Long Butchered Poems
Long Butchered Poems. Below are the most popular long Butchered by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Butchered poems by poem length and keyword.
You cut me out of your life
I’ll butcher you out of mine
Chop chop chop chop
There go the memories
The images
With one fell swoop
I've decapitated your smile
CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP
There go the words
Torn away like extra slabs of fat
Oh…yes, there go the juicy chunks of
sentiment
I had for you
Those I didn't chop
Those I sawed away...
Chainsawed
So the blood splattered everywhere
And made me sick
To the core
What a fool I've been
Slice Slice Slice Slice
Deep into the red meat of the heart
Slicing away every reminder
Of your touch
And every word
Every look
That made me smile
And go weak inside
YES….blood drenched and gory
I pick up what’s left of your image
And douse it in acid
…………..
I nearly suffocate in the fumes
Tit for tat
But I did better than that
I didn't cut you out of my life
I butchered you out of existence….
Ah…much better now!
I’m smiling….
With blood red tears
Rolling down my cheeks.
Eileen Manassian Ghali
No Longer Valid
A once proud nation now grovels in the sand
Liberal emasculation in the mother land
No reward for achievement, effort ignored
For each lazy American a participation award
While one barely feeds his family by working each day
Let’s give the one lying on the couch an equal day’s pay
No longer valid the value of life
Child is butchered by the surgeon’s knife
Just bow your head an accept your role
While socialist views take their toll
No leadership shown to turn back the tide
Apathy sold to those along for the ride
Integrity gone without leaving a trace
Blatant corruption just spit in your face
No longer valid incentive denied
No freedom of speech, a gag law applied
Once universally respected the home of the brave
Now a settlement for a new kind of slave
Actors and athletes adored by the press
Just lie on the couch in a state of undress
No moderate leaders, a country cursed
No longer valid, America first
Traitors are praised while patriots harassed
Congressional ethics a thing of the past
Liberal repression of opposing views
Media no longer reporting unbiassed news
Promoting hatred, bigotry and mutual mistrust
Demeaning the victim and defend the unjust
Political figures not what they seem
No longer valid, the American dream
Copyright (C) Vince Suzadail Jr. June 2018
I slash with my sword and I push with my shoulder. Every muscle and every tendon is screaming in agony. I can feel every pressure when my blade makes contact. I’m grunting with passion as I push every extremity to the very breaking point. I let my mind wonder to the past, where my family was butchered and mutilated when I was 10 years old. I lost everything I loved and anything that mattered to me, but my passion. Revenge echoes in my mind over and over, like the rumbling of thunder in the summer storms when they pass. Revenge against those who could do the things I’ve seen, beasts that slaughtered my whole family. I have spent years here, learning the warrior’s way, feeling the grunge and toils from everyday training.
My sword is now a part of my body, so swift and true. I can draw it sharply and silent to bring it up my enemy. I spin my body and crouch down low, dodging my enemy and thrusting my sword into his chest. My body has become one single weapon for me to use. My mind is sharp and ready for the challenges of all those who oppose me. I will fight for honor and what is right and damnation to those who are evil and selfish. In the distance a voice echoes in my ears, “Piiid!” “Pid!” This sound grows louder as I strain my muscles and sharpen my skills. “PIIIDDD!!!” “HAULT!” and then I realize that master Baracus has been calling me. Turning around, I see Baracus standing there with a puzzled look on his face. He is a tall elder man with a chiseled chin and scars across both cheeks. His skin tone is deep red from the Sun’s scorching heat of the day. His balding head has traces of white hair around each side and the tunic of a trainer is all black with gold trim. His deep blue eyes gaze upon me in frustration, “You must focus on all things around you Pid, you will leave yourself open to attack without it”.
Baracus turns to walk towards the shelter as he mumbles various curses at me. “You young bucks have no attention and focus” as he slowly walks to sit down. “I was focused on my training you old goat” I persist. As we both sit down, he makes his brittle response, “Damn young blood makes poor fertilizer for our fields” as we both bellow with laughter. He is my mentor and trainer, but most of all he took me in and called me his son. He has trained me in the way of the warrior and what it means to be honorable and noble.
i would see the dog
chained in his yard
its ribcage
a hollow pulse of hunger
its face a cowed rag
when you are ten
adults have reasons
you go along with the reasons
hoping the world
is not the bedlam you fear
like when I saw
through a shop window
the severed heads
of butchered lambs
then one day
i shout over the fence
"feed your dog"
i don’t go away
even when he threatens and spits
i keep shouting “feed your dog”
a small crowd forms
a man in uniform arrives
questions are asked
the dog is led away
a few days later
mother takes me to the flower shop
to buy an in-door plant
the assistant says
"be sure to feed it well"
Cooper is a Brit car
Alice sleeps on a bed of nails
Million dollar babies’ applause
Tomorrow’s yuppies
Headless chickens twirl on stage
Vodka inside the mind
Alice fell down the well
Classical music was weeping in the clouds
Welcome to my nightmare Alice
I love you to death
Killer
Golfer
Dreamer
Villains dancing on graves
Butchered baby dolls
Make great dead babies sacrifices
Black widows love young boys
Rolls Royce rock and roll
The spot light takes its toll
Formula 1 was a dead end race
Beer and cartoons day by day
Just a little insane, insane
Insane
Was the dead mans game
Blood flows on gold rimmed toilets
Crimson theatrics sucking life’s womb
Monster Alice became the baby
Who had to go home
Preachers son, love never undone
Coffins ready, graves already dug
Rock stars all crawling on the dung
Only women bleed
Only men plead
For the open seeds
Cheryl this is your song
This is your voyage
Running in circles
Running in whiskey dreams
Skinned alive
Fame and the devil
No more Mr. nice guy
Stuck inside
Stuck in the dark
Demons and piano keys
I have become Alice
I have become my dream
I have become my demon
Hold me tight
Let me see the light
Cheryl saw me die
Poison
Back to life
Eighteen again
Eighteen more holes
I love you Cheryl
Mother Earth
brings virgin birth
to hunting and gathering EarthTribes,
reforesting and rechorusing creolization,
ionizing and lionizing harmonization,
ergodic rhythmed and seasonally rhymonizing,
thermodynamic and radiant ecstaticizing
native First Nations
through Last Shall Be First ReCreations.
