Best Stenches Poems

I saw him resting his laurels among dust
With dry gin conquering his stenches
A company of skulls screaming
Eerie sounds move through the trees
A hooded noise screaming behind
But I tell the stone to be still
Watching the wind and, 
One the ghost came forth
Like a monument I stood...

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Just do it.
Whipping lash,
hot, cramped pit.

Odor, stenches
still working.
Cash coins wrenched.

Wealthy, rich
sitting back
pulling stitches.

Dollars drop.
No more wages,
still won't stop.

Sit, knot, knit,
broken wrists,
just do it....

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Calcutta. 

Hot and unberable in the searing summer heat 
and unberarable for more reasons than the heat. 
In a popular tourist cafe an American widow 
obsesses on her dead husband: she has a bundle 
of photos, letters and other mementos to show as 
she tells...

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Wonder Wonder
I wonder what we left off 
As I sit thinking about the wonders of the world I see that there was one left out
One that shine through the darkness of these Northern Nights
It sails across my eyes with this wonderful glow 
Creating this intriguing...

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(In December 1936, English poet John Cornford
was killed in combat near Lopera, during the 
Spanish Civil War.  It was the day after his
twenty-first birthday.  Could this be the poem
he was formulating in his last hours?) 

They switched from cubes to cylinders,
those knights of...

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Beauty tells the story 
Of days we were younger
Come join the famine
Lose someone
Beneath the sands
At the Tip of your toes
A touch of the gods
Join the war
And lose someone 

Bridges
They mend
The things that god 
Cannot touch
Rivers
They separate
The stenches
That man 
cannot rid of

Join the war 
Lose someone
Among...

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On Vacation With Middle Passage Memories

Out over the alluring expanse 
of the Big Water---
where the sky rest upon
the water’s edge---
where undulating ships wait
to fall off the earth---
we saw the lightening
dancing in space
and heard the applause
of the thunder.

Huge nimbus clouds,
dark like the early night,
and filled beyond...

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The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Seven

The balding weeping willow by the Prefecture Gate’s railings
There where on drowsy summer’s day gather swan and goslings
To unfurl and let fan the crisp ensconced feathery quills
Litter and scum frothing in a creepy morass of leavings

Yarrow stalk mats...

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The silence of morn makes this place forlorn
in the fields, the hillsides, and trenches.
Over two hundred years since the bloodshed and fear,
yet you can hear the yells, smell the stenches.
The crush of the blue, charging straight and true
at the redcoats behind all their breast-works,
The bayonets...

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1914-1918 World war 1

Bullets flying over trenches 
Can’t see too much for smoke that stenches

Lieutenant makes orders to stand here fast
Don’t be scared chaps we’re having a blast

Feet so cold my boots feel like ice
My mother sent me a letter and some cake that’s nice

Taffy...

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Since they cannot fend for themselves, how they can yawn rest of the night and go into the morning experience no food move in the afternoon any food and in night again no food. However government is up there driving exotic vehicles and living in...

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congregate and anticipate please,
eliminate traces of old dirty fleas.
please don't confuse any old thoughts with these.
christmas trees smell better without presents.

pungent, pulpy stenches float up my nose,
duct-taped paper-clips make a nice rose,
miniature villages, cotton-ball snows,
oranges and pine needles smell good.

recycle orange peels which first were...

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Why dies the blue sky red
Hue of a deeper dissolution
Falling from the face
The puzzle of Africa

Stains dry and brittle circle the dust
Where withers a standing grain
taunted eye of barren sticks
To black and lifeless rage
Oil oil oil black and lifless blood

Why die to plant your sickel...

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Merit was always the gold medalist
Then came the shrewd unconcerned capitalist
Who endeared and sold to many the cheap thrill
At jaw-dropping prices reserved only for mastery and skill
And I agree with Solomon that princes could walk on foot
While vagabonds ride horses and busk in great loot

Are...

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Foul as Funk!...
   Stenches your honey-sweet words;
   Politically polite,
   as you perpetrate,
   ya freakin posers!

How can you be so disillusioned
   as though you are morally decent upstanding citizens?
   Directly after your verbal attacks?
...

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