Long Fatted Poems
Long Fatted Poems. Below are the most popular long Fatted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fatted poems by poem length and keyword.
Elegy
this cryptic heart,
vault of dissident scrolls,
hemorrhagically inked,
sacraments of savage lymphs
and vicious tears, infested
with luminescent worms
that never blink
in the sleepless black,
feeding on the excrement
of nightmares
is chained in the Cavern of Septic Waters:
the Communion of Arachnids is upon us
(I see them breaking bread,
a thousand swollen tongues
licking the ruptured abdomen
of flies);
i come apart screaming,
i struggle between the razor-lips of time,
i relinquish my right to thirst,
i languish in the putrid mud
of corpses.
the metamorphosis is nearly complete.
swarms of leather-winged demons,
drone from thick hymnal of fear,
chant the liturgies of decay,
cursing the nexus of light
that rapidly flee now these orbs
of sight.
i have grown weary of the sanctions of breath:
Wherein heaves the orchestra of despair,
wherein lies the many hope-riddled carcasses,
wherein breeds the gift of fatted maggots,
Wherein moans the lonely incantations
of endings.
Oh, America,
my beloved America.
The world owns your soul,
and chortles as catastrophe comes.
Bartered was your legacy,
for riotous living,
and pottage no longer gratifies
your innards cravings.
Terrorist lambaste your innocent,
and spread false doctrines.
Fear and anxiety hold you captive,
casting foreboding shadows o'er your land.
As a mongrel wallowing in its vomit,
so it is, you and your sin.
Having no vision of signet ring and fatted calf,
your robe now drapes a self righteous frame.
Has the line in the sand been crossed?
While your flag still flies, the eagle soars,
and your Statue of Liberty stands erect,
return unto the father.
Oh America,
my beloved America,
God loves thee more than I.
Things are getting a little shaky the way
they’re opening the border walls.
And “The Covid” got us all twitching;
sneaking around doors and halls.
Trials and troubles all across creation
egged on by crazy schemes,
regular folks don’t know which way to turn;
right or wrong, don’t mean a thing.
Why invade America? No reason, I can tell,
let them in on bus and rail.
Don’t test them for Covib or any other disease,
let them all in, their drugs, terrorists and thieves.
It’s a bloodless plan to take down America, all in perfect time
The so called educated,
lending voice to the grand design.
They have a higher slopping spot on the fatted hog.
America, slipping on a trail of stench, to her final fall.
it's better to go after the children,
in the name of keeping them safe
Dividing the races farther apart will weaken her
more, just in case.
Bring in President to be a puppet
and let the news work it well.
A Vice President giggling out of a comic book
in rendition of Tinker Bell.
Order a mask to cover the face, any old sack will do
Train them to be sleeping dogs,
and Covid push it through .
Work on the voting laws,
It's only right, all should vote.
Pull it out of the open air,
it's better than we could ever hope.
By all means, go after the church,
let the rapture take them home.
Anyway, God's out of style, a little blink
and they will all be gone.
America will stand with the others,
diversity on a shining hill, the world tied together
one leader, one church, one seal. 666
across the table pink-eyed – not even Alice’s rabbit either – the impenitent sat – stooped – round as a fatted pig – full of pride in service – unabashed by his kill count – he spoke of philosophy Paris and London – his son following in his footsteps - Afghanistan his war – Perrier green glass sparkled – heat withheld – lust present & accounted for – lust for the military bit
across the table sat Alice - unknowing peacemonger – she observed his head turtling into his neck – she didn’t comment on his war stories – caffeine drove her to the precipice of honesty - lemming like she fell – but not for him – the hour spent down the rabbit hole passed – the sustenance she fed him swallowed - they parted ways
no company found – matchless – burnt-out flames – neither the better off for the meet
The Witches of Garais or
the Strega opened an area
centered in a bean feild
were they invited men from around the world
to join the Opera Orchastra
The Muses of Men the would
have them to perform as they would rate
there performance and likiblity
based on there trainiblity to the styles they saw fit.
The boiled fatted pork until
it was lard and the renderings became cracklings
and then were made into puffed rines
the seasoned them with spices and sugar
and crunched them as they sipped beer and other
cultural fermeants.
The words didn't matter as long as
the instruments were recognizible and the sound was simulaur to
what the song that played had started.
Thequeeks and quarks and the chinks of strings and
woodwinds were often muffled by the snares and drum rythmic sounds that often were louder than the brasses and electric guitars
a tuba player stood in front of a waiting
group of musicains and asked them
to sound off together
he acted like the conducter and got them to
play a song together
the Witches heard this
and called the auditions off and told the section of sixty nine
they had conveinced them they were best by being able
to come together and do the thing asked of them!
The warmth no longer comes
it seems to only leave.
The furry ones, all
caught in hypnotic disbelief:
hardening ground's
taken root
where once
gardening grounds
(forsaken, mute)
were once and again
makin' fruit.
Each beast, shaking
like a leaf
(though, truth be told
I've only ever
seen 'em dance)
as if to compel
the sun to
sidle up
'n stay a bit.
The butterflies are all turned
to windblown, drying leaves.
The biting clouds of gnats
are now
the biting cold of early flakes.
All hatched and reared
(the secret thrush, the ungainly, splashtering loon,
the burly snakes)
as evening hurries home
to be home for the night.
It's so early, so late.
The fatted robin's gone
just as the field mice hid
from barn-now-lapcat.
