Deads Poems

THE PERFECT BUFFET

THE BLOODY PERFECT BUFFET..

There should be a perfect buffet
A table for men
A happy gathering for them
The murders.... the killers of souls

There should be a table for us
After the long days battle
When the bombs rattled and pummelled the sands
When the sun settles and the cries echoes....

Lets us call for a celebration
Enjoy, enjoy and let evil reigh
With a table of the kills
With platter of the deads

There on the tables....
A plate of pounds of flesh of the dead paletinians
A cup of blood of the slain childrens
Memories of all the victims of his greed and power

Satan should be at the table, Netanyahu should be on his right
Let him drink and make merry, for the deads gone
Let hell rejoice at his laughters, upon cries of fallen souls
For zionism reigns and Islams demise

Let evil prevail, let Zionism flourish
When they sit at the table, to merry upon the bloods flows.
Dreaming of a perfect world, A peaceful Israel
Where honey and milk flows, besides a perfect buffet.

Hey, Mrs, Johnson

Hey, Mrs. Johnson
Soon I'll be dead
Soon I'll be six feet under
My children will cry
At the volume of thunder

Hey, Mrs. Johnson
I hope you don't mind
No one lends you it back
I'm not borrowing your time

I stole it
Or you spent it
You can't relive a scene
You're living
Or you're dying
But there's no in between

And that's why I'm sad
As I rot on this beds
I spend my life dying
Stead of living
And now I'm deads

I spent my life working
To pay off my bills
Didn't see the world with my children
And now I never will

Hey, Mrs. Johnson
This isn't to depress
Just a warning that your life
May be even less

Hey, Mrs. Johnson
I'm scared like a baby
At age thirty-seven
Did my tree blossom
Or wilt itself away
Am I in hell
Or am I in heaven?

Hey, Mrs. Johnson
Call me the priest
I hope he can pray
For me as I decease

Hey, Mrs. Johnson
Death is calling me
The streets feel desolate
Glass houses are empty
And lonely

Hey, Mrs. Johnson
Death's walking the street
Every second a lamp shatters
Crystals broken and tattered

Did I even matter?

Hey, Mrs. Johnson
On my very last breath
Death shall be no more
I shall conquer death.

Memory of death

Once sanctuary.
The uninviting undertones bellow in mourning.
A soured fate.
They say the deads sleep is endless, as my toll chimes, wakeless.
Still unsighted eyes.
With sickly bloodshot yolk, cresting as if to rise reborn.
Tarnishing sleek silvered rumination, in anniversary of the best forgotten.
Another empty plot fills a space better kept for the rigid, the disciplined.
Hands worn of time for nothing other than keeping bones wrapped. 
In unbound duty, spreading dirt, not to cover but expose.
Treadless stepping over and over the ghosts trampled in greater haste.
Who's borrowed words are sung as tribute,  in service striking back in self reverence.
Now hollowed breath exhumed.
To treat a lasting patron, the unintroduced, bares the yet collected as for tolled is all.
Reserving another debt to be owed in exchange.
They march with purpose they march for purpose, not in step. 
Peace will never reclaim them, for they know not peace.
Sleep remains a wistful dream.
Not to be conquered.

Haunted Graveyard

When you walk in silence,
It murmurs the sound.
There you feel the presence,
Slowly gonna hear it loud.

Only moon is the light,
And deads under the ground.
Don't feel alone at night,
Don't talk with creepy sound.

Graveyard is alive by time,
Just move your steps back.
You would hear a hymn,
That's their time to attack.

You wanna see your death!
Then remain till demon wake.
"Forgive me!" On each breath,
Dawn! Have dead bath at the lake.

Garlic Heads Crash Halloween Party

the jack-o-lanterns were infuriated.
The ghosts and goblin mad.
garlic heads had crashed the party.
Halloween this year was sad.

How dare they show up again
With sloppy ink on their weird faces.
They cannot just come in here right?
Asked a vampire named Aces.

They are already in, the jacks said,
Feeling angry and upset.
The garlic heads are smelly.
They will stink this place up yet!

The werewolfs tried to get them to leave
By biting off their heads.
Now the smell was worse than ever.
We are leaving said all of the un-deads.

Rest Well Weary Stranger

3 Feb 2023 5:46 AM

Burried in the poplar grove along the wandering creek
A man alone in his grave a soul in deaths dark sleep

Traveling the prairie plane he stopped for the night
As he slept he passed away warmed by the fire light

He lay there peacefully in his sleeping bag
Until another poor traveler came riding by in rags

He looked upon the stiffened man and bowed his head and prayed
He checked his horse tied to a tree and gave him water and feed

Taking the deads own shovel he started his solem task
Digging the prairie bed for the man who breathed his last

He sang a durge as he dug and shed a tear for him
Then laid him in his earthen room  then with earth he closed him in

He said a prayer and at his head he rolled a large stone he found
And scatched the words upon it "God bless this man in the ground"

A Wise Fool

Argument was never a strong point.
Based on what I know than I used it.
War was never part of the list
When being right never matters most
Doing right was of outmost importance

Never let your voice be heard by the deafs.
Let your work be seen by the blinds 
Fill the heart of those who are troubled with joy.
Heaven will blow horns for your work.
Touch the souls of the deads with strings.

