The man in the elevator wore trousers like a skirt,
topped by a foul-smelling creased crimson shirt
that stank like rotten onion, the scent failing to drift.
I stood by his side, through the crowd I couldn’t shift,
I held my breath as long as I could, felt I would faint.
So, plugging my nose while I tested my self-restraint
I heard him say rather loudly, “it’s a new perfume”.
I thought it’s his silly invention to make people fume.
When the lift stopped running out at the ordeal’s end
I told him “nice perfume, gift a bottle to you girlfriend”.
The man in the elevator farted,
He mocked us, not knowing sharts departed.
The stench was like a salmon left to rot—
Provoking our anger was all he sought.
Trapped in the foul-smelling elevator,
He begged a shirt from a sneering waiter.
Refused, a dame gave four menstrual pads—
He wore them proud, a banner for the lads.
Another kind woman gave him a skirt,
Still, that skirt got stained with a little squirt.
He would have claimed Scottish, had we not known—
We wish good toilet manners he’d have shown.
The illusion
In a small park ringed by gloomy trees near where the factories used to be, was the bust of a man on a splint
made of bronze, a mesen, she liked to use words like
that in a desperate world of poverty, tinned sardines
in olive oil and mackerel in tomato sauce
The Mesen who owned the factories had created this
park for his workers, where they could sit and relax on Saturday afternoons.
The whole day on Sundays, otherwise the park shuts
during weekdays; that made sense, one could not have workers there on days of work
A boy climbed the fence and drowned in a dam of algae
The park, among damp factory walls, was eradicated.
The foul-smelling factories disappeared as well; the time
had changed, people could buy cheaper tinned stuff from Portugal
When pockets of oil deep under the North Sea
A country was suddenly rich, and people built modern housing where the factories stood.
No one in a town like ours talks about the good old days.
The air can be relatively silent
or noiseful wind – sort of like,
flatulence – both blessing and
curse~ depending on where and
when. The who, more often, not
forthright.
Do we wrongly blame
God, for our own airs – what we
take in and give off, lusts of the
appetite, making foul smelling of
an otherwise sacred dwelling?
To my mind, better we
advocate for greener mountains, and less
polluted seas – myself, not so fond of skin ulcers,
burning, blistering pees.
No Second Coming, till our own transformation
Christ is not late
We are….
BE NICE AT HALLOWEEN
Trick or treaters were having a good time
Grumpy Joe said you aren't getting a dime
He swore then he went inside
Kids were upset and some cried
So, on his porch they threw foul smelling slime...
THANKSGIVING HORROR
For Thanksgiving Pete asked Sue to his house
For eats he had ice cream, turkey, and grouse
Sue let out a loud scream
When out of the ice cream
A small head appeared t'was a baby mouse...
CHRISTMAS DISASTER
Fred went with pals for a Christmas curry
Felt pains and said guys "I've got to hurry"
But Fred was left enraged
All the loos were engaged
Felt warmth as his trousers filled with slurry...
One day a little puppy
Arrived at my door
Playfully jumping around
He slipped on the floor
Dark brown eyes scanning above
Curious about all kinds of smells
When I tried to pick up
On my arms his paws fells
When I looked into his eyes
Reflecting my image, an awestruck girl
I realised at that moment
He is going to bring chaos and happiness in my life
Those padded paws, those innocent eyes,
Hiding mysteries far behind
He gave me a meeting gift
Quite foul smelling
Deciding my role for all his life
I became his human,free to bite
"Oh! So well behaved."
"Yes he is."
I replied because only I knew how much of a charmer he is outside
I fear I've lost the light
In this storm of chocolate rain
Muddy waters cloud my sight
Within this foul smelling haze
But I know I'll make things right
I'll escape this hell someday
And my tights will finally stay white
Off this soiled path I'll find my way
They say the devils in the details
Well I sure hope he likes corn
They say in the end good prevails
But I've had this demon since I was born
In my wake I leave a trail
There's stains on all I've worn
My life's going off the rails
And I feel chaos in my core
Still as I waddle towards the future
I've only known one truth
It always goes smoother
When you let the pain pass through
So when my gut gets sutured
I'll fill the hole in my heart too
I only wish I'd done it sooner
Change your pants before they change you
Who defended Jews from Nazis in WW2
A few brave souls here and there
Foul-smelling smoke from crematoria arose
The masses turned aside, held their nose
Only dirty Jews being gassed, burnt, chopped up and flayed
Only unclean Jewish women being gang-raped by the SS night and day
Only Jewish genitals being irradiated in sexual experiments
Only 'Jew-dogs' ~ their essence, filth and excrement
Today, Islamists shout 'Allah Akhbar,' then slaughter
Jewish grandmas, wives, babies, sons and daughters
The West cowers, labels them 'militants,' not terrorists
Israel, retaliate: Shoot every Hamasnik dead
~ Not a single one can you afford to miss
Occasionally I despair,
an eternal uphill struggle,
a hopeless walk to sanity:
what else is there for me to do
but scream?
Occasionally my stomach rumbles
as pain, hunger and strife
make it grow distressingly tight.
