Best Gutting Poems
It's complicated
The way she looks at him
Not the way it used to be
When he had held her gaze
She had expected to love him all of her days
Had walked around in that lover's daze
Not aware of his cheating ways
His hiding and deception
An unskilled master of self protection
She discovered the reason for the alienation of his affection
All the small clues that led to his detection
Making her doubt herself
Not wanting to believe his indescretion
It was easier imagining relational perfection
Without him she thinks she has no life
Her identity tied to being his wife
Yet now she wishes
imagines
Gutting him with a knife
much better being a widow
Than a cheaters wife
So she looks at him with piercing eyes
Imagines the other woman's thighs
And the part of him she use to make rise
In this moment she begins to realize
He's not much of a prize
Still deep down
she hopes the bastard dies!
Hey mommy I am here to play
Daddy and brother are on the way
To the underworld where I sent them
By gutting tummies and dissecting
Innards go to outwards on the floor
Faces you can’t recognize anymore
Low and behold they still breathe
So I drowned them in the kitchen sink
Mommy come here, don’t run mommy
Fine I will chase you if you wish
But now when I get you — Cheshire grin
I’m going to take your life to the grave
Your going to wish you had stayed
Sparks fly on concrete from my blade
Mommy — I call through the halls
Mommy — my newest leather doll
Mommy! I call through the halls
Mommy, my newest leather doll
Eyes once vibrant and full of life
Frozen in time within glass like ice
Taxidermist sand fills your rinds
Don’t struggle scream or fight
Or you will feel a slice from my knife
Mommy your lips quiver and shiver
Bound to the cold ossuary of mischief
Where I been killing kids that went ‘missing’
You raised the perfect little girl all along
Perfect at whistling a thanatopsis song
Memento Mori-bund and invictus
For I am the necromantic enchantment
Tragedy fused elegy viral malediction
Feel the sweet steel mommy, not fiction
First cut was to invoke submission
Writhe and twist against her sentence
Stand still mommy here comes number two
Mama's little chef, stirring a stew of soullessness
the final cut, a symphony of silences, as carmine trickles
a crimson recipe, where every piece is digested
and in the cannibalistic dance, I devour your essence
Glazed icons of madness, Mommy my macabre doll
stitched and serried in the butcher's gallery of my mind
where souls are naugahyde-wrapped, my taxidermied trophies
of terror, a cabinet of horrors, forever chilled in time
In mother's dark hymn, I'm the soprano of sin
warbling sweet nothings of blood and bone
as Daddy and brother join the hellish song
their voices silenced by my tender touch
mashed and drowned, the reapers brush
And you will know me by the trail of dead,
the whistle of wind in cutthroat pipes,
the jolly japes and spring heeled capers
in the sepia pulp of the Sunday papers
and in all the Jack Tar bilge in your head,
for you will know me by the trail of dead.
And you will know me by the trail of dead
the gory tales of bright crimson stripes.
the intestinal spool of viscera and gutting,
the slashing swipe of steel blades cutting,
and the opening wounds awash with red,
for you will know me by the trail of dead.
And you will know me by the trail of dead,
the love-a-duck and strike-me-blind,
the dear boss letters and cunning stunts,
the hunter or hunted in Whitechapel hunts,
and the feverish sweats in every bed,
for you will know me by the trail of dead.
And you will know me by the trail of dead,
the buckle-my-shoe and daily grind,
the Juwes and gin and pea soup nights,
the whore flesh slaughter and ghastly sights,
and the legends of all I did and said,
for you will know me by the trail of dead.
it's just the guilt of being me
that makes the light too dim to see,
that stands in the way of being free.
that little spot that disagrees
and brings me down on my knees
is the same spot that begs and pleads
for someone to pick up my apologies.
the shadows in my eyes won't let me hide
from the people i love so very dearly.
my silence will show and distance will grow
when i know they're seeing me clearly.
viewing the world from a nosebleed seat
because gutting guilt isn't discreet
and it gets heavier with each person i meet.
sweet and kind with an unsolved mind
designed to dismantle every thought
good or bad
glad or sad
till nothing means anything anymore.
the guilt trips me up and i'm sorry.
i know it's getting repetitive but i'm sorry.
i don't mean to be so gloomy
and i'm hoping you see through me
because i just need someone to tell me
not everything is my fault.
My father hauled a dead sea turtle
from a beach in the Florida Keys
he coveted that shell.
I was not allowed to watch, but
I tried to see my father over the dunes
sand spurs in my feet
I pushed upward
over gentle curves of sand
to see the gutting of that sea turtle
wondering how life was removed.
Flies everywhere,
do they kettle or simply swarm over death?
I did not know I was too young.
The angles of my father’s wrist —
he held the knife
his bones and tendons
rippling under his skin
cutting, and cutting
scraping flesh from shell
finalizing death.