Keep the distance of haters away from your goal
Let be peace between the heart,the mind and soul
Bring future to those who has given up the battle.
Let be light in the eyes on dawn.
Rested are those who has found eternal peace

Lend a hand to those who has a wish
Blessed is the heart that never envies
The soul that never curse
The mind that never witches
But the mouth that encourages with wisdom.

Captain Robert Cornage 2003

Captain Robert Carnage sailed away on a leaking  
ship called the Chesapeake Bay
A tattered crew sailed at his side,
a fickle crew on a dead man’s ride.
Ragged sails pussed a seafaring wreck 
cracking and creaking on a reeling deck
sailing out on a sea of shame;
The Pirate Captain, he’s the blame.
A wicked captain with a wicked heart,
made um walk the plank to play their part.
To curse his deads gave him the dreads,
those that did would wake up dead.
He sent many a sailor down to the deep,
straight to the bottom from a storm tossed heap.
Then came the day when the tide would turn
and crew of bony sailors with a fish to burn,
sent a wicked hearted captain over in the drink, 
Straight to the bottom from a stormed tossed heap

In Search of Hue

In search of hue
That departed my grey shadow,
and headed towards a grave
which's long due.
There's someone powerful visible
Like you.
Enjoying the land of deads,
Aren't you through? 

I continued to row,
In search of cascading fountains of truth,
To replenish my arid aura
whilst streaming through the oceans,
That's swirling with lies and truth.
I am following it, 
Destroyed and withered,
Because it will take me,
To an aurora that once shimmered. 
With a scattered soul, 
that longs for the orange glory of the light,
to weave me in it’s glistening dew,
And snowflakes of boundless delight. 
I am still rowing,
In a myriad of tints,
My under-toned emotions 
Floating in an infinite stream.
I must revive them.
The symphonies and hollow chimes,
That sparkles my dark brown eyes,
While playing a choir in my heart,
In order to regain my trust.
Now, I must run.
To catch the wilderness,
Lost in a conjured boulevard,
Of falsehood and fairy tales. 
I must open the door to my soul,
Locked by an empty spell
Before it freezes my bosoms,
In a timeless well.

Purgatory

PURGATORY

It all started with the fading date
When dusk reluctantly came late
Giving the satisfaction of a wasted day
Deads should rejoice in the grave
Not to have witnessed this home-stay.

Dawn came with sitting and dead staring
Behind the closed gate with no talking
The lizards could see a sad screen
Wondering who created a sorrowful thing.

Dawn rose with lying and deafening silence
A dreaded quiet like calm space
Except for the sound of blaring sirens
In search of a bribery case.

The bed became my kingdom
The pillow my crown
My only citizen, boredom
Who never left me in this town.

Be Meek

Fresh with gone spirit,
Dead in encroaches,
you aren’t holy;
forget about righteousness-
All have sinned!

Father’s Acts trembled in our ears,
printed on every core,
tied on each depth
hitherto, Falling short of justification
by transgress decree!

Desire of the fresh
like a fluctuating fever.
as a driving roll,
all along the conduct of the world.

Lust of the ecosphere,
Prince of the power
Leading the biosphere,
deceiving religious folks

with beliefs and gods;
as Jewish leaders,
Sons of disobedience!
By phusis, the broods of wrath,

longing the desire of the fiend,
Pretence to Father!
Lengthy mercy past love
toward a man; seeking Him by Faith.

Deads made alive in Christ
as zombies- “the dead don’t die.”
Saved yet, you aren’t worth it!
His Laws for man to break

as virginity in dog’s hand.
By grace you are hoarded-
‘here’s No other way!
you are washed,

justified and set apart;
Prior life is gone!
Speak evil of no one,
You’re once disobedient.

Future

who will stay depths tonight
silently will enter into
every dream will be over
when the alarm rings

cold shower effect
as they tremble in their bodies
their eyes will freeze with what they see

the landscape is terrible,Living Deads
the earth does not accept you

your future in the underground

Love of Deads

Lonely nights were of thinking when love derailed my heart. Sorrow times filled my happiness with sadness when all he did was to lead me astray

It was of a dream come true to be loved by him, yet it was of a secret place only a dreamer see. Death conquered his joy when the only part he's playing is of deceased

It felt great when tree he sprinkled was of beautiful flowers

It's like a fruit - that only those who believe in color and shape are of those who don't eat it

Everything were of past in him when living with deads was the only choice. 
The present is full of coldness as the future is full of mist

How he lives is how it goes as continuing to love was a way of distraction in the presence of living

He's a life, living with deads

Ancestor Cult

Psychopomp led me into afterlife
into the souls' of our forefathers, 
into the dire grave, spiritualism,
i saw spirits, deities, the deads;
the beneficient dead of the night.
i laid on the ancestor's cult below
resting returns of darkness of the  
ancient historical cult of culture.
i was introduced to the angelic 
beings of ritual magic, the spirit 
guides of theosophy and mysticism
the aliens of ancestral Ufology, Africanism and the neopagan gods which are the thought of soulsm. 
my soul shattered and I found hope. 


Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent

The Stillborn

Targatus had come and gone.
Heimann had had his fun.
Enchaptus wouldn't have gone so soon.

Still born are the reason of the emerging moon.
The still borns,
Inverses sorrowful dirge to fun.
Learning had had it that still borns are the born deads.
Learning had made her mistakes,for most alives are deads.

Born with silver spoon connotes nothing.
Ointment of blessing oozing from you makes you wanting.
Recycling in birth and death;
Nigeria is endowedly choked in still births.
     17:22:08:11:58

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