Best Incinerator Poems
Eyes That Cry
I am the eyes that cry
While an inconsiderate chef
Cuts his onions.
I am the buttocks that brave the pain
When an unskilled nurse
Passes an injection.
I am the superficial vein that bleeds
When a nurse, old as a dinosaur
Passes an intravenous cannula.
I am the urethra that burns
When a reckless juvenile
Contracts gonorrhea,
and wants to pass urine.
I am the eyes that cry
When a schoolteacher
Batters sense into a pupil
I am the broom that is used
And disposed of
Together with the rubbish it swept
I am the condom
Used en route to ecstasy
Dumped into an incinerator
I am the money that is lavished
At a rich man's funeral
I don't matter
© The Kakuru
#MugOfPorridge
Categories:
incinerator, abuse, anti bullying,
Form:
Free verse
ALONG THE ROAD OF LIFE I CARRY WITH ME MEMORIES
Recollected childhood trips seem an intensely hot affair.
We took a bus, tight-filled with sweaty people’s feet
For hours; but then at the end, there was air.
And gone were the constriction and glaring heat -
In the tranquil cool shade of the springtime wood.
There were spreading red campions and more -
In places where a little sun shimmered and could
Make yellow pools on the woodland floor.
And everywhere the fairy bluebells all
Nodding in crowds blue and thronging.
In life I carry with me and oft recall
That day, the happiness, the feeling of belonging.
I picked armfuls hoping to preserve their beauty till later,
Wrapping them in wet cloth in a water-pail
To survive the torrid heat of the bus-incinerator,
Unaware that their happy lives I would thus curtail.
An intensely-lived child-experience does not diminish,
But telescopes into a longer event, perhaps with fairies,
Sometimes without any definite finish.
Tiny spaces can morph into prairies.
Maybe the bluebells were just there in some garden to find ,
But I did see them somewhere, and I really made the trip,
I really smelled them. They were not just a dream in my mind :
And for years after, I wanted to relive their friendship.
But trying to recapture childhood memory
Is like trying to preserve beauty a-flowering
By picking it for a collection in a repository.
Its beauty is gone with the garnering.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written for Paula Swanson's Contest "I Carry With Me"
Categories:
incinerator, childhoodbeauty, childhood, beauty, childhood,
Form:
Quatrain
You’re too selfish you think I’m talking about you!
Hoping the next girl I meet is much richer
So she don’t have the mentality her p**** is as good as cash
Call me genuine
It has to be more than that that you’re offering me
But definitely it is a weakness and you use it to exploit me
Make it drip and here comes the money tree
But only if it includes all of the Victoria Secret models in my bedroom
Yes, every single one if not - Hasta La Vista!
I’m stingy
But I can take care of me
I don’t believe in dipping in my federal reserve
And blowing it at a strip club and for what
Just to leave and go back into reality
Pain as a hobby
I’m outside in the big van asking for blood
But I will reserve you a plane ticket to get the f*** outta here
An artist unsigned and unheard of
But all of that has changed now
I started my own companies
Named it after my daughter and my future son King so
The whole family is making a killing
I can’t wait to see her pick up the mic
And pick up the pad and write
Hell, she can be an astronaut if she likes because her
Dad is in her life
I am robbing Peter and Paul
To make sure she has everything she needs
To be successful
If you get too close to the words I speak
You may see the yellow caution tape
I have you figured out outlined in chalk
Beware, I don’t offer hazard pay.
Kind of the way Yulli and I collaborate
It’s an incinerator
Your eyes ripping through the words
And causing a fire storm
Now you’re like superman can’t control
The heat rays
Don’t burn up yet
That’s the same thing that happened to Freddie Krueger
Once the flames engulf you
We coming for you in your dreams
Don’t go to sleep
Pain as a hobby
I mean what I say
Categories:
incinerator, business, funny,
Form:
One day
it's just been one day removed from
from what once thought to be a miserable past
a darkened hourglass, emptied and broken
faded, swept, discarded
You won't find it, once said
it's been carried off to the dumpster, the incinerator
carried by fire, turning to ashes in the wind
Here's a ball, place it over these words
a sing-a-long
as A Day to Remember screams: 'I swear I'll never be happy again! '
It was then bloomed to be true
happiness would never reign
as the clouds would grow in number
turn a mix of red, black, grey
a mixture of sunset with rain clouds, enter the gloom
The storm that would last years, a feeling of centuries as the days give birth to the same emotion
grieving in literature like death was premature
and limbo was more home than reality care to give
all because of a girl
Leave it to a cartoon to voice a thought out loud
so not a single shred of embarrassment can be felt
'Why can't I just like a girl? '
but it wasn't like, it was love
a special kind of love, it was mutual
until it festered, erupted into a relationship
one of those destined to go the distance, a happily ever after
if you believe in fairy tales like Disney would fabricate
but that very fabrication in defense
became a belief so brought to life sought a prince
to rise from nothing, obscurity and loneliness
to become an important someone
to keep the heart of a woman, a future queen
who didn't need anyone but she was...enchanting you see
To go the distance, it was meant to be
but it was distance you see that decided to take her away from...
