Long Masochists Poems
Long Masochists Poems. Below are the most popular long Masochists by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Masochists poems by poem length and keyword.
I think I've found the address to hell
There's a jukebox even laughter
And sad stories to tell
Our souls are long gone
From the heartache we've felt
I think I've found the address to hell
Just off of Main Street sits a smoky old place
Where memories of past loves, always congregate
The sign on the outside, says all welcome, please come in
And that's where this story begins
Each man is a member, as long as he's paid the fee
Of sorrow and misery, along with some grief
We drink to our demise, each night of the week
Who knew hell, had a doorway, just off Main Street
I think I've found the address to hell
There's a jukebox even laughter
And sad stories to tell
Our souls are long gone
From the heartache we've felt
I think I've found the address to hell
I walked in with, intentions, of leaving
Thought maybe, I'd just have a few....
But the jukebox plays hits, and we're all masochists
When it comes to, the bottle, and the truth
Our stories, like a mirror, reflecting
Each ending, with just different names
We hide in the shame, of who's really to blame
And our demons, are one in the same
I think I've found the address to hell
There's a jukebox even laughter
And sad stories to tell
Our souls are long gone
And our bodies just a shell
I think I've found the address to hell
In every town on Main Street
Are memberships paid with grief....
I think I've found the address to hell......
Hypocritical, unethical, selfish, and unlearned
Under developed use of our overstated minds
Militant masochists tend to rule this world
Antagonistic especially towards our own people
Narcissistic insight concerning the global scale
Intelligence is wasted instead of being shared
Tragedy encompasses us forever the witch hunt
Yesterday's life lessons are learned nowhere
11/12/17
Written for contest: "Humanity/Acrostic"
Won 3rd Place in Contest Results
Snake bankers say, “I am doing the work of God.”
Dreaded delusional thinking
Drowning righteousness and justice
The work of God is not for them to know
Unknowingly they plan their own destruction
Great wicked vampires who suck out money
From every human and earthly source
For their special sauce bottled with rampant greed
Made in the Wall Street rat cellar kitchens
Buried deep under the City of Death
Founded by the empty mindless tribes
Still stinking of centuries of unsatisfied poverty
Whose lizard brains shuffle cash continuously
And people are seen only as THEIR money
Where everyone drinks a Satanic brew
Made by a single mother of 40
Who wanted to be a concert violinist
But now stirs sauce smiling stupidly in the rat kitchens
Where human disasters are considered treasures
And instead of music, money now runs in her veins
And she knows where every penny is lodged
Where the only sound she ever hears now
Is the snap of festering banknotes
In the mindless mad heartless pit of villainy
Where the rat-tat-tat soggy bank instruments sit
By the big thugs who once had big brains now gone bad
Picking apart whatever strand of harmony that once existed.
Brutal beasts nourished on Satan’s nippled t.ts
Goons made to kill by Wall Street witches’ clever tricks
Not clubbing baby seals in the basement
But fresh melodies made for lullabies by angels
Now cut up into dissent chunks for stew
By the money addicts directing the kitchen’s brew
While donkeys driven by carrot scented whips of cash
Haul in with brain deadening music of depraved minds the trash
Moulded into regimental rows of selfless meatballs
Defiled and self-mutilating masochists
Flushed down into the trash bin to be shredded
By the money machine with its killer appetite
Churning and churning night after night
In the shadows of its infinite emptiness
Blackened noise trying to keep death away.
There is no end to it.
Love is an authority.
It dictates choice and consequence
and joins together all the wayward lamenters
who grieve at their loss of purity.
Love is an actuality.
It breathes new life into masochists
who wished to die a thousand times over
and prey upon the weak and fragile.
When you let love in at first, it may seem out of place,
like a foreign object lodged in your chest, a parasite
feeding on the brains of its host, thriving in darkness,
blood-letting leeches drain this swollen heart...
But love does not enforce kindness; only offers a gentle reminder
for anyone who's forgotten how great it feels
to give for the sake of giving
and not be afraid of his own shadow.
