baking bread. Boom baskets and guillotines' for the baps. Bing bing bing three o clock bell here. I am announcing that it is midway through the afternoon with much delight. Bouncy bouncy. Bing bong. Wow. Each day at this time. And the wit is neither white or willow in hue. And a cobra clock strikes the hour with varied strength depends upon the hibernation of time. Injecting ingestion ignoring inner innocent innermost inherited inhabitants. And a clap. A loud clap. But should one travel. Immerse in cultural dialect. Then a morning could call like a bird. An hourly chime but bird call style. Cleverly closing chiming chinning circular circuit. Wow. And 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12. In order. But the leaf longs for the world of yesteryear when the clocks were the sky and the calendar the seasons. Rick tock denotations denominations z z z z z
Today, we remember
the long, scorching march into the tombstone—
eyes like oceans, salt pouring from flesh.
Today, we remember
the cross, 300 pounds heavy,
bent and dipped into his head.
How he slipped and swayed,
sandwiched in a crowd of tunes—
// slaps // claps // shouts//
“He healed the blind! He delivered many from afflictions!
Now, why can’t he save himself by the power of Beelzebub?”
Today, we remember
how flayed and flaccid he fell,
and none who drank from his cup of blessings
offered a hand. This man,
once worthy of a palm-carpeted floor,
had become everyone’s criminal,
a relic of death's penalty.
Today, Jesus, we remember
your heart shedding its veins,
taking the piercings of the cross
like a Lauren Daigle song.
Today, we see
that love is helplessness, not showiness,
that it is sacrifice, not selfishness.
You could have called down a million guillotines,
instructed angels with swords,
vanished from the sight of all
who stood waiting
for you to become good food for the grave.
But what did you do?
It is what we remember today:
your throat baked, a leaf in autumn,
hammers pumping nails like blood
into your flesh, blood pouring unto blood.
Today, we remember
like Kumba and Ngarbuh,
Yes… we remember!
Wake! Kokura to a novel world of peace
Under the canopy of dark divine clouds
A million deaths and a zillion days of sufferings
Ah! Flown to a distant land
While the holy hands patting your shoulders
Away Nagasaki crying,
… a loud ghostly cry..
When the fat boy shed fireballs from above
Flitting shadows unable to find a cwtch
Death solidified, melted to florid streams
On a boundless billowy sea of hellfire.
Murky minds killing unknown souls
Burnt alive was innocent, wicked and wise
On their knees, a nation bend
Away victory cried,
… a loud cheerful cry…
Ah! Know me first before you please
to squander guns, grenades or guillotines
At least the cognizant me die in peace,
And a better predilection for your choicest blessings.
Silent guns are a hackneyed dream
Begging only for a better aim
Away hope loath to stop,
.. a loud wishful cry…
(The plutonium bomb, Fat Boy, was intended to drop on Kokura City, Japan; but the city was saved by heavy clouds. Now, Kokura is considered as the luckiest city.)
Date of Entry : 17-08-2020
Tomorrow begets tomorrow begets tomorrow
Until the deadbolt day of sweetest sorrow
When discordant bells chime frost on spiral stairs
And time forecloses on it's borrowed wares.
The days beget the days beget the days
Until the dead loss parting of the ways,
As foreseen, yet somehow blind, the jagged close
Guillotines the petals of the golden rose.
The last begets the last begets the last
Until the dead end spell is made and cast
And hearts are silenced, beats reduced to stone,
Consigned to ocean depths to lie alone.
The end begets the end begets the end
Until the deadlock leaving of a friend
On whom the greatest love must now bestow
The sweetest sorrow man will ever know.
Printers Lament
Oh no here we go there’s a pallet full to print
There’s no paper here and we are nearly out of ink
Get a felt pen and start filling in
The finisher* is waiting, so she can begin.
Get the press rolling and printing out fast
The trucks are now rolling they can deliver at last
Get the guillotines cutting but watch where it goes
You want to hang on to your fingers and your toes
Watch where you cut you know that’s not right
Just because you had a row, with you partner last night.
Oh come on now stop reading, you have to bind them fast
Its’ no good unless we get them out real fast
The deadline is here and they have to go
We have another run ready and we are waiting to show.
A finisher* is a term for one of the processes in printing.
Bemasked, the wild salvationist preached school was out forever,
Pricked and cracked the consciousness with rapiers and schizms,
Set light the darkest childhood days with bright nocturnal crystal
That shone in desperado eyes through black mascara prisms.
Psyche-fused deadringer wreathed in murderous intention,
Schizoid and vampiric, leeching blood like vintage wine,
The razorblades and needles scathed the parent model coda,
A prophet on a dry ice stage ungleaned in his own time.
Gallows backdrops hang and hold the fabled shadow high,
Chicken myths and guillotines splice fantasy with fact,
Bemasked, the wild salvationist returns as hope recoils,
And smile without, endure within, and keep the dream intact.
The Obiden Administration is the yeast infection of society.
The improv of impropriety.
The B squad strip club-bullet scarred-in line item
veto
of buffet line, Golden Corral of Megiddo of Communism in the sub zero Winter of our discontent manifest manifesto, with supply lines severed and trucking lines red line crossed white line fevered,
picking up hitch-hikers instead of towing the bill
of more spam, poltical theater,
this time at the border,
Jihad ampetheater.
Where's the oil drilling, refineries, manufacturing (besides lies)
where is the poor and middle class relief?
Where's the Beef!?
Our former lives.
Well its been burned in processing plant fires,
alot of them.
Got Milk?
Got your vaccine?
Get moving this line isn't for gasoline.
Its for booster shots, the other two for media education and guillotines.(I will add this here, so there isn't 1666 characters in the box) now, 1591,
...there, oops it went down again
~Anastastia O....