Long Arsenic Poems
Long Arsenic Poems. Below are the most popular long Arsenic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Arsenic poems by poem length and keyword.
Things are getting gross around here, wanna join?
Like tar pits, and there's room for one more
Big old rib bones poking up out of the muck
Greasy handshakes on top of paper on top of suits
And a shower and a couple dollars and a man on your back
A couple pills, honey, a couple drinks and a few deals
Strike up the band, play it backwards, that's how they're all doing it
That's how we all do it around here, babe
Come into this web, sleep with your eyes open
Put a little powdered protein in it
Hold the gun I gave you, just like that, you're doing so good, baby
My little star, here, add a little of this arsenic to your America
You're gonna go far far far far far
It's insane how much has changed.
From never talking-
to talking every single day.
I am more attached to you than I am my phone
My 2 addictions combined
Infused with my blood
It is a good thing that you would never lie, right?
My heart has stopped.
Frozen in it’s tracks
When I am down in the dirt, it is your hand that pulls me back
The hand is made of arsenic, little did I know
Slowly poisoning me, while I beg you not to let go
You’re my 2nd addiction.
The only other thing I couldn’t live without
The weight of my phone in my pocket and the weight on my chest when you are away.
I want to break the glass prison that you hide in,
The one that surrounds your heart.
The shards from the glass would shed my skin and I would keep the blood in a bottle,
One that I would keep on your altar while I pray at my knees.
I would use my hair as a rope, one forever attached,
I would tie it around your heart so that you could never leave me again
I would use my tears to boil my eyes so no one would ever question if i have eyes for anyone else
My skin as the carpet of the room I furnish for you with my bone.
But now there is nothing left of me.
Just the pieces I gave to you.
The ones I hoped you would treasure
But you really dyed them blue.
You took the parts of me that I let your arsenic hands touch,
You boiled them blue until I was exactly the kind you liked
You left me there,
Blue on the corner-
Begging you not to drive away.
Not to let a stranger pick up the pieces that you tossed in the waste
Those letters and poems, i filled my notebooks for you
I would have written until my fingers fell from my hands.
One-By-One. Use them as fuel for a fire to keep you warm.
Pick my nails until they bleed.
My blood, all for you.
I would let you drink my soul
And chew on my bones
My heart was left dry-
Thrown out with your junk
Left to rot and cry
I thought we were tied.
Mine heart to yours
But you cut my hair and used it to climb the wall
The one of the room I built and furnished with my bones.
You used my hair and my veins as means for escape
To get away from all I gave away
Now I burn.
My exposed muscle and organs
They thrust for oxygen
But I could only get my oxygen from you.
A prolific singer, you mimic songs of Blue Jays -
From the poem, The Mockingbird by Vijay Pandit*
BLACK SAILS
You charleton! I believed you when the full moon stopped overhead,
when the breeze like a quilt wrapped around me with warm heat, when
your fingers flirtatiously covered the holes of your flute, my pet —
you once were all that, and I believed you. What a fool was I
for the entreaty of love. Oh how those vibrating lips fiddled with my ears.
The charm, like a waterfall imbued with a rainbow. It sang like a buzzword
from Tristan — oh if only I had pretended black sails, forfeited your love
back then. Instead this slavegirl jangled her dowry skirt toward the storm.
Your puppy dog eyes, like a shepherd’s — I didn’t see the leper underneath.
The claws of your paws like a lion’s in manic kill. Yet, I saw what I wanted to see.
You’d stroke my hair at dawn ~ how’d I miss the threatening tug, the mock
of your arsenic tongue. No, Romeo, I’d not die for you; I’d kill for…
Oh but my eyes fill with cerulean skies, palm branches that cool me
down, your lyrical laughter, the brawn of your arms — robust waves.
And as I die, poisoned by the arrow of heartbreak, this poicephalus cues
a prolific singer, you mimic songs of Blue Jays.*
4/13/2020
Poetic lines from a Poetry Soup poet - Vijay Pandit Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Silent One
Note: A poicephalus parrot is not very smart
There was a woman serial killer who had a heart of stone.
She was the worst person who her victims had ever known.
She killed her three husbands and seven kids.
It gives goosebumps to think about what she did.
This woman was very evil and sick.
She killed her victims with arsenic.
It was the 19th Century and people thought that women serial killers couldn't exist.
Every time she remarried, her husband became the next victim on her list.
Killing children is the worst thing that a person can do.
This evil woman was finally brought to justice in 1872.
After an autopsy was performed, she was convicted and sent to jail.
When she died six years later, this Psychopath went straight to Hell.
She died in May of 1878 at the age of fifty-four.
People were glad that she wasn't around anymore.
(This is a true story about Lydia Sherman who died 136 years ago today.)
I'd rather be inside doing the baking
Than the one being baked outside in the sun.
I never learned how to barbecue,
As my Dad ran away when I was only two.
Though my Mum taught me how to shoot for the pot,
Which really hit the spot,
As I could do that without seeing a single sun spot.
My Possum is really quite delicious,
Even if slightly malicious.
I have a habit of making a stew out of rabbit.
Visitors are big on anything made from pig.
It would be a mistake to miss my venison steak,
Or duck out without some roast duck.
My ham and eggs are never green, though quite lean.
Mushroom soup with homemade bread will keep you fed
Til the rest of the food is prepared
You can grub for hu hu grubs for me to roast on sticks.
My roast parsnip contains no arsenic.
I don't have to tout for my trout.
Or make a deal for a pie made of eel.
You can make a toast while I tend to the roast.
