Long Noisome Poems
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(In a 19th-century legal judgment studied by all who
learn the English common law, Sturges v. Bridgeman,
the court found in favour of a "nice" doctor over a
"common" manufacturer, for reasons of pure snobbery.)
The Candyman Can’t
Some legal battles have the power to thrill,
while others never have, and never will.
Some touch on human themes which really matter,
and some do not. We’re dealing with the latter.
This present case is hardly OJ Simpson:
it lacks dramatic shape, and simply limps on
listlessly, with abstruse reasoning,
no sex or violence to give it seasoning.
One Mister Bridgman manufactures sweets,
in premises where Wigmore crosses/meets
its neighbour, Wimpole. Eighteen seventy-nine
of our salvation, two lives intertwine
when Doctor Sturges takes consulting rooms
around the corner. Disagreement looms,
for Bridgman’s grinding, pounding candy line’s
destroying Sturges’ peace, fragging his mind.
The law of nuisance really is quite funny.
It says, “he did you harm? Well, here’s some money”.
What if you’d rather dodge the damage, and
defer the dollars? How to countermand
the duty-breach-then-damages regime?
Suppose we interpose a better scheme?
Instead of “you must suffer, he must pay”,
we stop the harm? The problem goes away!
This ruse is known as “equity”. It functions
by granting prior relief (they’re called injunctions).
So Sturges stemmed stentorian sweetie sounds
by order of the court, and Bridgman found
his business gagged and bound by hoops of steel,
for no good reason. What to do? Appeal!
(For thus advise the lawyers. Such affairs
drag on for years. The lawyers? They get theirs!)
Said Bridgman: “I’ve been cranking out jujubes
for decades now. It’s all gone down the tubes
because some quack dislikes the earnest hum
of my devices. Why, then, did he come
to Wimpole Street? He wants tranquility?
Go hang his shingle in Highgate Cemetery!
I have a remedy for Doctor Sturges:
it’s swallowing his antimony purges!”
But Bridgman lost. One cannot help but feel
that making toffee wasn’t quite genteel
enough. Their Lordships said behaviour
that’s unacceptable around Belgravia
can find a home in Bermondsey. The latter
has lots of lowly types. It doesn’t matter
if they have noisome noise, and have to live
in filthy fumes – for they’re not sensitive.
It's all imaginary
it's all real
it's all ephemeral
all eternal
every little gesture
every racing emotion
every breathless whisper
every dark and mystical room
overflowing with night air and moonlight
nothing is ever lost
truth is what is not forgotten
suffering, we learn
learning is remembering
the pain you give me
brings me back to myself
and I remember
who and what I was
before I had eyes or ears or even chloroplasts
the symbol on my hand is changing
on fire
like all of gleaming reality itself
the pearl of price which blinds the impoverished merchants
who wander naked and lost
hawking all their wares on every noisome corner
the fire is all consuming
all sanctifying
all purifying
all changing
all revealing
I am in the fire
and in the fire, all is holy
and every last thing is eternally in flames (even the merchants)
and sleep is the great activity
and death is a dear friend
who betrays with one kiss
but whose betrayal is love incarnate
I am one
with my many selves
and though I may be above you
you hear my voice
you fumble after the meaning until it finds you
I am
the light bursting out of a broken lantern
the diamond with an infinite number of perfect cuts
the voice crying milk and honey into the wilderness
the children's song that flies above the lamentation up on the desert plane
the melody that found its way into your equations
the dream that startles you wide awake
the life that pulsates in decay and corruption
the happily ever after horror story
I am
the unstoppable force
that meets the immovable object
and the result is nothing
nothing but the purest, clearest light
that has never entered the mind
take heart, my love
the raging storms of your own neurochemical electricity
will give birth to their own silence
all thought is designed to produce its own resounding negation
all speech is born to fade beautifully
all music is played until it is over
and it's closing time
and the bars empty
and the streets grow silent and still under the street lights
and the last enemy, who you fear with the Great Fear
unmasks herself, a friend and a lover
The Lover of lovers
and trembling
you fall forever into her holy and erotic embrace
MY CLOUD by JOHN G. LAWLESS
I don’t remember asking…..
yet I am still hearing a babbling brook
of mindless chatter rolling pebbles
through my ears and across my mind.
Noisome, acridly scented, sounds,
a Charlie Brown like… wah–wah-wah
droning in the background of my life.
