Long Foulest Poems
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This is a colabration of Shane, Dhruv, and Deborah
Buzz, Buzz
catch the fuzz,
it's all a big fus this buzz,
heros of literature use good buzz words,
knock buzz, it's all a fuz
its time for all this fus,
quarel tantra mantra anger song literature anger jam,
superherores knock before the clock clocks,
superheros do the tantra mantra,
the simple life dance,
with simple talks,
the secret is out,
superheros do coloberate,
colors do shout,
Naga Anthemson talks Naga buzz anthems,
hush, naga can't get rid of this fuzz,
smile and blush like an x o yo,
Naga Anthemson beats the beat,
superheros without second heart beat,
death is angry,
selfless without feet,
Naga, I told you,
Superheros dont beat to shoes,
think of blues,
the times now are a few,
life has feeling with all views,
anger wishes are a struggle beyond screws,
the universe is universally beaten,
you have to take a hit like some jews,
it's not my writing it's beyond my self in your shoes,
Selfless buzz, it's also called a big universally known buzz fuzz fus beat, drew.
Written by Dhruv Pandya
I need a moment of peace so I can see what I need to see,
I know what I need to see definetaley not to lose it, but be a man and try to go through with
it,
I need time alone, we like to call it me time,
no games, no nothing just me time,
focus on my dos and don'ts,
my who and wants,
dont snooze don't cheat ,
just have time to be me
Written by Shane Anonomous.
A towering inferno,
Bursting though my veins,
Anger and venom,
Holding onto me,
with unholy, binding chains,
The driving force is,
Pitch, black, and corse,
A red hot sweat,
From my feet to my neck,
Exploding inside my churning gut,
From the depths of Hell,
This emotion does dwell,
The foulest emotion,
Has become a devotion,
Precognition beyond their ambition,
Like an overcooked steak,
That's burned to a cinder,
Too crisp to eat,
For it tastes like shoe leather,
Red hot poka dots,
Spin through my eyes,
The color of red,
Wrapped around my head,
It's ready to break,
Apart my heart,
For the utmost I know,
Anger you must control,
Drive back that dark force,
To the depths of Hell,
For such a horrific emotion,
Is too dangerous,
To be devotion.
Written by Deborah Jarell
As I stood before the porcelaneous basin,
And streamed into its already uric and xanthous-stained depths,
A stain, a sight and a liquid yet yellower and more urinary;
And as cloudiness, not of mind, but of that which is uric attended the
Deposition, a thought occurred unto me, and it poetically and psalmically
Collected and gathered and arranged itself, so that it was as follows:
Does she of a morning stand before some wicked ablutionary sink,
That vile whorish slattern who devoutly believes that only dulcet voices
Emanate from the mouths of the damned in the pits of the lowest Hell?
What fell and foul rites does she with hands cleansed with foulest,
Blackest, evilest water; which of these wickednesses does she perform
And practice, she who washes her hands in the black-flowing waters of
The Stygian pit?
Who is this damned damsel, dame, and maiden fell and foul and not a bit
Fair, who as a fool believes that there are melodious voices echoing in a
Mellifluous and delightful chorus in the lowest pits of Hell?
Though I doubt not that therein there be many an ungodly maiden:
Indeed, the blackest, foulest, ungodliest of fell and evildoing maidens:
Plaguing and blighting the very pits of Hell, who is to say that their
Feminity alone endows unto them a felicity and a melodiousness of tone?
That is doubtless the (unsound) thought that crept into the very
Black heart of she who wrote those foul, foolish words;
But to me, not even the godliest or the goodliest of men,
But inditing ever of good with heart, and tongue and mind and pen,
For such is the great purpose of art such as this, no?
Withal, to me, she spoke of foolery, and of folly.
Lest she be speaking facetiously, in her daft assessment
Of foulest Sheol, she surely was wrong.
Wronger than wrong, if such a thing ever be.
And in my mind, as I urinated, I thought these poetic, psalmic thoughts.
And, though there be hundreds of characters and spaces remaining,
Touching this and that and all things else
And any number and all manner of good
Or e'en fell and foul
Matters, I haven't a word else to say.
The poem is expended, completed, done today
And so am I, with it at least, I must say.
