Long Gristle Poems
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Perceptions of a ragged space,
all that was left by the human race,
there's not a lot left to see at all,
as their carelessness was seldom small.
Let's dig around
in that frazzled ground,
for that's where there's bound to be,
some signs of dodgy chemistry
or maybe just a little radiation,
the sort that killed another nation,
though they said it wasn't bad at all,
any effects would be so very small,
just as asbestos would never embroil
us in disease, nor would a little spilt oil.
But profit ruled the minds of men,
the bosses say do this thing and then,
you'll have enough to pay the rent,
but wouldn't as it was always spent
on a merry night out with the boys,
long before those electric toys
just sinking pints to rinse the dust,
before staggering home all filled with lust,
Then some had coal with a price too pay,
only if they 'bought it', down the pit one day,
other times they might just cough it out,
smuggled home in their lungs no doubt,
or maybe they were lost out in the wild sea
aiming to catch that fishy for the rich folks tea,
others were mangled up in the cotton mill wheels,
where safety guards didn't hide belts and reels..
And ever as man moved to make it safer than before,
some new peril would be found to drop men onto the floor
be it from a toxic gas or perhaps a mercury leak,
what did it matter while some profit they'd seek,
the waste might well taint the rivers and poison all
the fish they ate and so keep their children small,
small and weedy with some horrendous rash
while the air was grey with muck and ash.
I could go on for many a verse,
but I've no wish to be perverse,
for by now the penny will have dropped
for those whose brains have not been shot,
by additives to make processed food have taste
or keep it 'fresh' longer so as not to waste,
any scraps of reclaimed muck and gristle,
oh dear, now I've gone and blown the whistle.
And thats before I even mention the Taiji men
who slaughter dolphins by the thousands and then
sell their flesh with labels as if another meat,
what is it that Japan now consumes for a treat,
I wonder do they ever know for sure,
what it is they bring in through their doors
and so the follies still go on and on
do you wonder why I feel so strong?
©Rhumour
August 28th 2010
feeling his vitamin injection a new adventure begins
a slapstick epic of unfathomable implication here unfolds
as the rat gnawed curtain rises at Ye Bone and Gristle
among the clattering of wooden pints of bitter ale
the floor show a fatigued and spent collegiate symposium
a haggard attempt at ecumenical largess aimed at
raising the unwashed to an occasional and transient grasp
of the larger dimensions that haunt our daily addictions
Prof. Zlotto emeritus deluxe brooded over his maps
summoned by the tedious self-appointed constabulary
to pry somewhat delicately into a mystifying case
of good judgment deferred with a view towards
an increase in immediate cash flow revenues
wagers placed on foul play or the whim of ill fortune
were the options undergoing fuddled prehension
we have before us opined Z expansively from center stage
an antebellumite absolutist abandoned by fortune
skirting the Queen's tariff crushed white and cold
by a bulging bale of contraband Carolina cotton
observe the eyes fully crossed the smirking grimace
while grasping a message in a mangled scrap of menu
none of the Bone and Gristle's brain trust could
tease rhyme nor reason from its random hatchings
Sumerian birdclaw temple cypher went our Professor
fragments from the time of the Great Watery Peril
the gathered lumpenproletariat gasped and murmured
Zlotto's flawless command of forgotten history
was the object of awe and an untidy fealty
my appraisal shall go no further than this room
insisted Zlotto drawing his finger across his windpipe
aye wheezed the unsteady avid archivists of civilization
the hearth's peat flames glinted off Z's gold tooth smile
a million dollar asset with the neighborhood gorgons
fluttering hearts batting about the succulent stamen
Z pondered aloud over the runes inscribed in red ichor
my certainty was never under hazard went Zlotto
what we have here beneath the lantern of exposition
is a blighted invocation of the Blind Mother of Witches
the tenured and tweedy astigmatics drew breath as one
a petition of supplication borne on ancient trade winds
Zlotto's hard gaze scanned the struck dumb congregation
It says only this
as one body the throng leans a full inch closer
only this
fill in your blanks
Every friggin day
mother hen runs amuck,
while all chicken's
beady eyes appear awestruck
drawing particular
agitation, irritation, perturbation...
