Long Butchery Poems
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2/23/24
It's not in all the books we read
Souls put to sea
Continual butchery
They carry on crookedly
Trying to coat the truth with something sugary
Some know and don't care others never could agree
A never ending battle where evil is trying to make the good bleed
Nah no really look at me
I stirred the hornets nests and shook the trees
Among endless wood debris
To be an honest man, you've no idea what it took to be
Gone beyond lucid dreams
Please do believe it's about much more than you perceive
Hmm the conclusions seems
They never have our best interest at heart nor any future needs
While unscrupulous humans scheme
They left our bodies out to rot all through ravines
As well as areas where sewage seeps
The truth it seeks
A way out usually
Regardless of opportunity
My mom asked son why must you suffer so
Caught up in an undertow
There's just things a mother knows
My true colors shown
I called my brother's phone
He thought he knew how it does and doesn't go
Unlike other folks
Through centuries still much unknown
All across this bloody globe
Studies show
Most want the whole honeycomb
All to themselves like life's only about hitting the motherload
As they judge and drone
It's not all cut in stone
Told him what was once a home
Started from just a stone
Now it's a bunch of those
Amid piles of mud and bones
Nearby encrusted tomes
Beside dusty clothes
Sat an old toolbox that rusted close
Outside stood trees full of a dozen crows
By fields with buffaloes
Bumps arose
In clustered nodes
Turning it into a rugged road
Nearby water full of sunken boats
The destruction grows
Life comes with no instruction codes
For any sudden woes
You'd think eventually it struck a note
Many looking through a tunneled scope
Always fascinated by the puppet shows
Another day redundant and alone
A struggle to find love blows
Causing a loss of what was hope
Reaching the point of being ready to jump below
By the end of it my bro said I must atone
He said I chucked the stone
At what I thought was a toad
Then went back to work in the construction zone
Only to find out that it wasn't though
Said he began to suffer slow
Caught in a thunder dome
Until he discovered those
That suffered the same fate buried right under nose
With a new adjusted approach
Learned first hand and through several hundred notes
I can only just imagine you and Sam
Whilst working close together on
the butchery counter at your local
supermarket
At the site of both of your 1st job's at
the tender age of just 17
1 day somehow however whilst
putting out the ham on display
Locked eye's and figured out she's
the 1 for me as he is the 1 for me
And then you became childhood
sweetheart's for thee foreseeable
As unfortunately and to your cost
you found out much later
He was in fact sadly a real lady-killer
in reality not merely just actually playing
the role of 1 as an act
Until the day you told him you were
pregnant with me and then he upped
and left the both of us behind
Well that all now makes perfect sense
to me
And I am so sorry for not only just for me
my mummy but for you as well
As he sounds like a lowdown dirty filthy pig
of a man
But thankfully I am lucky enough to be your
son and proudly call you my mother
As opposed to ever having to admit even
to myself
I am the Son of Sam himself
The cat didn't give a diddly squat,
she played her fiddle non-stop,
accompanied by her kitten's song
they yowled from dusk till dawn
and the townsfolk never slept!
The fat old cow could not jump
even if she tried (which, of course, she didn't),
she gave no milk, nor cream for butter
so down the road she was sent
to Old Moon's Butchery and Deli.
The little dog is not the laughing sort~
with no sleep and no warm milk
it's no wonder his mood is foul,
he bit the hand that tried to feed him
dried up bits of moldy bread.
The spoon then decided it was all to much,
what with the noise and loss of proper table-setting~
with rules of etiquette in a shambles,
she took her matching dish
and ran away to Once Upon A Time.
The moral of the story is never give a cat a fiddle!
By the will of a shill
They deface the blood-filled memory
Marauders invade the capital city to the steps
Spoiling the roots of liberty tree by butchery
Strike the man who stands upon a mountain
Art of memory destroyed to satisfy mediocrity
“Let it burn” controlling hunger of a mob
A fitting placebo for the mentally maimed
Destruction remains of smoke and graffiti fire
Then the children ask in horror
Why a proud man died?
