Long Convulsive Poems
Long Convulsive Poems. Below are the most popular long Convulsive by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Convulsive poems by poem length and keyword.
A Cold Dark Yellow Unhallowed Moon
A cold dark yellow unhallowed moon smiles beguilingly
In the pitch black starless and cold empty night sky
Suckling upon the blood and the very life force of
Pure innocence, light, and goodness . . . .
Fear stirs eerily in the forlorn sound of a fog horn that’s
Blowing and crying a sad echo haunting far in the distance
It warns of the imminent arrival of a malevolent Hellspawn
Force of absolute unmitigated evil . . . The Phantom Vampire.
As the Phantom Vampire materializes from nowhere in the
Darkest shade of night blanketed in the thickest of fog and
The coldest of night air . . . One can sense with utter fear
And foreboding shivering sounds touching from the shadows
Creeping softly cold fingers down the spine with walking
Fingers crawling inside a prism of frozen ice and in a mist
Of souls crying in the presence of demons while yearning lust
Of one blanket covering the sky’s face painted showing
Hell’s own hideous face—an exquisite evil and a spirit
Drunken and moaning in an eternal fiery abyss of
Suffering and howling sounding their own lust for pain
Great darkness grips them who walk this troubled Earth
Without joy casting happiness to the lepers always and
Forever chained to the darkness and eating out hope
In the very end . . . .
From this spider’s web and nest of dark perpetual evil
The Phantom Vampire transforms himself from ethereal
Form to his human form quite frightening indeed for
Any human being gazing at his grim countenance and
His most fiery red eyes glaring intently whenever he
Encounters an unsuspecting soul . . . and the sight of
His razor-sharp canine teeth bring on convulsive fear
In the hearts and minds of his intended victims . . . . continued
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem,
Copyright © All Rights Reserved (November 6, 2014)
Elan's word?
Zulu's sword?
Heartsichordiums-convulsive-verb
"Anabantium", O wraith of mord.
So is it, it is for Hilerides-Dales,
which green-discourse,
Southeast of Wales
or some other perch
of liaisoned Angeles-porch ?
Is one-way with a steep of glades newly born.
No sooner have we besmirched.
Self.
Nostra-damned-us, Astrogalus,
Nostragus.
Nemean Lion- first-of course;
eat us- at these quatrains,
like a double edged verse
candlelight-consuming in a dance of
strobelight nurse.
Neon-Cry that Mercury-Tear.
Filter-through, Mushroom Signage
of Modern glares.
As is-with directions,
one way streets to the Dens of thieves.
Dropping, dripping, burning eaves.
Robbing hoods and so also
there was some relation at worst-held
at bae or backwoods, back alley deed.
Err thee connection-theta warded-word
to say in it's assumed position,
bemusing Gaias':wraith de morgue.
Wraith de Morgana, r ape Avalons' Mist.
Undo the handmaiden with a new Word?
Unkiss? Disrobe? Amiss?
The Nostracina in turn be as it may.
Apologetics-Hilaridesics,
seems originally as being male; alone,
an Ictinopharctic poet
(nere-accompliced drunkenly-bare.) Was
named as for it a "Father-Door".
Now abyssmal opening, "Abaddon or Apollyon"
for who we to christen in sinful-adornment
of the riding of the unrepentant-whore.
To make her implore(doors? to whom?),
Ihttiphodar-Apath-Anamethat-Anathema,
that fore-in the family to grow-in-swore.
There have come much
tumidity and variety, little understanding
nor humility of season or station.
Of which that may be confusing for some.
Critique the weak, in terms of being. "Able to know".
Is just in it or have you
see to it's evening-glow?
Civilization? No.
Then this, also which I'll have to explain at night.
Among other that I have also,
left traces from the rite,
(their language of love,
of also of a possibly anamallan),
is then saying, (Elan!), more is the pain.
Till that which comes, comes as that Latter Rain.
No?
All other which I cannot know
for thee for it is hermetically sealed,
Bibliopsysicly sown.
I Almost drowned,
which is to say,
I fell upwards into a darkness
that contained no earth or sky.
Ten years old and a strong swimmer,
but that lake only buoyed up
its own natatory denizens,
it allowed some to swim,
some to glide, dip or delve,
but it consumes skinny 10-year-old kids;
that being the cloud spawn of an alien shore,
must be dragged down and chewed,
like the pale moons reflection.
The muddy waters are one creature,
a sucking swirl, a single stomach,
it throttles, it snags with cuffing weeds,
clogs with the intestines
of convulsive ghosts.
I am drowning,
then they pierce that lusus naturae
with a long pole thrust from a skiff;
yank me out of its crushing press
like bait from a basilisks reeking maw.
Years later I still awake
from that heaving ‘lac sombre’,
an infection of the imagination
I’ve been harboring parasitically
inside the moil of engulfing dreams.
Perhaps incongruously,
it takes some time before I will enter rooms
with too high a ceiling.
Longing
by Michael R. Burch
We stare out at the cold gray sea,
overcome
with such sudden and intense longing . . .
our eyes meet,
inviolate,
and we are not of this earth,
this strange, inert mass.
Before we crept
out of the shoals of the inchoate sea,
before we grew
the quaint appendages
and orifices of love . . .
before our jellylike nuclei,
struggling to be hearts,
leapt
at the sight of that first bright, oracular sun,
then watched it plummet,
the birth and death of our illumination . . .
before we wept . . .
before we knew . . .
before our unformed hearts grew numb,
once again,
in the depths of the sea’s indecipherable darkness . . .