Categories:
incinerator, loneliness, lost love, love,
Form:
Free verse
The dark poet
every word is a piece cut from a victim.
Every letter sliced into the body
Anger is filled in the aftermath,
because the poem is never perfect and
he has to try again and again to get it
just right.
He tried to construct a poem from
human and animal insides
on a cork boarded wall in the basement
of his house, spleens and other red
things, calligraphy with precision
made of beautiful dark crimson-
It still wasn't right.
He tried then, to write on rice paper
With blue soaked gray matter.
The brain is very easy to mold into
letters.
It just did not give off the glitter
he thought it deserved.
Then came skin, so malleable and pliant-
Thought his masterpiece was here-
until it dried and shriveled
In frustration he cried...
Why can't this be perfect?
"Must show the world the greatest
Masterpiece of all time!"
Then came the teeth, some baby
teeth, some rotten "old man" teeth.
Using squares and roots- he thought it
a hoot! Until the glue started to wear off from the paper...
Ahhh, another almost perfectly formed masterpiece!
Gone to the incinerator-
Traveling far and wide
town after town, donor after donor,
He was stuck in his own purgatory
with perfection obsessing his mind,
So excited he began to climb his
way into his own wild ride!
His art! A new start! Mind boggling-
Brain synapses switching and toggling.
Bones! Yes! beautiful and polished
This MUST work, oh how he wished.
So to work he began once again-
On his masterpiece of sin.
Slicing, dicing, distilling and boiling
off the skin was the hardest part,
Then to bleach, polish, heat and mold
every bone so perfect on a background
so bold!
Oh! the green moss backing, with perfect white letters,
It really couldn't get any better!
Accentuated here and there with a red blood splatter
and a hint of gold.
His poem, 900 words long, were to him
His beautiful and soulful song...
How many people died? Who cares!
He had his masterpiece with everyone to share.
Out into the world he ventured
With his masterpiece;
A Utopian adventure!
Categories:
incinerator, beautiful, dark, fantasy, red,
Form:
Verse
Take me away,
from my family, friends and the society,
In a hearse or the Bugatti La Voiture Noire.
Take me away,
from the surface of the earth and the Black Race,
Like a pest on a crop,
The truth must be told, even when sold.
Take me away,
from the well-ordered decencies of civilization,
In a wheelbarrow or government jet,
Like I penned down that which cut so deep like a knife.
Take me away,
from my brotherhood and dynasty,
Like a filthy rag on a palace’s dining table,
It won’t change the piteous aspect of the wretched woe.
Take me away,
from my thoughts, pen and paper,
In an incinerator or Cruise ship,
To carry the societal cross like Jesus Christ to Golgotha.
Take me away,
To a pit of hell with a wordless farewell or vulgarized death sentence,
It won’t wake the marginalized and poverty stricken from their sepulchers.
Take me away,
from my andragogical and pedagogical ventures,
In a dirty bag, casket or rocket,
To feel pains until my heart turns cold.
Take me away,
With the police to rot in a necropolis,
It won’t still restore peace, unity and buried equity by the democrats.
Ah! I still wonder why you should take me away,
Because I’m a black man of circumstance,
My existence and survival are always a marvel to the world,
Considering the fact that it is flanking on a miracle and mystery,
Making my life is a tribute to man.
I’m still alive, courageous and I endure…
Do you still want to take me away?