Demeaned like Santa Clause
They fall with grace withheld
Soon the young in strife will seek to vilify
Anyone those lacking leadership decry
Until no neutral Hun exists
Acceleration of the withering slain
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_cBayEcXsxc&feature=emb_logo
https://www.wsws.org/en/articles/2021/01/07/pers-j07.html
Dedicated to Robert Lindley. Warning this tale is dark.
THE DOVE
A bloody stain upon the sheets, how cruel!
Soulless weight of the wretched beast who’d rule.
With his bare paws and downward thrust he’d crush,
Rake over the virgin, ignore her blush.
Her pasty-skin, red eyes that swim, unloved.
With his scepter and crown he’d beat the dove.
Dainty wings he pinned, imprisoned her light.
Tall shadowed tower, the terror of night.
The wraithlike scream of his anger he’d wage,
She cringes and clings to the walls, her cage.
His mother the evil queen nods, approves.
Wears silken-black, her shoes - cloved hooves.
In the distance a kinder soul, he sees
Her vomitus-plight - sallow of her pleas.
Not to be tangled with when purpose hails,
He prepares the strongest steed, onward sails.
The King he mocks, “You jest! Stay out of it!”
The hero’s strength in eyes, in frock and grit
Unnerve his goliathlike flesh, it crawls.
He shakes off the warning, his voice it squalls
With a torrential force, thunder, lightning
plenipotentiary frightening
And this illuminated stranger dusts
Off his shoulder the dope’s dander, thrusts
A chivalrous blade, toys with this mouse-king.
Meanwhile the slice of a whip, witch sings
As she tears up the back of the princess.
The sadistic royal duo ceaseless.
The two-edged sword, the strike faithful and true,
Butchery of the cattle and his crew
Done with precision, with no time to waste.
In his vision, beheld the “beauty” chaste.
With his steed, he races upstairs, hooks whip,
Drags the witch to window, releases grip,
Throws his white robe over dove’s trodden flesh.
She forgets - her dwelling brand new and fresh.
Awakened to peaceful serenity.
Wears royal white, dove of infinity.
1/24/2020
She wails over the clasped corpse,
the sound ricocheting across the classroom
entwining with other morose voices,
baking the atmosphere in melancholy,
and immersing the cacophony of wails and squealing.
into shouts and screams of aghast lads and lasses.
Mothers, brought in haste by news of woe
and Witnessing Barbarity in first ordeal;
for such was the scene on that campus,
and astir was the town.
Rocking to and fro was the nation
With breathes, held in fright and trepidation.
The left wing said 'Nay".
The right wing said "Nay."
Speculations clashed on streets
as who could be this bloody
For the Kids in neutrality
now repose in butchery.
From the town, some took to their heels
just to alight back months later
and be mocked by same wordings:
"welcome to Kumba".
Hitherto, a mystery it remains,
but the pains still lingers
and all what remains
is the mounds of Earth,
that separates they, from us.
© Temajung Michael T.
Feel the smoothness, wonder at the skill.
These delicate carved ornaments of delight
Pure white to a faint tan, each piece unique
To touch, to feel, brings senses alight
Priceless the gift, expert the hand
That carves these magical pieces
Priceless they are this bloody band
As their lust for money increases
“One of the most insidious forms
Of criminality in the world today”**
As nature is raped, tattered and torn
For animal kind, just fey.
A tusk for a gun, a gun another tusk
For a nose bleed and fever the cure ivory dust
Let’s kill an elephant for its ivory teeth
Kill a rhino for its horn for those that lust.
Who pays the price, the rhino, the elephant
The ignorant turn away should they even care
The wallets grow fat for the bloody decadent.
There will be no animals for grandchildren to stare.
Butchery bludgeoning death and decay
Over 90 thousand elephants annually bought to dust
Vultures strip elephant flesh, none keeps them at bay
Another gun, more coin to fill the poacher’s lust
The poachers hoard money with bloodthirsty delight
The sea of blood stains the land crimson red
White gold, blood lust, for this the amoral fight
For tusks and horn their money lust is fed.