("Untitled - The Eye of Jihad", 2019, original encaustic)
Love is Love - and other absurd truisms
“Love is love” is like “Follow your bliss”
a way to deflect the moral agency
and subsequent consequence of our desires
with vague equivalency.
It’s like all love and bliss is somehow equal,
which is absurd.
What if my bliss comes from destroying yours?
Or I love abducting, raping, slicing and dicing
then barbecuing
the infant you love…?
Where is the moral equivalence?
This is why the Golden Rule sounds great
up until you are up against a masochist.
And the world today is apparently filled with masochists.
But it’s all good…
At least it feels good,
to think we are all the same, all equal
in what we love and cherish.
The truth is we aren’t.
We may all be made of the same dust,
but that doesn’t make us equal.
Meanwhile the world turns,
a hit soap-opera
in its nth season
spinning relentlessly
a veritable Wall of Death
which in its shocking extreme
delivers some kind of perverse pleasure.
It may not be bliss,
or even what we love,
but it’s certainly captivating.
(11/1/23)
There's gonna be a Freaker's Ball,
tonight at the Freaker's Hall.
Everyone's invited one and all,
so come on ladies grease your lips
grab your hats and swing your hips
and don't forget to bring your whips.
I'll take you to the Freaker's Ball.
Blow your whistle, bang your gong,
roll up something to take along.
It feels so good it must be wrong.
Freaking at the Freaker's Ball.
All the fags and the dikes are boogying together.
Leather freaks are dressed in all kinds of leather.
The greatest of the sadists and the masochists too
screaming "Please hit me and I'll hit you!"
The FBI is dancing with the junkies
and all of the straights are swinging with the funkies
across the dance floor and bouncing off the walls.
We're all freaking at the Freaker's Ball.
Hard hats and long hairs are kissing each other,
mother with daughter, son with mother.
Smear my body up with butter
and take me to the Freaker's Ball.
Pass that roach and pour the wine.
I'll kiss yours if you'll kiss mine.
I'm a gonna boogie till I go blind
freaking at the Freaker's Ball.
Crying
Fix the damn house
She done
Paid to me
Ain’t gonna happen
When rent come?
Please don’t drag the pope across the
Carpet irish boy
Nana
He lying
Born military
Gonna die military?
Email a senator
Rejected by electricity
Suffer disgust
While Americans die
In poverty
Free speech from there
Doesn’t eclipse
Guarantee of unapproachable
Red tape
She’s sold
In the molded
Masochists lens
Her told
Isn’t the curious benign
On the frame
Her busty leers
Can she blame
Back inside her encyclopedia of
Money
The costly renting
Community
Centers far out
Over abandon
She’s reliant
Got abbreviate
No fun in the front
Haunts of runt onions
Inside of heartless women
These is a newsless people
Know vermin
How about out loud
The bystanders
Leaving her in predicament
Bonds
Plagered still fun
Nothing but notice paper
Sequestered another time mommy
Machine
Holstering significant beauty
Bandidas
Local feline populations
Is constantly strangled
In upholstery lining
All remaining astrological
Assemblies of alter girls
Tend to skip and bounce
Neander region
One and all
On board salute
Farewell Misspelling is horrid
Out of hindsight
The meaningless
Plummet
Un find the meaning
We’ll not
Lose another
I have
Sundered the cause
Lept the harps
Disgraced against
The masters
Creating
Abominations stains
Here
I
Leave you
To unlearn
What?
This is you best
At times when life seems full of ****
and you are growing tired of it,
when joy's been torn from out your soul
and left you feeling far from whole.
It's then that you, and you alone
can find another pathway home,
forget the hand that you've been dealt
and all life's blows below the belt.
Take all the misery and pain
and change it into lifelong gain,
Just like masochists all do,
laugh at those who would hurt you.
For they're not worthy of your kind
don't ever let them bend your mind,
if only bad things pave your way
don't let just 'luck' control your day.
The new pathways, that you’ll then take,
should bring forth laughter from heartache.
For this is how life's battle's won,
through all life's pains…still have some fun!
Ivor G Davies