Long Congealing Poems
Long Congealing Poems. Below are the most popular long Congealing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Congealing poems by poem length and keyword.
Purple Butterflies and Raindrops on Roses
Open my eyes. See the window covered in tiny beads of wet. Hear the raindrops on roses that line the building. That isn't right. Why can I hear the soft beating of rain? Smell sulfur and smoke and ozone? I turn my head.
Soft, cotton leggings of pink and white, hug chubby, adolescent knees tight.
A long tailed pale pink shirt with white ruffles on the neck line, hem, and arms, Picturing Sponge Bob Square pants and his BFF Patrick Star.
Tiny white sandals with pink plastic flowers.
Purple butterfly clips hanging onto blonde pigtails on each side of her head. Kindergarten lunch hour.
It looks as if the butterflies are struggling to lift her up by her blonde curls to fly her far away.
Bright sky blue eyes…eye? Eye.
Empty orb but for the black blood, framed by stark white bone instead of long, flirting lashes.
Like a candle crying tears of wax,dripping red,
Veiling pale cheeks and freckles. I turn my head.
Raindrops now streaming down the window, each one rushing toward something…frantic, panic. Wash it away! Wash it away! Wash it away!
Soft, cotton leggings of pink and white, hug chubby, adolescent knees…
that will never again kneel by a bedside to pray.
Red polka dots on white sandals, one covered in congealing Salisbury steak gravy and spilled milk.
If only her purple butterflies had flown her away from school today… taken her to the fairies to sing and play.
A high pitched tone, raindrops now slowly, plop…plop…or is that blood dripping?
The ceasing rain and silence merge.
The stillness after gun fire is the loudest noise ever heard.
An unedifying wodge of a f@ggot’s unlit f@g,
Sat upon the unbitten flesh of his lower lip.
A moonlit spotlight skittered through the skylight,
Drawn down to a randy bastard’s come congealing upon her clit.
The liquid surface of her sherry glass eyes glistened,
Alike a bloodily blotched blade, alight with a crimson sheen.
The blunted blade receding, whence her legs enclosed within,
Like an un-burly butterfly, closing its withered wings.
Frilly flames licked at the lanky tip of a bored bastard’ titular tab,
Somersaulting rivets of smoke swivelled in a dainty plume of perforated performance.
Vivid branches of blotchy blues sat askew upon her ashen flesh,
Against the glossy maroon that marred his wrinkled chest,
The uneven wash of eager flush dawned upon the flesh of his wettened neck.
Vascular roots twined with the pale pink of a rose,
Arose to unfurl from the hollow of his clavicle, up his white throat
Her palms were damp, veins unveiled beneath rancid rot,
Outpoured from her open pores.
Alight with the lilac-blue of ignited night skies,
Mightily reigned by the mid of night.
She had become a mackerel within his make believe,
Nipping at the sea front’s air struggling to breathe.
Gooseflesh rippled across her hollow breast,
Whence he advanced with the gait of his senior state,
Outreaching tobacco stained fingers, to encroach the small of their stiffened peaks, so
The hollow of her breast staggered and sought the stagnant skies.
And where in the repeating retreat of associated countenance
Her eyes crept beneath the bedded covers, in their dissociated acceptance
Perhaps to haps the coarse comfort of the eventide,
Or to suckle the succulent rays of blistering sunlight.
And whence his drawl lulled into the languid pull of slumber,
His lame limbs sought the crease between her breasts.
And whence the moon dimmed, the night-lilac of the sky,
Swallowed the ‘bundant bruising beneath her eyes.
Part 1 -complete-
6/8/21
Blood stained into lands being conquered
Blood on this can of Monster
Blood in the water
Blood pooling and congealing from all the slaughter
Blood hitting close to home, when you got a squatter
Blood whether the weather turned colder or hotter
Sometimes had to be your own blood blotter
Regardless of if you think, why should I bloody bother?
Much more than blood I have to offer
Blood smeared coins in the coffer
Would you spill blood to protect your daughter and father?