My father worked for hours
in the Florida sun
I watched, and watch
to understand this man, I’d never
seen so violent and destructive.
My father never divorced my mother, but
she left him, he left her
the chaotic kettling cycle of a relationship:
One would return, then the other
only to repeat: leave – return – leave…
cutting words sharp angular words.
That shell hung on our wall for years
seeming to decay with the marriage.
There were no hills of sand to hide behind, only hollow doors
no sand spurs to remind me that I had feelings
no sounds of the ocean or seagulls
to cover
the gutting.
I sold that shell to a neighbor kid for fifty cents.
Previously published by Headline Poetry & Press 2019
i read indulgence mid scripted words
breaking all the rules and then some,
what be greater than gutting & swallowing
uttermost concentration of language
critically consummated or otherwise,
communing within written ideologies
something profoundly reverent or
perhaps deliberate liberating nonsense,
nonetheless commonsensical compunction to
the discerning foresightedness of poets
& enduring escape artists 'tween psyche's
hallucinations & declarations
about analytically anomalous analgesics
and mellisonant melancholy metonymy,
rising above the fray of brutally alliterated
annotations fragmenting & fracturing dimensions,
steel blades sharpening anthologies' imperfect isms
inferring resoluteness 'tween deductive reasoning,
willing exposure imparting quintessential bollocks
literally grasping mercilessly melded metaphors
courageous enough to virtually be aptly bled,
plunged beneath swords' inky touchstones
now that Chavez is dead,
the american oil companies
chomping at the bit
begin to salivate & lick their lips,
seething
with the foam
of potent country-gutting
rabies---
for while he was alive,
Venezuela was one of the only
countries left,
who resisted the empire’s attempts to
penetrate it & whore it out to the
highest capitalist bidder---
with Chavez dead,
not only will the oil soon be drained from
within the borders of beautiful
Venezuela,
but so will die the social programs that Chavez
instilled,
those that had been used to combat the
extreme poverty which exists in the country,
those that the governments before Chavez did nothing to
prevent.
so goes Chavez,
so goes a bastion of anti-empire,
so goes a man who pushed Chomsky’s work at the
United Nations,
so goes a man who championed the bloc that
would resist the swallowing up of
Latin America by the
empire.
yes,
the vultures are hungry,
they are perched & ready---
rather than create green alternatives to the
reliance on oil,
they will suck every last drop &
make the world do their bidding,
creating a negative media firestorm
to shed hate upon a man who can no longer
defend himself,
just as they will the next who steps up to resist.
With a load of worries on your shoulders
You dolefully trudge on your path of life,
Evading any ditches or stray boulders
Craving for a life free of stress and strife;
But then someone cuts right in front of you
and shoves his faith in your face and his views
And wouldn't leave you be even on cue,
Sadly the pestering just continues.
Ha, since before the beginning of time
Many seers and prophets have come and gone,
Yet mankind has kept with the sins and crime—
Why not leave religion and God alone?
That’s when I just go mad as a hornet
And feel like gutting them with a hatchet!
"Mad as a hornet" contest by John lawless
I gave you my soul, I trusted you.
You inspire the things I do.
You made me feel warm with emotion
I gave you my life, I gave you devotion.
You know better than the rest.
I love you, I consider you the best
Everyone I have loved, I’ve lost.
Then let down by you, I’m chilled like frost.
Such a gutting feeling deep with-in
To break my cord with you feels a sin
You swore that you wouldn’t let me fall
Maybe I don’t have a Spirit guide at all?
Empty oaths from your very heart
I feel I need to begin from the very start
Why did you promise such things?
Now I see you my angel, with no wings
Loosing my faith, I’ve lost my way
Not caring where I am or the time of day
Nan, it’s not the chapters you insisted would be
Let down by many. All alone now, that I see
Maybe I should take part of the blame?
Perhaps I’m an idiot to think of promised fame?
You have hurt me deep in my soul
Bruised and hurt, I’ll never be whole.
My core aches and will continue to do so.
One more hit from you and it will be the final blow.
Cards and emotions tucked away for sure
Please leave me be, I cant take this any more :-(
*Mary/John, please prove me wrong!
Charlotte and the bear came out of hibernation at exactly the same time.
The bear was irritable and hungry, and she looked tasty.
Don’t even think about it, I’ve killed bigger people than you before breakfast.
The bear hadn't a clue what she was on about, but there was definitely something weird about her.
They both headed into town.
The fishmonger recognised Charlotte from the wanted posters he had seen around town.
This didn’t faze Charlotte, as the gutting knife entered his neck.
She took a bucket of fish out and handed it to the bear.
The bear was grateful, but still left with an uneasy feeling.