When we were only
a swirling profusion of recombinant things
wafting loose silt from the sea’s soft floor,
writhing and sucking in convulsive beds
of mucousy foliage,
flowering,
flowering,
flowering . . .
what jolted us to life?
Keywords/Tags: life, evolution, love, desire, longing, passion, lust, sex, sexuality, relationship, chemistry, biology, hormones, appendages, orifices
I live trapped in a basket of predators,
their skulls crammed with futile idleness.
They celebrate misery like a morbid feast,
with the suicidal arrogance of heirs to nothingness.
The flames of humanity have burned away
in the abyss of their barren souls.
They worship the anarchy of weapons,
I see nothing but fields of ruins.
Their battles are the masquerades of capital,
poverty spreads across the Earth like a plague,
and the closeness of deprivation becomes a nightmare.
I spit upon their rotten idols,
those false sanctities with profaned orifices.
I have piled up sins to taste the ecstasy of raw freedom.
Born from the wounded entrails of the Third World,
I refuse to bow before the putrefaction of consumerism.
Free from the origin, yet prisoner of a banana republic
delivered to the savage plunder of predatory empires.
I fight my demons in the trenches of the mind
to adorn my reality with fleeting mirages of this convulsive world.
They consign me to the dungeons of their alienation,
but I rise, insurgent against their servitude.
My poems are ghost-written.
I scarcely identify the visitants
Mingling with heedless shadows.
Poltergeists outfit my words.
Though we converse,
I hardly know them,
And seldom fathom
Their prophecies.
My poems hemorrhage
In convulsive madness
Like the speaker in tongues,
Unleashing foreboding fragments,
That I might discern some divination.
But my autonomous hands move on
Planchettes over enigmatic spirit boards
For which I act only as outlet.
My poems are ghost-written.
My stanzas are tent revivals arrayed
Down the page with ritual dance.
Faith healers shout and wail,
bending my lines
wending a trail of travail,
They conjure all specters to avail.
My poems are ghost-written.
My words breathe and writhe.
They live as cells squirming for life.
Yet, inflections within them always
Mutter from another,
A propulsion between impression and
Arousal.
While snowflakes continue to fall,
upon a night pale as ghostly winter
I falter from my own distraught pause--
the hazy moon watches my young girl
a serene angel laying in starshine, on a bed
frigid cold with her tiny body
wrapped in fine linen and pink bonnet:
I could still recall her pupils tightening,
while through glimpses silent, my own mouth
utters, ' fight, my dear one, fight!'
Yet, her last gasp escapes a frozen outline,
those eyes blinking restlessly up high
as my fallen gazes droop at her gaunt form --
How this heart cleaves till screams rack
my own body with convulsive, inconsolable
anguish: this route to a thievish doom
makes me seethe, slam, screech at life
for my child's unborn dreams ...never to fly, ever.
It rains and a mantle of tears drown
upon her skin, my face in endless whys--
as I howl with night birds for the villainy of time.
Verses of Metaphors 3- RHYME OR FREE VERSE ONLY
Sponsor: Lu Loo
04.26.2019
Her evening gown was studded with opalescent sequins.
She had chosen the dress herself, deadlier than the male.
Why had she brought him there, when doubts could kill?
Why did she choose this drowsy reverie, music enhanced?
A fairyland of opalescent lights and intoxicating perfumes?
A kaleidoscope of prismatic colours that confused the mind.
She felt the frenzy of love and lascivious emotions in her heart.
Doubts overwhelmed her. Did she dress for him or for herself?
Confusion curled into her convulsive mind, an uncontrollable force.
He led her out to the uppermost terrace. The moon had risen,
But its mild illumination was slightly obscured by softly moving
Cirrus of thin, iridescent mist. Time was of essential essence.
He drew her to him and looked steadily into her shimmering eyes.
Lips met, soft and warm. Her heart beat with extreme elation.
She then knew for certain, he belonged to her forever more.
13 February 2023
Writing Challenge - E Words Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
The world a stage,
Shakespeare noted.
And we the imposter,
in our final call.
A few catch our last show.
Unwitting, they s on cue,
our fatal prelude,
our convulsive caricature,
our final self-deprecation.
A clown milking our last mockery,
our closing burlesque pratfall,
our irrevocable tremor,
our departure in floodlights.
The guffaws intend no harm.
No one knows our real name.
We are just the familiar disguise
of impulsive chuckles.
Yes, the stage is our world,
where we regale in our farcical regalia,
where we playact the death we die,
defined abruptly only by the privation of others,
their season of grieving like elephants.
Perhaps it’s better this way,
decomposing, never to be recovered,
just the sound of laughter lost,
or the fading fragment in someone’s
sleepless night.
Published The Magnolia Review 03/2020
i erase existance when i see you
everything exists when you walk by
i would give up my existance just for a hint of eye contact from you
you only notice my existance in the throws of my imagination
thinking of you, i try to hold back my tears
fear feels like thorns piercing my ghostly anatomy
there is one particular throbbing that just may lead me to blindness
however i will take that risk just to elongate the existance of you in my mind
i become an addict on purpose and by choice
i become dependent on my version of your sweet, gentle voice
if i only had one chance, one opportunity, or one moment,
i would freeze that existance within the confines of my mind
the image of us in a circle of any type of bliss causes convulsive catastrophes
i force the existance of the multifarious feelings to just remain remaining
i am internally pleading for you not to disappear from the simplest region of my
sight
yet you do as always, and i am left with another date with disorganized episodes