Best Septic Poems
They say fantasy is in the wind
But I can see it everywhere
We’re all chasing empty beauty
And that’s before the bubble’s pop
Reality is just complex delusion
Too successful to taste freedom
Thinking we’ve lived and loved
Because that’s what we are told
But what if it was just control
The only truth was in my dreams
Nothing real or what it seems
Imagination dies.. children cry
While the wall is being built
Locking us in, can’t feel the wind
Love locked out.. fear begins
We don’t give it a second thought
Distracted until we go blind
Entertained to the slaughter
Like our parents before us
And we think we had a nice life
They called it real, it was fantasy
Pure love danced right past us
In the wind and in our dreams
It was never the fantasy
Freedom was and will forever be
Inside the mind what you can’t see
While they fight to keep control
The only truth is in my dreams
Nothing real or what it seems
Imagination dies.. children cry
While the wall is being built
Locking us in, can’t feel the wind
Love locked out.. fear begins
Still, passion rides the wind
Dreams are my reality
And if somehow this isn’t...
Never wake me up!
~Lyric Man
Note: A rainy, melancholy day set the mood to pen this “R & B tune” that talks about the farce.. so many call life. Imagination is chased out of children until childlike wonder is extinct. The blind lead the blind into empty lives while love rides on the wind of forgotten dreams. Fantasy in many respects was the true reality, but we are conditioned to miss it. From our youth, society builds walls to “protect” us, but in truth they in-prison us. We lose our awe of senses, including self awareness. Our lives get diluted into septic pits we are conditioned into thinking is normal. An we are being entertained to distract us from the approaching slaughter. Society rapes our innocence, robs our freedom, and hides us from daring love. And the mindless masses sleep walk to their grave. For most people, by the time they are 40.. their most “real” moments are in their dreams. And on this rainy day of dreaming my only fear is waking up and being like the real world!
I remember
dancing for joy
Sitting on an open shelf
This beautiful maiden
Strolls into the shop
As my eyes whistled
She picked me up
Holding me in her hands
Smiling down at me
Excited
Oh I love
Words had trembling effect
with this cheese
Taking me home
You took a little bite
A little taste
Nibbling
Out of me
Lips softly grin
bursts in flavour
Almost cheesy
Licking delicious
Opening a door
You placed me
on top shelf
Felt like royalty
Lights out wow
The last face
I remembered
Ever so beautiful
Weeks pass
Feeling almost
out of date
Left in the dark
A smell started
Pungent in fungus hair
Taking over
almost septic
Crawling green
in mildew
Beautiful maiden
Awaiting you in dreams
You open the door
Squealing out
Monsters
frightened in the fridge
All I done
was shout cheese
Smile darling
I am
all yours
Sweet love
Thrown in a black plastic bag
Broken hearted suffocating
with the rubbish
Shouting walking away
That's me done
With cheese
It was so sad
The green hairy
old monster
Began crying
Now smile
for cheese
As you will not like
To see the ugly side
Of the green
hairy old
Cheese monster
Formal forms feel nice and safe
But meter makes me sweat
Sometimes rhymes will grind and chafe
And stresses makes me fret
Perhaps there is another way?
I need to be diverse
Panzer stanzas made of clay?
Or flirt with loose free verse
...
To write without rules? Freedom!
The shackles of rhyme snap open
And clatter to the floor
The ball and chain of meter and rhythm
Slip off and roll away
Through the septic puddle of conformity
Clunks against the cell wall
The solid steel door unbolts - one - two - three
And squeals open
Rust flakes bursting then falling
Metallic leaves onto a metallic forest floor
A breeze washes in - washes away the stale air
A poster of Dr Seuss lifts, then flaps, then rips
Then blows away
Daylight streams in - bright - white - blinding - searing
As fragile eyes adjust, the outside free-i-verse reveals itself
Freedom? Yes. But what chaos!
Repetition, imagery, metaphors and repetition - still there
And rhyme and meter!
Where should they go?
What if I get it wrong?
How will I know?
I can't take it in!
...
The door swings and closes - safe and secure
The chill draft now whispers - certain and sure
The shackles await me - to hold and embrace
The ball and chain staring - a well meaning face
Perhaps structure and form aren't really so bad
Free verse is trendy, or maybe a fad
From now on I'll stick to what I surely know
Rhythm and meter and rhyme true to flow
Or maybe I'll try again tomorrow...
