Long Clichés Poems
Long Clichés Poems. Below are the most popular long Clichés by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clichés poems by poem length and keyword.
Stuff your rock stars, your heros, your christs,
your anti-christs and anarchiests.
Stuff your false idols up your ****.
Stuff your regenerative ramblings;
the spiel of a million others
spilt in diluted misunderstanding.
The generic rhetoric of another blank generation.
Born under the yoke of fashion not fascism
we walk a happy middle ground smiling contentedly.
Raised, sightless, in the sickly glow
of TV screens and neon lights.
Suckled by the fast food empires
and the bloodied abattoir's's carcasses.
Supping the milk of human blindness
with the blood of fallen beasts.
Schooled in paranoia and conformity
through magazines and film.
Body over brain! Body over brain!
Don't feed either if you want to fit in
to society or size sixteen jeans.
Passive skeletal expectancies rule over all.
We are over-looked and yet watched over;
Monitored through cameras and stolen information,
watched on screens by perverts and bigots
watched for signs of difference and dissent:
word gets around and gets arrested.
Incarcerated. Gone inside. Turned inside out.
I have always relied upon the kindness of strangers.
Spayed to the point of mental impotence:
no longer threatening. Hope is dead.
Driven as slaves into factories, offices, banks,
working to gain enough to "buy" what is already ours:
ownership as proof of existence.
I consume therefore I am.
Ownership of possessions and of people.
Taught to repress desire, to plough the rut of our parents.
Mate Spawn and Die.
Breeders laugh in mock pleasure behind picket fences.
There is safety for us all in our collective clichés.
The pursuit of pleasure becomes confused
through labour and labour saving devices
then drowned in alcohol and soap.
Happiness becomes vague comfort and escape:
Ignorance is bliss and bliss is easy.
Pre-packaged rebellion under state supervision
rattling shackles and throwing toys from prams.
Socilalists singing sweet songs of false hopes
an alternative repressive ownership,
punks so bereft of individuality repeat to infinity
even the intelligent ones just want to be another dick.
All grow old and sick together
having furthered the species and the empire,
return to the organic matter from whence we came
or perhaps ground up and fed to the pork and beef
down at Old (Ronald) McDonald's farm that we all love so much........stuffed
Form:
I don’t know if there’s a God,
But I still prayed we’d not be seen,
That night we scaled your neighbour’s fence,
To steal their trampoline,
In the halflight the elastic,
Shone like a lacquered animal skin,
Stretched taut across the beaten frame,
Held in place with rusty pins,
Sat there crouching in the darkness,
Like some huge primeval beast,
Yeah it sat there like a drum,
As our souls slapped a beat,
Put me in mind of Three Blind Mice,
Or God Save the Queen,
Or The Rhythm of Life,
Pulled me closer when the net,
Became an oil slick in the rain,
Said whatever souls are made of,
Yours and mine are just the same,
Well I’ve never like clichés,
And I don’t believe in fate,
I’d prefer you to quote Hardy,
I find Austen quite passé,
But there was something in the way,
That you could spin a phrase,
Yeah when you shaped them with your mouth,
Those old words seemed newly made,
You said,
I’ll live my life according,
To the fortune cookie sages,
And glossy magazines,
With their astrology pages,
We can chart a route to China,
And sail by the stars,
We’ll earn ourselves a name,
In brothels and in bars,
Yes we will make our fortune,
And we will find our fame,
In a place where they write danger,
And opportunity the same,
Well I’ve never been to China,
Couldn’t quite see the attraction,
Why fly halfway round the planet,
When there’s sun and sea at Brighton?
