Best Vulgarities Poems
Meretricious Spirit
This spirit is modern society’s cancer
Replete with rank, flashy vulgarities
Pervading our social fabric and soul
Unbridled, unbowed, unapologetic;
It can be a curse to mankind itself
Engulfing some people in moments
Of childish deception and insincerity
Which challenge our human civility;
Petulance, at times, can be seen to
“Rule the Roost” in certain personal
Interactions to make each of us seem
To be less than who we truly are in life;
Always follow your life’s passion and
The spiritual heart and tenor of your soul,
For they shall be your true moral compass
As you face the daily slings and arrows of
This life as mankind’s fabulistic tendencies
Seek to tarnish one’s very spirit and worth
In this thing we all call—our mortal coil!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
October 11, 2016 (Didactic)
A slice of Americana
love their Mar-a-Lago cream cheese pastry
immorality a lot
They crave their leadership cake ...
spin-sugar batter laced,
full of vulgarities and obscenities
in a profanity pot
Call truth to them:
this is guaranteed to give your soul gut rot
Response be a fork crooked limb:
give us another slice please, we love it a lot!
Politically incorrect gluttonous fake bakery eaters
admire a misogynist strong, dictatorial leader
Someone who demeans women,
flush their feminine dignity down the toilet
Strip their honor bare and sewage transport it
Mar-a-Lago Café got a line out the door
that adore the pungent immorality smell of this
Let Trump blow freedom a snot rag kiss,
Mr. Booga Man do autocratic Aryan insist
Sour cream de la spoiled cheese,
oh how they love it so ...
Begging the Prez Fuhrer’s pardon, yo —
they’re neo-Nazi-ing for another slice please
Getting soul gout ...
selling their empty calories
conservative principles out
Mar-a-Lago decadent immorality
served by the hateful spoonful, no doubt
Cream cheese colored bigotry
Very Berry White crooning
on the karaoke vanilla jukebox grapevine
Take one last slice before democracy closing time
But you didn’t hear it from us black raisins,
standing in the back of a separate cafeteria line
* A tale of a charlatan, caught pretending to be a father of a Newton Massacre
Victim----(feel free to view his hyperbole on Youtube, search Robbie Parker
Interview)
This place is not big on naming names, but you sir, are despicable! Usurp
nightmares of another. Charlatan! How can you do what you do, there, bold
face lying for world news cameras. You, the very reason mine stomach pit,
ulcer amore'! Tho' there's no clear understanding for sins you've committed.
Those children! Where are the tears Robbie Parker? Where are the tears? We
can't look at you anymore!
The epitome of evil approached the podium, unaware we were staring into
your laughing eyes. Caught red handed, you Superman'd into character.
Despise, despise! No, I won't pretend like the others that hate is not in my
heart. You see, minus hate, love remains half mast. I thank you for the
juxtaposition. Yet, sickening you are. And the truth is out Mr. Parker, you are
a farce! Now I ask...Where does the misconception end? You mock naysayers,
label them "Conspiracy Theorists" amongst other choice vulgarities. In return,
I request answers. Answers to understand where true conspiracy roams, for'
I'm no dummy little buddy, and I know where there's smoke, fire is nearby.
Meanwhile, you might want to sharpen your acting skills, for the end is nigh.
And you Robbie Parker are only a speck of the lie.
You rigged the book on Sandy Hook.
-------*To be read in true Italian Mafia voice....--------
I wanna meet the wise guy.
You know, the pai·san gettin' cute with the Soup!
Cuz' the CAPTCHA preview characters keep throwin' me insults
like GOOF,
DOOF,
and POOP!
At foiwst', no offense was really taken...
'till the vulgarities became evident to me;
and this schmuck starts slappin' insults at me
like: PMSR,
VAGP,
and U 8 ET
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
*(all characters are based upon actual characters given to me on the soup)
Masters of theft
Morally retarded
With devious stealing methods
For people, today they steal
From them, tomorrow they steal
Skewing the popular concept of morality
The execuTHIEVES among rodents
Leading players in series of shocking scandals
With gross misconducts running the gamut of vices
Devious financial dealings and embezzlements
Shall I compare thee to rats?
