Long Mucked Poems
Long Mucked Poems. Below are the most popular long Mucked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mucked poems by poem length and keyword.
Erroneous mirror scatters his face
Mills his skin into thin porous powder
Muck which gets stuck under tongue in a paste
Mouth stuffed with rubble cement rancid sour
Embalmed motorbike tennage champion
Mist cobwebs in his chest, windless clothesline
Murdered dreams dumped, tight vertibre cramp them
Measure of failure in winnings' decline
Engine never to rev segments ego
Mourning whip lashes languish in his lungs
Molten moon drips millions he forgoes
Mortality unknown among airborne young
Moonbeam diamonds stall, star status dements
Ebb of ignition rides midnight lament
Sixteen year old Hero, Matty
Proceeding further voids the non-existent warranty on your sanity remaining intact afterwards.
I feel like a shred of confetti
Anchored by cotton knotted
To a strong, steel chain
Fused with a great grain of pain
Cast in a vast castles grave
Of felled shells, long dead
Whose bones become my bed.
I really, really must confess
I use better bones for my bread
I really must confess
That bread is not the best.
I really feel like screaming
As my clenched cheeks cling
To a complicated thing
Effervescing
From my minds twisted guts
Into incontinent pants
I imagine I’m wearing.
I really, really must confess
My mind's become one mucked-up mess!
I really must confess
This mess does not smell the best.
I don’t sleep in sand beds
Or soil shorts made of thoughts
But my baking is to die for
So sign here before you taste
These sweet and sour soul cakes
Whose recipe of joy and dread
Imparts more bang than bone bread!
I really, really must confess
I love my minds mad caress
I really must confess
Its caress feels senseless.
If symptoms persist, please consult the appropriate health care provider.
We (the missus and I) kvell for Katz TOASTER PASTRIES!
I prefer to craft a poem
for no rhyme nor reason
expressing heartfelt pleasure
to our highly refined palate
versus presenting tasty, yummy
and zesty nutritious snacks
exuberant feedback courtesy Tik Tok.
Aside from harkening from Semitic stock
me and the missus
relish those (Katz) gluten free pastries
they give us the oomph to rock
and similar to powder milk biscuits
give us strength to do what needs to be done.
Though no intention to mock
popular Pop-Tarts
(stylized as pop•tarts),
an American brand of toaster pastries
produced and distributed by Kellanova
(formerly Kellogg's) since 1964,
which consist of a sweet filling
sealed inside two layers of thin,
rectangular pastry crust.
In 2006, Mrs Katz decided
to transform the world
of gluten free snacking
for her celiac children.
Eighteen years later,
she retains firm stronghold
courtesy word of mouth watering
salivating (videlicet) Pavlovian
salutary, masterly, hardy,
deliciously crafted wholesome food
clinching dominant market share
analogous to stronghold ala deadbolt lock,
a recipe distributors attempt
to steal by hook or crook,
yet unable to break down fortified doors
after they loudly knock
on one occasion
holding the bakers on their break hostage
pointing culinary harmless
imitation edible Glock,
nevertheless drawing attention
of media camera crews that flock
for breaking shipping news
that harbor standoff
with quasi narco traffickers,
intent to rebrand and sell
Katz TOASTER PASTRIES
as mucked up poor quality dogs treats,
where special op forces
heavily guard the dock
maintaining vigilance around the clock,
to prevent goods held as contrabands
and subject pastry chefs to intense torture
forcing unsung heros
to stay awake 24/7 blindfolded,
so as not to see miscreants,
where ingredients of goodies
sniffed, sifted, and scrutinized
by sophisticated chemical analysis,
and thus I now conclude
contrived fictitious poetic scenario
to share such helpful feedback
in a little ditty composed ad hoc
can boost sales for your company.
by: matthew scott harris
So when the webbed-tide snares the lunars nether recesses in its glow casting shadows that arise among the craggs wedged beside some cliffs of common confirmed debris of the unnamed fallen heaps of mucked mired forgottned decay of worthless grime not meriting the struggles of a just reclaim promptly caused to fester including the residue of the reprehensibles whose lacking morals that from some particular decedent, intrusive spirit of Ne'ermere that steer souls to the steppes of the moors, where thou commands those hounds that wish to sever your sensitive skins and drain your spirit waters down that moat where your convictions will spark a lifetime of despair, honors the ambling of the blood moon of its wayward course of trailed afflictions that you wished and begged for death's swift visit for the determined inklings inscribed on petals of the columbine and their guarded secrets, steeped in the devil's brew of stirred concoctions meant for the hags of Ne'ermere and the warlocks of destruction and mayhem who pounces playfully on their prey of the misguided who are filled with disillusioned words that are as hollow as you, e'er stretching the imaginative liquified existence exposing a mirage of iniquities galvanizing its hold of treasured happenstance of certainties lost, fulfills a page of the intrepid who is but a shimmer presenting hope a hand of salvation gathered up in a smotherance and they'll all flicker away, anointing souls spared the vacuum of insignificance for doomsday is here bridging the channeled souls in their mortal state of decay of their tenous grasp of withered mass of fiberous veins where remnants of vigourous life succumbs to their true demise of the incredibly hideous and the indescribable now in the passage way between dying and death of their heinous acts of torturous screams bellowing throughout the chamberous pits of the unwanted dead where the lame, mute, and deaf search the living dead for their body parts, of severed limbs, eyes that hang out of the eyesockets, the unjointed tendons that flay about ever so freely, stenched air that festers while not only choking of whatever remians, seemingly an act of deceny, bestowing on the residue of assemblage from the former occupant, might be afforded an instantaneous journey into the sunrise of the...everlacking.