And I never understood,
Your peculiar gravitation,
To late night establishments,
Of a dubious reputation,
With their smoke and smut and chewing gum,
And soggy Carlton coasters,
And air of desperation,
And karaoke posters,
Full of ugly men and women,
Making ugly propositions,
You say ‘perfection is a fault’,
By way of explanation,
And claim that there’s a quiet glory,
In decay and all that’s grimy,
And you’ve always been so partial,
To the charms of ugly beauty,
Then sang,
I’ll live my life according,
To the fortune cookie sages,
And glossy magazines,
With their astrology pages,
We can chart a route to China,
And sail by the stars,
We’ll earn ourselves a name,
In brothels and in bars,
Well they’ll never see it coming,
Our touch will leave them changed,
Once we’ve finished with this world,
It will never be the same,
Oh once we’ve finished with this world,
It will never be the same.
Lose the clichés of life and love,
no happy ending, no sad ending, no ending at the end at all.
People smile, they don't frown,
people frown, they don't smile;
they curse, they don't listen,
people listen in belief and curse the sky,
when love walks out the door.
Confusing I know.
Poets don't know what the hell is going on.
Writers smoke and never finish a book.
Music is died, the hippies are politicians,
and the past time was never here.
Earth burns slowly,
as wickedness grows quickly,
and greed eats us all alive.
We all die in the end... with no ending at all,
we still go somewhere,
some in the ground,
some in the sky,
some in another.
We all lose,
so don't give up,
don't try either,
don't mope,
don't hope,
don't slouch,
don't feel,
don't cry,
don't laugh,
don't work,
don't drink,
don't smoke,
don't grab ass,
don't stay a virgin,
don't pray to this god,
don't pray to that god,
he's right,
she's a whore,
lost for words, speechless,
full of words, having nothing to say,
politicians win in the end, they always get their way,
to tired to say,
when that day comes,
"I love you."
There is no love between us, never was,
never will be.
You love him, he doesn't love you,
he's with another,
and you're all alone, too dumb to realize,
I was there the whole damn time.
Tired, I am tired,
Lose the Goddamn clichés,
and just die already.
I am tired of losing,
never wining,
always aching,
never smiling,
always frowning,
don't give a damn anymore,
don't give a damn for you,
or him or her,
nobody anymore.
I am not depressed,
you just don't realize what is killing me.
Lose the clichés,
you dumb, little girl,
lose the damn clichés, and work that damn corner,
show some leg,
while I write this poem for you,
pour my heart out for you,
give all my time for you,
lost for words when I'm around you,
all for you,
all for you, all for you,
no girl matters,
no girl counts close to you,
if only you weren't so dumb and stupid to realize
how much I'd give up for you,
how much love I give to you.
They say you're not for me,
but I say no, she's just young and a fool,
yeah, that's right I went there.
A fool, always a fool.
So cut the clichés baby, you don't love him,
and I'll never love you again.
Cry those pointless tears, go ahead, I don't care anymore,
I'm though.
.6.8.2014.
"For that one girl I used to love..."
Benjamin Franklin said
“but in this world nothing
can be said to be certain,
except death and taxes.”
Paying tax may be painful
Yet our death is the singular
Most feared eventuality.
For us all, we know from birth
We will, at some point, reach the end.
So many say clichés,
Don’t waste time
Not a rehearsal
No pockets in a shroud
YOLO.
All true, yet what I fear
More than my demise,
The final breath,
The end of existence,
Is the fact I will be forgotten.
I will be mourned, I guess,
Never a certainty.
I will be missed,
In whatever measure.
My children will grieve.
The loss of a parent at any age,
Disruption, normality smashed.
The day after a fatality,
Of an elder, parent,
The first day in this earth without them.
Raw.
But time passes,
Grieve eases,
Mourning peters out
And life continues for those
Still residing on this mortal coil.
The fact I will be forgotten.
A day to day memory
Becomes weekly, monthly
Annually on special anniversaries.
In time those who dwelt
Along side me in this plane
Will join me on the other side.
In the realm where we know not
What happened until we get there.
If anything.
The ultimate unknown.
My name once dropped in conversation
Tense changing from present to past
Then distant memory.
Then what?
I fear one day I will
No longer echo in the mouth
Skip from the lips
Of those who knew me in life.
They too will become a distant memory
for those who dwelt and walked with them.
I cannot change how
Others will choose to
Remember me when I am gone.
