Long Abattoir Poems
Long Abattoir Poems. Below are the most popular long Abattoir by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Abattoir poems by poem length and keyword.
Pursuit for elusive prey
teases yours truly
into treacherous catacombs
dangerous mentally
challenging pitfalls,
sets small hairs of back
on camp creeks edge
of night, where dark shadows
evoke outer limits
of twilight zone
prompting me constantly questioning
purposefulness, qua hair raising pursuit
embarking these modern roman times
all for naught,
nonetheless I chide self
failing to heed
emotional, mental, psychological...fallout
in sum re: springing Jack in the box reflex
to sally forth and earn kudos,
asper potential Prince Valiant.
Thus situated with blank computer screen
capacious external Lenovo for myopia
(and incessant squiggly floaters to boat),
this literary glutton for punishment
feverishly fixates to plumb depths
measuring mor'n 10,000
leagues under the see
ming lee impossible mission
to ensnare nearly extinct
fluttering, lyfting, shutterflying...
smarts to outwit unsuspecting
beak henning quest
tendering, tasting uber victory
quivering crossbow
targeting yawping
zoological discovery - channeling
primed with taut fletched arrow
on high alert for stool pigeon
cautiously optimistic kickstarting
another futile attempt dagnabbit
experiencing prestige,
oh...and by the way...,
no animal harmed
regarding made for video poem
gamely capturing quarry scotched,
nor gruesome scene
synonymous quasi abattoir
representative bird den sum
bloodless coup deeming
endeavor par excellence.
Fingers madly scramble
to poach skittering idea
fry day most ideal
omelette ya know,
aye feel yolked to defeatism,
one after another faux
promising brainstorm egging
quickly flitting inaccessible
potential flash in frying pan
just as fast dashing
into bajillion pieces
shell shocked scrivener
scribbling lame as duck
goose laying golden egg...
dropping immediately out of sight,
maybe best resigning forlorn
inchoate never albumen,
albeit quite linguistic stretch for
(all be human success story)
prospects beyond reach
ova this wretch
New York Times
bestseller author jinxed
forever dooming yours truly
grinding poverty my ill fate.
Pursuit for elusive prey
teases yours truly
into treacherous catacombs
dangerous mentally
challenging pitfalls,
sets small hairs of back
on camp creeks edge
of night, where dark shadows
evoke outer limits
of twilight zone
prompting me constantly questioning
purposefulness, qua hair raising pursuit
embarking these modern roman times
all for naught,
nonetheless I chide self
failing to heed
emotional, mental, psychological...fallout
in sum re: springing Jack in the box reflex
to sally forth and earn kudos,
asper potential Prince Valiant.
Thus situated with blank computer screen
capacious external Lenovo for myopia
(and incessant squiggly floaters to boat),
this literary glutton for punishment
feverishly fixates to plumb depths
measuring morin 10,000
leagues under the see
ming lee impossible mission
to ensnare nearly extinct
fluttering, lyfting, shutterflying...
smarts to outwit unsuspecting
beak henning quest
tendering, tasting uber victory
quivering crossbow
targeting yawping
zoological discovery - channeling
primed with taut fletched arrow
on high alert for stool pigeon
cautiously optimistic kickstarting
another futile attempt dagnabbit
experiencing prestige,
oh...and by the way...,
no animal harmed
regarding made for video poem
gamely capturing quarry scotched,
nor gruesome scene
synonymous quasi abattoir
representative bird den sum
bloodless coup deeming
endeavor par excellence.
Fingers madly scramble
to poach skittering idea
fry day most ideal
omelette ya know,
aye feel yolked to defeatism,
one after another faux
promising brainstorm egging
quickly flitting inaccessible
potential flash in frying pan
just as fast dashing
into bajillion pieces
shell shocked scrivener
scribbling lame as duck
goose laying golden egg...
dropping immediately out of sight,
maybe best resigning forlorn
inchoate never albumen,
albeit quite linguistic stretch for
(all be human success story)
prospects beyond reach
ova this wretch
New York Times
bestseller author jinxed
forever dooming yours truly
grinding poverty my ill fate.
We poets are like everybody else
Except that we have
No members beneath
That pours out honey and nectar.
Now say that like the poet you are.
Words like apples at the centre of the garden
Belong not with poets to use.
They are dirty slimy words
And they are derogatory.
Poets are just too decent
A breed for such words.
They are the only breed of humans
Who are alien to such dirty things.