Form:
after all the idiots who followed Camping
found themselves up ****’s crick
after May of 2011 &
after all the morons hoping & “praying”
that they would get a “get out of life free” card
with the ending of the Mayan calendar
just a little more than a week ago,
discussion has already begun to loom,
spewing forth like the foulest vomit
(outdoing even lil’ Linda Blair’s projectile in
“The Exorcist”)
from the mouths of these
apocalyptophobiacs,
who cannot go to sleep at night,
unless they are counting repeating images of
Nostradamus,
hopping over the farmyard fence
with the rest of the
sheep.
yes fans,
the batshit****ingnuts of the world
have begun to spin their minds like a top,
panicking about “solar flares in 2013,”
“robots taking over the world in 2030,”
“Prof. Cunningham’s time capsule
predicting biological weapons eliminating
us all in 2016” & of course, our favorite
fictional character with his flowing blond hair,
blue eyes & ability to walk on water,
he’s supposed to be returning sometime to
“fight satan,” um, just as he has been
supposed to for, um,
quite some time…
but those avid readers of Jeane Dixon
will be waiting for 2020,
when “satan” & “jesus” fight for the big
heavyweight title…um,
but supposedly he has a window of 17 years
to arrive in the ring,
so, this writer certainly hopes that “satan”
brings a book or an ipod or some jax or
something, cause’ ****,
he’s got a while.
and then there’s the jewish end-seekers who
abide by the talmud’s 6000 year lifespan of the world…
and then there’s the numerology numbskulls
who are counting up how many times “allah” shows up
in the qur’an &
on &
on &
on &
on,
until these people are
scratching out their eyes
because they can’t stop twitching in fear
of
something happening at
some time, some place in the
future,
when they are
ALL DEAD---
DEAD
DEAD
DEAD---
just like the rest of us,
so,
this is an ode,
a salute to those who
are sick to ****ing death of
these people who will not embrace the
fact that their lives will not end in any grandiose,
metaphysically charged,
special, or unique kind of way---
hoorah.
Unrelenting blitzkrieg deadly
assault upon psyche
pounded defenseless
vulnerable mindscape accustomed
to shelter within aproned crease
mama proffered manna, especially
when untethered meek docile lad
subjected to blistering hellfire
infamous hoodlums wantonly unleashed
verbal bombardments lobbing poison
spear tipped invisible blackened barbs
manifold times more agonizing
piercing, targeting, xraying...
guaranteed fatal skull and crossbones
unseen insignia wrought utmost damage
one hundred percent accuracy
ferociously besieging, jackknifing, pummeling...
successfully character assassinating,
a diminutive boy cursed with ideal traits
strongly tempted, delectably savored,
violently bullied (short of physical
stature violated, though seditious)
emotional violation wrought lifelong
oppressive worthlessness complimented
amply by absolute zero self confidence
distilled thru conception in utero
until parturition on a bitterly cold
January thirteenth (apparently small,
medium forces at large, sans right
buffalo wing conspiracy) instigating
ear splitting wailing testing threshold
of tolerance, no crying game, but
palpable anatomical and physiological
dislocations afflicting yours truly
with breathing difficulty courtesy
submucous cleft palate pronouncing
strong nasality, when acquiring speaking
ability more cause to ridicule upon
commencing attendance within Lower
Providence School District, where kids
said nastiest, meanest, foulest, cruelest...
unsolicited comments pointedly jabbing air
mocking severe twang plus pigeon toed gait
the latter rectified with custom made
contrivance crafted by papa that forced
little feet turned outward during sleep,
which less significant aberration became
corrected as I got older, but self shaming
and blaming assimilated thru incessant
intimidation, inundation, invitation...
passive personality tacitly allowed,
provided, and enabled entire classroom
to assail helpless looking human creature
'pon entering home burst into tears!
A dusky sky becomes night as I lay here in bed. The
thoughts are Endless, as they run through my head.
I dream of sweeter days, oh, where did time go?
I want to get it back and take it in slow.
Mr. Timekeeper, could you do me a favor?
Turn back the clock, we’ll fix it later.
Back to a momma’s boy, with freckles on my nose.
When I’d chase my brothers with the water hose.
Just a little bit shy and a lot too rough.
Boy, I could cry. But man, was I tough.
I learned about life and did what was told.
Everything’s different when your 8 years’ old.
Now, I’m all grown, but really not much.
Don’t know what it means to be a grown-up.
Work keeps me busy, while I learn how to fly.
By no means perfect, but I gotta try.
Until then, I think I’ll reminisce.
On the childhood days’ that seemed better than this.
Mr. Timekeeper, could you do me a favor?
Turn back the clock, we’ll fix it later.
Back to a green-eyed boy, with a two-foot smile.
Making daddy proud when I read my bible.
Jesus held me tight; 'Til waves began crashing.