The societal rats in human clothing
Faithless shipmates, residents of trash heaps.
Even candidates for public offices
Stripped grain warehouses
Eaten entire field of tomatoes
And other vegetables
Waves of tree climbing rats
Have stormed orange groves
And devoured the fruit
Roof rats have descended after the dark
To nip at sleeping children and adults
The then 'holy' one,
So easily stoop to thievery.
Wallowing in wanton moral filths
Manifestoes are less important
You only appear to take a satanic
And moronic relish in splashing thy vulgarities
Into the face of the public
Unless thou anchor thy knowledge to moral foundation,
The ultimate result will be dust and ashes.
Dust and ashes that will bury the hopes
And monuments of men beyond recovery
They write poems for fun and not for fame-
greeting card dribble just isn’t their game.
Some write in earnest and some write in jest,
but whatever they write they do their best-
to avoid Soap themes and worn out clichés,
and the trite expressions some might praise.
Poems of substance are their best fare-
while those written in jest are fun to share.
Metaphors it would seem always connect,
and their symbolisms too are usually direct.
Clichéd sentiments they prefer to let rest,
even though some readers prefer them best.
They can write formal verse or in free style-
iambic pentameter too if it makes one smile.
They can write erotic verse of sweet love,
without resorting to vulgarities for the above.
They can also voice anger and disdain,
but need be neither obscene nor profane.
How many read their writes is of no concern,
it’s the poems they read from which they learn.
Some experiment much with what they write,
even if scarce others it seems to excite.
Diverse forms of poetic expression-
from all they try to derive a lesson.
funny how we are here
naked and laughing at the fact that we once loathed each other
the kicker is people think we still cannot stand the sight of each other
now look at us....licking and loving each other down like crazed maniacs
funny how we are here
man how we used to go at it face to face and nose to nose
the fire that we made could have burned down a whole city without blinking
now look at us....giving in the the fire in our eyes for each other....in secret
funny how we are here
air conditioner on and all shiny from the steamy lovesweat
there was a time when the only lying we would do is to our respective friends to get away from the other
now look at us....not wanting to go and wishing for the night to last longer
funny how we are here
shower running and seductively teasing each other for the purpose of elongation
thinking back, the only water we experienced from each other was the spittle from the other when we were cussing each other out
now look at us....expressing vulgarities in the name of love....
I
Are you fascinated with languages
Including all swear words, and vulgarities
Some actually are as pleasant as cakes
But serious questions about LIGHTNING:
It is a gerund; the happening is the THING
Making a verb into a noun, as we do with FEEL-ing
II
Moving on from lightning and feeling -
The top of the line on offer is LOVING
As with theology, so with biology and matrimony:
The better part is in doing: "love" is nothing
But a word, if there is no actual LOVING
And what if God were LOVE in the abstract
Less loving and grace, as in the Older Covenant?
have you lost your mind
not that I'm aware of
just another flat penny train wreck
let's survey the blaspheming survivors
an army of gossiping lawn trolls
have been detected in your garden
do you
a. get out of bed
b. run screaming into the night
c. splash a little more gin
into the horn of screeching hell
that feathered chaos aviary
thronged with hollow boned creatures
squawking their disapproval
memory stolen with our sense of origin
histories plowed into an infertile soil
the old ways must perish from life
digitized of course as a memento
another nest of rubber yardsticks
for the lofty lords of unknowing
nothing to be salvaged from that oblivion
unquestioning at all costs a failure
not of nerve but of curiosity
when meaning slides sideways
and includes far more than intent
and you wonder who is in charge of mystery
words pierce the darkness up to a point
and that's when the thievery starts
and the leg irons bite into flesh
their jackal locksmith dangle the key
hi I'm an anthropologist
and if you don't mind too terribly
I'd like to pry deeper into your case
with a few harmless questions
all that meaning has got to go somewhere
how is it possible to be smart and stupid
at the same time and not know it
meanwhile our vulgarities flourish
clumsily navigating the unspoken reality
noble as a Mafia paycheck
in the cloaked world of two worlds
the hidden system of engineered ignorance
the Planned Insanity Dept.
