Bludgeoning Poems | Examples

DAMAGE

I open my mouth
My anger spills out
I say things I don’t mean
And mean things I won’t say
Damage

Oh such damage

Strangers or friends
Words I can’t defend
Family is broken
From words that I’ve spoken
When will it end?
Damage

Too much damage

So conflicted
I’ve inflicted
So much hurt
So much pain
Words like weapons
Sharper than knives
Killing dreams
Shredding lives
Damage

Unjustified
Unspeakable
Damage
Bludgeoning words
Shattered spirits
Wounded hearts
Crippled lives
Killing words
Chilling words
Handful of syllables
Damage

peaceful prize

The last resort of the department store
Purchasing my bones in the flesh
Native thorns contempting robes
Reciprocities without enough city
Familiar silvers behind glass windows
Tracking of least haunted strain
Fellow of coal
Liberty absconds the brazen doors of eden
Bludgeoning heart muscle of castings lapse
Strung letting of hummingbirds pain
Calling froth of tomorrow
Beastly hauling of coppered stones
Blanks of tomb
Witched at birth

Convictus

Out of the night a black vice POTUS,
a cry of hope from poll to poll-
wrapped in our flag we know they loath us
and our unconscionable goal.

In the fell clutch of discrimination 
we hear them wince and cry aloud.
Within our bludgeoning, christian nation
their heads are bloody, ja, und cowed.

Let them sulk in their vale of tears
We’ll never let them turn the page.
No prospect of getting  four more years
finds ,and shall find us howl with rage.

Again we’ll make our country great,
what matter we lose our nation’s soul?
He is the master of our fate—
wir gibt unser Fuhrer ganz kontrol.

Mrs Mallowan Takes a Walk

when autumn’s last but long exhale
left mists of winter in its trail
her thoughts turned to the past to look
at greenway and the paths she took
where reading signs inside her skies
she'd dream up deaths and alibis
along the short cuts through the wood
with thoughts of stabbings and of blood
while fungi often made her think
of slipping coniine inside drink
then with the breathless views behind
a choking often came to mind
though with the river dart in view
her thoughts would turn to drowning too
and passing by the greenway bell *
she'd sound out bludgeoning as well
then muse once at the greenway gates
of ordeals, follies, pigs and fêtes  **
before she'd vanish through her door
to ‘kill’ some time and write some more.


*  The Greenway Bell:
A bell on the quay of The River Dart in Devon, England that can be rung to let the ferry (a local passenger launch) know that you are there waiting to cross.

** References to the three stories written by Mrs Mallowan (Agatha Christie) that were inspired by her holiday home of Greenway:
Dead Man's Folly (a fête is featured)
Five Little Pigs
Ordeal by Innocence

Burnch

have you ever had brunch?
brunches at home taste like
fireflies
air raids
spiteful victories
bludgeoning that one person i didn't like to death with my awards.

it tastes pretty good
until you realize
you have spent all your energy making it
perfecting it
but at the end of the day, you feel like something's missing 
even when nothing's missing.
you feel that something doesn't hit right 
giving the illusion that something's missing.

or is it perhaps that you added too much spice
and it's almost too hot for you to handle
but for some inexplicable reason you love
what you made just because it hurt someone else?

have you ever said or done something out of love for yourself and not just hate for others?
i mean if it doesn't hurt you, that's all that matters

i usually don't think about it either so i understand if you don't 
what if the people who hurt us and just walked away
were destined to burn in our hands?

is it not true that hell is a product of demons?
hell is a product of demons.
that means we are hell.

Violations of Humanity

hurting a puppy without a conscious
injuring a toddler on purpose
bludgeoning someone you once loved
a violation of humanity

On Assignment

skirted, wind blown from afar  
I was not to be late for the affair  

bells struck midnight  
and there were two left in in the square  
twelve strokes to signal we were there  

we circled right  
looking for a place to disappear  
tongues tendered to the herd  
we kissed  
my bones bent to your will  
 
it was late  
stars begged us to stay  
the moon in her blushed  
less than casual rose state  
checking out as clouds ruffled by  
we were high  
and you, smokin'  
like you always do  
 
the time, the place, the memory  
the face  
fingers dancing as we knew the end  
much more than the beginning  
 
heartbeats pausing  
pleasing, my ears  
romance, encapsuled  
in the singing  
desire, a choir of one  
and we won  
 
thirty beats, pulsating  
blood in-between the bludgeoning  
a sense of belonging  
longing for days to never come  
 
nights slashing through the dark  
butchering arms  
grasping  
charred, bodies  
steam  
whistling as she walks away

Emotions Are Killers,

You think.
You breathe.
And you scream and you cry and you laugh.
Because, 
Because Emotions don't change like light switches.

Emotions don't flow in a stream, 
smoothing a connection from one to another.

Emotions are rain drops, 
beating down on you
from the storm of memories you can not seem to forgot.

Emotions are an onslaught of waves,
crashing down on you, 
forcing you under the water you can barely stay afloat on as it is.

Emotions are a bludgeoning of breakdowns in public places 
leaving eradicated egos and broken bonds.


Emotions are killers.


For Emotions are unseen and unheard, 
Emotions are silicened and blinded to the fact that 
You NEED to keep a straight face right now.
You NEED to keep still right now.
You NEED to quit doing that,
quit doing that
quit doing that
Now.

Because despite the fact that we all have them,
we shun Emotions.

We refuse it food,
We refuse it water,
We lock it away within us as it trembles, 
alone,
in The Dark.

And we leave them there,
in The Dark.

For,
we are all afraid,
of The Dark.

