Best Whoring Poems
Boring
Snoring
Warring
Whoring
Long life with a boring, snoring sod
made the wife a warring whoring broad.
For Your Turn For A Tyburn Poetry Contest
sponsored by charles messina
Alone; as you lie on your bed
The stars brighten, serene
Such an ecstatically lovely scene
While these visions float in your head
Imagining hues of purple: divisions of colorful red
Teardrop sparks sprinkle the room
All around in sweetness croon
The words unheard, not said.
Beauty beheld in radiant eyes
In you resides the strength of Achilles
Though at war within your smile is silly
All and sundry cries
A child unknown, underlies
This babe: birthed in the lion’s den
Whimpering song of saddened sin
Precious glowing guise.
A moments life on a dealers rate
Mommy’s whoring liquid lance
Living within your secret trance
Ungodly was to procreate
Yet yours is to a tempted fate
To feel, to float, to steal a scream
A life conceived within a dream
With this are you given another date.
Heaven awaits sweet heroin hero
Innocent babe with your precious grin
What you have now is only ten
Seconds counted backwards to zero
Alone to dwell in your place of limbo
A pasture for you, a bed of clouds
One more broken breath allowed
Goodbye sweet heroin hero.
BY: DARREN J McMURRAY
January 21,2008
Plea From A Dark Soul
Weep not in the sun for me
my wasted life spent in vain
by death I did flee,
all but my shadow dwelt in pain
Utter not proud words for me
years of drunken whoring feasts
by death I did flee,
feeling no love, set loose my beasts
Deny not the fate I did earn
in my own just Hell to endure
by death I so return,
leaving a black heart so impure
Cry not over my burial urn
my deeds harvested bitter fruits
by death I so return,
to languish in my dark roots!
Robert J. Lindley 11-09-2014
note: Written from a dream, rather a nightmare that I had recently. As the darkness closed in the screams grew louder, the pain stronger and the heartaches
shouted for more agony.. Singe this sinner's hide with pain
that makes the angels cry..
A voice speaks out, tis only the start , we have ages and ages to increase
the torment and pain.
Time serves us this sweet delight , this lost soul now lives within our eternal night!
Quote for perspective--
Poetry is a bowl of cereal and if you are nice you get to add milk and a spoon.
author, Robert Lindley
Who is that unrecognizable figure
Plagued with such deep sorrow
Without the eternal light
To bring her into the marrow
....bone of my bone
.......flesh of my flesh
Never, in a million moments
Would I have guessed it to be this
Married to my only LOVE
Without a promise of a kiss
....just WORD
.....that creates LIFE
.............................in the depths of darkness
I was certain that it was circumstantial
A loss, a grief, a sorrow...in the natural state
After all, I'm a warrior of TRUTH
My heart is secure in HIS....my white light mate
...who has taken me
....into the depths of LOVE
............in worlds unknown, unseen
My soul and spirit are warring
For the experience of whoring...after gods
Pleasure, leisure, lust, feel good stuff
I know, beyond a reflection, I've had enough
....no value
fleeting, meeting...again, retreating, then the beating
.......the rhythm thumping a moving tune
............to dance once more, if the soul could make room
NOOOOOOO! I will not
I am still not there, and I can't act some part
Daddy God...this is my heart
I have given everything to you for LOVE's sake
May you find no backward movement, for me to take
.....what LOVE is not offering
Yielded and flowing...I will let LOVE be
....who He is IN me
written by Trudy Schrader on 06-12-2019
The city rattling,
Feet trampling,
Faces focusing,
Engines purring,
Drivers sighing,
Music drifting,
Ads whoring,
Johns buying,
Click Clack,
Shoppers yapping,
Money swearing,
Tills ringing,
Workers wishing,
Cameras spinning,
Wealthy plotting,
And me weeping for eternity.