I was eating ginger roots
Near the abattoir
When she looked down
Below my six packs of hard meat
And exclaimed in candid surprise:
"I didn’t know you had such things underneath."
Things!
Some persons actually believe
We are sacred,
Saintly, legendary,
Like angels, holy.
Like the name of God, pure.
Something that is worshiped.
Or like the popes of old.
Like from the foundation
Of the church and
All the religions, old.
You want us ancient,
You want us archaic and wrinkled.
Thank you for your desires
But think of me standing before you.
Wouldn’t you rather have me?
Remember, nectar and honey
Drip from beneath.
Brains are good for poets
Because they need brains
To etch out lucid images
In your subconscious.
And if there is anything else
They could ever need,
It should be mouths
To impress on your tympanum
Very concrete symbolisms.
That may be true
Of female poets.
If not, some female poet
Would say so someday.
Because like in their face,
Down below between their thighs
Is another eyeless face with softer lips
Flowery and fruity.
And that tiny horny thing
A much more intensely sensuous tongue.
Perhaps, that is some other mouth
Belonging to a woman poet
Used for eating banana and honey
You can call it sweet-mouth.
As for me,
I have but one mouth.
The rest things are sticking out
Like a shaggy monster cucumber
And a shaven bag of balls.
Things used for penetration;
For productivity.
You sit there looking down on me.
And saying to yourself.
What is he saying?
Is he not a poet?
Of course I am,
But I am a man too
With canon and liquid fire.
And my woman should have mouths enough
To take in all that is coming.
literary food for thought.
Self Mutilation:
(ah bet thar iz an app for that!)
within unlit partial "FAKE abattoir"
sans wardrobe alcove
where dust bunnies didst allures
completing a simple task among
my never ending (Matthew's) list
of domestic chores
this undertaking engaged
thankfully while completely clothed,
and scrounging on all fours
nonchalantly picking up scattered detritus
including food crumbs
potential critters hors d'oeuvres
the spouse (ideally seated
on this same swivel chair
dashing off these lines
linkedin with this Macbook Pro) -
housing at least four scores
of word documents, she espied
the cheeky opportunity
that triggered many wars
within arms length the taut outline
of me 'lil derriere - re: rear end
temporarily dormant versus
when flatulence roars -
posterior flank hie
could not de fend
she playfully poked her finger
that didst dis send
within close vicinity of sphincter,
where rectal turgid business height tend
(most likely this husband not alone
getting tushy twerked) inn me own coal
less cents great movements got made
jabbing ma bung hole
while i happened
to be "blindly" groping
upon darkly cutout cubby hole
i.e. without wearing bifocals/ spectacles -
envision a human mole
thus amply qualified her role
to be literal and figurative
pain in the ass vole,
where much to my horror a flash
of red hot poker blind
momentary rage, did lash
out at me, when aye espied
a kitchen knife and acted rash
(how cutlery got in closet floor
a minor mystery
and potential topic de jure
for another poem)
to brandish sharp edge
around abdominal area
grabbed handle with left hand,
thence commenced to slash
rhythmically thwacking
wrist of right hand
then quickly dropped sharp implement
(as like a man momentarily possessed)
before rendering permanent harm
with a river of blood to wash.
Too little
too late
God said to me
in this dream I had about fate
So I asked him
what did he expect,
A goody two shoes
a prophet
a saint
to be something I ain’t
Not at all he said
I want to be entertained
Eternity is boring
mostly people snoring
especially at night
and during the day on occasion
Look god! I walk around an
Amazon warehouse all day
pigeon-holing tat
picking this and that
How am I supposed to amuse you
Well I do enjoy you
breaking stuff on purpose
sabotaging the line
Bunking off for a smoke
going to the toilet
and drinking erm… doing coke
Ok hands up!
I admit
I’m a total chancer
and do stuff I shouldn’t
But it’s alright isn’t it
that Amazon place is full of s-hit
Yes it is a terrible kip
but more fun when you entertain
Like in your last job
listening to you lie
not taking the blame
asking me to help out
In your moment of doubt
All that stuff you stole
and barely got away with
on the whole
That was quite funny!
Oh the (paper and plastic) I gathered,
before selling it to the highest bidder
Throwing expensive stock out in the trash
The owner was a bastard
all things considered
a miserly swine
But nevermind
Thanks!
