Best Vitriolic Poems
Take me beat me and mold me
I am yours to do with what you wish
No matter what you do with me
I am still considered quite a dish.
I can modify your hardness
I can let you know when to boil
I can conduct a heat in you
And I will never let you spoil.
I don’t react harshly, if you get me moist and wet
You’ll still love me in the morning, on that I think I’ll bet
I will still be malleable, no matter what you do
You can beat me to transparency, and yes you see right through.
I am a bright yellow colour, with a lustre some would die for
Keeping me in good condition, would never become a chore
If you really wanted to, you can put me in your mouth
I can even adorn your body parts, North, West, East and South…
I don’t react to an acid tongue, except those that are vitriolic
But you can dissolve me with the acid, called nitro hydrochloric.
You can pour me when I’m so very hot too hot for you to play
Then you can finger me when I am cool, and play with me all day
You can eat off me, or with me, the choice will be yours
They say I came from outer space, in fact in meteors
But one thing I will say I don’t wear out or lose my lustre, it is told
So if you pick me up treat me well, I am you little nugget of gold.
© 14/12/2012
Phwoaarh! Anne-Lise really is hot
‘Old woman’ she really is not
With lovely blonde hair
Men ogle and stare
Her husband has hit the jackpot!
Yesterday a vitriolic comment was made and Anne-Lise was called 'old woman' I hope this tribute and picture prove the exact opposite
6/7/19
Dejected on my bed this morn, I lay while contemplating,
what seems to be a day to face, I’m really quite unwilling
The peaceful place that used to be for me was so inspiring,
has come to be now tainted with such hatred and despising.
I used to get up from my bed an hour early to see,
to share what’s new, to grow, to live, to love more perfectly.
Each new day that unfolds with friends who greet excitedly,
felt like I’ve touched the heaven’s gates where I wanted to be.
The special word that’s meant to love has come to be vitriolic,
what used to be a happy place has now been melancholic.
Why can’t we just forget our pride, a soul that’s embryonic?
An open heart and mind will help lower blood’s diastolic.
What good is it if we can talk to ad infinitum?
When all the others think an adder fills our heart and cranium.
Will wounded hearts be even healed with simply an erratum?
When people can no longer see which is our mouth or rectum!
Our love for self and things should not be so that it replaces
respect for him, regard for her, a love that recognizes
each one's unique, no one’s above, this love’s the one that reaches
out with sincere humility, forgiveness, it amazes.
SHOW ME YOUR SPIRIT CONTEST
SPONSOR: FJ THOMAS
02 May 2015
Bitter words spew out of your well-polished poison pen
Insult me, go on belittle me with your vile vitriolic venom
Think you are better than me – hell no way!
Every word that spills from your pathetic pen sucks
My one poem to your river of rancid rubbish
Each to their own, but I will NEVER change my style
Bite me, go on bite me - like a sweet juicy apple
I can bite back like a Rottweiler – taunt me enough and I will snap
Tart sour words full of malice I CAN pen perfectly
Except I keep my opinion and hostile words in my head
Me, I don’t pretend to be anything I am not
Every word you pen is pure malignant malice
A fiction write purely for contest.... or is it! You decide!
05~31~15
Contest: Bite Me – John Lawless
Cutting, callous, cold
Cruelly, so cruelly you stand there laughing at me
You tell me I’m useless
Your words cut through me like a blade
p
i
e
r
c
i
n
g
my fragile heart
Again and again you repeat those vitriolic words
Cutting my very being into a m i l l i o n p i e c e s
My tears drip like vermilion blood
oozing from the gaping void that once occupied my chest
I stand before you
Stripped of my dignity
Helpless, bruised and battered
I cannot believe what was once love has turned to hate
Poet's notes
I had seldom written anything other than rhyme so this was a real deviation to venture into the dark side of my muse with a creative free verse.
n/a in contest sponsored By Nina
26th February 2015
With vile intensity
hatred
infiltrates
the hearts of men,
turning
brother against brother,
friend against friend,
dividing
our once great nation.
Right is wrong;
wrong is right.
Confusion
reigns as
wisdom
flounders and
hatred's
vitriolic verbiage
tears down
and
destroys
trust and unity.
And all the while,
Satan
is dancing with glee
on the ashes of our
hope,
and the soul of our
nation
weeps.
O God, save us from ourselves!
For Brian Strand's July 4 Free Verse Contest
2/2/17
Entered in John Hamilton's Upside
Down World Contest
Tied for 2nd place
If I proclaim to love the Lord
but hate my fellowman,
the Bible says I'm lying. Love,
not hate, is in His plan.
Bad attitudes towards others
if they're fueled day and night,
soon morph into destructive hate,
a vitriolic blight.
Though love can be so powerful,
hate can be just as strong.
We don't like to admit sometimes
our feelings are so wrong.
We choose to sugarcoat the truth
when hate is in our hearts.
We cling to euphemisms
while we throw our poison darts.