2019 September 18
O The Pestilence ripens in the fields
as pest harvests the shops and till
Harvesting of diminished yields
To !REAL CONSPIRACY!
Sovereignty-PIRACY, tips the scales of justice,
feilty, unity, irony
A question mark with its answer
Written on the wall with pen of blood
and filth of ashened wills
and cheaply boughten thrills
Civil Wars and silencing to seal the deal
O Self Righteous Mew Martyred Lost
unto
Dragons breath, and the
Crows counting the cost
Line by line
into perdition we go
Design upon design our Statement
of Mission creep O Ord
Bony fingers, Blood Drawing Board
Like Moths to a drain
Of
Energy
Of misconceived pipings; O synergy;
creams never veined
Of suave salves,
dealings of those that have only vain,
not the have nots but
Hearth-wicked flames
Unwritten names
half hooved of Thoth-Baphomet and the
Long-Toothed of his stage
The storm born, they,
Catching mud in your eye
Rebirthed, stalled, aborted by skanky sway,
mucked dry
Are we rebirthed anew, awry
Eating our own tale of condensation
A trail of compensation trys
O The Pestilence ripens in the fields
as pest harvests the till
of diminished yields
To !REAL CONSPIRACY!
tipping the scales of justice,
feilty
The Treacherous Dealer deals Treacherously
Swat at your reality again,
Shew it away, once upon a dream
Fly off the handle,
do not debate rationality
Buzz in the garbage of backalley deeds,
lift up your back wings
Carrion to 1984 vid-19
Green screen
transitioning-to the scheme
Tampered, temper in lock step fashion
"we won't remember"
Country by Country,
seamless as its been, lock, stock and barrel
full of fun, funk, funking, really?!
SINS
O Unanimous consent!
Magnanimous, calamitous,
NO surrender NO repent!
He'd come west back in forty-nine,
three long years had passed since that time,
and still he mucked 'bout rivers cold,
with pan and shovel, seeking gold.
Fa away from Sutter's Mill,
he'd staked a claim below this hill,
a bit far from the beaten track,
the others said that brains he lacked.
But he continued at his task,
the well-known streams had gone bust fast,
so he'd chosen to go afar,
out here with cougars, grizzlly bars.
They saw honest work hurts no man,
so he shovelled dirt in the pan,
and when he found no golden gleam
methodically he moved up stream.
The sun was up, it was near noon,
the heat of it could cause a swoon,
he though it time to stop for lunch,
but kept going, he had a hunch.
So he shoveled in some more dirt,
with stream water began to work,
mud washed away, and he did find
six flakes that brightly yellow shined.
Like that all thought of food was gone,
the prospector dug on and on,
he did not tire, he did not flag,
thirty flakes soon in his poke bag.
When the sun started getting low
he took his shovel, gear to stow,
planning to head back to his camp,
when from the woods out stepped a tramp.
His clothes were rough, his face unshaven,
he features vicious, young of ago,
a hardened man, raw-boned and tall,
held a revolver, cap-and-ball.
“All that gold that you found today...
take that poke bag, toss it this way--”
Then silenced by a mighty blow,
the shovel had been swiftly thrown!
The 49er, frantically,
has struck and knocked out half his teeth!
The tramp fell right there to the ground,
as prospector's boot heel rained down.
First came a sickening cry,
then muffled screams as the tramp died,
the 49er soon collapsed,
his panicked breath still coming fast.
He took the time to wipe back tears,
his reason burning through the fear,
he had been well within his rights,
but still...he'd killed a man this night.
He rolled the corpse into the flow,
the current took it far below.
Tossed all that night, he couldn't sleep,
thinking on life, twas so damn cheap.
That one would kill you for a rock...
but in the end, when he took stock,
when did life not bring with it pain?
He would stay and defend his claim.