I did need a dig out that time
Hey! remember when I was aged about 7
and was told my pal went to heaven
Why did it happen
A year later walking to school with another kid
he was only 8
And that nut-job attacked us with a hammer
Put a hole in my friends head
The blood pumped in fountains of red
I thought he was dead
All the gore I’ve seen
witnessed a killing at 18
Trying to hold down an abattoir job in between
Yes! Life ain’t pretty by design
sometimes the stars just won’t align
Others times they go nova
and leave black holes behind
still you’ll never really understand
The powers in command
So how about this poem
Will it see me home
Does it amuse you
are we cool?
You’re still alive aren’t you!
By
David Kavanagh
Just a garden variety generic wordsmith
teasing out reasonable rhyme courtesy ploy;
self plagiarizing boot juiced barely abiding
by ruff dogma, with enigmatic joie
de vivre charisma,
which oft times witnessed
gentle green giant gentile goy
essentially me being a decoy
occasionally rocketing, outsourcing,
kickstarting, feigning
tubby an Anchorite, ahoy!
Life in the K9 corps
ain't so doggone ease zee
absolutely daunting, hence
lemme share with ye
haunting, and unnerving, the whee
kid nasty, short, and brutish
ways, and truth be told,
I would rather be outwardly
hidebound, gagged, and flagellated
(threatened tubby slowly
strangled to death by bonafide vee
numb muss snakes, yours truly
screaming bloody murder,
viper esse scent chilly resembling
caduceus), and/or re:
peat head lee bitten
(till death do us part)
by vampire (weekend) bats pre
dominant lee inhabiting
spooky attic, nee
above cattle crying
abattoir, bovines bull heave -
meeting grisly demise, where prowling
hoodlums - vicious murderous electric
kool aid acid tested gang
infesting mean streets -
viz hit head hay be us corpse lee
ving shot up desolation
(think skidrow) role much
more blood curdling, key
ping adrenaline heart pounding,
and sweat pouring directive hee
ping helplessness 'specially,
when this gree
gear re: us macho foo fighter,
accompanied by my grateful
dead cutting crew - on free
key Friday the 13th
assigned directive to man
the most crime ridden, and be
dev filled violent bailiwick,
donning head to toe
bulletproof suit vests.
Nevertheless, yours truly fraught with
horrendously extreme
difficulty, and more
challenging, enduring, and grueling
than surviving training
undertaking associated
with elite military clique,
and attendant rightfully
earned linkedin prestige
joining: Raiders of United
States Marine Corp,
Green Berets United States Army
Special Forces, or Navy Seals.
A civil war flared up and raged on for freedom
Unequal it was, this bloody war for honour and secession
The natives renamed their land Bangladesh
Inviting anew the wrath of a desperate West
The army’s presence then, was overwhelming in their land
Due to the simmering discontent within and a border to be manned
And from ground and air the armed forces effortlessly struck
It was anarchy all the way with the West’s army running amuck
In thousands they perished, nameless sons of the soil
But the army had orders and the people’s aspirations to foil
They killed and burned and looted and raped
Digging mass graves to conceal evidence of the dead
Granaries were burnt and villages razed
The troops shot all that moved and Bangladesh bled
Women captured alive, endured inhuman pain
Brutally used, they’d be killed with a bullet to the brain
Through their brutal acts in ’71, a sovereign state struck terror
And as news of the carnage spread, an impotent world watched in horror
Protector of civilian lives, the army had turned butcher
Nine months later and a million dead, Bangladesh resembled an abattoir
Resistance was futile against the war machine
Would the aspirations of Bangladeshi’s remain just a dream?
In this riverine country that year, the monsoons suddenly arrived
Rivers in spate impeded troop movement and halted the state’s genocide
With the receding flood waters, India joined the fray
But now Nixon’s 7th Fleet showing solidarity with Pakistan steamed into Bengal’s bay
Mercifully the Indian leadership stood resolute and undeterred
And the rampaging army in Bangladesh was quickly outmanoeuvred
There was no resistance from the state sponsored killers
Ninety thousand troops surrendered meekly to the liberators
Reports of atrocities and mass graves were dismissed as slander and lies
The masterminds were let off the hook, pressured by powerful allies
In the cartographies merger with the soul,
where topographies bring thought converge,
a hidden rose blooms,
its petals unfolding,
like a cipher's dark emerge,
thorns burst contradiction piercing the hymen with certitude,
as the benthic depths,
a chthonic whisper,
exhale the secrets unsaid by the unuttered.
