Long Perverse Poems
Long Perverse Poems. Below are the most popular long Perverse by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Perverse poems by poem length and keyword.
What started as a slow tumble has slowly picked up speed
For with every new rumble people still don't see the need
Further and further we go and now with so little restraint
So little truth do they know only what the media will paint
The lower and lower it gets and the further we are from God
With what this always begets the masses will still find it odd
As down we continue to fall like bouncing from side to side
So unable to hear Gods Call for no ones knows how to abide
Only the abyss lying ahead unless you are unaware of history
And all the perils of the misled as in you that's what I oft see
So far away from the top as things only started getting worse
Something no one is able to stop in now becoming so perverse
Man has continuously failed, this last time will be no different
Against God they've always railed as with His Son He has sent
And as that bottom so quickly nears not nearly one is prepared
A bottom so filled with tears and all the people who never cared
Isaiah 8:15
And many among them shall stumble, and fall,
and be broken, and be snared, and be taken.
Depression grasps hold of her heart
Joy she never will be able to impart
Her head is aching – she is breaking
Where will relief be found?
In some other town?
Wait for the words that come alive
When reading from the word that will revive
His word will lift you up
Overflow your empty cup
Take it and let it move your soul
Addiction holds his happiness down
He can only curse with a frown
His life is going worse- he is perverse
How will he ever know truth?
Is it because he is a youth?
Wait for the words that come alive
When reading from the word that will revive
His word will lift you up
Overflow your empty cup
Take it and let it move your soul
Grief has taken over their life
Their only hope is filled with strife
They feel their mind quaking
Is a heart slowly breaking?
They are shaking.
The Bible will answer their questions
It is filled with God’s blessings
For overcoming the greatest trials
And learning what brings smiles
It is a lesson on leaning on the Lamb
Jesus is always the very best I AM
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass had never learned to cope;
once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope.
She fled the curse of worlds perverse by shooting shots of dope,
and stalked discreet’ Asylum Street her daily horoscope.
The stray was struck by passing truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire
(born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire)
for no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
though faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, unwed, her soul stained red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
(the twisted grin seemed dark and thin behind the robed façade).
“She’ll burn in hell with sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
(Immediately after being found "guilty"
of denying that the earth was stationary
and the sun orbited around it, Galileo
said, "Eppur si muove!" [But it moves!])
It's hard to live in Lilliput, I find.
I have to cross my fingers, play their game.
Their billing, filling, drilling daily grind
sits ill with me. They all trot out the same
tired cliches. Passing a painting, never fail
to comment on the squareness of the frame.
Unprofitable, weary, flat and stale.
You can't earn prizes here. These fools prize earning.
No sweets to eat. It's one long dreary tale
of condemnation, disapproval, spurning.
The Sunday supplements determine taste,
all tearing down, forbidding, banning, burning.
They're sealed in heavy metal, concrete-cased
austerity. They put the "die" in "diet".
What will survive of them is nuclear waste.
Denounce, detract, dismiss it and deny it.
Don't look for clover - look for cloven hooves.
Excoriate it, flay it, vilify it.
They'd love to let life lurch along in grooves,
the gauche, perverse, unruly human mind
trapped tidily in aspic. But it moves.
Now, you may wonder why I urinate on my toes
But I know the cure when thrust in pain’s throes
After bare footing on a beach of golden sand
And accidentally treading on a jellyfish’s band.
The sting is sharp and the pain so very intense
You hop around with one foot a swollen immense
You want relief as fast as you can get it
Pull down your pants and start to wet it.
I know this sounds gross and a little perverse
The longer you wait, the pain just grows worse
The scientific reasons I cannot explain
But the chemistry of urine relieves jellyfish pain.
How the first person figured this out, I haven’t got a clue
And if you are too modest, perhaps I’ll urinate on you
Don’t you worry; I’ll hold and aim my own hose
Just next time on the beach, put shoes on your toes.
Learning when/how to close seat then...
flush... the toilet with good frisson!
(alternately titled long windedly
using lower case letters:
no matter tidily bowled over based
upon real events, perhaps subject devoid
of literary merit and/or taste
no embarrassment, cuz
I got nothing to cover
despite precious time going to waste).
