Long Placebo Poems
Long Placebo Poems. Below are the most popular long Placebo by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Placebo poems by poem length and keyword.
"Placebo - Part 2"
There’s little sins and HUGE SINS
Little mistakes, possibly forgiveable.
HUGE MISTAKES, HUGE SINS?
That’s a different kind of metronome
marking time over a head, while
a recidivist waits for his deal with God.
You ask those little girls and boys
who are divested of their childhood,
their pure innocence in
the most heinous ways -
if they think you deserve a deal with God,
while you look at photos of them being defiled,
or worse, you are in the filthy piece of Celluloid with them.
You ask those little girls and boys
who have been divested of their childhood,
their pure innocence in
the most heinous of ways,
who have been killed and thrown
like bags of rubbish somewhere -
if they think you deserve a deal with God.
You ask the families of all that have been
inflicted and their lives unalterably changed -
whether they think you deserve a deal with God.
They say there is no God.
Well, perhaps there isn’t.
Why would a just God let that happen?
“Suffer the little children” etc
What if God is truly “I Am”? And that
“I Am” is in you.
And the you that is lying there
concerned for your own remorse,
your own deal with God -
not the deal and mercy
a child deserves to be given by God
(even at this moment, somewhere in the world,
a child all alone crying out for…);
well, you just
turn over in the cot in your crib and cry like a baby,
thinking you are all alone.
What if God that is the "I Am"
could kick out of your body
the other lesser god, the god
that is the "I Isn’t"?
Is it possible at this point, I wonder?
I guess it depends on what stage of diarrhoea,
you’ve contracted.
Because when you get down to the
nuts and bolts of it,
this Life we have,
is all about Contracts.
The officer on duty knocks
opens your door hatch, and announces,
“You’ve got a visitor”.
You swing off the top level of the bunk
you’re dying of boredom in,
trying not to kick the other “effer” in the head
and you are let out of your crib.
You’re off to make your deal with God.
(Lovejoy-Burton/2017 Dec)
“MOTHER, is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children” William Makepeace Thackeray
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7_bYLcTjnPA
>>1111>>REVELATION>1111>>Quincy Mac<<1111<<
date written: 11.22.2015
“We’re cleared for takeoff,” the pilot announced, “settle in, our flight time to Atlanta will be 9 hours.”
The Gulfstream roared down the runway and in a moment the tops of trees flashed by. We climbed quickly, and banked. Paris dwindled, the Seine became a string of blue, the world a patchwork of colors before we punched through a layer of hair-like cirrus clouds.
My roommates and friends were all a-chatter as we lined up on the runway but as we ascended, they grew quiet.
Thoughts of Peter ran through me and gripped me like a serpent. The last time I saw him he was dressed in a summer outfit I bought him - a short-sleeve, pale-pastel-plaid, seersucker shirt, kentucky-derby breaker shorts, pop color flip flops and a straw fedora. His sweet-face was all grin, he looked like a deck gillespie. Meow.
When I think about Peter, my skin tickles, my pulse accelerates, I’m confuddled. I think about the disturbance that moved through the air between us when we met. We were strangers, but a magnetic flux seemed to roll off him and break against me.
I didn’t let it show. I drew in, looked away and became quiet. What else could I do? Later, when I described it to Sunny, our meeting seemed like nothing. When I described it to Lisa, it sounded like too much.
Of course, my choices must be consistent with my ambitions, but I want Peter to come to Athens, so badly. He was a human placebo, for me, in otherwise stressful times. Now I want to be with him without school pressures - to see what that’s like - and get closer, a lot closer.
I don’t want commitment, but I’m saturated with desire. All I want is a fun July or August - with him. I seldom reveal the businesslike hardness I have buried inside. I want this and I’m ready for derp.
Peter worries - about money, about gender roles, social positions and what’s apposite. I don’t care about any of that. I want to give him a free month, like an amazing gift. He’s so male, so deceptively complicated, fragile and intoxicating.
I really need to think about this, and work it out - HA! - like I can think of anything else.
.
Slang
deck = cool
gillespie = hipster
meow = I want
confuddled = confused and befuddled
derp = anything and everything
Its the last minute of the 11th hour
I have seen a demon wondering searching for a soul
A priest coveting the ass of another man's woman at church
Convince people you have a speed dial to God's Kingdom
And they will take any theological theories given to them
They worship sophisticated stone deities.
