Best Objectified Poems
Let’s take this outside
Your turn to be objectified
Necktied offside and brutified
Come step outside
Where you can no longer hide
Now you and me can collide
You’re worse than godzilla’s bride
Torpefied and vilified
Uglified, mean and evil-eyed
Always snide and undignified
Ringside, in your false pride
the eyes of Hitler recognized
Executing his genocide
Feeling justified nationwide
Lately I’ve been preoccupied
With thoughts of homicide
Accident by countryside
broadside you flip side
See you land in the fireside
For all the misery aside
you put me through - testified
Is your meanness really classified
I’m no longer taking it - qualified
I‘m no longer hiding it - quantified
No more excuses - are you satisfied?
Germicide and pesticide
Have you ever tried
To drink a ton of formaldehyde
To soften up your cowhide
Now we can go back inside
Your reign of terror on override
You’re toast and you’re fried
You’re been hogtied and humanified
Stupefied and rectified
Just as prophesized
AP: Honorable Mention 2025, Honorable Mention 2025
Submitted on May 16, 2018 for contest 8-MILE STYLE POETRY CONTEST sponsored by NICK TRIM - RANKED 4TH
Our heart is where desires arise
and where they are in time resolved
but since we cling to wisps of smoke,
we remain in our dreams involved.
Seeking love that soul may expand,
causes suffering since we seek,
whilst if we embrace and release,
monk mode plugs the energy leak.
Ego has objectified love,
reducing it to an exchange,
so when the echo returns not,
we feel morbid contractions strange.
Belied expectation breaks hearts,
destiny delusion foretold,
so it’s best to be void centric,
inking heart with love hues of gold.
True joy that does not come and go,
throbs within us as vibrant bliss,
at an octave of agape love,
bestowed by Divine Mother’s kiss.
Grazed by spirit, our heart is healed,
never to be broken again,
for we see this life is but play
and pristine soul is free from stain.
Hark bliss beats call to one and all,
as God’s sublime effervescence,
which is mirrored in every heart;
light eternal, our quintessence.
What you add up to may be less,
Than what’s inside and unseen,
But your behaviour will determine,
Happiness by where you've been.
Our processes can be perceived,
By family members or role-models,
Maybe hierarchically by meaning,
But definitely by our rationals.
You can get real with them easily,
Or be as complex as meteorology,
Make a point or sensible relation,
To demand a finite sociology.
When there’s a series of events,
That diverge in extrapolation,
You can associate with friends,
In commutative permutation.
They mean absolute convergence,
Rhyme with you and find time,
For an ellipsis you’ve allowed,
Which you’d like objectified fine.
You won’t falter with summation,
It is inductively correct by step,
Your base won’t make you a case,
‘Cos your hypothesis will schlep.
Something comes to mind;
It is no evil thing.
Objectified it stands,
Sings loudly with open mouth,
Nearly speechless.
So is the volume turned up,
Turned on
When frogs croak
In muddy ponds
And tadpoles wink the day.
The field is all clover--
Pure;
It feeds the sky,
Pleases the eye,
Is false
Like some lovers.
Frogs are lovers,
Hopping.
People hop too--
Skip, jump, dance
Nightly by the moon,
Restless as sin.
Then they croak.
Where do they go?
They inhabit the hollows;
Their breath is fire.
Personification is no
Evil thing--
A gift, perhaps.
Out of the mud come frogs
In their season.
People inhabit the mud
As well--
Splattered and spotted
Like freckles
They come.
Random is the field of clover
Growing,
Eating the mud,
Feasting like vultures.
The body lies down in clover;
It is covered,
It is decked out in glory
The glory of clover,
All fresh.
Out of the mud
comes a phantom.
He drips with slime.
He carries his pride
Like a tomahawk.
He is clean shaven.
There is no regret.
Wanting peace he comes,
And she the wolf-hound
Is waiting.
If heaven is a rest for the imbeciles,
the banes of hell my portion must be.
If cloud nine is a bordello,
and the streets of gold are carved along the red-light-district,
then god must be a panderer.
Am I not already rewarded?
My woman is: an orange, perfect in the sun;
a watermelon, succulent;
a mango with sweet nectar;
a passion fruit, freshly plucked.
One woman is ecstasy,
two is hell’s gate.
A saphead is a glutton for pure virgins.
Lives foolishly forfeit for peculiar sayings.
Let not this bird fly,
for the two that is promised?
When god became a sexist,
it came to pass that man recreate himself, a lunatic,
and the woman he objectified became the dominant sex.