calling for another lynch mob party
toad licking swamp thing
biggest bang for the bling
its statue missing arms and head
a winged tragic marker for all to see
the fog machine has spoken
...or It's good to be the king!
What was't made King Cole
Such a merry old soul
As he sucked on his pipe,
And he supped from his bowl,
And he fiddled around
With three young court musicians?
And what was the role
Of his missus, Queen Cole?
Was she under a table
With a lad from the stable
Who was told he'd be able
To upgrade his position?
These royal highnesses
Were not known for their shynesses,
But more for their quaint peculiarities.
The queen drank from a chalice
That was shaped like a phallus,
While he labored away
Doing king things all day
In a black lace brassière
And a pink negligée.
But their subjects adored
Such eccentric vulgarities.
Now, getting back to the king,
That sweet silly old thing,
Here's how his story played out.
He had good years aplenty,
Then at three score and twenty,
He finally retired
And expired of the gout.
Remember all those rebel poets
and their bizarre ways
How they spooked their stodgy elders
with contra-poetic displays
Dispensing with meter and flow, accent and rhyme
penning metaphor-less, image-free lines
Treating verse as a curse and a sonnet much worse
vulgarities popping up like landmines..
Well, it's gotten worse instead of better
~ Just read a poem without letters
my verse understood
many vortices underwrite
meanings virtues, undetected
movements verbalize unconscious
management victories, undergrowing
megaphonical vulgarities, underestimated
maladministered vaporing unapproachables,
momentousnososity vibrations undermentioned
-dear reader, before all this makes sense (that is, my write may simply
disappear again when trying to post it) i shall.........ummm, must wait
stan sand
We truly have only one purpose
learning to love
our next level of attainment
above and beyond
gross vulgarities of existence
A she wolf was born
She was a stunning white
She always smiled and was filled with innocence
She lived in an ivory cage fashioned with bones
Then They came
They took her happiness and ripped it to shreds
They hissed insults and vulgarities into her ears
They took her prisoner in her own mind
The abuse They caused tore her down
Her white fur turned matted and black
Her smile turned into a gruesome grisly snarl
They chained her up
She pulled at the chain and it ripped at her neck
It clawed at her flesh and blood trickled down her neck
Then the chain snapped
She launched forward and attacked Them
Gore and guts flew everywhere
They tried to fight back but she was angry
The few survivors knelt and bowed and pleaded
Saying how it was a misunderstanding
Saying how they never meant it
But she laid back her ears and hissed a simple word
There are no misunderstandings
There is a wolf in all of us
They are all born with innocence and happiness
They all live in an ivory cage of bones
They will always come
They will hiss vulgarities and insults in its ears
Then the chain will snap
But beware
Once your wolf’s chain snaps
There is no fixing it
Death makes its appearance regularly. They lean upon their shovels
smoke a Marlborough, keep away from the mourners.
Always shovel ready. Even the utility hut is hidden yet ready,
it’s back where the graves peter out into headless mounds.
Theirs’s not the burden of loss, nor are they tasked by grief
as the undertaker crew solemnly do. The best are swift, professional,
they resist swapping vulgarities until work is done;
just fill in the coffin-plugged hole, hum the ‘grave-digging’ song:
“So long you’re almost done.
Ours the winch and lowering straps.
Ours the pork chops for dinner,
Ours this pleasant labor.
All that loved you
want you now be gone.
Ours the cold beer
Yours the slow fuse of corruption.
So long,
shovels need cleaning,
the boss is watching
so long,
so long,
so long”.