Emmanuel TV, electromagnetic Gods in static images
Composers of the reverse version of the Holy grail
Cursing God, misquoting scriptures and reversing verses
Misleading women like Hershey's Kisses and forbidden pleasures
The fabric of our species is a loose canon
The revelations post-predicted by the real Mayans
The apocalypse.
Its the last minute of the 11th hour
This poem is not against the church
It speaks for Rhodes, Selassie and Robert Moffat
New disciples that walked the deserts of Africa
The founders and architects of God's synagogues
Scribers that wrote covenants in caves at Timbuktu
Puthadikobo, Livingstone, and Thabanchu
Monasteries with no Automated Teller Machices on their walls
This poem is not against Anglicans, Catholics or Apostles
Its an allegory against those that spit on the chapel alters
The bishops and priests with their filthy urethrae
Their genitalia submerged in the oral cavities of alter boys
Seeking head in return for blessings, deliverance and confessions
Fake Joshuas who plant placebo demons and exorcise them for fame
The same devils that preach at the podium of cathedral portals
Dangerous men, listened and worshiped by millions
I m not against the church.
I believe in Muhammad and Jesus all the same
And the sacred message they bring supreme
From Judah through Jordan and the rivers of Ethiopia
I stand firm against Lucifer's devices.
In the face of damnation an entire nation has succumbed
The devil puts in more work than Jehovah's witnesses
Such a beautiful genus undone at the seams by its own beliefs
Victims of natural selection and ever-upgrading IQs
Each generation figures they can be better than their creator
Separationists led by confused evangelists
I m not against the church. I m against religion
I have seen a demon at church searching for lost ones
A priest coveting the ass of another man's woman at church
Its the last seconds of revelation's last moments.
Perhaps like a lightning
bolt of clear out of the blue
rigor mortis (tenon and
three decades hence)
two thousand fifty nine if you
count from January 13th 2019, adieu
attest that day 9 months I did brew
in wound (of the late Harriet Harris),
now finds me loved ones
crying boo hoo,
after this stiff mortal
Earthling bid toodle loo
with symbolic casket
(carrying cremated urn of ashes)
remembrance attended
by gentile and Jew
sharing positive memories purportedly
about this nondescript
fellow they knew
mainly indirectly, poignantly,
and wickedly shot thru
with his insightful humorous scribblings,
plus magnus opus titled
"How do ye do,"
an informal rambling missive bereft
of any subject and
devoid with little clue,
the purpose of said hefty tome
out weighing The Federalist circa: knew
lee after American independence
Papers, written by true
purrs under the pseudonym "Publius"
but great (as a great doorstop), or
alight as tinder for barbeque
since many admirers never
read his text written in Hebrew,
fluency acquired spending
final years he grew
old, since automatic citizenship
granted based on genetic goo
plus Mediterranean climate helped promote
longevity to century his health did hew
thus naturally pronounced philosophy,
where he drew
quite a wide web asper the many
claims Matthew Scott did eschew
to maintain longevity (more
quackery than science), but who
could dispute glorious
principles, not to poo poo
analogous to placebo effect
harmless fervent coping methods,
whether to cure ague
interestingly enough he cited ack hue
puncture for a gamut of physical ills
as well he did advocate chew
wing food (after taking small bites)
until mouthful became pulpy slew
(proponent of Fletcherism), this to
exercise dentures in addition
to maximize stew
pen diss experience of simple
routine eating view
wing thoroughly good (by George)
said quotidian activity grew
tubby spiritual, similarly basic
functions in general did get skew
ward whereby meditation on intrinsic,
metabolic and scholastic
processes to name a few
added a dimension of enhancement prior to
exiting life into frontier mortals can only rue.
Virtues are more than they appear to be.
Ripples of connectivity.
Something switched on with the light?
A companion, manual, override.
Especially when storm clouds rear- appear to ruin the blue skies'-
But not like a knife,
that cuts the whole in holes,
of possibility.
Like procedural shears.
Is it Godless or Goddess ambrosia?
A poultice tea for the sick?
A placebo innoculation against lack of faith?
Selfishness in self paranoia,
Just for your sake.
A dark principality and clever mind-
Vampirism-Medicating prophylactively against
the stake, like an aneurism.
Those pesky ghosts of darkness.
In the blood.
Possess your sconces, flame, dead.