Covet not the splendor of paradise,
where the mansions in my father’s house are brothels
perfumed with the scent of intercourse.
A gift of seventy-two maidens
is an everlasting punishment.
We lie to ourselves over and over again.
but it is at all to relocate the blame.
If we can’t trust ourselves who can we trust?
He was born for his blood.
Jesus Christ …
He is like no other sacrifice.
His pain is greater than birth pain,
far beyond groin pain.
The strain of humanity rested on his brain.
The offering is from everlasting,
before the fathers of the Israelites,
before feminists claimed that men believe
the source of chaos lies with women.
Blood was predetermined
before lips blasphemed;
women are the spring of complete perception,
and life.
Is he or is she the source?
“His blood is the stream of life,”
a wise woman once whispered to me, her baby boy.
I have watched mortal tongues
mock their creator’s wisdom.
In Eden, Adam sinned with his wife,
and assigned to her his fault,
and the blame continues …
but not forever;
it shall end in due time.
Who wants to be exalted above God?
Who declared that
the means to my existence is other than God?
Blurred is our vision,
elusive is our hope.
There is no child that is born without God or man.
Why is it that claims state woman to be the source of life?
If today’s woman is objectified whose fault is it
if she esteems herself as the source of knowledge and life?
The silicone, the Botox is all her choice.
Who is forgetting who is the origin of life?
Before pharaoh enslave the Israelites,
and way … before the flood
God WAS and still IS …
the source of life and love.
True beauty has no title.
To be beautiful is not to be objectified but in awe of.
The beauty in your eyes....
Sunlight captured in a smile
Is beauty truly definable?
Or is it more?
Beauty is a inspired feeling creating joy and excitement.
True beauty goes far beyond confidence
Beyond the ability to describe... but feel.
And in every describable way known....
You are beautiful.
The first cut
of roses
are in bloom
and I will
see them soon,
very soon.
They float
in a bowl
of Arctic ice-flow;
regarded highly
by the local Wal-Mart
feng shui
masters.
Made to hang and share
the air
with antebellum
paintings
of imagination mansions;
holding common court,
side by side,
with ancient saints
of former papal dynasties.
The sweet scent
of first bloom perfume,
exaggerated
in all three,
becomes, too soon,
disguised, sour, funerary
aromas of terminus musk.
Can these murdered
roses face rage
from the pastel haze
of entryway
Nirvana?
When contradiction
changes or disintegrates
thought,
immutable miracles might
be imbued beyond the common wrought.
You attained an interdiction
of proportional catastrophes
which indirectly praises
all the phases
of old Rome's historic papacies.
The dead red roses float
in symbiotic sacrifice
to long dead religions
and a joyous old South.
The new South seduced
by orgiastic myth,
reproduced,
to promote fevered pleasure
in sycophant seekers
of false history.
I found displayed
all the rages
of the ages
on the pages
in their own time -
placed by decision
of revisionist mind.
Integrity of lust,
indisputably pure
until sated
by objectified cure.
Then lost again
in retrieval of memory.
Now contaminated, fully,
by casual indoctrination
causing idiosyncratic
immolation of synaptic integration.
A self-destructive, cultural,
(*****sapiens specific)
neurotic guilt is causal.
Is there somewhere,
hidden in forbidden,
abandoned land,
a gated, grisly city
sealed and shut
by rusted nails?
Standing there
where citrus fruit rots,
in the sultry dusk of time -
Eden -
forsaken ruination of a city;
the failed garden of God.
Mind, the architect of life’s structure,
obeys what is learnt as the art of living.
Heart, the carrier of nonlinear abstract intellect,
breathes emotive truth in the framework of being.
If the diktat of mind is not pursued,
life is sucked into the whirlpool of chaos,
and not listening to the subtle urge of heart,
life turns into an unfulfilling objectified entity.
Intangible confrontation with either this or that,
designs the dubious dilemma of option,
for lack of equanimity valuing one over the other
causes the onset of neurotic inner conflict.
The foreseeable forks in life’s pathway tests
if judgment and wisdom falter in internal strife.
The rational balance of mind and heart
finds psychic route out of cognitive dissonance.
________________
August 18, 2022
Contest : Inner Conflict
Sponsored by : Unseeking Seeker
The spices release their scent to ease my heart,
numb ~ yet tracing glasses brimming with tears,
aching for a touch of chamomile wisps,
beneath a sky that reeks of regrets
and words unspoken ~ too afraid to rephrase,
like smoke incensed with sulfur,
like blue cheese and old pickles,
tickling the curves of this melanin melancholy,
urging these fingers to purge forgotten rhymes,
as if there is no ingredient for healing,
when loneliness creeps like a slow poison…
But must I thaw the ice within cups of compassion,
infused with clovers of peace,
when I am a mere reflection of your mistakes,
a table adorned with plates of bitter weeds,
listening to the sagas of the rain and sun?