“You can’t say that!” “It might offend
somebody – somewhere – someday.”
“How can you even think that way??!!!”
“Don’t you care how other people feel?”
“Do you have any feelings at all for them?”
“You can’t do THAT!” “WHAT WILL
PEOPLE THINK!” “ Didn’t you see that sign?”
“Why can’t you just follow instructions, do
what you’re told, believe that we are right,
that WE know what is best for you?”
“If you ate less there would be more food
to feed the hungry.”(Yeah but then I’d be hungry.)
“If you drove less there would be more fuel
for others to burn and fewer emissions.”
(How the hell does that work???)
“If you would only follow all the shoulds
and musts then you’d know the reasons
why you should entrust the future of the
planet, the diet of your kids, to those of
us entitled to pry off freedom’s lids.”
“Every voice is equal when every voice
is heard.” (That could be said of cows
and sheep and noise within the herd.)
“What is it that you want?”, they ask
in obvious disdain and shudder when
I mention my First Amendment claim.
I wish that those who speak their minds
would allow me to do the same without
their constant reprimand “that I should
be ashamed”. When I speak, and write, and
act in a manner that I choose, I shouldn’t
be belittled by the puppets of the fools.
I do not need the politics of food, sex,
and lies, nor special interest groups that
see only through “their” eyes. I cannot
be an island, so I choose to be a cloud -
sit above the melee of “their” ever
spreading shroud. Therefore, the
conversations may be ended by
a verse, a substantial update
from the “islands” brutal curse
as I, in karaoke style, sing a
sixties refrain aloud:
HEY! HEY! YOU! YOU!
GET OFFA MY CLOUD!!**
**The Rolling Stones – Get off of My Cloud(1965)
John G. Lawless
5/30/2015
haint gonna mock ridiculous science
asper to be bled
dark practices to leech out mailer daemons,
not so laughable nor in cred
double, when oppressed diabolical dread
oompah loompah fealty l'chaim fled
as hand grenades explode within my head
mettlesome monsters
make mercuric chrome dome feel like a led
zeppelin with fractured stairway to heaven in stead...
delivers me zombies, where angels fear to tread
cuz, the devil and psyche did wed
shotgun Swedish crow did house mafia style
wrenched, wrested wretched
mental state most intense (no croc) dial
shattered, slewed, splintered sanity,
thus practitioner with "FAKE" know how aisle
apprentice Aunt Roadie,
who will skewer me evil spirits den da deuce
till I beak home one sacrificed overly cooked goose
a burnt offering shish kabob
no longer able to raise cane on the loose
like a red bull
rocky on the shoals of a frantically angry moose
livid with rage
(akin to diary of mad a housewife)
entropy written, where death will be only truce
pyromaniac qua ramshackle shanty (tinderbox)
unleashes wicked zeal
hellacious incendiary juiced ride
up plies noisome rubbery odor,
sans hot wheel
along the outer limits of functionality explosions
precipitate like drops of molten steel
routing hunger, searing nostrils,
tearing tenuous fragile tethered tendrils
self cannibalizing via tooth and nine inch nail
linkedin with nauseousness as thine meal
exemplary asper full blown panic attack
lodged within mine genetic
blooper imprinted within
threaded helical deoxyribonucleic acid deal
like a thunderbolt out of the blue
sympathetic nervous system
thrust in high gear with no warning and/or clue
finding spouse helpless asper what to do.
Mea Culpa, but I Plead not Guilty.
Safe at home,
it was an ordinary day.
I was on PoetrySoup,
reading poems, page by page.
And then, the house shook,
I ran outside,
and to my surprise a light,
shining down from the sky,
lifted me off the grass.
Darkness
is all I remember next,
no couch, no text.
And then a Vogon voice
cooing in the black
uttered syllables full of malice
sending shivers down my back:
“Vogon Voigon, Vogon Voigon, Diip’L Diip’L Space
Goyn’gone, noi escase ynda Diip’L Space
Fingletipslytch, noilbedrytch, brub brub brub
Vogon Voigon, Vogon Voigon, Diip’L Diip’L Space
k’Rrak-tothruut, hutdryl-buz riz riz riz
moiff-braq, braq guud, shreemy ynda Diip’L Diip’L Space
Vogon Voigon, Vogon Voigon, Goyn’gone Goyn’
gentle-nittle
gentle-nittle
expoi
expoi
noi escase”
I needn’t state my fear to you,
nor how my heart turned cold.