of Punxsutawney (Doctor) Phil
(well grounded) woodchuck,
the latter glaring at henpecked
yours truly rifled
tail feathered rooster,
whether communicating
nonverbal sympathy
towards me, a garden variety
Gallus gallus domesticus dumbstruck,
who doth make feeble attempt
albeit without explaining
rhyme or reason
poetic, plaintive, pathetic... cluck,
regarding doomed pyrrhic victory
against incessant cackling
more fowl and upset
than goosed duck,
she that casus belli hideous source
feels cooped up bred to lay eggs
absent any pleasure to fµç*
out her tail feathers fin
hushed yoked for sole purpose
mutter under beak, what the "huck"
subsequently, she takes frustration
buzzfeeding me 'bout chained to
chicken feed to earn
breeder (yours truly) favorable luck
yielding "FAKE" farmer
Matthew Scott Harris megabuck
regarding top quality accolades
raves subsequently generate
he invariably feels moonstruck
matter of fact expanded business
necessitating workers to drive
state of the art rigorous motortruck
the missus decries mistreatment
scratching thru mire and muck
to fill little beasts in belly,
eventually retired, repurposed
relieved invariably chef
buoy or gull hardy sole destiny,
whereby one or another
hired hand will gingerly pluck
every spruced, primped,
groomed... feather
in short shrift priming
precious helpless creature,
(who bemoans lack
of state bird status)
into slaughterhouse five
butchered, filleted (maybe), quartered...
routed to household kitchen
gamely served at potluck
toothpicks applied to teeth
loosening gristle unstuck
after appetites satiated
belt unbuckled years ago
purchased before Sears Roebuck
shuttered stores, plus
bought linens and things
comfortable pillow perfect to tuck
under drowsy sudden sleepy head
unaware coop d'etat mutiny hatched,
whereby sly fox weasels him/
herself to guard henhouse
finding petrified slack beaked
AC/DC powered chicken coop,
where prating poultry thunderstruck.
Unforgivable
There was nothing I could do
Except swallow the guilty mouthful
Taken from their bowl of rice
And chew upon the gristle
Of my add hot water pot noodle
Couldn’t stop the ice clinking
In the glass of my extra chilled white wine
Couldn’t stop me eating
In my clinging to my life
No I couldn’t stop their hunger
Or wipe away their tears
As they picked and ate the peeling paint
From the sides of oil drums
No way to stop the sun
From drying to brittle leaves
No way to halt the madness
Of other peoples greed
Nothing I could do but quench my thirst
And dine with the ugly flies
Clinging around the brown babies eyes
Nothing I could do
But feel my muscles work
Feel the nourishment of bone
While they live as human skeletons
All I could do was sit there
And apologise for the world
All I could do was sit there
And respectfully eat my meal
Adding too much salt so it mingled with my tears
Adding too much mustard
So the food went burning down my throat
I could do nothing else
Except apologise for myself
Sorry for being born in my wealthy world
Sorry for my country
For not rushing to your need
Sorry for my government
My vote helped to bring them in
Sorry for the United Nations
Who’s squabbling leaves you starving
Sorry they did not stop the war
That turned you into refugees
And all the weeping mothers
Their desperation in their eyes
Their children no more than rag dolls
Limply hanging from their arms
Their little bloated bodies
Going to join the others
On the lime dusted piles
All I could do was sit there
And apologise for the world
All I could do was sit there
And say sorry for myself
Sorry for being born in my wealthy world
Each and every mouthful
Was swallowed with a choke
But all I could do was sit there
And respectfully eat my meal
written for Christie Moses and Sharon Weimer's competition "I'm Sorry"
History, it has always seemed,
at least it always has to me,
Is not something to be forgotten,
For from it much is gleaned.
It strikes me as more sensible,
if I may be allowed to say,
that's history is not a dusty book,
it's an all-you-can-think buffet!
From the ancients of the Levant
Ten Commandments do I take.