After it burns your wick at both ends.
Seek to destroy, the lightbringing.
Your senses dampened,
fuse blown
guard down.
Darkness.
On the Rampage.
Rampant.
Their Entrance.
Gained instead.
your abode,
not yet
accepting the gift of Life ?
lone
you abide,
Crashing the rifts,
Is this right?
Do YOU still not believe?
YOU are a (A still born-unborn,)
that be's -
the one that grieves?
A loss.
Of integrity?
Keeps an eye on the prize.
Under the storm of seize.
The Gate Keeper with beauty under wing.
Keep an eye for.
The Ace up the sleeve.
--------
No strings attached, divorce yourself from responsibility, integrity.
Lies.
Faithful predictability?
No connectivity. No breath or girth
No cosmic sister. No brother.
Accident of birth, No love or family or anything home team.
Insignificant things or other?
Life, just random, little, quirks?
The illusion filament.
An antibody to judgment,
Ultimately, to be or not to be
sedated
by needs?
Deflated by deeds
Unplanted seed.
A Dawn to share.
Unborn fruit to bare.
No fear.
He IS near.
Integrity is there,
a silver lining that adds true colors hue
against the black and white.
The false and the true.
Out of the blue.
Something that makes Avalon appear in the misty near.
Clearly.
A magic against the shade of Night.
A cloak and warmth to pull tight.
Peace of mind.
I say piece of soul.
That is never changing.
Someone to be connected to is
happiness, an insurance policy against a reason to be.
Just?
look, at YOU now, self righteous, you know YOUR rites best.
You have much to celebrate.
Celebrate diversity, the joy of
sex in the city.
Make it,
YOU, at your behest,
the center of your Universe.
Where only a black hole resides, and your own worst enemy?
Hyde's.
It's not lonely there.
There's
YOU!
That's all right dearest.
Party like it's 2 0 1 9.
After all, everything you have and are is because of being free and solitary.
To thine own self be true!
A self propogating gene of Genie
Is only rubbed out when it's convenient for YOU.
Live like a con-gypsy
under Gaias loving gaze of nativity.
As you sweep the wind beneath your wings and batten down the sails,
a treasure hunting pirate on life's seven seas'swells.
Through the river Styx,
Flotsam, Jetsam
mental living, Hell?
Some things are meant to be.
Like milk and honey.
But not according to "do what thou will"
It is a suicide into lonely.
Drunkenness into endless sleep.
Although, they call the new aged Kool Aid,
harmless wine.
I see,
that it matches fine;
with neurosis,
scerosis of inclusion,
invader intrusion, plucked from narcissistic vines. Tended by demon.
From the Forest of delusion.
Pairs well with the thorns of Night.
Take a sip of that self hypnosis.
Does it go down smooth? Or does it have a kick?
Then kick your **** on down the line.
Off your booth, in Life.
Ritually drunk and now, suddenly divine at your own behest.
A little bit of courage, right?
Something to take the edge off,
the edge of night?
Regret.
Sugar on the brain that foments its fermentation over time.
Is it Godless or Goddess ambrosia?
A poultice tea for the sick?
A placebo innoculation against lack of faith?
Selfishness in self paranoia,
Just for your sake.
A dark principality and clever mind-
Vampirism-Medicating prophylactively against
the stake, like an aneurism.
Those pesky ghosts of darkness.
In the blood.
Possess your sconces, wick and flame, dead.
Seek to destroy, the lightbringing.
Your senses dampened,
fuse blown
guard down.
Darkness.
Integrity bled.
On the Rampage.
Rampant.
Their Entrance.
Gained instead.
John Wulf, with his funny Limerick antics telling funny hilarious stories,
“viagraology
There once was a medical study
of things flapping flaccid like putty
those men given placebo
couldn’t enter gazebo
it drove the poor fellas plumb nutty
Copyright © 2015John Wulf”
but also has his very soft spot for all of us
Then there is my very favorite lady, Jan Allison, with all her humorous poems,
ANOTHER VIAGRA POEM HAS JUST POPPED UP - INSPIRED BY EVE ROPER AND JACK ELLISON
It hung so limply like Niagara
Doc told him to take some Viagra
Just one little blue pill
Gave his wife such a thrill
It sticks up so high it could stab ya
Copyright © 2015JAN ALLISON 18th July 2015
but lover her with all our hearts she is the sweeties of them all
Jack Ellison, teasing back and forth with his witty poems,
so who’s the greatest of them all,
OD'd On Viagra
Hickory, Dickory, Dock
Overdosed on Viagra, whatta shock
My wee fellow looked up
Said, “You ain't no pup!”