Sometimes we're hypocritical,
refusing to confess
to sins like hate; yet we still think
the Lord will surely bless!
Those motivated by ill will
will never know true peace.
They'll moan throughout a friendless life
and find no sweet release.
Axe the old Don, a trump peter n piper
of incredulous hellish crud - be gone
ha air brushed pompous ****
Sunkist in Macy's window
then like a jackal hound, he doth run
after public outcry yelps
for his hide leaving
proletarian discord re: pyrrhic victory won.
Donald Duck Trump ™$ - a pompous ass
makes war with his big brass
knuckles and bucket of crass
maligns vis a vis character assassination
while kissing thing kith
darting forked tongue sharp as bro kin glass
inciting banal deathly hallowed
expletives toward lass
sees – especially Fox Television
news anchor woman Megyn Kelly
(quite so many ill mannered indiscretions ago)
inducing said personality
to bear the brunt of brutish mass
of vitriolic n vile insults sacrilegiously
maliciously, noxiously, opprobiously
incriminating, hellaciously,
desecrating opportunistically as hiss oh piss
so…NO amp pull VOTE of confidence from me
(thus far ohm host halfway to 2020 election
toward such a volt char quite rude, snooty
arrogant simian with sass.
I van (terribly hard pressed)
to describe while sitting on me rump
how he oh bomb in lee rages
gnashing false teeth
Wilma backside doth slump
still blasting Democratic nomination
(pa hill a reed) as sham –
from special interest bro and sis turn pump
he, the epitome of
crass bloviation, a malignant lump
whose rants,
sans presidential outcome a shame
bullying with his millions beds this,
that and another woman to bareback jump
disseminating gene pool
birthing more Quakers
and additionally doth hump
the mass media as some foolhardy charade
and caricature of a frazzled grump
this arboreal clothed ape erected Taj Mahal
phallic symbol, where players dump
and gamble away hard earn cash
for his kitty, as if that cachet
to grind and bump
lambasting with maniacal
like "Stormy Dan" yells
leering oafish ill pout
while hair rum
(of red follicular) bulls ad hocks
atop his bulbous aerosol sprayed locks
resemble a flock
of bronzed sea gulls mocks
heady measly shaped Muppet Ox
dis eased cranial hologram shocks
of a cretaceous, facetious tocks
(sic) exogenous, insidious, and obstreperous vox.
watered down soup has lost its flavor ~ the broth is not one to savor
it's over peppered and there's too much garlic ~ sometimes vitriolic
nothing wrong with a little pinch of salt ~ but don't use words to assault
those who post AI should be put in detention ~ maybe suspension
don't ladle me a bowl of soup ~ if it's been tainted, and that's the scoop
A Good Clean Slam
Let us investigate the process!
HOW…..HOW…..shall we make
a MUD PIE……without getting dirty???
We shall polish up the words,
buff them to an acceptable finish,
weave them into an undecipherable web
of double entendre, tongue in cheek malapropisms,
drape it sensually in Freudian Slips,
conceal its intent in a Slamming Trojan Horse.
We shall protest – but not too much,
Shout – but not too loudly,
We shall rant – but briefly
stay within the confines of the PC Police lines.
How then shall I tame this rage,
this hard boiled anger?
Contain these tears of fear,
smooth the edges of my life
into a gentle, inoffensive, song?
Would you have me ride into battle
on a doe, carrying a feather?
Offer flowers to those who need cold steel?
Must I rein in my vitriolic vengeance,
curtail my caustic tongue,
creep – snake-like….hissing - balloon-like
spewing my venom in lost droplets,
burning an already scorched soul??
John G. Lawless
5/24/2014
For A Poet Destroyer
Slamming Season contest
Denizen of abyssal labyrinth,
legendary ancient Wyrm seeks succour
within prodigious sepulchral cavern:
her domicile for an ageless lifetime.
Ethereal shafts cascade through ceiling's
stochastic rifts, piercing tenebrous tomb;
vicious viscous scarlet smears juxtapose
against shimmering iridescent scales.
Aeons past, Faustian pact formed with Man:
vow of harmonious co-existence
exchanged for fulgurant falchion forged in
the heart of dragonflame's conflagration.
Sacred covenant shattered this night by
myriad ironclad interlopers;
ruination's harbinger was strident
warrior wielding token of treaty.
Last vestiges of cacophonous roar
dissipate into the Stygian depths;
acrid stench of brimstone clogs the air as
remnants of vitriolic pyres linger.
Twin gargantuan fibrous wings contract
behind enormous muscular torso;
fulgurating talons sluggishly sheaved
as serpentine tail shudders and falls limp.
Priceless metals and prismatic gemstones
intersperse with charred and twisted corpses;
amongst detritus of mortal conflict,
majestic titan finally crumples.
Massive lurid yellow orbs exhibit
an unfathomable intelligence;
succumbing to the inevitable,
moribund colossus bows forlorn head.