Snarl-like grin washes over my visage
Caliginous catacombs hail crimson cadaverous couture,
sculpting masterpieces forge as leather faced misery emulate ghastly gargoyles of grotesquerie,
gargantuan visions of vermilion viscera,
pulsating with an otherworldly essence so eerie,
eldritch energy.
My voice assumes a tone of gravely reverence
Cacophonous canticles of carnivorous gluttony,
orchestrated by a maestra of malevolence,
gaiety ravage the realm of all reason as the abyssal abattoir vitae awakens,
its infernal fete instrumentation shrieking with an ear-shattering cacophony wailing corybantic cruelty.
I raise my hands,
as if to conduct the orchestra of the damned
Phantasmagoric psychodramas project pestilential putrescence,
enacted upon a tableau built titanic terror featuring a cast who are missing photo framed characters,
cloaked in a vaudeville of vanishing scruples,
bile vampiric virtuosi known viands,
denial blurs visions spinning vindictive vile vengeance-seeking entities,
unencumbered by the constraints of mortal morality.
My eyes blaze bolts of violet and obsidian
Heterogeneous homicides bring happenstance,
choreographed by an unseen hand,
intersect with the itinerary of an itinerant iceberg,
drifting aimlessly upon a boundless nightshade ocean of bereavement,
barren of any hope yet fervently fostering feeble flickering flame of fatal fascination.
Boom the death knell of macabre mastery
/There she stood tall, face down.
Her tall frame obvious despite her bowed head.
Tied and beaten like a goat being led to the abattoir.
As she sobbed, I felt the strain in her voice.
Her cries were not the only ones that rang through my head;
but also the shrill sobs of the infant child.
Naked, save for the piece of clothe that strapped him to her back.
Their cries filled my heart with emotions I didn't know I possessed.
Tufia! Tufiakwa!
A bent little old woman with just four tobacco-stained teeth shouted.
I had only arrived the previous night with barely 2 hours of sleep.
I rob my sleepy eyes in confusion.
“What's her crime?” I ask.
“What is her crime?” I ask again,
this time louder with irritation and anger over the silence that greeted my first question.
She looks at me longingly with pleas in her lovely deep eyes,
just as another lash hit hard across her back.
A look like I should do something, say something.
I look back quizzically.
I need a clue, a guide, an insight into what is going on.
But she only looks away in despair, as tears roll down her cheeks;
She has the type of cheeks that reminded me of red succulent tomatoes.
I ran forward to help.
Strong and coerce hands from nowhere restrain me.
The Old woman with brown teeth, points at the little creature.
Then I take a good look at him.
But he is just a baby, so tiny, so innocent.
Tiny little fingers stretched forward, with gold-colored hair I would love to have.
Cute gray eyes; so crystal-like, so clear.
“How can this beauty be a "tufikawa"?”
I ask no one in particular.
Then it dawns on me:
he isn't just a baby, he is an ALBINO.
Oh! The woes of an archaic tradition, my motherland.
Composed by Anita Odure Odeh
Note: This poem is purely fictional, none of it ever happened./
We had stopped believing
Because our purple lords were deceiving
Labouring each day in the scorching sun
Our hearts were burning
Our desires started waning
At times we wish that our existence was done
What purpose is there in life were suffering swallows up joy
And we wallow in misery
Like a tin man toy
So we gathered all our little treasures and embarked on that hazardous journey
With the hope that we will find work that would make us money
With the hope that we will find peace as sweet as honey
With hope that our rainy day will someday become sunny
We do not know what the future will bring
But we placed our hopes in the Lord so we sing
A merry, merry song
Even though we are most likely wrong
To risk it all for a the good life
On ill fated boats we sail
Trafficked by green smugglers
Over the high seas
In the turbulent waves
To the magical islands
We saw gigantic caves
We were almost there
But we were met by despair
Hundreds fell into the monstrous jaw of Nepturn
They were washed away
And drowned at sea
So that I may see the fair face at Lampedusa
Looking at me
I would risk it all
Risk it all for my earthly Elysium
And some day return for my children and wife
I am like a sheep at the abattoir gazing at the butcher’s knife
Why not create your paradise in the middle of hell?
And raise your flags high and ring the cathedral bell
You need not seek El Dorado
You can always find it here
Believe in yourself and don’t be discouraged
And do not be like Esau who sold his birth right for a plate of porridge
Have faith in the Lord
And he will see you through
For fate lies in the hands of the Creator
No matter what you do
He has created you for a purpose
And you are of a divine design
Why not discover it rather than leave everything behind