I know men, young and old, from Devizes
Who are wolves in surprising disguises
Sometimes girls are as bad
But it’s often the lad
Who, for whoring, has shelves full of prizes
Pretty Trowbridge girls, all in a row
There will always be one that’s a ho
And some may like a lay
But not all of them, hey
Just maybe the ones that you know
So, fine upstanding men from Devizes
Rendered ‘helpless’ by fit pairs of thighses
Be more cautious when drunk
More in charge of your s***k
Less “Not me, it was her, with her eyeses”
by Gail
Black-blue and purple-gray, barred from florescent in amber we play
scratched across vinyl, we sway, arguments in amber we play.
Hopped up on booze, blow, and the down beats blare where we grind
the twenty-first centuries bruised gene pool is content in amber we play.
Fused in secretions, saps, drink thrust and dine whoring for more
like the short lived denizens of earlier times in amber we play.
Alive in the moment pupils blown, see them sway
selling their innocence as if it were blight
oh the pretense of love, found, lost or betrayed.
Drunken dancers grope for holds, bleary eyed strays
tasting the bitter fruit bone weary of fright
alive in the moment pupils blown, see them sway.
The disc jockey's spinning tunes stage dive, surf the floor
in the jaundiced light of bars where love's betrayed in amber we play.
Whites blown and blood shot, cigarette smoke a thick haze
jaundiced death walks to the bass beat as in amber we play.
SONG: Whiter Shade of Pale
My Daddy scuttles across the ocean floor,
Let tons of seawaters flow past him,
Over him,
As he makes subsonic noises
Protesting my sins.
The waters listen,
As do fish and sharks
And other predators of the sea,
The sea horse dances its traditional dance.
Seaweed’s weave and sway,
As if in chorus.
The villainous dragon from Monsters Inc.,
Changes color and does his disappearing,
Shrek awaits luncheon in his swamp,
Daddy is late, he has ‘diver’s’ cramp.
I patiently explain to him
The phraseology of Rap,
The mechanics of whoring
Just outside the Kremlin,
But with magnifying glass,
He still looks for gray in Lenin’s beard.
A thousand Pol Pots were David Copperfield,
No less, spinning agrarian dreams for Daddies like
him,
And other Daddies like Uncle Ho,
Paddy growing from the barrel of a gun.
Gorbachov had the world on his head,
But ultimately, the Drunk pointed cannon at the Duma,
And won.
‘Daddy, understand the dialectics
Of the spinning wheel in Atlantic City,
Otherwise as Donald Trump would say,
You’re fired!’
Come and listen awhile I pray
To hear a sad love story,
I have only a minute to stay
To tell the tale of Malcolm McCorey.
I'm Malcolm, Sally was my bride
I've loved her since grade school,
She was my life and my pride
And, I was her ever loving fool.
Work let off early that night
And it was pouring down in sheets,
When my eyes beheld the sight
Of Sally whoring 'tween the sheets.
My Sally was not forthcoming
And, I was blind by love's adoring,
I swear I never saw it coming
The day my Sally went a whoring.
This wasn't some casual adoring
That I might could understand,
This was at our home a whoring
In our bed with another man.
It was a cold and rainy night
And it was pouring down in sheets,
I wasn't prepared for the sight
Of Sally whoring 'tween the sheets.
The truth came like a blinding light
She couldn't wait to shut the door,
When I came home early that night
While she gaily played the whore!
She glared up at me in surprise
At seeing me suddenly arrive,
I stared back into her lying eyes
Down the barrel of my forty five!
It was a stormy and dismal night
And it kept pouring down in sheets,
I'll never forget the awful sight
Of Sally whoring 'tween the sheets.
The Padre' comes to comfort me
My life's now run it's course,
Today my pain will cease to be
Soon, I'll feel no more remorse.
I forgive myself of all at last
My soul will soon go soaring,
Today will soon be o'er and past
The pain, of Sally gone a whoring.
* Malcolm was executed in may of 1969. May God have mercy on his soul.
Timothy I. Brumley
I see her as the woman on the road,
and in the distance just inside her sight,
one solitary male approaching—that alone,
draws up within her, latent fire
and by its warming she must genuflect
before the altar of desire.