A Stewart Annie Everestus 's poem © 2019
Categories:
incinerator, confidence, discrimination, evil, leaving,
Form:
Free verse
Gather 'round the campfire me pretties,
Let me tell ye a tale,
One not of shining knights or flying fairies,
But of a menace more vile than minotaurs or spooky skellies,
I speak of the bane of banter,
The marrer of masterpieces,
The incinerator of inspiration,
The enemy of enlightenment,
The ruiner of romanticism,
The scourge of Socraticism,
The nemesis of narratives,
The devastator of dictation,
And just an all around bad guy,
So be wary my pretties,
Just when you're about to reveal the punchline,
The order's been swapped,
I tell you in hushed whispers my friends,
Of the dreaded Tyops!
Categories:
incinerator, horror, poetry, words, write,
Form:
Rhyme
Zenith achieved
Yielding to no one
Xcept, my cracks are beginning to show
White is a lie of a color to wear
Vestigial hope lingers
Until the deeds are signed
This is my funeral I must attend with a smile
Shaky hands, sweaty forehead
Ringing bells signifying tragedy
Quenched is my thirst for pain
Passed is the time for indecision
Only forward toward death
Nameless, faceless shapes
Marching between them
Linked to the broker that means to sell me
Keeping in cheerful step to the incinerator
Jaunting to be completely destroyed
I am not the face I wear
Hindsight is haunting
Glamorous, isn't it?
Formidable, aren't I?
Everything I want comes to my feet
Desire, however, is a cage
Change is not an option
But only happiness
Always
Categories:
incinerator, emotions, happiness, heartbreak, love,
Form:
ABC
I wish to reminisce
Upon the bliss
Of triumph
And the agony
Of tragedy;
Are they not twin and twisted ends
Observed as life occured
In random spurts and trends?
To calculate and gauge his fate
Man did create
The chime of time;
One more illusion born
Inside the mystic mind.
But once accepted
Does become illusion now rejected
And reality's new find.
As time is heard to tock and tick
We do begin to ration it -
Evaluate and allocate
Each tick and tock upon the clock.
Life is lived by few
Observed by many
And understood by none -
Not one!
Though volumes have been written
And creative man is smitten
By the elegance of eloquence
In erudite philosophies
Combined with feeble prophecies;
Man still can only speculate and fabricate
More trendy theories empty of all consequence.
The bard of Avalon
Knew nothing new would ever be
Found underneath the sun;
And though the bard is gone
His truth lives on and on and on.
Man's emotional devotion
To dissecting every notion
Into tiny bits from bigger bits
Until he finds a bit that fits
Within his pre-dissection so prophetic wit of wits,
Has only gained mankind
A loss of nonexistent time.
And in another galaxy
Far, far away,
There is a sweaty desert prophet
Eating crawling things and calling
All inhabitants to suck on worms
And be reborn
In squirmy wormy ritual rebirth.
Their prophet is quite similar to one
Found once upon a time right here on earth.
The Prophet:
"Repent, repent,
Prevent, prevent,
And then repent again;
Then maybe the creator of this hot incinerator
Will awaken His forsaken self, procrastinator
Self, and will begin his job again creating good...forgiving sin.
Now crack this crispy critter's back till flat between your teeth,
There's nothing like a juicy, chewy bug to feed your love;
It tastes a bit like chicken say the bug gourmets beneath
The desert floor who rarely speak to we who live above.
Go save your soul and eat your treat
And I will stay right here to greet
The Son of the Creative One
Who says His work is never done;
But after all He is the Son
Of He who always needs to sleep
And blood can run in blood so deep
Such lazy ways may slowly creep
And leave the Son of One too weak
To carry on the awesome dawn
With all creative juices gone."
Categories:
incinerator, satire, son, son, time,
Form:
Narrative
My generator will not generate,
My regulator will not regulate,
My carburetor will not carburet,
So I guess I’ll just be……
L
A
T
E!!!!
My oscillator will not oscillate,
The percolator will not percolate,
This incinerator will not incinerate,
There’s nothing to do but meditate!
I will no longer contemplate
About that which I hesitate
To even stop and give debate
AIN’T LIFE GREAT!!!!!
Categories:
incinerator, funny,
Form:
Rhyme
I once asked auntie, ‘why oh why.
Don’t your relatives come to us?
We could have a nice service.
And spread the ashes in the sea!’
Auntie smiled at me that day.
As she gave that last ash filled package away.
And everyone was so kind too.
As handed an envelope to auntie for the next auntie’s ashes true.