I cried, “This guy don't go by no clock”
Copyright © Jack Ellison 2015
But a jolly soul because his Santa Jack this year.
Then there’s our Mystic Rose that joins the group with her sense of humor;
A Little Viagra Goes A Long Way
Incline thy ear o-friend of mine
Me poor husband got it bad
He got a dicky that won't pine
Tis sad Tis sad Tis really sad
I heard yours takes Viagra pills
Malone's will not erect nor stay
and yesterday he got the shills
Just letting dicky out to play!
Would you be so kind to send
The medicine that made him sleep
I'll give my hon a pop to rend
His dicky joy, so he can weep
Few tears of joy alongside mine
Oh how my smile would shine
He got a dicky that won't pine
And that's a real bad sign...
Copyright ©Mystic Rose 7/19/2015
so much fun we have here on Poetry Soup
11/13/2015
Poetry Contest : Who Are those funny Poets
Sponsored by: Judy Konos
Containers come with different purposes
as they hold, wage, measure and engage.
From stone walls to fragile shells,
blood vessels to cage to idea.
Containers come with different protections and methods for treasures to unveil.
Each of a different purpose and story to tell.
Holding memories, secrets, or material, spirits- preciousness,
like a ring of a bell, a bluuurpbglllpll-
vomit of a puppet, a ouija for a demon of Hell.
In wooden chests, treasures lie hidden,
till the creak of hinge is bidden.
Whispers of history, stories in books, either Holy, educational, entertaining,
mysterious or forbidden us.
The brain to house memories,
where they belong,
the skull for the brain,
to help keep harm from,
or as a placeholder
for grey matter placebo for some.
The vessel of a porcelain teacup,
holds warmth and comfort, it's mold to stand
and deliver, as your lips gingerly quiver, bracing for
impact, careful it's hot, you lily liver!
Aww yes, sipping nature's elixirs
with each delicate sip,
in its delicacy, (pinky up sophisticately)
we find wisdom's mold to behold, pattern,
symbology, continuity, ingenuity, bounty,
Thrift Store Old Lady looking at you look at her.
antiques like security.
Aaarg matey!
A ship sails the vast, uncharted sea,
bearing straits of discovery, to arrive in one piece and enjoying the ******* luxury.
Contouring the wind's sweet glide.
A private plane, a non fossil fuel of the Elites,
a vessel of travel and privilege,
reaching for the sky, off to Little St. James,
though Hell is a contained container,
and Hell is from here to Eternity.
Continued....
You brushed your breathing shadow
with sleeping mist you sprayed on your pillows
hoping, for moments gone grey and still,
that the shadow would slumber for you as you pass.
But the sleeping spray, I hate to tell, was a placebo
a sugar pill of sorts as they say
and while your insomnia cradled your mind
like a bowl full of sentenced fermentation
your heart told you just to breathe deep
Breathe the mist, and you'd sleep
with the tolerance of herb induced peace
never quite reached in the deepest midnight hour.
Your shadow knows the mist doesn't work
It won't unwind, it'll go bizerk
and follow you in each step that you make
like company shoes to bowl in.
Always a size too big, or too small -
and never in tune with your sense of style.
It will do this as you pace the floor at 3am,
It will follow you to work and look abnormally big
in the noon day sun - just to make you think twice
about it's good motives.
So - Here's what I say to you -
Make peace with your shadow.
Invite it to tea and key lime cookies.
Settle your breath as you have a good talk
about boundaries, and how you could use a little space
Maybe you could ask it to take a day or two off -
just rainy days of course where it wouldn't be
ultra missed.
I think your shadow would acquiesce to these terms
with relative ease and then two things would happen:
1 - Your shadow would stop having something to prove.
You would be acknowledging it's invaluable worth
by the tea and cookies (after all - how many shadows do you
know that get an invitation like that...)
~and~
2 - You could stop paying good money for sleeping spray.
(I have a feeling that the reason you can't sleep has to do with
your very unhealthy shadow/person relationship.)
And, so in closing, I say:
Free your shadow, Gain your sleep , and, most importantly - Save me some cookies...