Don't bring all this blood around family, especially any toddler
Blood on a ball used for soccer
Blood on a piece of copper
Blood on a bottle of lager
It was a bloody scene after the use of a chopper
The bloody aftermath captured on film by a helicopter
Blood ended up on a bolt and washer
Blood flowing through the body or going out if your a soon to be goner
Blood all over in a world that can be bonkers
Could stay peaceful or soon turn to blood from here to yonder
Familiar with blood as a warmonger
Blood being drawn, from not being able to hold out any longer
Much more than blood sweat and tears can get you stronger
All this blood makes me ponder
Sad that blood makes too many excited enough to holler
Blood among nightcrawlers
And blood always near lifeforms that are larger or smaller
The residue of blood on dollars
As well as blood on the shirt collar
Blood spilled in extravagance or in squalor
It would be a bloody outrage for a prince, but not for a pauper
Blood the one thing too many thirst of
Drawing first blood
The blood becoming of one with mud
Blood covered spuds
An unexpected surge of blood from a flood
Blood underneath the moon and the sun
Blood from the threads of fate already being spun
Blood takes the sides of none
Blood is just never quite done
Like frosted glass is this night.
Daylight’s clouds - restless like my love -
and scattered wildly heretofore -
somehow made a pact
to nimbly rearrange themselves.
Congealing in this chilling autumn eve -
translucent -
the clouds have blended in with dusk,
obliterating stars. . . and even shadows.
Luna, sad like me,
cannot transmit her moonlight
to cheer me.
Oh, to be again - enraptured!
To see your unique come-hither smile;
to hear the sound of honey in your voice;
to feel that splendid tingle within me
as you shine your gorgeous eyes -
radiant upon me!
Where are you now, my love -
my sweet, alluring boy?
And where are the stars
that blazed for me within your eyes?
Where is the crystal nightfall
of my fondest dream?
Oh, to feel again. . . enraptured!
But not even the smallest gleam
of you remains.
And not even Goddess Moon
can penetrate
this deep abiding gloom.
(I used to be a teacher. My last year teaching a student poisoned my drink. The principal refused to involve the authorities and the student received only one day of in school suspension sitting in the office doing worksheets and was returned to my class the next day. It wasn't the only reason I quit teaching but it was one of the last straws. I had been bullied when I was a student and I decided I was done being abused by both students and administration.)
She put the poison in my cup
laughed like a lunatic as I drank
the sound the same as I’d heard
a thousand times
echoing off the walls
of classrooms and corridors
bathroom stalls and halls
Sinister as a serpent
sinking its fangs into my flesh
Snickering as I seized in my death throes
Harassed and tortured like a heretic
just as I’d been back then
Burn the witch!
My blood congealing into goo
too thick to pass through my veins
Venom seeping into every pore
Why did I think it would be different than before
The same malevolent monsters I once knew
hidden behind the masks of cherubic children
only today the tack in the chair is a deadly dare
The night is frosted glass.
Daylight’s clouds - restless like my love -
and scattered wildly heretofore -
somehow made a pact
to nimbly rearrange themselves.
Congealing in this chilling autumn eve -
translucent -
the clouds have blended in with dusk,
obliterating stars. . . and even shadows.
Luna, sad like me,
cannot transmit her moonlight
to cheer me.
Oh, to be again - bedeviled!
To see your unique come-hither smile;
to hear the sound of honey in your voice;
to feel that splendid tingle within me
as you shine your gorgeous eyes -
radiant upon me!
Where are you now, my love -
my sweet, alluring boy?
And where are the stars
that blazed for me within your eyes?
Where is the crystal nightfall
of my fondest dream?
Oh, to feel again. . . enraptured!
But not even the smallest gleam
of you remains.
And not even Goddess Moon
can penetrate
this deep abiding gloom.