Anyway she told me, ‘it would be wrong’
As her way, all have a fair share.
Well, I could not argue with that, could I?
As I seen the scales, she weighs auntie’s ashes on there.
By there I mean in her room.
From which I’m banned. I must confess.
As if I go in, while auntie is weighing one day.
The draft from the door would blow auntie auntie’s ashes away.
Now my morphine is kicking in.
I’ve had an idea to mention here.
If our country have got £50 million worth of good coke!
Why not sell it to addicts I quote.
They would know the dope is pure.
Would not cost so much to smoke I’m sure.
Then money from the sale could go.
To help our government’s coffers so!
The government can send more money out.
To Councils so they can have far more clout!
Oh! Auntie has asked me to find out.
If government are going to burn that dope!
As if they do, and mixed up in it.
Is some poor person who tried to swindle it!
All her relatives want to attend.
The crematorium or incinerator,
to pay their last respects,
to an unknown friend!
Auntie said. ‘All will stand well down wind.’
I tried to explain that would not be right.
But auntie had a glint in her eye.
And auntie said, ‘son, one must pay respects.
As some dope might die alone on
Now I must try and get some sleep.
As I’m driving auntie again,
tomorrow this week!!!
All that, because £50 million worth of heroin was washed up on our coast a couple of days ago. As you can imagine auntie is very upset and has taken to her room again.
I managed to get downstairs sitting on my bottom one step at a time and returned the same way. I think I’m in bed to stay today. And as I look out my window, there is light covering of that cold stuff called snow, so I’m glad I’m not driving Clarence anywhere today you know. And now it’s time to have my tablets and breakfast in bed, is so. Then a third dose of morphine and to dream world I just might go. Stanley. (The new mad Author.)
Categories:
incinerator, drug, funny, money,
Form:
26 aug 2014 7:48 PM
I would like to say something wise
something to put a sparkle in your eyes
But my wisdom is but a spark
A floating ember in the endless dark
Mans wisdom centers around himself
Of what he finds then stores on his shelf
What we think we know so well
Is only fodder for the flames of hell
We thump our brains and thumb our nose
We know everything from hair to toes
We've traveled over the whole wide world
To the moon and back now mars is our girl
We know it all who needs God
This is not his world it is our sod
We are gods we make the rules
We are the kings of fools
God made the universe
And here we stand the maker we curse
Mark our time for it will soon end
God is coming back for those He calls friend
The product is never greater than its creator
The trash will be thrown into the incinerator
Categories:
incinerator, truth, universe,
Form:
Rhyme
Waking Up in the Morgue
By Elton Camp
Here’s more evidence of the conviction
That truth may be stranger than fiction
When a man suffered an asthma attack
Of signs of life there was a total lack
In the morgue’s cooler he was put away
And there he remained for an entire day
Until the attendant heard a voice call out
“Help! What the heck is this all about?”
And when the local paramedics did arrive,
They found the man indignant and alive
It’s a good thing he awoke in the refrigerator
Not when being cremated in the incinerator
Categories:
incinerator, people,
Form:
Rhyme
Oh, meaty mothballs!
as opposed to mothy meatballs
Alternatively - slobbering sloth-balls!
instead of sloppy moth-calls
Stupid refrigerator!
as opposed to dumb incinerator
Alternatively - dirty toenail taster!
instead of wanton whiskey-waster
It's the start of a brand-new year
Let's raise glasses and expectations
And while we're at it
~ improve imprecations!
Categories:
incinerator, new year, spoken word,
Form:
Rhyme
Noises That Cry And Shout
A lifetime of tears spill out
As I watch the incinerator spout
Billows of smoke from roof stacks
My eyes following puffs of death black
But it's the incessant sound of a hum
A churning metallic sound, like a drum
That's forever embedded in my mind
As I sat on the funeral home bench, so confined
To the mercy of my surroundings, life
And the passing of my dear, dear wife
My eyes follow a golf cart to that sounding hum
Of workers carrying more bodies to, leaving me numb
The voices in my head compete with this noise
Of sad thoughts jockeying with the metallic convey
The voices of regret racing with the humming sound
Racing, for her, my dear, of being homeward bound
Onward to that sad day a lifetime of tears spilled out
With my hearing filled with noises, noises that cry and shout
3/9/17
Categories:
incinerator, feelings, funeral, voice,
Form:
Rhyme