Or if you prefer give the gravy a stir.
I won't get cross if you give the salad a toss.
Or set the table if you are able.
We can talk while you find me a fork.
Afterwards I will let you judge my fudge.
If you can still budge.
And I will find some liquor that is still pure.
My apple pie with cream piled high is really worth a try.
Pears with homemade wine are quite divine.
I have an art for the apricot tart.
And you won't get over my Pavlova.
I bake my cakes with fresh eggs which seems to please the hens.
Our honey is worth the money
And our jams are in favour for their flavour.
I produce a cheese that aims to please.
My biscuits soon stray from the tray.
If you want any thing more fancy we can look in the pantry.
With skin cancer on the rise, I think I am wise
In getting up early to watch my bread rise.
Though I am still game to go outside with my gun by my side.
But when the sun starts to hurt the eye,
My oven goes back on high for when you come by.
If you stay the night you can dance under moonlight
And wish upon a star from afar outside of a car.
Wouldn't that be more fun than going out in the mid-day sun.
With your true face scared to be exposed.
Depression is a canyon—deep, wide, and rugged.
It has a top; it has a bottom.
But there is a rocket that plummets to its depths,
With only a slow and arduous build to the top.
The canyon has an oasis,
But it is infested with arsenic.
A bright pink flower glows atop a cactus.
The glowing touch is beautiful,
But its needles are sharp—impaling, lingering.
Pain freezes time long after the touch is gone.
Sometimes, a visitor comes to the canyon
Not realizing the rocket ride they took,
Descending to the bottom.
Other times, a visitor falls
From their lofty perch—
Looking over and judging those inside.
Mirages of lifelines waver in the distance.
A ladder leans along the canyon wall,
But it does not begin to climb out of the hole—
It is only there to offer false hope.
Be careful around the edges.
They are more slippery than the imagination.
The edges shift, rotate,
Taunt and tease.
Be careful around the edges—
Because you never know
Exactly how deep the canyon is
Until you fall inside.
Pigtails loosen yet messed,
twisted by pliant fingertips
of evening’s devilry…
tracing her budding breasts,
embers gleam from a lamplight, dim…
his jerked breathing quickens to rake
this young, tender flesh---
from pink , blood red, to pale yellow... despicable!
Invading her territory,
the blister of muffled silence
grates adolescent wails,yet…
crazed feasting of desire remains.
She quivers under a toppled quilt
brushed in wounded cotton...despicable!
And while darkness slides on metal frame,
he riles, riles with abandon,
grinning under a sinister moon
arsenic as the sweat of male hunger
to ravage a girlish body... trembling, trembling
while her cupped mouth stutters,
‘Please step-dad, no!’
‘Hush…dear baby, I am your angel,
guarding you from evil wolves..despicable!
Quietly, he pins the knob of conquest
until the frail child's porcelain doll
splatters on the floor, and then…
.............
Re-Posted /1/2017
Contest: Let's Talk About It
Sponsor: Richard Lamoureux
My darling, my dearest, my loving man –
it is a perfect fire you have going,
the atmosphere is Christmas-cheer glowing.
I delight in you, me and our cider brew
in this, our own romantic freedom sphere.
Your presence, talk and kisses are my heaven.
I love you calling me sweetheart, always have –
I wish your voice were something I could grab,
plus, your embrace, that neither would diminish.
It could be my blessing, come wrapped as present.
Yes, you’re right, sure, we’ll always be together …
sipping cider, sharing life’s joys and rifts.
Our love has lent richness to five Christmas’ times
and still your presence brings me joy undefined.
More cider? … Bit sleepy? – I’ll tuck this pillow.
Drink … there, that’s it … so, I’ve had you shadowed,
that is, you and the she you never tried to quit.
Scared? … It's just my loving gift of arsenic.
I should've known something was wrong when my dad started getting sick.
My Stepmother is evil and for many weeks, she poisoned him with arsenic.
It was five years ago today when she finished him off with the final dose.
I hated my Stepmother even though Dad wanted the two of us to be close.
It took me a while to get it done but I was finally able to have Dad's body exhumed.
When high levels of arsenic were found in his body, my Stepmother was doomed.
I was determined to bring her to justice and I knew that I wouldn't fail.
She was found guilty by a jury and I was happy because justice prevailed.
The judge sentenced her to life in prison with no chance of parole.
I loathe that woman, I can never get back Dad's life that she stole.
(Even though this poem is fictional, many women really have killed people with Arsenic.)
To come and go
and not be afraid of the light.
Again I'm a child and my secrets
I have chosen can you love me?
Death will come this I know
slowly I grow you remember.
The bottles were colored when first I arrived.
Hairy eyes hiding tremors pass.
I agonize once again arsenic moons.
A man makes his bed yet a child and his maid.
Starched white shirts in the closet I hide
from the church.
Mary wept but the nuns make me weep even more.
Loneliness is a face never seen.
I drink it all as a child what they allow.
Buds and bells heaven is not full of metaphors
I can change but I won't.
When I write best this way unlike you.
Your will I don't want just my cat.
Coming back here your heart once mine was too heavy.
Wide and straight the road.
Narrow paths for dark horses the moon the clouds
they pass by me lost without you my bed wetter.
God help me I can once again hear loud sucking noises
soft whimpers and quite cries for a price.
Mummy the bottle on the floor it is empty.
She comes in a double glass, blood red dress.
I did not write this because of the hairy eye hiding.
But children and their secret lips confessed.
James McLain Thursday, August 11, 2011