On glossy pages generally reserved for stars of stage and screen
golden calves lounging casually on cushioned chaises, deities of decadence
sunlight streamed in black and white through filthy, filmy windows
as flies converged in the corners crawling over themselves in a frantic frenzy
I could hear their communal buzzing echoing in my ears
facing my own fears for my future
forcing myself to read past the first paragraph
Another photo followed, captured on the same sort of camera as the famous
The bathroom of the apartment one level below
black slime soaking through the ceiling, oozing down the walls like ectoplasm
congealing on the cold tiles, dripping in the sink
I could smell it in the ink
the sour, sickly sweet, pungently putrid scent of a slaughterhouse
The identity of the source of the gore from above
gleaned from the contents of his wallet
removed from his back pocket as he lay face down on the floor
by the thickly gloved hand of a man in a moon suit
He had been drawn to the city decades before searching for fame
to see his name on marquees
hoping his face would soon grace the covers of magazines
like the one I was currently reading
His neighbors knew nothing of him
describing their fellow dweller within the walls of the run down slum
as a silent ghost
rarely seen but for a moment before vanishing behind his door
as if he had condemned himself to solitary confinement for his failures
In the end no next of kin could be found
His ashes collected in a tin container sat on a shelf
in the city morgue for a year
before being dumped in a hole dug in the ground by a stranger with a spade
in a corner of a neglected cemetery
along with all the others who had died alone
unclaimed, unmourned, unrenowned
-
He enters looking bedraggled, tired and worn out, his skin like Vellum, blank and pale. Lifting his eyes to catch their gaze he gives a slight nod to acknowledge their presence. He scans the room as he would a poem, looking for an Indent that leads to a quiet corner. A half-lit light casts a shadow on the flock wallpaper, (ink stained)! He sits hidden from view, away from plagiaristic eyes. Head in hand scribbling while listening for a new word. A muse sings, emanating an un-heard Beat that guides his rhythm while searching for that elusive vowel. On the floor a scattering of pencil shavings and broken lead... frustration at the loss of an adjective, the Half-Rhyme squeezes like a tourniquet on the brain...
Frustration runs high as Enjambment slips off the stage and gathers in reflective pools. The Lady Pastoral reads an Elegy to the passing of Sir Rondeau Redouble, he lead a very lonely life, ascending and then diminishing becoming less Didactic, the Footle holds a Lantern for the loss, while the Limerick found it quite humorous.
At the bar a Stanza of poets gather, disciples of Villanelle, and regale of their latest triumphs in Womans Quarterly. The Epulaeryu's compare their Diamante while eating their babba ghanoosh. At the pool table the movers and shakers decant opinions on the latest 'form' something to do with A.E.I.O.U...Acrostic looks it up and down looking puzzled, Blank Verse remains silent. They dissect, analyse the entrails, the faint hearted look a little Grook. The atmosphere is tense, Verbs drift like dust in the light, causing confusion, they mop their brows with a tired Senryu, the Haiku has little to say on the matter...
A Quintain of intellectuals quietly sit, the Sicilian sipping slim line Monoku's ( no ice ) hoping for a Couplet before the end of the night. On a stool sits the barfly spilling his Bio over the counter top exposing an Ode-ious life, (Metaphorically speaking). On stage the hottest group in town, Chant Royal and the Syllables...singing their latest Sestina, the notes drift across the room resting on the floor, congealing into a Poet-tree fountain, they feel at home as the last act MC McWhirtle enthrals with his Ballad, the barman Ric Tameter calls time, the evening is a Rap, the club is Epic...
in the beginning,
there was a cathedral
of silence so long,
I could discern blood
congealing,
my face had cracked
in a mirror of denial
and as the horror
of a putrid filth
unmasked in its entirety
I hid,in my castle of refusal
and it all lay in silent morning…
as pieces of self fell away,
splintering to pierce the dawn
with a roar of upheaval
from Africa’s shores,
a keen of mortality
shatters eardrums
continents away
a campaign continues
still,
I run away
into smaller and smaller
rolls of my ballpoint,
consumed in the ink
words flow unchecked as
veins bulge with effortless zeal
All blessing the written word,
as each cornerstone
reinforces my castle walls
(At the remote Mayerling hunting lodge,
on January 30, 1889, two young people’s
lives were extinguished. Crown Prince
Rudolf, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne,
and his young lover, Countess Mary Vetsera,
died in circumstances which have never been
properly explained.)
The Tragedy of Mayerling
In January, eighteen eighty-nine,
disaster struck the Austrian court, and since
that day, we've wondered how the handsome prince
(one Rudolf) and his teenage concubine
came both to die. A mystery which taxes
the best of Europe's brains is long past solving.
A story of illicit love, involving
the need to smash down bedroom doors with axes
will always fascinate. The girl was found
in bed, quite dead. Prince Rudolf at her side
was sitting in a chair. It seems he died
of gunshot wounds. Blood - clotted, matted, browned
- extended its congealing cataract
down to the floor. Perhaps a suicide pact?