I don’t write this for feed back or reaction
as it's not my need too feel satisfaction
I haven't invested nor look to progress
I'm just restless with rhymes ink press
them to an instrumental that's all
not a fool seeking approval to go professional
I don’t see or hear responses
your thoughts are not on my conscience
I dont care if you hate it or like it
it's all cheese to me grated or sliced bits
tastes the same on pizzas after ovens melt it
just a dried up felt tip impolitely
drawing on the wall your boring common ite-ey
the world gave me a crippling anxiety
which has removed me from society
if you want to see me act uncomfortably
all you need is to say a compliment to me
Cus me and you are completely apart
you need them while I stay apart
I'm just messing because technology is at hand
but I'm sure this pastime is hard to understand
I sit at home writing for therapy
spared a want to care what they think of me
Everyday alone blind never lose a blink of sleep
opinions they pin on me stay unseeked
I just ink in my seat to sooth my heartbeat
so you’re a fool if you think it’s done for approval
I ain’t like you I ain’t usual
so to think I want feed back
when I dont need that
if given an elevated social status
I'd evacuate free to a place more spacious
however to the 2 faces who were loyal undoubtedly
but quick to doubt and skip out on me, skidaddle
once a friend revealed as a traitor
see you later mate aint worth hating
I've awakened to truth stated
plus your company's overrated
so don't come with me or after
after friendship breaking cus if I'm not mistaken
you said to everyone I make up stories
the blagger of Bath known for blagging bad on the ordinary
blagging like a bag carries baguettes in France
saying I'm mentally unstable while you compulsively lie
and I've quit chronic while you're still on it daily
5 years ago I quit yet I'm bonkers well maybe
yet plonkers believe how you describe me so clearly
I'll never forgive you for saying I make things up
we were like family and you totally mucked it up
Delete Fear and Dance
(Ode to Joy)
Many fear-mongers met at Marseilles!
To make sure all nations shook in dismay.
They used Covid for their piece de resistance display.
Schools, shops, towns all closed down.
A bunch of morons masked us, like idiot clowns.
We fools bought it all, and so now everyone frowns!
Sane people knew the score, they were not buying it anymore.
Tyrants were jailed behind doors, when people thankfully knew the score.
Grandparents are not left alone to rot.
We had enough of Fauci, masks, vaccines and elected snots.
People lived normally as before.
Masks became an international joke.
Just like those life killers from Marseilles~ top idiot pokes!
They even used Covid to ruin one national election?
But truth overcame, that mucked up idiotic, demented selection!
The Land of Dominion shall never be in the land of the free.
Health, happiness, hope was their pleasure and ultimate, joyful, destiny!
11/29/202O
2:45 am
Joe The Plumber announced he was runnin' fer Congress the other day!
Congratulations, Joe! You the man! Fer you I shout, "Hooray!"
Tell 'em like it is as you did with Obama - show 'em you won't be outdone!
And, Joe, take yer plumbers' kit - you'll need it to repair the damage done!
Include screwdrivers to tighten the screws on higher taxes and spendin',
And yer biggest wrench to shut off the flow of governmental lendin'!
Take yer solderin' arn so as to solidify warm relationships with yer peers,
And a pipe cutter to cut off zany filibusterin' that is tiresome to yer ears!
You'll need a hundred rolls of duct tape to stem the flow of inane babble,
And gallons of Liquid Plummer to unclog the stalemate of that useless rabble!
A good pipe wrench will come in handy to tighten the discipline in that 'joint',
And a twelve-foot stepladder to rise above that rotten mob to make yer point!
Joe, show 'em what real 'change' is meant to be with a new 'shower' of hope!
Flush political correctness down the john that's gotten us on this slippery slope!
Be sure to take yer roto-rooter and clean the sewer that is Washington, DC!
Use yer most powerful hose to flush the whole mucked-up mess out to sea!
Robert L. Hinshaw,CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
I truly can't believe what I am really seeing.
In the shadow darkness is there a shadowed being.
Open my eyes as wide as can be, to illuminate the night.
Questioning my wavered sanity, which brings up this fight.
Is what I hear from something near, a real like human voice?
I listen in when it begins, I no longer have a choice.
I can clearly hear within my own open ears.
Pushing on my thoughts, consuming intruding fears.
If I ever catch it in the act, this fu*ker shadow that won't move an inch.
When I watch, wait and listen, my jaws they begin to tightly clench.
But deep within my mind, I know the difference of, that in which I question.
Cause in reality and in daylight I realize it's of my own invention.
I need to regain control,
Take the pills that let me know.
That its all in my head.
But it always forms itself when I'm lying in bed.
I know I heard it aloud and clear, exactly what it spoke.
The fact that I am schizo, even without the puddled choke.
It's all so mucked up, these voices sound exactly like someone I heard before.
Almost like a few of my close friends, speaking beyond a closed door.
Talking about things in demeaning words, a conversation that has intention.
But I question the reality of the whole thing, cause I know it's my dementia reflection.
I shouldn't contemplate the silence within my mind.
Cause each time I drift off in a daze, that's when I will find.
That these voices of the internal realm.
Are really just me behind the helm.
Dwell on a spell, I fell in a well, the bell wrung in hell, so I sail with ale, and smell this tale, Then tell this to quell, and as always prevail, prevail, prevail.