Long Handgun Poems
Long Handgun Poems. Below are the most popular long Handgun by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Handgun poems by poem length and keyword.
The Darwin Awards are a posthumous honor, recognizing those who have improved the human gene pool by removing themselves from it by their own foolish actions.
In a robbery way out in Long Beach
Elliot's handgun misfired in the breech
Down the barrel he took
A quite scatterbrained look
Then made it more than a figure of speech
There was a foolish fellow named Gary
Who gulped gasoline over near Cary
The fuel made him gag
So he fired up a ***
And now smokes in the state mortuary
"Look, no helmet!" Phil proudly decried
In the headgear disobedience ride
He stood for his rights
Then put out his lights
When he flew off his Electra Glide
An impatient Korean got miffed
And was ramming the doors of the lift
Then went a bit daft
When he got the shaft
But his ride to the bottom was swift
References:
http://jdgroover.wordpress.com/2013/08/20/the-2013-darwin-awards-are-out/
http://www.darwinawards.com/darwin/darwin2012-03.html
http://www.darwinawards.com/darwin/darwin2011-03.html
http://www.darwinawards.com/darwin/darwin2010.html
There is someone - a boy.
I shouldn't have taken the child here.
I'm slipping, taking him with me;
he won't let go of my hand.
We are on the very verge
of a deep pit,
teetering upon its crumbling edge,
at the craters floor a pool
in those waters are sauropods,
crocodilians.
Scree rolls under our feet;
the heavy handgun on my hip
weighing us down, dragging us toward
those saw-toothed muggers
who now thrash in an expectant melee.
In a dreaming funk,
a pensive fear snatches at my flesh,
Then as we slip and slide I glance at the boy
seeing myself in him.
I shout to that younger me
that we both will die from the unforeseen
one day, but not today
for I exchanged that old revolver
for a less heavy Glock.
The scene melts, my child-self
still clinging to my breath
asking the bedroom ceiling: when?
Goodbye, Andy Warhol, R.I.P.
Welcome to the world of sensationalism.
Welcome to the pop culture of Andy Warhol,
Who saw in a can nutritious soup for consumption
And beauty in the face of an ungodly woman.
But remember, “Andy was philosophical!”
So, who is to question his business production
Of inner-eye commercial art compositions
And judge them sacrilegious, ridiculous, or abstract?
Hey, Andy Warhol, this is your life on display,
In a soup can and a face lacking intelligence.
The can of soup is a matter of preference,
And the glitzy face is sensually exposed
With your timely entrance into the sixties.
Your art's momentum continues, and you are famous.
“Goodbye, Andy Warhol, may you rest in peace.”
***
Note:
Andy Warhol (1928–1987) was an American pop culture artist who died in 1987 following gallbladder surgery due to injuries received 19 years earlier from an attempted murder on his life. In 1968, radical feminist Valerie Solanas fired two shots into Andy Warhol’s abdomen using a .32 Beretta handgun, and later said (referring to Andy Warhol); “…had too much control over my life.” Warhol barely survived and suffered the effects of the shooting for the rest of his life.
In Chapter 5 of his book ‘The Philosophy of Andy Warhol’ he wrote in reply, “If I weren’t famous, I wouldn’t have been shot for being Andy Warhol.” In Chapter 6 he wrote, “…making money is art and working is art, and good business is the best art.”
A child scratches a spacecraft in the dust,
He does not call it a 'spacecraft'
because it is 1911. The Colt Firearm Company
has patented the first reliable semi-automatic pistol;
it does not look like any other handgun.
Decades earlier, Karl Drais invents
the meat-chopping machine.
Delmonico's has long served breakfast steaks.
All at once and singularly, an ethnic sandwich
becomes the 'hamburger'.
New shapes feed bodies and minds;
inevitably, there are consequences.
ideas are left over - like ketchup.
Meat fueled notions activate ray-guns;
cattle are mutilated in Idaho.
In front of his Osaka home, the boy
drops his stick, stares open-mouthed at the dirt.
Things get messy. Mushrooms and red sauce.
Millions of people are annihilated
by atomic meat-chopping machines.
The boy survives, has a son of his own.
The child finds a way
to contain the machines inside a computer-game
called, 'Space Invaders'.
Tomohiro Nishikado does not like ground meat.
Ketchup is now often dispensed in small packets.
It is eaten with fast food while playing war-games.
Unfortunately, there is residue,
ideas escape. Flatulent cows cause a global warming;
civilization cannot eat them fast enough.
New improved meat-chopping machines are activated
by computers;
there is collateral ketchup.
The 1911 colt pistol is still popular.
My friend, how did he go so wrong?
Funny and jovial, was he, as happy as one can be.
Then, Paul shot his wife to death, mercilessly,
Beneath their family Christmas tree!
Leaving behind, children...three.
He never had a harsh word to say to anyone.
What was he thinking, this man of fun?