This constellation of crows,
a raucous perch, tried
that hiding ploy: their clotted knotted
silhouetted faux-leaf blackening hide out
where the leaves’d lived but crows are not
meant to blot the low sun as they’d plotted...
And so it was as so its been since Oh, so ever since -
a bird of prey, answered their
plaintive caws with painted claws -
a fracturous startle from above
a crash! a cry! a scattering!
one down, one murder
still.
Nothing softens, nothing greens.
No flowering as Southern urges
force flocks into making V-lines.
Each nest left: all break routines.
Summer is souring, as frost emerges
and last-one-picked, the pines -
lefties left in left field;
icing soon, their needles their shield
and, the coach never intervenes...
The light more slow to show
more tugged and bent to slant.
The sunshafts seem to push
the cold ahead as snow by plows.
And for our part we too as well
well, we turn away, turn indoors.
We turn our dreams to
make-it-through this.
We turn our collars up,
and too, our eyes to floors.
We turn our (each seems to)
thoughts inside this shell
not towards Inner but
rather, of course, truly from-
far and away from the
Cold & Falling, closing crisp.
How unlike the Scholar's Cup!
Our husks indoors,
our thoughts follow
but burrow deeper still.
Don't blame the light
for not keeping company
so deep where hides
a fearful, frigid 'you.'
It's Autumn
all turns on
one point.
It's Autumn
Fall burns on.
It's Autumn
sun burns on
one point
(of light.)
I have never felled so alive
as now.
An ancient land covered in desert sands
where the wind weeps lullabies of lost souls
The pale moon shivers in the cold night
as the wind reveals a head carved in stone
Sharaou, Sharaou
A land when time was new
Sharaou, Sharaou
In the head of stone I see my eyes of blue
Unforgiving sun breaks anyone
who dares to stray in the sun
A lost land of blowing dunes
that soon bury any ruins
A howl cries as the eagle flies
and I shift the sand with eager hands
For it can not be the stone head in front of me
no such land exist not even in myth
With fingers I dare touch the face that stares
into my very soul as if of me it knows
Within a flash of light I faint into the desert night
and dream of Sharaou
Temples of solid gold that out shine the sun
streets where treasures flow, markets abound
Palace of marble white that glows in moonlight
and pleasures of every sort were found
Canals big and wide brought water and life
fields of grains and wine flowing in delight
Fatted calves and sweet honey and milk
lavish dress bejeweled and silk
The king was a god and a god was king
a thousand years was a yawn in it's reign
A boy crown prince and mother's lust for power
would destroy Sharaou a lost desert flower
In the vast wasteland I felt my mother's hand
and the blade of her knife piercing my young life
The boy king is dead bleeding upon his bed
and his mother shall be the first Sharaou god queen
But the gods moan the boy dethrone
a black moon and silver flash cut my giant statue in half
The earth shakes from a mighty quake
as the canals break drowning the land
Famine and hell bemoan all who dwell
in the once glorious reign of Sharaou
Rebellious priest slay the god queen as she screams
I am your god do only as I command
Time covers all as the sands fall
from whipping winds it ends
I awake in sweat gone is the face I met
was it me the last boy king of Sharaou
Your goodliness and Godliness parades around in my head
and makes me scoff.
I used to be that way too but the devil came by with her enticing ways.
She had such a convincing spiel, I followed her gladly.
Understanding now that the sinner part of me is more fun than not.
Do you want to be stagnant? Stale? Left in the dirt?
An old maid or worse?
Your prissy ways and persnickety attitude
is going to cause you to petrify.
You will never experience the little death if you remain on this track.
Come play with me, hear the pipes? Frolic and dance; the time is ripe.
You deserve to live; eat from the fatted calf, drink some red wine.
Stop standing in the mirror of others, nurture your wanton side.
Lust and love, that’s all there is baby, and money and greed.
Let yourself have a taste of the life you crave, the good life.
They who pressure you into purity are jealous of your youth.
They want you to become moldy, green, yesterday’s bread.
Do not waste your talents, your hunger is vast
You are voluptuous, adventuresome. Taste some life my friend!
Let me help you by leading the way.....
A mystical cross on the inside of your palm
Means your life is foretold in a glorious psalm.
Lucky bracelet rings around your dainty wrist
Means you were created in energy’s mist.
If you palm looks like she’s been sliced in half
Right down the middle, get the fatted calf.
The lifeline which sails widely around your thumb
Cuts in quite deeply, means you are not too dumb.
The heartline across the top chooses her finger.
If she stops at the pointer, marriage will be a zinger.
Headline in the middle between heart and life
Each nick across indicates a tiny bit of strife.
Stars and whorls, crosses, and well-cut lines.
Palm knowledge is as cherished as Pharaoh’s gold mines.
It’s been a Year, plus One, and plus a Half!
And who’m I, that at Victory, I should weep?
To sing praise, and to kill the fatted calf –
So, I should do, and yet, instead, I sleep.
You’ve made of Self, a Permanency now,
You sit at His right hand before the King,
You walked from here to Heaven, Unbroken Vow
Was every moment stamped upon your Ring:
‘I will please God first!’ and you always did.
No other Spouse will satisfy me than
The One Who in my Secret Heart is hid!
And yet, Love never grew pale, weak or wan
Than Love for God, there is no greater Love
And you, my Joy, my Light, my Strength, my Dove!