Lifemate butchered by zealous paladin;
remains of final clutch just motes on breeze.
Burden borne by solitary relict:
regal behemoth was last of her kind...
----------------------------------------
(C) John C Michaels, 25th April 2017
Free verse, no meter, no rhymes - as per contest rules.
10 syllables on every line (howmanysyllables.com)
For the contest entitled "A Mythical Creature" sponsored by Julia Ward.
Religion smoked a cigarette,
while sugar did some drugs,
I drank gin and anisette,
Heroin gave you hugs.
Was it my kleptomania
that seemed like such a threat?
You'd turn your back for hours,
hoarding the internet.
Drama was your primal right,
vandalism your apogee,
you had to have the spotlight,
spread your fame for all to see.
I was vitriolic,
without the wealth I seek,
became a workaholic,
for seven days a week.
Adrenaline was my certain need,
you were a voyeur sure,
I always wanted faster speed,
***** seemed your only cure.
Gambler's chips line all your shelves,
I bet on caffeine's sway,
you are Santa with steroid elves,
shopping - your passion play;
we're video games that run ourselves,
for twenty-four hours a day.
You cut yourself so many times,
carving addiction's text,
I drown myself with a metered rhyme,
before looking for the next.
Bulimia made you ascendant,
chocolate broke my fall,
I thought we were codependent,
But I never had you at all.
Intellectual peer pressure
The faces change from smiles to sneers
from effusive praises to contemptible jeers.
A man whose wisdom has been seen for years
now forced to face his prideful peers.
A man whose intellect is simply beyond compare
those who read his works just stop and stare.
How can someone hold their own and debate such a man?
His thoughts and reasoning's are as well laid out plans.
His eloquence, his observations, are without any match
outwitted, his enemies, launch and scheme a hateful attack.
He knows their devotion, to unproven theories, is like a religion
He does not cower as he faces their vitriolic words of derision.
The odds are against him, hundreds to one, but he declares his faith in God!
Silence is deafening for a few moments, then one brave soul applauds.
The crowds turn against the two of them, in a heated hateful rage
Ignorance and prideful enmity, is clearly on display!
Without acknowledging that he might be right, they were both voted out!
But, forevermore in the back of their mind there is that lingering doubt...
John Derek Hamilton
February 16,2016
The difference between sinner and saint lies
somewhere between the difference between
Earth and sky. I don’t know why
It’s so difficult to distinguish between the two
when there’s so many shades of baby blue
and all one has to do is breathe free
clean air while standing on the ground looking
up at all that oxygen floating ‘round
originating in flowers, plants and trees
everyone can see that
even while our feet are planted
solidly on good dirt it doesn’t hurt to
let your mind wander awhile while
your heart pumps all that sweet red blood through
your vitriolic veins carrying all those molecules sucked in
so we don’t faint which is why it’s so difficult
to separate earth from sky and
sinner from saint.
Anyone can write poetry;
Only some do it well.
And others fail—initially, at any rate.
Some idea of its genesis may be of help.
A poem – any piece of literature – is
The result of a combination
Of the Idea and the Act.
Idea
It stems invariably from authenticity—
Of perception and or experience.
The Idea has the potential
And the prospect of a seed, of an egg.
Act.
A poem is a process by which
A raw emotion turns
Into an appropriate feeling:
The raw, in other words, gets cooked.
Fury, for instance, may poetically transform into
Lacerating irony or Vitriolic satire.
You are, in this process,
Guided by your taste and temperament.
Your muse at work.
Another transformation takes place, too,
When two apparently unrelated phenomena
Come to be linked by analogy,
To make perceptions clear,
As in the case above—
Where the poetic process is likened
To the culinary process—
The ‘raw’ getting ‘cooked,’
It’s an echo, too,
Of an earlier anthropological text—
Authored by Claude Lévis-Strauss.
As such, it’s determined
By your background and brought-up,
Your likes and dislikes.
And so may differ from person to person.
What happens, however, is this:
The new is related to the familiar,
The unknown to the known.
That’s indeed the job of a figure (of speech):
A simile or metaphor or metonym does it.
The medium of poetry is something like
The cooking medium.
Once cooked, you hardly see the medium in the dish.
You can, however, smell and taste it,
And that makes all the difference.
Likewise, the poem is a delicate blend
Of the medium and the message.
Style is the offshoot of the medium.
It serves a rhetorical purpose
And is also a mark of sophistication.
It bears indeed your stamp and signature.
Learning by doing is the how of style.
Of course, practice makes perfect.
Yet there’s no limit to perfection.
It’s a lifelong pursuit—
As it was for Bhartrhari and Bharati
Or Kannadasan and Vairmuthu
Or Shakespeare and Shaw.
The tips, recipes, and the rules
(say, of rhyme or rhythm)
On how to make a poem
Are more or less like
The tips on how to make love,
Which are all thrown to the wind
Once passion or the muse takes over.
“Though this be madness, yet there is method in't!”
***