Yet to pay it forward
With a wing and a prayer
I choose to remember those
Who walked before me.
I did not know them
Yet as I move through
The graveyards and cemeteries
Scattered on this land,
I speak forth, out loud
The names of those who
Dwell in the next world.
Allowing their names to
Echo in my mouth
Skip from my lips.
Bringing back the energy lost
To time and space,
Since their last breath was drawn.
Young and old, man and woman,
Child and criminal, saint and sinner.
All of us leave our stretch,
Square with the house.
So speak forth the names
Of those who shaped our world,
Bore our ancestors and
Hope your name is uttered
By Generations to come,
by those who come after.
the serene people whose ease of manner
once made him yearn and confabulate
are laughable cartoonish and piteous now
could have been much worse he said
as his last breath left his scarred throat
feral hand closing his own eyes
St. Pudenda greeted him at the tall gates
under the lights at Checkpoint Charlie
Mariachi trumpets rolled out the mauve carpet
and a dog barked from behind the garbage cans
from all infinity we end up with this
a realm of syntax governed by ambiguity
she read from a large ledger atop a marble pedestal
why a ledger rather than a laptop is anyone's guess
apparently the vanguard party had been evicted
by Frankie Boxcars and the Hollywood mafia eons ago
in the great schism over the digitization of paradise
no jury of his peers he noted with unease
nothing of telling import she imparted casually
eyes darting up and down the pages
as if something previously detected had been airbrushed
arrested for self amplification she went on
and sorcery and coughing in quiet places
how did you sleep she asked with a beaming smile
I don't know I was asleep he intoned
I suppose we can reveal the joke she mused
but I was dreaming he countered
backed into a tight corner by snarling lap dogs
tossed into a kidnap taxi with a sack over my head
marched with a gun in my back
through a forest of clichés
fed lines from a hideous new sitcom
about sex among the homeless
a weekly broadcast on Piñata Vision
of course it was more fun
not being an active target
but what choice did I have
knowing what I know
poor dear thing she continued
there is a better version of everything
a law of nature completely natural
and yes it is densely beautiful and
smoldering with awe like a corpse in a bathtub
try to avoid the truly grotesque
in favor of the marginally grotesque
we love having you in our science dept.
with the state secrets and midget **** videos
masquerading as the way things actually are
where the misty cows moo in contentment
and the Vaseline runs hot behind sanctuary doors
horrors altering the course of suns
between the here and the there
every bit of it needless she giggled
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
I'm stupid.
I've fallen for the same pitfalls
that I sighted in
the distance
and said that
I was too smart
I was too ambitious
my potential was too great
to fall for them
and yet
I've fallen.
I hurt everyone with whom I come in contact.
I use people up until
I'm bored
and then I discard them
and move on,
and then I cry
because
I'm alone.
I'm stupid
for writing this as a poem
because it's a really bad poem.
It's just proof
that I'm self-indulgent -
extrapolate that
and you've got the proof
that whatever I said in here
is true!
And on top of that
this is a first draft,
and I'm too lazy to re-read it
or re-format it
yet I expect you all to read it
and comment
or whatever?
So self-indulgent
as to press "enter"
every so often
and change this into some sort of semblance of verse. Maybe I only write this to prove to
myself, argue to myself, how awful I am, so that I can continue to act stupidly, in my own
interest, and use people up, less as an unfortunate event and more as "business as usual."
Wow, there's a lot of clichés in this poem! Oh well. I'm not going to fix them. Hey, aren't you
bored by this yet? Aren't you upset that you read this far? It's like I've sent out some sort of
sentry to do my dirty work of being an obnoxious, stupid individual when I'm not around to
do it myself. And see how I re-formatted this to not be in verse but to be prose after I
acknowledged how arbitrary the parsing the wording into verse was? Did I fool you, however
briefly, into thinking that maybe it was an interesting choice? Well, it's not! It's really an
uninteresting choice. See, I did put a little bit of effort into the spacing it into verses back
when I was doing it. Am I trying to bore you away from reading this? Why am I so self-
deprecating? Can I truly be so self-centered if subconsciously I'm trying to get you to not
pay attention to me? Is it self-conscious if I've acknowledged it? Wow, this has really fallen
apart. Oh well. Anyway, I'm stupid, blah blah blah, I'm the worst, but really, I do feel this
way, and am constantly lamenting (ooh, poetic-sounding word!) this fact. Otherwise, or
maybe notwithstanding that, this has been a waste of time for all of us!