They taste not my pulse of patience,
as I remain, the feeler of phasing appetizers,
rotting in ruins ~ objectified and rejected,
by the twisted tongue of vanity and silence…
I got him at university when I was nineteen:
Too late for me and my anger, but he was spritely;
It was after I'd initially objectified things myself,
By writing a computer program that reacted intelligently.
I should have been entitled to write it at school,
Where my anger was my extra disability,
But I was kept off the systems 'cos of fear,
That I didn't have enough hand dexterity.
My anger was just against fundamentalism,
Christian, and occasionally Islamic as well;
My family was Christian but weighed god as great,
Such that sometimes all I did was my life hate.
Express your anger when you can,
Demand to be met by a psychologist,
Make those around you understand,
You're entitlement to with peace land.
awkward girls delivering their spoken thoughts
like hand written love notes
perfumed hopes cherished brightly
one of a hundred that stand at the edge of reality
and in the near perfect unison of dropping lovely invitations
to the magazine advertisements man who is supposed to
sweep them off their feet
the manly man who has button down eyes
and a wrinkle-free shirt
to him sex's butter is romance
her temperature dog
haunts her lonely steps
with a eager wag of his ratty tail
his pleasant eye wagers that she will return him for the deposit someday
its for the girl who has everything and a box of candy too
its not in what you have but its measured by how much you reject
sex's butter tastes salty sweet
she has a sidewinder viper gently cradled in her arms
calls it the child of her destiny
sex's butter is her bed and breakfast
an empty conversation
like a small hole in my mind
spilling its useless phrases to be swallowed whole
in the tepid sea of her eye
her hollow laughter two tables away
suddenly as it comes it limply dies away
alarmist by nature
she crafts a tale of woe
to suit her mind
but that tale is an empty eyed charter boat fish
that lay barren and objectified on her dinner plate
basted in sex's butter with a twelve inch whip...
I watched left behind on Channel 5 last night,
As I thought that the Christians had recently got it right,
About just what exactly it is that they believe,
That the rapture and tribulation out they did leave.
But no, it was there as the films main event,
The godly disappeared because they did repent,
Avoided the 7 years tribulation of storm and upheaval,
That was for those who weren't on for removal.
I was glad that it objectified things I'd been taught,
In my childhood when I was told I'd been bought;
I tried to convince my playtime carers that I was chained,
To freaks who thought that by the blood they were stained.
I told them my parents thirst for Jesus in my throat remained,
But they surmised that my position was untenable, not too strained;
So I welcome the much needed assertion of sanity it's brought,
And know that for some of us Left Behind’s a well considered thought.
Bt I'm sad that it's spreading a message of division,
And for those that watch it who come under conviction;
The influence of the film screen and its cinematics mean,
That the more vulnerable may be taken by it and overly keen.
It was a ridiculous scenario, thought and possible occurrence,
And I need to say that there is no God with complete assurance;
But there should be no hesitation or diffidence in asking if he's there,
For about rational inquiry and philosophical thought we should care.
20/9/2015
ORBIT OF MAGNIFICENCE
Has anything before been quite this bright
Defining countenance within pure beauty?
Its aura blinds the thirsting eye of light
To knowledge of the plan in nature's duty.
When in the orbit of magnificence
A balm of Gilead will calm the soul;
An essence so divine in permanence,
Reminding us of nature's centered whole.
Satori is not light objectified,
It emanates from vessels bearing truth.
So truth through beauty can be dignified
If captured in created truth of youth.
Ambrosia is my love's sweet gift to taste,
Partake of it without a lover's haste.
Do words hurt?
To be belittled,
talked down to,
dehumanized,
rejected of your very life.
To be objectified,
demeaned,
robbed of your mind
and spirit,
robbed of your individuality;
your very heart itself.
Do words hurt?
Or are they illusions?
Is equality a dream?
Do you notice it at all?
Walking day to day,
from place to place,
seeing the masses.
Do you feel their struggle?
Do you take the time to care?
To wonder if their lives are really equal,
like yours?
Do you dream in apathy?
Or are you awake in denial?
Do words hurt?
When used to steal.
Do words hurt?
When attacking,
when targeting,
when ostracizing,
humiliating;
or criticizing?
Do you have feelings too?
How would you feel?
If I talked down to you;
...in condescension?