The cancer took form, like dark clouds come storming.
A Brother lost the fight. Levi, I prayed for more time.
An Innocent soul gone, by natures foulest crime.
I learned about life and tried to be bold.
But, It’s hard to understand, at 8-years-old.
Mr. Timekeeper, I need no more favors.
Cause now I remember, how time passed me over.
The day Levi died, the joy was lost to me.
A teary-eyed boy, dried his tears on times sleeve.
Buried but not forgotten, that pain is inside me.
It looks like a brother, with his heart still in pieces.
I may be grown, but not all that much.
I’m just a child, who’s body grew up.
I still fear tomorrow and what it will bring.
Yesterday pains me, with the sad song it sings.
Mr. Timekeeper, where can I look?
To find that old joy, the grave swallowed up?
I’ve learned about life and how it is cold.
I thought it'd be different, at 8 years old.
I, (though ye feel averse associating
with birth father) attest,
perhaps undeserving your vicariously quest
regaling, surmounting, and triumphing
storied Penn ultimate academic conquest
affirms his pride and joy at
stellar success no credit to this beastliest
inept papa, who winces with tragicomic,
woe how animosity toward me increased
smoldering rage at actual/
perceived paternal transgressions,
and do not expect to receive forgiveness
within your wounded breast,
but please allow this opportunity
to suspend any smarting rancorous
loathing, and bitterest
emotions that still sting from deep
seated psychological wounds
indelibly piercing chest
within eldest daughter,
whose unconditional boundless love
spurs whim to express
optimism at Edenic future blest
with praiseworthy largesse of commendable
laudatory, and noteworthy brainiest
accomplishments driven by ambition,
doggedness, perseverance, cleverest
ploy, plus revulsion emotionally costliest
psyche rent asunder courtesy yours truly,
he will not challenge, nor counterprotest
thee, asper his (i.e. mine) crassest
peccadillos, and significant damnedest
accursed personal weaknesses thee detest,
and unintentionally unpleasantly
impacted impressionable offspring, I dust
regret, and thus
figurative figleaf extended
without any expectations, though earnest
sincerity to accept culpability, asper
your anger, animosity, antipathy
maybe ranked as evilest
person on Earth, nonetheless,
and perhaps futile attempt feeblest
against affecting, sans fondest
best wishes despite scathing foulest
faux pas, I abhor lament ghastliest
inflicted upon an innocent progeny,
whose truevalue impossible grandest
to assess preciousness bestowed,
and wisdom proffered as biological guest,
now on her way to glory with handsomest
eminent beau linkedin heading toward happiest
days awaiting as ye embark
on destination unknown - honest!
A pair of slave girls waved chamar to thee,
As diamonds flashed with light of lamps well lit,
A king of kings must have fallen to knee,
To strip out bejewelled shoes from thy fair feet,
While Abyssinian eunuch of foulest breath
And looking like a harbinger of death,
Though clad like a gay angel somewhat odd,
And standing guard O with a naked sword,
Perhaps, might have secured thy stately room,
Then wonder I, what should have caused the doom
Of thy death, O thou flower of desert,
What swept away glory of thy grandeur?
What kind of jealousy O could have hurt
Thee? And what kind of intrigue oh ever?
To what shore of cruel death wert thou cast?
At what damndest of land? I feel aghast.
A query riddled in my memory
For long as was writhing through reverie,
I heard a scream when of Maher Ali,
‘Stand back, stand back, all this is fairy tale',
And my servant handed letters to me,
While salaam from the cook looked all too stale.
‘No more can I stay in this eerie place',
And packed off to move to my work amidst
Souls in solid flesh, life alive in grace,
My servant smiled, whilst hopeful of the least.
Yet, by the eve giddy minded I grew,
And felt as if I had a tryst to keep,
Office work seemed an act of bread from blue,
A better harvest was when there to reap,
And I threw all aside to drive away,
Not stopping till the palace was in sight,
The day as wished sun well, it was twilight,
With hurried steps I took stairs to my way.
__________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
reference to the song
the person depicted
is quite vain,
she worsens when she's
needed to be best
that what is shared is to
be known to the world
listen the strings sound like
crickets....nearer and nearer
they come closer
ranging in pitch, there sounds
arranged to distort the true happenings.