Charlotte was not enamoured with the old guy driving the sports car, especially when he made sexual remarks to her.
She did like driving the car, though, and she was sure his body would be found at some point.
Charlotte couldn’t believe the police were on her tail
She headed back to the cave where the bear was napping
The manhunt had begun
They came across the cave and began to move in
Charlotte prodded the bear and told him to growl
The bear got such a fright, it scampered right out the cave into the path of the oncoming police
The officers, shocked, decided she sure as hell wasn’t in there
Charlotte was not enamoured with the choices she had made in her life and decided to turn over a new leaf and get help.
The bear hoped to hell that mad woman was gone because
the strain was really getting to him.
Charlotte agreed with the psychiatrist, electric shock treatment was definitely the way to go.
The psychiatrist sort of agreed as ten thousand volts surged through his body, killing him outright.
Charlotte left the wanted posters behind and headed for a new life in the big apple.
Hopefully, Charlotte will change and become a model citizen.
The bear hopes so too, he wasn’t really enamoured with Charlotte.
Your words were like weapons
They pierced right through my soul
It's like you had them all picked
From your own arsenal
You started with granades
Blowing up all of my dreams
You called them all nieve
Before turning on me
You launched from the ground
You stood from afar
As they dropped in from high
Leaving little smoking clouds
Than you pulled out the big guns
The ones with lots of rounds
There was shells laying everywhere
As you kept reloading your mouth
When I thought it was over
It thought you were done
You pulled out your field knife
you began gutting me some
You took out the knife
Stuck it straight in my back
Watched me bleeding out
While walking away never looking back
Like I said words are like weapons
But I lived, I chose not to die
I had on my invisable amour
My walls to my fortress built up so high
I may have been wounded
My scars they will all mend
I'll rise from the ashes
With my victory in hand
Plumbing problems in several a nightmare,
closing stores for 6 months which is rare,
gutting them out,
security abound,
shoppers unprepared and downright scared.
11-21-16
Pocket-Memories
by Odin Roark
Layers of love are never lost
Even after a good bath
How long had it been?
A mantle of dust
A bit of sand
Some fish oil residue
“gives special character”
He used to say
So many days now past
Magnifying ants
Imagined horror stints
Trimming a yolk branch
For slingshot accuracy
Screwdriving Erector Set connections
Gutting deep-lake spinner catches
Leather punching favorite belts
Ah the looking back
Now like new once more
Everything tucked back in
Servitude getting momentary rest
As a hand-me-down’s rebirth
Awaits new challenges
It’s peaceful under here
Dark and warm
Haven’t been this clean forever
Kind of eerie
Like narrow canyons awaiting sunrise
Loved being cocooned back in my box
Wrapped in red and white
Yellow ribboned for giving
All set to surprise
Soon
His grandson’s pocket-memories will begin
As that’s what Swiss Army Knives are for…
Passing to the next
What makes growing up never ending
Reading diaries of different discussion blots is considered to be akin to perusing the top shelf of a historical library section. Each label once worn drops like stones sinking into the carpet and creases of streamed floorboards. Floorboards do float don't they? Have you not seen the many that pass the doors? They are quicker than the doors anyway so best spray the armpits and go jogging then. Thought the woodworm athletic tribe. Gathering gabled garbled gargling gatherings greet giant Gregorian gargoyles getting generally gifted garters gutting grouped gismo geckos. How triumphant then? And hopefully a dance will last longer than a sharp snapped second. Seconds are neither seams, seamstresses, nor stressed sultanas in safaris and saris, nor are they acrimonious android alphabetical alpacas racing to a degree of a nine foot tail spin. Ring ran road. And a big lorry leering. Lecherously. Leeches lingering. And limbs lumber. How rather audaciously brilliant then. Isn't it? Kent jam race on the large spoon. Z meteorologic Z at fifty cones carving creative cosmoses' to sixteen apples in leotards cheering on the waves. 1 2 3 4 ~ and clam. Z
It sits on the ground
Running, but not cutting
Ready for gutting
Violent with sound.
It reminds me of a race-horse
Jittery in the gate
Looking much like fate
And strong in the force.
I imagine that I see
In its calculating eyes
We cannot realize
The destruction it would bring
Were we to let it loose
Flip the cutting switch
Relieve its cutting itch
And begin its life abuse.
It would start with the yard
In front of the house
Dipping in and out
No substance too hard.
All the bushes in between
All the trees, any flowers
In less than an hour
Never again to be seen.
Then goes the door
And the sink a little later
Even the refrigerator
Would fall to the cutting boar.
In a few days, very few indeed
The city, the state, the country
Perhaps the world some day
It'd do no good to plead.
It's roaring to go
To be set free
To slice and puree
Please, Father, say no.
The sigh of relief
As he turns it off
And now I can scoff
At its un-chopped grief.