From the doughty Middles Ages:
Chivalry, a fine impression makes.
From the minutemen on Bunker Hills
comes a true love of liberty.
From the trappers in high Rockies
A sense of true independency.
The cowboy age it gives me
an appreciation of the grit,
along with a strong desire
Not to take any lip.
The roaring twenties gives me
the thrill of living it up.
The thirties taste strongly of thrift,
Of how to suffer through the rough.
Of the forties came a craving
for punching evil in the jaw.
From the fifties: Domesticity,
it's great rewards I saw.
From the sixties I take little,
except maybe rock and roll.
Though I admit as I grow older
Its seems tasteless and cold.
The seventies and best not eaten,
On that most will agree.
But the eighties' flavor is the power
of man's ingenuity set free.
From the millennium I consumed the fact
that Islamism is not that great.
And the present taste teaches clearly
not to trust those who cry "Hate!"
And this is just the beginning,
so many ideas out there lay...
A bit from here, a bit from there
A plate built of every age.
You leave behind the gristle,
though it make take some time,
but eventually you plate is choice,
and free of fat and rings.
And why some folks flee from it,
I cannot begin to say.
All I know is that once you start
you will always crave the taste.
So, you want to buy a gift
for that famous geezer.
First, hear about the midnight shift
of our Ebenezer.
Late at night, he is concerned.
It is December time,
when, it's been confirmed,
good people lose their minds.
Some gristle in his soup
upset his condition.
Now, he is unable to regroup
and sees an apparition.
He peers out the windowsill,
as that stew's injury lingers,
standing so very still
with cold and boney fingers.
A guy intent to pin a rap -
hear him moan and bellow
like a bear caught in a trap,
Marley, that poor fellow.
Once a boy on a country lane,
how did Ebenezer meet this fate?
What happened to his brain,
as he neared heaven's gate?
Why could the Lord not spare
the one good thing in life,
yes, his sister who was kind and fair.
Why cut his heart out with a knife?
Why would I condescend to take a seat?
I would not recoil, but rather retreat,
than hear the mutton's painful bleat
'neath his blade as its heart still beats.
Leave me ghost, blow out your lamp.
I'll not see the moron's laughing face.
as my nephew's knife, the devil's stamp,
another life, it would erase.
No, I'll not see the foolish face
of the boy who took my sister away,
who took her life, and with his replaced,
all on that tragic Christmas day.
The ghost made Ebenezer sit and sigh
as he watched his own body die.
There was no one even there to cry
as a worm crawled out his eye.
You want a gift idea with merit?
Perhaps a greasy goose. I won't bicker.
If there's something you stand to inherit,
a heart attack is indeed quicker,
but for the man staring at his casket,
I recommend a fruit basket.
Her words were mumbled unprovoked and put him through the grinder
minced they were tearing apart they hurt like a dagger so he finally knew
where his heart was dismembered as it stood still one sentence then silence
No stream no consciousness emotion arrested a world destroyed broken shattered
He picked up the pieces the fragments shards of an ugly mosaic coloured in black
The cutting edge of glass penetrated into frozen blood in icy veins turning tattooing
engraving the twisted knife chopping torturing where passion kindness love
had once been the messenger grinning at the grisly gristle ground to the core
With surgical precision her scalpel incised at the flesh scarred in a flash razor
wire ligatures asphyxiating suffocating mortal wounded lost mindless soul
Denervation ensured neurochemical transmitters flowing into nothing a wide open
schism fissures fission exploding with nowhere to venture a road not yet travelled
Blessed in disguise of disaster her words grew into an unlikely story of hope of
a mixture of memories retold new pathways narration novel meaning of words
No more mill stone weighing the rope round the severed necklace of horror
he found undreamt off passion with a new soulmate and lover a poet tree in motion
Weaving kindness now sensual emotional reason scribed on paper fantasy clouds
written on dreams healing momentum of moments nights and cinnamon bark
their sizzling skins their touches feelings new found beauty make love and make
loving and making love with words and with lived meaning worthwhile again
16th June 2016
My name is Nolan Greenstier,
and I fly a B-52,
on my daily ocean patrol
keeping lookout for the Kaiju.