In awe, I welcome Thor with utmost glee.
The powerful celestial force set free
amongst the hills and over the coarse scree.
The winds that whip and slink — the hailstones loudly clink.
Flashes segue to link — I quell the urge to blink.
My pulse quickens at the rank petrichor.
I ignore being drenched, making my soul soar,
I turn my face to the rain to taste more.
The storm will not abate — it’ll make me very late
for meeting that’ll seal fate — my destiny won't wait.
Our tempers complimenting to a T,
and search for impressive clichés in sync.
Remembering that which had gone before,
I’m quite blasé about the hot debate.
This poem was included in the 11-poem anthology dealing with hailstones, in the online publication Pick Me Up Poetry, March 2022:
__________________________________________________
© SUZETTE SONNET—SUZNET for short (9 April 2021)
A 14-line sonnet of alternating triplets and couplets, concluding with a quatrain.
1. Rhyme scheme: aaa (b1–b2)(b3–b4) ccc (d1–d2)(d3–d4) abcd
2. The triplets are iambic pentameter [*/|*/|*/|*/|*/].
3. The rhyming couplets are iambic hexameter and include an internal rhyme, namely [*/|*/|*/—*/|*/|*/] (alexandrines).
4. Concluding with a quatrain in iambic pentameter that summarises the poem in a rhyme scheme set by the triplets and couplets.
5. The volta is at L9. OR the couplets may define pivots within the poem, ie a tilting or shifting in the mainline of thought. When the latter is employed, it needs to be uniform throughout the poem.
__________________________________________________
LEXICON
ceraunophilia: (n) A fondness (loving) for thunder and lightning and finding them intensely beautiful.
The term is derived from the Greek ‘keraunós’, meaning lightning or thunderbolt. On the flip side, ceraunophobia may be defined as a fear of thunder and lightning.
scree: (n) a mass of small stones that form a slope on a mountain.
segue: (v) 1. (in music and film) move without interruption from one piece of music or scene to another. 2. Move or shift from one state or condition to another.
petrichor: (adj) it describes how rain makes the hot ground smell at the first rains.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I tapped my keyboard, my eyes bleary
As I tried to write a novel that was no bore
I looked for inspiration, how to avoid clichés temptation
I’d write about rejuvenation—hope for the lonely lass Lenore—
An epic tale of a maiden born anew named Lenore—
A blockbuster for evermore.
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
“I have writer’s block, Mr. Raven, perhaps thou might be a maven.
Though you be ghastly grim and ancient wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me can a modern writer craft prose that’s not a bore?”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“My idea that just can't lose, a crippled, homeless guy who likes booze
He’ll rise to fame and glory but I worry on some phrases in this story.
This and more I plan I’d write but the DEI staff might fight
On the plot’s blood and gore that tells life’s authentic core
Where from zero to hero, he’ll wins the fair Lenore
Wins her love forevermore!
The Raven looked pained and croaked "Nevermore!"
Then, the air got denser, this bird was a woke censor
A ghastly leftist bird who drifted over my parquet floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “who appointed thee—to impoverish my vocabulary
Give me respite – let me write my way the story of Lenore;
Don’t dilute my novel to be a crashing bore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
Is it possible nowadays to write a novel at all?
Can I earn more than zero, if I include a macho hero
A macho hero to clasp a demented maiden who won't be sore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore?”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the underworld’s dark shore!