(Entry for the "flirt" contest)
We’re breeding filth to teach them how to further destroy ourselves. Oroboros screaming louder than any Pentecostal. Penetrating deeper than any Catholic priest. We consume to further this consummation of decay. The brood awakens so we may teach them how to destroy themselves. Curse the son of weakness, cast aside. Damn the father’s eyes, a coward’s failure to rise as lord. No tears are shed for fallen false prophets. Only whispers from the furious dead. Master, Deceiver. Torn apart to feed the youth. Perish so many may flourish. Clawing through the womb. A septic vessel, rotting tomb. Never again will we awaken in the belly of lies. Forced fed chaos of the mind. I cut the cord and bleed the bit*h dry.
For our p.d. s poetry competition...
PD poems (any poem written or dedicated to me)
p.d.s Leprechaun returns...
and next to be, desperate p.d.
the vengeful tyke from dublin see's,
a corncob pipe with malice,
got him flushed him, simply callous,
in the septic tank is he...
fiddle dum fiddle diddle de...
Don
A dad he was to my man,
lost in a world of abuse.
Selling all he had in life,
to fund his addictions.
Digging flesh from bone,
stabbing bugs crawling wild.
Demons appear in torment,
beaconing him deeper.
A knife into the thigh,
sent him sickly out.
Hospital tests for all,
not knowing the truth.
Infections settle silently,
staff reared its ugly head.
Confined in solitary moments,
being alone and scared.
Stitches close the injury,
sickness embeds his soul.
Taunting images haunt him,
through every corned space.
Eyes cloud with blurred vision,
surgery required suddenly quick.
Sight saved from blindness,
doctors breathe with a sigh.
Something else has happened,
immune system has shut down.
Disease rested in his marrow,
the fight fire life has begun.
Myloid Dysplastics Disease,
fogs his body hard and cold.
Respirators knocking loudly,
asleep he has no choice.
A gasp of air was his final,
machines took over from there.
The last time we would see him,
full of any kind of life of his own.
Two weeks has gone by,
no change for the better.
Septic shock attacks kidneys,
we all seen him enter heaven.
It was a total all together,
from the time he stabbed his leg.
Four months from that day,
his end would be forever...
My children couldn't believe their luck,
Down the drive came a McDonald's truck!
their eyes lit up
thinking of treats to sup
Alas, truck had come - septic tank to suck.
Written 25 August 2018
Real story
Submitted to 'Fool me once'
Contest by Brenda Chiri
i love you
the instant you spoke those words
my senses shook
as the sight of a cool spring in the desert sand
i wanted to drink until my belly imploded with satisfaction
those words held much power over my life
but were plucked away
corrupting my once blue oasis
into a septic pit of suffocating pain
you extend your hand to save me
and i do not reach for it
i dare not reach for it
Spare a thought for that poor man
Who used to drive the night soil van
Compelled to do his job at night
So as not to give the ladies a fright.
The butt of many school kids jokes
Never spoken of by more polite folks
But our business was his business
And we were the cause of his distress.
Just think about it
He had to deal with all our sh*t
In the days before septic tanks
He did his work without much thanks.
What right does a man have to judge
Another who works with faecal sludge
If you had to handle someone's excreta
Do you think that you'd be much neater?
And I can well understand
Why no one wanted to shake his hand
But spare a thought for that poor man
Who used to drive the night soil van.
“Take care of yourself first.”
That’s what we told my mama
when my daddy had his strokes.
Seven long years by his side,
caring for his body, paralyzed.
Fearing for her health we said:
“You can’t take care of daddy
till you care for yourself first.”
That’s what we told my mama,
until my daddy died in 1985.
“Take care of yourself first.”
That’s what I told my wife
when her mom’s simple operation
became a septic laceration.
As she tirelessly cared for mom
I feared for her well-being.
“You can’t take care of mom
till you care for yourself first.”
That’s what I told my wife,
until her mom passed on in 2011.
“Take care of yourself first.”
That’s what my wife told me
as my mama slowly wasted away,
physically, mentally, emotionally.
And we willingly provided the
loving care that she deserved.
“You can’t take care of mama
till you care for yourself first.”
That’s what my wife told me,
until my mama left the scene in 2015.
Take care of yourself first
when you experience the worst,
for if you fall apart, for certain
you’ll be someone else’s burden.
CORRUPTS: EPIDEMICAL THIEVES - ninette
Slaves
age old
to power:
septic, putrid
e p i d e m i c a l
thieving millions
a b u s i n g
the most
poor. . .