Analogous to constipation,
constitutes full term pregnancy,
perhaps umpteenth or first,
which former offal bodily function I durst
mention, said subject doth stink,
yet... exercising bowel
applicative, constrictive, effective,
exhaustive, gesticulative, instinctive,
massive, oppressive, qualitative,
quantitative, significative and unitive
(beg to differ if ye think me perverse)
both scenarios prone to stress and strain,
difficulties can arise evacuating bowels
gluteus maximus muscles severely pursed,
radiating sharp stabbing sensations
behind junk in trunk quarters felt
until bulging temple veins ready to burst,
where piles of hemorrhoids
foul rectum tortured and accursed
necessitating Judas Priest well versed
to issue last rites while
appropriate official dull livers worst
news to missus, whose
inconsolable sympathies nursed,
nevertheless bit torrent of sorrow
honor alone time with grateful dead
subsequently finds medical personnel disbursed,
privately newly minted widow mourning
tears for fears immersed
bemoaning sudden permanent absence
gone fore e'er foremost farter figure first
instance obliterated, when posterior
uproariously (actually not funny)
inflicted hemorrhage emergency,
die hard ludicrous poet (me) experienced
all expense chauffeured ride in hearst
aforementioned purportedly roughly comparable,
courtesy hearsay, when
hypothetical woman with child,
(here, I metaphorically paraphrase)
as maven ready to take aim giving birth
(nine months after satiating
hankering call of the wild
buzzfeeding miracle worker whipped thirst,
and temporarily appeased
inherent maternal yearning
to beget offspring, then... off to races
sprinting at greased lightning speed
amazingly enough slightly protruded womb,
(among other fledgling
and/or practiced moms avid runners
all touted as winners relay race crossing
finish line simultaneously
comprising distance measuring more'n verst.
In my garden I am often ankle deep in peace
And my head is fleshed within the mind of God
When each day I root out weeds and dead growth
I remember the work still to do with sins remaining
Lying in the regions of roots and worms and serpents
And my soul feels the pull of the garden’s twin in paradise
And knows it can’t stay here much longer in the mud below
Suspended outside together with the poisoned demons
Breathing the same air as the malevolent hemlock
Swinging to the wicked rhythm of a perverse dark breeze
In the abandoned corner of this twin garden hiding
Hanging heavy in the land of the Harlot and the Unclean.
He has Midas touch in reverse
Lost is mercy, lost are morals
Everything he touches gets worse
Cruel wars and senseless quarrels
He thinks himself higher, greater
He has Midas touch in reverse
A despicable dictator
Ideals and methods perverse
No king, just a man with a curse
Of evil, hate. No discussion.
He has Midas touch in reverse
Hope for peace before more rush in
We stand with those he thinks as foes
Those he cannot turn nor coerce
Who fight a war they never chose
He has Midas touch in reverse
Dec 19, 2022
This or That Vol 15 Contest
Title Chosen: Reverse Midas Touch
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Tomorrow
Poem
Lionel Derbyshire
A beautiful night..
Raptures delight
Light's shimmers bright
Fresh and moist is the air
A moon a blushing
the stars they quietly take their seats
the waves orderly cleans the sea
everything sync together
to make another day
which GOD has made.
See it again tomorrow night
wherever you stay or stray.
Betwixt here and there
And in between there are
Miserable mulish miscreants hub
Those who want to close our drawer
Of our universe.
They are perverse
And temper bad
They headstrong, they err.
Too few pleasant mickey mice
And no more happy donald ducks
Once a time this planet was nice
When I was younger
Now war hungry men
With angry mind's
Are gunning down bullets
Blood everwhere..
Peace is out of touch.
Belly's with empty tummy's
In broken down dwellings and alley's.
They dread the beautiful night.
Their light's are out.
Gunsmoke in their air.
Another new day
They will not see again.
Give peace and love a chance
Today..
Live sensible and be around for
Tomorrow..
Hear the mighty lion roar
From the past and distant shore
Africa long ago lost it’s maim
Humanity has been lost in Africa’s shame
Kill one lion
Hear the western nations roar
Slaughter complete races
You will hear western nations snore
Children starved, women raped
Soldier kings justify their burning hate
We stand by and pay no heed
As millions are slaughtered like African weeds
We have tears for the old lion true
The symbol or pride we ourselves un-deserve
Let us shed our tears for bloated black babies
Whom would gladly smile for a little meat
Perverse is the tear shed over one lion head
Notes: Of course I do not condone in any way the shooting of animals for sport, and endangered species must be preserved not for their sakes but for our sakes, selfish indeed. However it struck me the irony that such a story held the headlines for so long, when genocide becomes but a side note in our daily news.