Is he that lovest, the only one in
the woman's life, or is she
deceitful and uncaring
only thinking of her selfish needs,
only to be found and then cornered
that she might regroup her thoughts
and have revenge upon those
who wished not to be actors upon her stage.
might the symbols of punctuation divide
the thoughts those who usest them correctly might gain proper meaning of her words of deceit
she is the whore of devilish doings
a rash upon society
she lacks focus and meaning
and is only tossed about from person to person
because those who use her allow's such to take place
her food is garbage
and her words are trash
she lingers in the indefinite
only to ask
might samples for lovers
be tasted by everyone
than doest thou seek refuge
and speak in thy foulest tongue
stand before me
and allow me to boo
that you are an actress
your words are scripted to
with guitars I hearest you
than only to believe
to fantasize about endeavors
stories people wish to believe
that fictions are you refuge
and thoughts are weighted by doubt
you speak only to those who
don't know you
until they find out what you're about
you speak against those things
that are traditions to most of us
you want what you need
and act it should come from us
but than again you are his lover
might this be said of him to
that you neither can or do it
from your honesty
and what than becomes of you
words spoken of the lover of the oboist, she skipped the first notes in her solo, the songstress spoke these words commenting of the reviews, those in the press saw this as a slap in the face of music.
Don’t see it lady May….
Dark demon from the nether world,
From into-outer space was hurled,
And came by Dumbo jet,
He came to prey on lady May,
An older shiela, ninety say,
Who liked dem toy boys just a bit,
But lost her glasses in a fit,
While Counting her blessings hey,
Aint love grand? Ooray,
Devonshire had seen his like,
While poncing through the mist, all night,
A second son, down under come,
The bastard son of the prince of fun,
Got sent down-under, right? {australia}
That he was just a parasite,
Her head it entered, never might,
In passionate decay, sweet delight,
Procrastination day,
Would never come her way,
So Blinded by the light,
Ecstatically so blocked with blight,
Sweetie pie ON her parasite
Her prince she had to pay,
Tad grumpy sometimes may,
2 Some poetry recite,
Sir Rhupert of the browning twist,
Bad Poetry, he sort-of missed,
But he was a tad ok,
FOR A POMMY BERK, I say, {prisoner of mother england}
An never past, dis-may,
Dem pommys talk this way,
The point I’ve poorly mist?
As for the pontificating fits,
Rabbiting on, subtle mindless gits,
Galahs and sand-goanna nongs,
In Japanese phallic ding ding thongs,
Who had the mango ****ttts, {manure}
Playing chess for sanity say?
Be careful boy you’ll slippp,
Will madness win the day,
And tremors start to hit,
Ok,
The parasite spoke up with scorn,
Like royalty I’m so high born,
Bow down to me sweet little worm,
Us Parasites hold sway,
And so I seemed to say?
“Begone thou foulest dip-stick twit,
The misel-toe does shon-kily sit, {con man part}
On a healthy tree today “ :}
But do we really have to pay?
4 Attention’s, draught a bit? :}
Don
a ponce was a pimp for the ladies of the night ,
and if you were poncing about like a pimp it was orright,
suspected pimps were poncy too right
to get my poncifocation trite...
--
Detective Laura Norder wouldn’t recognise a border
Her jurisdiction knew no bounds when there had been disorder
As the toughest girl in town she always won the day
The cells were crammed with criminals that she had put away
Laura Norder stood her ground if she should be confronted
By vicious thugs who’s I.Q. seemed to be a little stunted
She never failed to face them down and see it all as fun
But then she never failed to tote a fully loaded gun
Laura Norder went downtown, her senses they were tingling
There were people all around with whom she could be mingling
But all those people scattered when a knife man blocked her path
She grinned and left him battered in her bloody aftermath
Laura Norder had no way of knowing his connections
And later she would still indulge in zero introspections
A mobster aimed his gun and said, “You gonna soon be dead.”
A blur of motion left a bullet lodged inside his head
For Laura Norder, highly skilled with weapons or unarmed
Left the foulest gangster prone and she herself unharmed
She always had the upper hand; she’d see minute inflections
And spot the tiny details that belied their next intentions
Laura Norder wasn’t someone anyone crossed twice
Treat her decent and I guarantee she’d treat you nice
But leave a greasy fingerprint or shoe print in the mud
And you’ll be lucky if you’re breathing… in a pool of blood
For Laura Norder walks a line that’s almost tightrope thin
She’ll skirt the very edge of law to bring the felons in
So, run a mile or run a thousand, she will hunt you down
And you had best be ready… she’s the toughest girl in town
Laura Norder isn’t butch, she’s pretty as can be
But that and what I tell you must remain with you and me
I found her sobbing in her car beside a busy road
And when I asked, “What’s wrong,” she said…
“I think I squashed a toad.”