© Amanda Tams 10/12/2014
** Quote from Prince William
Written: March 28, 2024 For Edward Ibeh Contest
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It is a myth that time cures any wound,
It is merely what people say and sound.
When the wound was simply skin-wide,
No reply may occur due to decay sighed.
Oh, suffering of not being able to die or live.
Such a wounded sigh to endure and strive.
Feeling numb and wounded, sighs escape.
My heart churns—overwhelmed by a scrape.
Pebbles embed in my brain cortex.
Amorphous swirls provide a raw vortex.
Oh, suffering of not being able to die or live.
Such a wounded sigh to endure and strive.
Assessing a child's stomach on baking day,
Those smitten by love share anguish and decay.
Fail to express love or even heart grief.
Charmed in a state of anguish and relief.
Oh, suffering of not being able to die or live.
Such a wounded sigh to endure and strive.
I perceive kismet as a formidable antagonist,
One could not despise his rival or protagonist.
That amazes everyone—upon slaughtering me,
Who slain me, or who carried out such butchery?
Oh, suffering of not being able to die or live,
Such a wounded sigh to endure and strive.
Let's devote the night to the wounded.
Their bodies are battered—rise to be subtruded.
Whispered to no one, cleanse of their scars.
Wounded sigh in killer room as dusk dew parse.
Oh, suffering of not being able to die or live.
Such a wounded sigh to endure and strive.
Those who have been wounded by his arrow,
Those who were scathe sob in love, thrill shadow.
Wriggle on the rug with love and reverence.
Heal wounds themselves, hurting its severance.
Oh, suffering of not being able to die or live.
Such a wounded sigh to endure and strive.
Head over to celebrate with them tonight.
Love may seem corrupted—they cry fake sight.
If they shed fake tears—their love isn't divine.
Believers never act wildly or display mood signs.
“Great eagerness in the pursuit of wealth, pleasure, or honor, cannot exist without sin.”
Desiderius Erasmus
it’s flesh versus flesh in the pursuit of life,
great kingdoms have been built on rivers of blood,
history knows the fate of knife versus knife,
destiny has it’s own rules for bad and good!
Tiberius’ built wealth with sharpness of sword,
starved to death old Agrippina and her son,
had Germanicus killed by power of word,
he quit throne in fear of assassination!
Caligula lived life of debauchery,
he lost all the wealth that Tiberius had,
he took pleasure in raping and butchery,
was killed by his own army, ending was sad.
Nero was king thanks to Julia his mother,
He executed christians in rage of hate,
he killed his own mother, drowned his step brother,
but he stabbed himself as revolt hit his state.
Christ crucified when Tiberius was king,
St. Peter when Nero was on the throne,
But praise of Jesus and Peter we now sing,
the evil with their wealth have perished unknown.
Morals are not mere words but fabric of truth,
the machinery of god ensures justice,
rewards of old age sprout from good deeds of youth,
wealth has never won, nor greed, nor avarice.
Bones remain, retain, and nourish
the under-croft, the terrain,
the meadow green.
Bones replant. They are meals for
the mouths of ghosts.
The dead feed the living,
and the living cut down the alive
to feed themselves.
The world must eat itself.
This is called husbandry and farming.
It is also called shopping and carrying,
killing, and butchery.
Those that eat only vegetables
also partake;
for the leaf and stalk
are seeded in the mellowing marrow
of a long planted bone-sown mire.
Often bones are dropped into the soil
as if the dirt were an ocean
and the land all that is or was left-over.
This is known as litter.
A grave is a half-way house,
Urns are waiting rooms.
Worms wheel the bon-rich earth
towards the sky for its blessing.
Osseous is the ancestry that seeds nations.
What follows bone and bone ash
becomes the crop, the tomorrow-cart
laden with its bone harvest.
Bone-flowers scent the air
from the empty canals of nowhere.
Bones scaffold wingspans,
they riddle citadels of stone.
Bones in tombs and catacombs
are pabulum for the larder.
A storage for generations.