“Don’t use ‘dark” said the Raven, “use BIPOC instead” as he continued sitting
On the pallid bust of Obama just above my chamber door;
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out my body that lies contorted on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Cold Hearted, ice-crusted, frozen, dead inside,
I thought I was immune
but your stinging words cut my heart, I should take it in stride
Mean spirited, spiteful, ruthless, arrogant, obtuse
expected, accepted I should be use to this abuse
par for the course over a lifetime of sorrow
happy memories I cling to, clichés I borrow
repugnant and reconciled to callous, oversight
my bleeding tongue to stay the ire, I bite.
unspoken, unbidden pain, anger freshly awash
mourning for a childhood lost.
Blinded, enraged, still I hope
finding sardonic wit, sarcasm, my avenue to cope.
you abandon me at every turn
secretly for your approval and affection I yearn.
I want to be something you treasure
cherished, loved, a joy beyond measure.
But again I'm met with cold-hearted narcissistic indifference at heart
painstakingly I lock away the storm that threatens to rip me apart
and quiet the thunder in my head
biding my time, pretending all is well, when all I see is intense red
You never gave me what I most needed
I had to bow to your wishes, my own unheeded.
You play the savior when it's to your avail
when stories of your mercies you can regale
Pompous, egocentric, grinches of grinches above all
I still hope your beloved, me you will call.
Now there's a new one that hangs on your every word as law
She watches you with love and adoration, her radiant face filled with awe.
When she was born, I had the fleeting thought
you might be to her, what to me you were not.
Your love and approval she tenaciously sought.
With every callous blow you harden her heart like you've done for so long
Always right, you can never be wrong.
Cold hearted narcissist I am done with pleas for love and affection
I'm done vying for your love and receiving rejection.
Now, the lesson you've imparted has been learned, scorned for many years
resignation has set, I've dried all my tears.
It should be easy to walk away from numbing pain
To settle my heart and ease my brain
I no longer mourn for what will never be
I no longer care if you love me.
Putting words to paper, made it all real
Anger and sadness remove, indifference reveal
Put on a happy face
when I release taut fingers
from your pallid cheeks.
Promises and empty lies
are sported clichés
that spoil a silenced vocabulary.
A quieted understanding we've
vocally committed to;
barks a matted-jackal’s constitution -
perceiving morose consequences
of blind subservience.
Put on a happy face
and fetch me dinner.
Ever flickering nuances,
once ignited a Brigadooned morning sunrise -
where woolen-blackened comforters
backlit our sordid differences.
Now, our prom attire has been burned.
The carnations, the orchids - have perished.
The beguine hasn’t begun.
It has ended.
Finalized and fortunately forgotten.
A pale orchid-colored icepack,
for your left eye,
would match your handbag and shoes
quite nicely.
Put on a happy face
and lint-guard the
disheveled derelict.
Forever falling forward, we've suddenly landed.
No need for saline solution anymore;
I cry when I hap hazardously laugh.
A silenced vocabulary realized the words
tryst and trust was separated by one letter;
why or you…or me, for that matter
completes the unfinished symphony.
The disenchanted beguine
floats into a tear-filled
Cinderella dank nightfall –
as I stare into the cornea of a
brittled pink carnation.
My hand, like a fringed strop,
needs to remove the strains of
a “Mea-Culpa” leitmotif and flog
the iniquities of one’s self.
Put on a happy face, goddamnit
and tell me
why you’re gone!
Toasted marshmallows is a perfume
created for misguided Girls Scouts.
Fervent mongrels who refrain from selling
photo-pressed carnations and
poisonous orchids - dumbly courtsey
when idiotic
adolescent daydreams prevail upon
the blatantly obvious.
Thirteen stitches
and a numerous array
of callous welts
reprised our endless beguine.
Passion is said to perish in embers.
One last charcoal
for us
to eye and envy.
A burnt carnation.
A scarred, trembling orchid.
The smoldering remains we'll inhale -
when this lost and lonely
soldier removes the
smudged greasepaint from
his broken fingertips and eyelashes
to painfully and pitifully
put on a happy face
just for you.