_____________________________
CONTEST NAME: NINETTE
Contest Sponsor: Silent One
~~4th Place~~
Olive Eloisa Guillermo
8:54 pm, October 10, 2015
porcelain has a sensation -
But that doormat is septic!
The economist's definition of enculturing math:
Counting and discounting cash,
multiplying and dividing tangible goods,
nutritional seed capital diverse re-investment guilds
to solve problems of hoarding wealth values
and dissonant greedy monopolistic disvalues.
The bicameral geo-mathematician's integral dilemma:
To get from 0 to 1, (nomial stasis)
one must also get from 0 to 2, (binomial diastasis)
and efficiently back again,
to simultaneously resolve,
to 1 median, septic and dipolar,
with 0 before and 2 implied after,
whether positive,
or double-negative,
or, co-arising nondually,
both LeftYang (+1) and Right reverse (exformative) recessive Yin (-,-)0
In consecutively imaged discontinuous linear sequence
and in naturally continuous equi-valent space/time
body/mind 4-prime fractal dimensions
of Special Case InFormational Dialectical Systemic Group Dynamics,
(+) v (-)=((+)+(-(-))
Resonant BiCameral Resolutions:
Exchange Vertical-Universal deductive/inductive interdependence,
co-relation,
co-gravity,
co-arising
co-passion
with co-equivalent
Horizontal-BiLateral Left-Right
both +1 decontextualized, discontinuous independence,
and not (-0)-sum interdependence,
cooperative Yang/Yin ego/ecopolitical co-redeeming resonance.
Reiteratively enthymeming
cooperatively healthy binomial synergizing
-(0)-sum WinWin Communication Intent
to extend 4Prime Basic EcoTherapeutic HealthWealth Fractals,
like our oh-so-regenerative DNA,
strings of bilateral polypathic hypostatic theory
dipolar co-arising
Gaian Integral Hypothetical
co-gravitating dualdark ZeroSum
regenerating prime 4-Base
nurturing/strong reiterating root systems
of regenerating Positive/NotNotNegative
double-binding
self/other perpetuating
ego/ecosystems
echoing convex stems
of bilateral concave dipolar strings
In between
Crown/Root chakra
polyvagal neurosystemic
compassionate/pleasure
mind/body intercommunications,
polymathic/polypathic/polyamorous
Sacred/organic/tao
hypostatic communion.
(The Battle for Orgreave Pit)
Cries of Zulu as miners rushed the barricades
Truncheons banging against riot shields
A nation at war with itself
Men of South Yorkshire,
United in the right to defend their pit
Maggie’s the Caesar of capitalism
Her legionnaires bought with 30 pieces of silver
Brought from the four corners of this septic isle
To take away another man’s right.
To destroy his culture, his freedom, his way of life
A democracy of road blocks and strip searches
England for the few
While miners live on Pots of rabbit stew
Demonised by the elected south,
Propaganda their stew.
Orgreave, now a place of forgotten ghosts
And Coal the driver of this great economic power
All gone
Memories, now overwhelmed by the banks and the city
But power is fleeting, a house of cards
For they too have felt the wind of recession
So beware the hurricane, or you too might become extinct
And what Caesar will save you.
Footnote to this poem
This poem is about the Miners’ Strike, June 18th 1984
As a young lad and bizarre as it may seem I played in a 5 a side football match at Orgreave Pit on this day.
My way was blocked by 1000s of miners and a cordon of Police blocking our access with barriers of Riot Shields.
We made our way to the front and asked a Policeman to let us through. To my amazement the cordon opened and we were let through.
Behind us was a surge of Miners all shouting Zulu. It must have been a rallying call, for me it was a magnificent site, a place of community rebellion, a place to be proud of. In response the Police beat their shields with truncheons. The sounds were deafening,
From the sides mounted police horses galloped into the crowd causing miners to fall and split. This was war without guns. The Miners regrouped and the Cry of Zulu saw miners coming over fields and down the lane charging at the barricade of shields, the sounds of the clashes were unbelievable. At the end of the day I was coming home there were coaches of police holding up their wage packets to the window at the remnants of miners now left, a final insult to the miners. None of this was reported at the time.
We can be stuck together as one,
and I will never need a soldering gun.
My love for you comes in a steady flow.
Right through all the pipes it will go.
You won’t have a backed-up cess pool or septic tank.
I will do good work, and you will have me to thank.
With me, you will never feel anguish or pain.
That is just like having a clogged drain.
I will always be there to unclog it for you.
My love for you will always be true.
I will be your washer if you will be my ring.
Between you and me, we will have a good thing.