I know this sounds ridiculous,
like some B-movie from back when,
cube-square law prevents big monsters,
that is what we all thought back then.
Until one emerged off Maui,
three hundred feet tall and irate,
he marched ashore, stomped everything,
the south shore he did devastate.
The navy and air force went out
and joined in with a great barrage,
Tomahawks, Harpoons, lasered bombs,
the beast was much too big to dodge.
That first one was mightily tough,
but it fell to sustained attack,
and all then asked, what should we do
if one of these monsters came back?
This did prompt so much discussion
of how best to handle the threat.
Giant robots? Nuclear bombs?
Commandos attacking the head?
Some eve said,”Take DNA!”
Grow friendly monsters, they figured.
The military ignored them,
they simply made their bombs bigger.
So now I fly with four warheads,
the ‘Scar’ Kaiju-killing missile,
five thousand pound explosive inside
turns the beasties into gristle.
With a hard, armor-piercing head,
it will slice through the toughest hide--
Hey look! A G-class Kaiju down there,
lock on, he is going to die!
The technician finds body-heat,
and four missiles streak away,
the beast lurches, pumps out deep read,
then slowly slips beneath the waves.
They never reach shore anymore,
not since they chose to make on men,
we’re wiped out whole species before,
now I guess we’ll do it again.
Say hello to Small Pox for me, Kaiju...
our reckless aviator dives upon the Zeppelin
don't worry darlin I'll just put the tip in
a lethal hilarity aimed at the hoarders of wealth
the value of their possessions a layer of ash
will redeem not one buy the loyalty of not one
carried away in a Hell bound sooty tornado
lifting their dead to the long blue sky
in a screeching mesmerizing shimmer
wreaking dance and mirth upon all inquiry
there will come a day of celestial observance
when the old world and all its naivetes are gone
an exfoliation of angelic proportions
no longer an obstacle course a stooge factory
their myths all wrong a betrayal of direct evidence
far too farcical for a belief that sticks
relocated to me mouth at ear by
fearless George the tormented tickler
bar stool preacher dusty desert desperado
knowing his perception was distorted
blew town when things got too reasonable
his limping plague monk emissaries
tin plated appraisers brimming with bombast
working the fortune cookie personality hopper
advise me to be insistent on certain matters
for you Darwin jockeys out there
watching the incendiaries inching closer
it's no longer a dog eat dog kind of world
it's a blog eat blog kind of world
which will look good on any resume
stick that in the wad of gristle you call a brain
a repugnant abyss of spiritual contortion
the banner his sputtering biplane tows
reads from horizon to horizon
the only game in town
is no longer
the only game in town
We're furry and coloured grey, brown, or black
Be-whiskered and sleek and reeking of fat
We'll squeeze through a hole, a gap, or a crack
For rotting flesh or dry bones to gnaw at
Four-legged dealers of lingering death
Malodorous creatures crawling with fleas
Exhaling our pungent foul-smelling breath
Urine and droppings on foodstuffs we squeeze
Our bellies swollen feasting in famine
Scrape on the ground as we scurry in swarms
Our carte du jour is often Scotch salmon
But our tastes transcend conventional norms
Some hang up meat to improve the flavour
We like ours scabrous and oozing with pus
Seasoned with still soft faeces to savour
But with or without we don't make a fuss
Our long yellow teeth are honed to the point
Where nothing's too hard for us to devour
Bone marrow, muscle, fat, gristle, or joint
We’ll crunch them with relish in half an hour
You clearly love us – we’re treated like kings
The streets are knee-deep in tit-bits half-chewed
Hot dogs, hamburgers and delicious things
Like deep fried chicken or vomit you've spewed
We're stealthy and brave there’s naught we don’t dare
To avoid rat-catchers putting us down
But once in Hamelin pipes played a strange air
That drew us deep in the river to drown
Next time you hear a scuffle or squeaking
In a cavity wall or from the floor
It might be us foraging and seeking
To build a little nest and breed some more…