My City My Nation

Bludgeoning gray towers randomly spread, ingesting the living in their walls and beds.
Skeletal dragons seen through Cervantes eyes yet no whirling windmills in Manchester's skies.
A flag flutters freely where the wind takes it mind, red white and fading as this nation unwinds.
Yesterdays grandeur all around now unseen, cowering in the shadows cast by the greedy and obscene.
Lip service is paid to placate guilty minds but the monsters still rise leaving all beauty behind.
Natures sounds scarcely heard in this city so crass, no foxes no deer no style no class.
A symptom of time, progress and decay, with more mouths to feed and so little pay
And the final betrayal by kinsmen of ours, majority counts for nought and the 3 lions cower.
Self serving parties spewing arrogant polices arrogant buffoons and arrogant half truths, serving their pay masters the rich and aloof. 
Looking forward I see with the vision of the blind, democracy is dying as this once great nation sighs. .

Last Leaf

Unheralded, whispering, 
the cold dry wind;
Smooth, unflustered, continuous,
It flew past nonchalant, unflinched.
Scoured everything with it's icy stare,
Sweeping, blanketing,
it rode on and ahead.
Big or small, stunted or tall,
it sped upon and spread.
Birch or pine, oak or maple,
Bare or confined, faltering or stable,
Hoarded upon by it's giant stride,
shivering they yeild,
To it's bludgeoning might.
Surging and surfing, 
plundering, it thunders up to me
Stuttering, shaking,
Quivering I be.
Holding on to the last strand, I merely breathe,
It plays the terror, ferocious it is,
But I'll hold on my branch, my maple tree
The cold wind can trample, it can decree
I be the last leaf, it can't set me free.

The Black Sheep

It's a cold dark objective fear. 

His face loose folds of jowls,
a sagging half squinted eyelid
and a lopsided woeful expression,
that hides cunning manipulation and brutality.
It's a rancid stench of flies
and faecal matter and musty mothballs,
that clings to the throat and nasal passage.

Entering the box white cottage, 
one up one down, dark steps into 
an eternity of mundane atrocities
and mass genocide of blue bottles.
A frozen winter, but not bone cold,
the neighbours say he starved and froze,
ate soil with his hands, 
stripped wood panels from the wall.

His bulky frame denied starvation, 
insanity maybe, greed undoubtedly,
as his hands grasped screw driver, plant pot
and bread knife rapidly stabbing, 
bludgeoning, punching with frenzied violence
the face of an old woman.
Force and trauma and a wad of cash.
Now three square meals a day, 
a warm room and cigarettes.

His lopsided blood hound face stares blankly
from BBC news.
I think of him at night, 
walking across the lawn from his house to mine.
I think of him in the barn, 
dank, dirty, a lonely space in time.
The darkness of man gapes,
and sits comfortably outside the window.

Onward Christian Soldiers

Onward Christian Soldiers
(Chivalry Dead)

God’s crusade upon them laid
a stubborn suit of mail brocade.

Knights Templar, Teutonic thugs
Mercenaries out for blood.

In guarantee of resurrection. 
Skull bludgeoning insurrection.

For every heathen to the cemetery
Pope so grants indulgence plenary.  

Urban calls to cut out “sin.”
with war for Jesus, champion.

Death to every infidel.
Damn them all to endless hell.

Allah-backed brave Saladin
“Jihad” shouts Islamic paladin 

Jerusalem. Jerusalem.
Devastated paragon.



Kathy Collins
1/31/14

Suicide Cheats Death

It was cold.

Death's fingers
Resting on my forehead.
The nail
Scraping, scraping,
Skin scorching
Of pain.

"You want darkness
Or heaven?"

He cackled, losing grip
On the nail
Bludgeoning
For blood.

"Time's a wasting."

The wind stopped blowing a long while ago.
Death composed himself;
Pulled the nail out
'Til the roused red
Spouted out

And the cold resurfaced.

"You ain't scared.
This suicide?"

"Death.
If only you knew,
How much I craved
For this to end."

The frostbite quivered.
Death removed
The deadly weapon
From the skin.

"I'm a murderer.
Not a liberator."

Death.
His charm tensed,
As his tongue rid
The blood stain from his white digit
Forcing exit as a bitter belch,
And a satiated grin
Carved on his
Phantom tint.

"I'll be back when you have a purpose
Eh?
Ain't no joy for me when there's joy for you."

And he will.
Yes, he will wait.
Patiently,
Waiting
To grace my blood
With his twitching nail,
Edging icily.
For it will only take
The whisper of a smile,
A soundless breeze,
To summon even the remnants
Of his presence.

Hurricane

Must confess I would not have liked to have
gone through life without experiencing a hurricane 
And when Dean came I rode it out with a bit of excitement
as the winds bellowed, the roof creaked with every thrust
And I witnessing the force of nature. 
When it had finished raging
The strong was separated from the weak
as if nature had designed a scalpel
to remove the dead tissues opening an area of growth and renewal
to once again invigorate ,renew and redress 
what was meant to be done,but in a bludgeoning fashion.
I then took stock, and things that had once stood proud 
was shamefully, head bowed, chastened, 
suffering in pain 
but to start the renewal 
and as time permit, the slow rebirth
then the flourish followed by its bloom 
and soon I wonder,when will it come again?

Butchery

The doctor’s had a heart attack,
The lollipop lady’s got RSI,
Couldn’t risk holding her wrist too slack
In case her stick got stolen by a passer-by.
Still, at least she’s better off than poor Doreen
Who got hit by a Ford Fiesta reversing around a corner;
Oh it was awful, you should have seen,
I wish we’d had time to warn her.
The butcher watched from his front door,
Helpless, he just muttered: “poor sod”,
But a secret part was intrigued by the gore – 
He could be the new Sweeny Todd.
Repulsed such a thought had crossed his mind,
He returned to his shop from the street;
He questioned how he could be so vulgar, unkind,
While bludgeoning pieces of meat.

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