There is a silent passion, holy in its touch,
that sparks connection, unexplained.
There is electric purity within its cloud
that strikes across that narrowing space,
creates magnetic lust in celebration
of the naked thrust oncoming,
finally to close the gap
between her trembling body
and his throbbing heat.
I see divinity in that.
I see the re-enactment of the woman made
to be the glory in that polymorphic act
inspired from pagan dreams of paradise,
gifted yet today
upon the god-blessed whoring saint
called humankind.
~
(Some of you will be offended by this poem,
but I am more convinced than ever that there
are times of affinity between the states of
sexual attraction and holy blessedness)
Civil whoring: such architectural engineers of governmental grant of freedom.
Yea to bruise themselves,
lo, the magistrates
by way of horse-like member,
oh pearls before swine.
Wanting freedom of association
--although prohibited --
she will meet the quota.
Godly engineered to preserve
cultural integrity:
she will find freedom
its demise.
Drinking intoxicating semen
in a coat of many colors
there she takes her meal
fooling the blind.
Thinking temptation could never find her.
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
the exquisite deadening boredom
which comes with repetition & mundane habitual actions found in
the dead-end-jobs of america,
not only shed light on THE GREAT BIG LIE that is,
“the american dream,”
but they allow for us to ponder the concentrated ramifications of our
fierce
anger,
as the have-nots continue daily to outweigh the haves
(whose faces one can hardly place, as the smartest stay clear of the spotlight)---
we dead-end-job contemplatives
fester together,
watching western “civilization”
plummet,
drooling, having overdosed on vain self-indulgence & hegemony,
stumbling from the clinic with a list of new std’s we’ve acquired
from whoring ourselves every which way possible,
spiraling downward at a
break-neck pace.
and then your 15 minute break is over.
Lydia:
I don’t recognize myself anymore
Greasy hair, grimy nails; I’ve become their whore
Servicing eight or nine men a night
I’ve learned it's better not to try and fight
Too many black eyes and broken ribs
So many punches that I’ll never have kids
All because I answered a newspaper ad
To get a new job, to help my gambling dad
I was kidnapped and sold into slavery
I’ve survived on false hope and bravery
It’ll be a miracle if I ever get free
For they have files on my family
They’ll kill them if I run away
So here I lie on Christmas Day
Getting ass-slapped with a leather belt
And praying in vain, because no one can help
Me:
The above lines are Lydia’s story
It would be a miracle to end her whoring
If I had the power I’d set her free
And free every girl in captivity
11/29/11
He could take what most found, in the time of that
Particular incumbent fashion, to be lacking in any
Pleasing or greatly passionate way,
And, after immersing it into low, blue flame,
Repeatedly beat upon this quivering mass as
If it were but a whitened molten lump when
Drawn from violent, torturing heat constrained
Deep within some smith's insatiable forge;
Seen there the blistered face, scorched forearms
Impervious to the fizz and burn of popping sparks;
Blackened hammer wielded by a gnarly hand,
The repeated raising; forceful, downward strikes --
High-pitched ringing chimes of metal on metal;
And him, the better craftsman, bent desperately
To his task, shaping something new and
Disturbingly strange...
While, amassed amid the silent roaring of those
Unremarkable fields,
An idealistic generation, readied, prepared to spill
Its hot, innocent young blood over a sea of
Flowering petals for the valueless ideal of an
Unworthy hour spawned by a vile whoring b***h
Before it slunk back into the lengthening
Shadows of a withering age.
Our sire from the heavens spoke and spat into oblivion.
His seed cultivated an egg that speedily mated in bed.
Abundant life in never ending cycles,
adamant Wives would spell disasters.
The lost children will forever search,
the sires beginnings could never be reached.
Mother earth remains and seldom complains.
Till the diggers broke lanes to her very veins.
Precious parts plundered in terrible squanders.
Her young had developed their mothers new habits.
Coughing and erupting in sores and destruction.
The more took by whoring kings and crooks.
Every infection had reactions to this attraction.
Can we survive?whilst our mother surely dies!