I’m sure you understand
how the Vogon stirred my soul,
blended it.
I tried to stay resolute
insouciant to the Vogon’s noisome use
of minatory morphemes, but
I felt them creep in,
crepuscular,
prowling the twilight of my consciousness,
their vowels
staring at me like eyes.
The Vogon vowels, Vogon vowels, Vogon vowels.
I tried to shut my ears,
tried not to hear
the rhadamanthine trenchant chant,
but my wrists held fast in adamantine bonds,
my ears as unreachable as acnestis.
My thoughts,
my words,
were blurring,
becoming more obscure.
My paranoia pulsed
as my metanoia pushed,
my will to resist seeming fatuous,
as I slowly succumbed to a meretricious delight
in the vile Vogon’s exerable verse.
I would like to tell you that I escaped,
for I am back at home,
on my couch
writing poems, but
there is noi escase
noi escase
noi escase
from the Diip’L Diip’L Space
February 9, 2025
Vogon Poetry Contest, sponsor: Sotto Poet
Death of The Half Monkey King ( for my friend Neil Lloyd )
Cave men half human monkeys
Sat gibbering and snarling
Perched all around his garden wall
Bestial vandals waving sticks and spears
Pointing angry at their own reflections
Fingering him as hidden
He peered nervous through his dark dim kitchen window
One of the brutals held a stake
And to crude spike was thrust
The rough severed golden crowned head
Of the Half Monkey King
Hawked on high
As if to salute a battle cry
The cave men humanoids
Squawked and raged their threatening
From the ledge of his garden wall
“My first thoughts were of escape” he said
“But then NO ! I’ll go out
“chase them away
“do battle
“if I have to.”
And so grabbing his own ready stick
He ran out challenging
Shouting and yelling
Out into the thick of them all
Surprised confused these monkey android animals
Retreated and ran their cadre
Running off up the back alley way
And so slinging on his back
Another ready sack filled weapons
And other assorted machine guns
He gave to the chase
To hunt these noisome villains down
“RUN ! RUN ! From the Monkeys
“HIDE ! GO HOME !” he yelled through the streets
and loaded his riffle as he went
hunting until he found them
a gathered coercion of a crowd
he shot one
just one
as it was edged on by its cohorts
the brute made a dash screaming its madness
only to meet the quick controlled shot
The others all fled
And then he woke up
And then in waking
With the strangest thing he thought
Heard from out his bedroom window
A muffled snarling
Caught him drawing back the curtain
To see about his garden wall perching
A thousand cave human half monkeys
Gathered and sitting quietly
Patiently waiting
While awkwardly passing
A rough golden crown amongst them
Feint faint "Fake" no nor'easter
If putsch comes to shove,
aye ain't no doggone fraidy cat
nor chicken little
fearing coup d'état,
yours truly simply
risk averse, and more exact,
he stays sequestered
within these four walls,
cuz tis safest inside this flat
always... mein kampf,
I remember when fertilization begat
after nine months in utero...
ah dat womb dar full habitat
i.e. uterus cradled humanity, whereat
teeming bajillions primates
peopling planet Earth
couples made lovey dovey after spat
(which species among
other flotsam and jetsam),
got shot out (think) analogous
muzzle loaded gat
excellent marksman aimed
then squirted packed heat hot
as summer temperature
gets within Gujarat
recorded courtesy, thee
oldest functioning thermostat,
albeit microcosmic primordial vat
testy sea men don
(May comb hairy
gah great again) conical hat.
I surmise proto humans
especially storied hall
(conjured in Peer Gynt
by Edvard Grieg
of mountain king)
trumpeted, tooted thwacked,
and announced presence
courtesy posterior primal mating call,
which vibrant cheekiness heard all
around the mulberry bush to Gaul
hmm... maybe e'en hot air
inspired Marc Chagall,
while sitting atop porcelain throne,
nonetheless scandalous
rectal blasts methinks help explain fall
of Rome, whereby noxious
generated silent but deadly nauseating
noisome pall mall
felled friend and foe alike
analogous on minuscule
scale to Chernobyl
level 7 nuclear accident
also linkedin, when
Polar Vortex doth stall
across avast swath planet Earth
forcing quick thinkers to marshall,
what (mathers) matters
such as... antique pinball
machines worth a mint,
a to install.