I shall never, ever know...
I wanted to scream and run.
Strange how life twists and turns at
times in unhappy and vicious ways.
I worry for women and gentle children.
Praying, they are never abused by men.
That was the saddest Christmas Eve of
my life.
A husband with a handgun, oh such pain
and unforgettable holiday strife.
~Biographical note~
This, indeed was only one of many brutal attacks, I
experienced in my life. Later, a fellow teacher blew
her husband way. Life is not always kind to so
many unfortunates.
My take away from events like this, is to recall how
beautiful life is. To value it, be grateful. Above all,
to communicate with each other openly. Be kind.
Be supportive.
If you are in an abusive relationship, get help or get
out. Your life depends on it. Don't let any poet here
smallify or degrade you, ever!..Panagiota Romios
Internet abuse is not acceptable....
July 15, 2020
7pm PST
??????GASTON GLOCK THE GUNSMITH GOES HOME??????
Gaston Glock, the genius gunsmith,
The gun guy behind mysterious myth
And the groundbreaking Glock handgun,
Produced the glock gun but now gone.4
What a grand grandeur idea granulated.
Gaston Glock's genius granted
Global gunmen gleaming & grinning.
Gaston Glock's gone yet gun's glocking.8
Glock's groundbreaking forever glocks,
Gifting us a great gift worth a million bucks.
He deftly designed the dependable gun,
As the dawn of gunning & ghostlighting begun.
But Glock's groundbreaking handgun
Became an instrument in the wrong hands.
Killers, dealers, smugglers & gun gangs
Gaining guts to gun down with the glocks.¹6
Gaston Glock's Guns, granting guardians
Great gallantry, and turning them into villians.
Gang guardians guard against grim gangs.
Conversely, Glock's guns generate grief,
Granting gunmen gruesome glory relief.²¹
But Glock's genius glocks gave mankind defence
Against godforsaken gunmen & misdemeanours.
Gaston Glock's great gift gave guts
To pull the trigger when danger flickers,²5
Glock's gun became reliable defence, fair enough.
Gaston Glock gave a great gun gift that's tough.
At age 94, he passed away blazing glocks,
Leaving a legacy that'll last farther than all the nooks.²?
In memory of Gaston Glock, the founder and producer of the glock handgun.
Rest In Peace ?????????
??????Vick Manuel Poetry??????
{VMP}
FORM: Alliteration/Rhymes
Copyright ©? 28th December 2023.
She lives in a single dimensional world
But watches 3D in the theater
She decides that she will protect herself
The next time he tries to beat her
He feels inadequate in the outside world
Emasculated by the masses
So to help him feel more like a man
He beats her every time she passes
Her mother had left them long ago
His wife had had enough
Physically and mentally abusing his child
Makes him feel real tough
He didn't like the way she dressed that night
And was going to hit her with his belt
The handgun she had hid in her purse
Would change the hand that she was dealt
The orange jump suit that she now wears
And will for twenty years
Is worth the price that she has to pay
For putting an end to the monster she fears
Razor's edge makes lines on the mirror
Bullet in the barrel tantalizes
Adrenaline rushes
Euphoria beckons
Grace reaches out
Always reaches out
But can you feel it?
No food on the table
No money in the bank
Eviction notice on the door
What am I here for?
Grace reaches out
Always reaches out
But will you receive it?
Whiskey bottle hasn't been touched
Explosives strapped to your chest
You walk into that crowded place
Handgun, loaded in pocket, just in case
Grace reaches out
Always reaches out
But do you get it?
Can you feel it?
Will you receive it?
Do you get it?
Why do I hit you so hard?
Adrenaline rushes
Straw snorts
Euphoria beckons
Pull that trigger
Release that bullet
What will you feel
As it passes through your brain?
Why do I hit you so hard?
Always reaches out
Grace does.
Written: May 6th 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's tough to revel in delight, but I grew!
Dreams rouse me, not in an aphonic view.
Nature provides her bounty every day,
I extend my hand and grasp her sway.
I perceive my youthful self in that place,
Her offerings were serendipitous grace.
In her sphere, blooms, and waterfalls,
A supple deer, an oaring raptor, in altar calls.
Each contributes to a feeling of calmness,
She was a fountain of pure suaveness.
Yet wars and famine steal my breath away,
A sight, luring amid a rutted path of ruby clay.
A moody inquiry into the root of my being,
A fleeting time of pure delightful feeling!
Thus, I wound up shooting my future ego,
Lift a glass, not a pistol, in a sky-dip indigo.
I rise again, and the sun surrounds me,
I can predict zodiac signs and lunar spree.
Along with Mars, Venus, and other oddities,
My mind spills, leaving no room for prodigies.
I shot for my destiny with this radical rhetoric,
Pulling me up a path reflected as historic.
A flash of his pistol, a gaze that said, walk,
My handgun babbled in its wandering talk.