Occasionally I try to fight
and seek that elusive light
at the end of the tunnel
only to find an inky blackness,
ebony obscurity of darkness
that smothers the soul.
Occasionally I search
for a twisted street or
an endless channel
only to discover a world
devoid of any kindness,
languishing in defilement,
foul-smelling with pollution,
tarnished with infamy and slander,
and an ever-reigning lust.
But often I stand up,
for myself if for none other
and look down towards the horizon
and find what I require: hope and trust.
PS Sorry I left Poetry in the lurch but was hospitalised for three days. I hope to read your poems soon. But please give me time.
In my poems would be found colorants,
For the foul-smelling deodorants:
An advance interception of rants;
I’m dealing with human beings, not plants!
With Poetry busy like The Ants,
To deodorants shall be more grants…
In my poems exist, too, colorants
And when they find the space sibilants,
Their piloting pen Phonetician
By linguistics made Sound Magician…
Here and there purposed attacks of fact,
No doubt, for the sake of impact;
Yet, with Candor a Palpable Pact
If not the case, would have cons packed.
He sat in the doorway of the empty shop
Daily for so many years
Unwashed and foul smelling
Often the object of disgust and sneers
He held out his old enamel cup
To make a dollar or two
To buy a little food and drink
Just to get him through
His face was worn and weathered
Though his eyes were a beautiful blue
A handsome face he still possessed
Despite the toll and hardship his body knew
I often wondered about his story
How he came to have no place to call home
I would never know the reason
The doorway lay desolate and alone
My cousin Suzy
was feeling quite woozy
as we drove along in the car
Her sister Lizzy
said “why are you dizzy
we really aren’t going that far”
Their brother Vic
said, “She’s gonna be sick”
as he rolled down the window real fast
Mom seemed to worry,
slowed down in a hurry
till all of the other cars passed
Suzy was green
if you know what I mean
as she hung her head outside the door
Lizzy cried ooh
at the foul smelling goo
for she couldn’t quite take anymore
Vic after while
wore a devilish smile
while proclaiming, “Man that was so cool”
Mom shook her head
as she quietly said
“I can’t wait till they’re all back in school”
There he lay on the foul smelling uneven sandy ground,
Dead by beheading, blood seeping underneath the severed head,
An atrocious act urged by a drunken adulterous queen.
He was already dead, but the head had to be totally severed.
A sharp knife did the trick and a wanton tart had a plate
Ready to receive the Baptist head. Looking on only one showed any pity,
The rest indifferent were just ready to please their queen.
The dungeon was not even lighted as behoved a condemned man.
What makes this painting remarkable, one might ask?
Michelangelo Merisi Caravaggio was in Malta and the painting
Was commissioned by the Order of the Knights of Malta,
And hanged in an Oratory for criminal trails.
Caravaggio lifted traditional religious scenes and cast them
With his own dark interpretation. Thus light and darkness
Played a big part in the painting. All main characters are bathed in light,
The rest is in darkness as befitted a dungeon.
A masterpiece of chiaroscuro still to be admired in Malta.
THE CAT
Oooh. Some things you wouldn’t believe, would you?
When I moved into Beaumaris Avenue, number 4
I met Gladys, who lived next door.
She lived alone with her cat, called Jed,
A big black moggie, with a big black head.
He had saucer green eyes that seemed to glow
And the threat of death in every claw.
His screams in the night made my blood boil
And he left foul-smelling parcels in my soil
Oooooooh, some things you wouldn’t believe would you!
I went round when I could stand it no more
And I indignantly banged on Gladys’s door.
A builder answered with hammer in his hand
But I threw him my complaint, just as I’d planned!
He said, “you’ve a problem, it’s been empty a year or more!”
And with a contemptuous look, he slammed the front door!
So I went back home, I couldn’t sleep that night,
It left me feeling all queasy and tense,
And at midnight I looked out the bedroom window
And there, were a pair,
of glowing green eyes, looking, back at me, from the fence!
Oooh. some things you wouldn’t believe, would you?
It was a righteous hit and the silky smooth euphoric familiar feeling was racing through her veins to her encephalon.
It was an energetic stimulation to her central nervous system.
Her whole body fell back onto the foul-smelling and heavily stained mattress.
Her mind slumped into oblivion.
Her eyes rolled to the back of her head.
The last thing she remembers seeing was a vivid shadow.
A shadow of a housefly on the ceiling.
It appeared to be eating something.
Through a purple haze, she wonders about the filthy creature.
In nonsensical supposition, she could feel the beastly fly attack.
Scissoring meticulously against the flesh of her forehead.
Scissoring against the hard connective tissue of her skull.
Systematically and relentlessly thrusting its cutting blades.
Regurgitating its vile acid fluid onto the soft tissue of her cerebrum.
Imaginable pain and reverberation of the piercing sound were consistent.
And then, the morning light faded.
She saw luminous colors of red, yellow, and different shades of blue, like cyan and turquoise.
She felt her body floating around in a large kaleidoscope.
copyright 2016 Torsional Storm
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