"(The Word of God…) More to be desired are they than gold, yea, than much fine gold: sweeter also than honey and the honeycomb.”
Psalm 19:7-11 KJV
“…There is a natural body, and there is a spiritual body.”
1 Corinthians 15:42-44 KJV
Which do we feed more, the flesh or the spirit?
Psalm 19:14 "Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in Your sight, oh Lord, my strength and redeemer. "
* When I meditate on this passage of scripture, I think of how we can make our words and thoughts acceptable in God's sight. He always provides a way, an answer, to the "how's" and "why's". So reading back a few verses I noticed the metaphor he uses of the word being sweeter than honey. What we put into our bodies, our minds, is what will come forth when we speak. Filth in, filth out. Goodness in, goodness out. ~C.Woods
Hunger pierces my bowels like a sharp splinter.
I am dry, used up, broken.
Unbidden, he comes to me with ripe fruit that fills my senses. Greedily, I reach out to take with both hands, bruising the flesh. With teeth I rip and tear.
Bile fills my mouth with the noisome stink and rancid taste of rot. From my lips I spit vile hatred, lies and filth.
I faint, unsatisfied, teased and tortured.
I plead with the One who promises life everlasting!
He holds my head up and feeds me honey from his own hand, gently, tenderly…Sweet and thick with sustenance and health to my bones.
A beautiful revival! An awakening that mortifies my flesh and strengthens my Spirit in just one taste.
New vigor fills me with glories before unknown and I stand to sing of beauty, love and truth!
The need to escape is truly vast
Usually from memories of the past
Or a hungry need to get away
From harsh happenings of today
It's not so hard to make that choice
When heart pain smothers your silent voice
Others around you sweetly dreaming
While your soul is endlessly screaming
Do you know what it's like to be me?
When your life's been so trouble free
Who are you to be my judge?
Don't give me that self-righteous nudge
I don't need your futile sympathy
Unless you mean to set me free
But you can't understand my mind
And so to me you are totally blind
You judge me as an absolute nutter
When you see me slumped in the gutter
You don't know that it's where I choose
Drugs the only way out of life sick blues
Find me an answer and I will follow
Give a ladder out of slimy hollow
But I know you don't have a way out
And my sanity you'll always doubt
I would rather sink in this noisome hole
Than face a world with spirit not whole
You think the devil has become my friend
But I chose this as a means to an end
An end to the pain you can never understand
And so I could never be a part of your band
You don't want to hear my trumpet blowing
Or the truth that I'm openly showing
You just hide in your shell
And pretend all is well
From troubled people like me
You quickly turn and flee
I give your world an ugly display
So you loathe me being here in your way
Because you can't help but see me here
That instils in you such rageful fear
If only you could understand
Instead of rejection just take my hand
And show me what I'm truly worth
Give me a reason to stay on this earth.
The Balking Mire of Fanghandrath
‘Twas late when the misted veils
Suck and drew
‘pon the reeking fetters of claxon screams
Wailing echoed dismal to
Too late for lantern to pick a path
In the trickster passages
Of the boggish marsh
The Balking Mires of Fanghandrath
Where ‘oer the shake-ed sheaves domain
The Shadow Hunter was know to claim
The souls of less fortune given men
Or the eyes of the innocent
Aye ! They told the story well
Should the hunter of shadows
‘pon your path befall
would devour all in The Balking Mires of Fanghandrath
But needs must some they need
To prove their bravery
Of foolish men never seen again
Returning from the trickster paths of Fanghandrath
Of one such a man who’s courage by beer
Was made stalwart young and without fear
Through the haunted waste he dared to travel
When the misted veils suck and drew
Not yet half way there before the chill ate his bones
And from the rear the rushing fear
Did The Shadow Hunter draw ‘pon his heart
In noisome fog the Rake appeared
Too far to hear the sounds of screams
Too lost in the mazes of dead beaten reeds
To mouth-less to utter a prayer
And beseech the fate of balking mires
No wind it was the laugh, the laugh of Fanghandrath
The hunger of its desolate seed
To feed ‘pon the soul
Of innocent and less fortune given men
‘Twas not till dawn when he reached the rim
Ashen grey his youth had gone
And no shadow did he cast in morning sun
No shadows fall on The Balking Mires of Fanghandrath