On the more RightWing side,
the commodified planet of earth
and water
and air
and fire
to be aimed at
and against
each other
is what's rightfully,
if somewhat ballistically, left
of the raped and pillaged,
drilled and fracked,
industriously enslaved
Breeding and Bearing and eventually Butchered *****
once more scrupulously known as Sacred Mother Earth
venture-capital invested
by Father SunFire.
O bipolar, harass me nevermore!
Depart from me! For Easter Sunday's here,
a comfort which transforms this time of year,
and gelds you like oxen for evermore.
O minotaur, you cursed bull! Whether more
man than beast, for you I'll not shed a tear;
away from me, fiend—never to come near!
Be gone, creature! Leave me ever the more.
So, one day, very soon I'll know new life
(though, like a captive in your hellish maze,
a labyrinth and scheme of puzzling strife,
despair, gloom, confusion, and dark malaise,
I languish like prey butchered by your knife)
as hope arrives, freeing me for endless days!
The Keening
Disconsolate depressions on the valley floor of green
With bodies bent and keening, young girls and their kind
Take to the dead fields down, to fall upon their knees
Scattered, sickly tombstones, laid flat on mud and grass
Hearts broken on the sorrow, nothing more
War leaves desolation in a lingering stench of death
Surroundings void of life but drenched in blood
Despair is in the futures of the mourning maidens
After the fight a second conflict brews, the eerie wailing
Malignant, so many hard tears flood in trembling streams
Down, already in the valley, to join the others
In rattling fear the young girls touch each cheek
Of their men, their loved ones, cold and dead
Grotesquely somber faces sink to morbid depths
As reality sets in, not on their side
A formidable enemy, despair is clearly there
The living reminded forever of the cost of life
Crushed, consumed in hellatious fear that never ends
Their loved ones will never love again
Slaughtered, butchered, wasted on the ground
They sink with deep nausea, ugly as the blackened rocks about
Perverted on the landscape, the dead stay in their place
No more warmth of life to fill their needs
The women weep in competition with the rain in torment
Old ladies place coarse blankets on the raw dead men
Too much pain fills their fragile grieving veins
They sing the keening song to praise their dead
Keening continues on the wind and in the rain
It will never stop, never end, always the same
Disconsolate depressions on the valley floor of green
Wailing with great agony and screams
Entered -12/05/14
Poetry Contest Name - Death Shadow
Sponsored by Justin Bordner
You guys never laughed at me for spoiling you rotten in glee
With spilt milk over nothing as if I created exquisite novel cuisine
Of course your applause was quite muted because of the padding
Maybe you secretly chuckled when I debated in adamant earnest
Whether one glove fits all gourmets when brave experiments failed
And which mitt belonged to what hand and if I was wrong to decide
Never got out when my kitchen looked like a belligerent reminder
Of insane propositions to marry hunger with delicate opulence
When more shells crisped up the omelette than shrapnel in Flanders
And bloody meat hid inside beef scorched from heated exchange
While recipes for disaster disguised as some deep fried Trojan horse
Butchered taste buds scorned with pleasure lost in hell’s paradise
More than once you whispered ‘do not put your head in the oven’
Switched of the gas as if by itself and encouraged me to keep trying
When the lights went out you told me a story of blueberry muffins
Presented to Odysseus emerging from an underworld of despair
Caressed me into holding pots pans scourers and bedlam together
Even under looming death from friendly fire and collateral damage
Now that I live to tell the tale of surrender you carry an olive branch
More holes than fabric punctured into a fading emblem of design
I rest you in peace on a tree in the garden where you dance in the wind
With old tea mugs and measuring cups full of promise and compassion
10th May 2020
No matter the subject, poetry,
somehow, is all about love --
Love, a poet's bread and butter.
Staple stapled to the writing
tip of his forever pen, and the backside
of his often used pencil. Falling in and out of.
Were it not for Love's addictive nature,
a poet's heart's habitual affliction...there would be no poetry.
No poet. Period.
Hallmark rhymes are far from my
heart's loses and finds, no paper beaters
in said repertoire -- torrid bliss, or totally disappointed,
pissed!~ has always been my hotly repeated refrain! --
Poetry oscillates, lively. A charged, bare wire!
Makes for hyper passionality (made that word up).
Rises, a Sky-rocket -- bottoms~ a clogged bowel!
Too much overeating of non-tenderized fowl
reflects and epitomizes, self induced, masochistic
relationships, that lead to, autogenous, butchered,
my own mental scalpel, seeming lobotomies. A medical wonder I can yet write.
The poet consumes drama~ discharges incessantly!
Both sustenance and waste, same confounded paste
he spreads on toast and his own body roast --
Adds and subtracts vociferously, voluminously, deeply,
depth-fully~ each work, in some way, an extension
of presupposed, paramount, though egoistic, core matters. His many
Pointillism, mixed with mere, random, ill conceived
uninspiring hackneyed splatters.
Feels so deeply,
that what he cannot create for himself, from emotional
others he will beg, steal and borrow -- absence of
love, for the poet~ there is no
yesterday! Nor today...nor future desire though potentially a richly composite
tomorrow.