Long Putrefied Poems
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THE VULTURE
Scavenging wretch!
With a long neck
And a stinking breath
Feeding on carcasses of the dead
Bald headed crook with eyes that are red
Eating the putrefied worms of the barren Islands
He roams through the plains of the rich brown highlands
Glides beyond the horizon
When the waves start rising
Like a rocket he flees
Above the deep blue seas
No comfort for him in Antarctica or Australia
Never falls sick or susceptible to malaria
And flies through the sky
In search of a feast when nature do call
Thief of the thieves
Who never plays ball
Greedy funny fellow
Thin and tall
Never gives only gets
Never forgives and never forgets
Only cheats
Cannot be cheated
Never stands when he is seated
Deception is your perception of life
Traitor!
Stabs Caesar in back with a knife
Hypocrites that serve only time and riches
And will slip and fall in hell like ditches
Lurks behind the corridors of power
Insincere and avarious
Economic adventurer who plans by the hour
Money, money, money
He can never get enough
Cowardly fellow who always acts tough
He never attacks the healthy and robust
But will kill the sick
And eat his intestines with his big red beak
The grinding motors of decaying engines
Panted in ever shorter gasps on the voyage to the “capolinea”
And the doors in the corridor passways
Swung open and closed, biting the green-yellow light of need
Seeping in through the lacunae of an afternoon of un-affection.
Here lamenting sighs of obese monsters were carried away
Over backward sucking tracks covered with spit and urine
And the cries of spoiled over-fed and un-cared for infants
Punctuated its incessant pull, mistaken for prayers of Aeneas.
The air was wet with sugary juices dripping from their mouths
Which had already sucked out too much from Mother Earth
And their comic books were filled with old coloured obscenities
Rotting putrefied images of the Demiurge’s great untouchables.
Stinking incomplete phrases were vomited up onto membranous spheres
From an underworld of sulphur and smoke
Vomited up onto the doorsteps of the passing stations of life
Where poor miserable and violent creatures waited
In a raging hurricane of hate and wickedness
Whose centre was a blackened hole in a storm of madness.
The oxygen of life was pulled out of the vegetation
Now cancerous cankerous parenchyma no longer green
As death tried to re-create itself outside itself
In a final futile attempt to feel an instant of life
Insane within the rumbling white dust of loss and negation.
The universe has seen the entitled ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ whining ways of kings, ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ waning moons many
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
what is left is the discrimination of souls ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ rewards for the royals, ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
the skies with putrefied lies from its anxious beginnings
ancient alibis ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ starting wars ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
The sky is painted putrid brown, ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
with spoken words ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ becoming ¦¦¦¦ in medieval dungeons
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ appointees—demigods with ice cold hearts
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ the venue shall show evidence ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
electrolyte mix, lemon water, granulated salt, a family remedy
¦¦¦ sadness aside, ¦¦¦ crowds search ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ reason
¦¦¦ tears don’t roll down, ¦¦¦ fears ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ installed within them
Let the side show begin, ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
as the world watches sorrow ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ a dooming star ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ brightly colored with answers
it dulls with ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ the peace longed for
a ¦¦¦¦¦¦ shadow performs casting confusion and can’t be caught
nor ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ innocent escape ¦¦¦¦ it, death ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ who near it
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ the habit of lying, the unwritten script
not ¦¦¦¦ of transparencies, ¦¦¦ a bad performance flipped
against King George III ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ they say apply here
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ disregard for laws, ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ on the throne of frustration is the sorest loser ever seen
(Blackout of potus speech review)
We shall meet again, my friend
in Johannesburg, my friend
After the revolution
Ha! Ha! Ha!
We shall dine on gold plates
And wine on rich red blood
We shall roam the open veldt
from Pietersburg to Natal
Cape Town to Port Elizabeth
Our spears raised in triumph
Our poisoned arrows in their sheaths
Our teeth sharpened for the dinner party
Yes, we shall roam, my friend
From the Limpopo to the Drakensburg
We shall chant
We shall shout
We shall sing and jump and dance
After the revolution
Like the savannah in flames
Our laughter shall be heard
across the length and breadth
of this earth, my friend
Our darkness shall permeate
the golden castles and silver beaches
their presence has putrefied
They all shall be cleansed
Heja! my friend
Till we meet again
in Johannesburg
After the revolution
Here we are trapped and bound
By evil forces difficult to fathom
Here we are naturally endowed
With all of God’s blessings
While 133 million of our children
Wail nightly on empty bowels
Confused and traumatized
Where the next meal will
Come from
Our eyes are wet with tears
Tears of pains and frustration from a nation
So blessed and so cursed
Tears of National disillusionment of
Living daily the consequences of our wrong choices
And like the Ostrich relishing in denial
Of self imposed existential tragedy
Here we are suffering and smiling
And cuddling our oppressors
As heroes and urging them on
To another season of looting in exchange
For a mere pot of putrefied porridge
Now is the call to action
We need to free ourselves
From this army of political occupation
Two ladies named Jan and named Lin
professed a forgivable sin
they cornered a dragon
wrung her in a flagon
and gave her away as cheap gin
The old dragon's name was Jooling
who had a habit of drooling
she couldn't stay dry
on ground or in sky
around her urine kept pooling
The ladies had had quite enough
The dragon smelled like bad stuff
so after they did drain her
to cement they did chain her
and threw her sad stench off a bluff
Into the ocean dragon fell
on hitting water she did melt
The girls were relieved
at what they'd achieved
and glad to be rid of the smell
They went on to gain great success
without all that putrefied mess
their poetry was renowned
no matter where it was found
The dragon's now fish food they guess
(By the time of the shooting of
"The Misfits", the Miller-Monroe
marriage was in deep trouble.
The Pansy is Montgomery Clift,
The Tusker is John Huston.)
After the Fall
It started as a mental exercise.
I wondered if an East-Side Jew like me
(Richard Rodgers, Brooklyn Dodgers,
Staten Ferry, Tom and Jerry,
Radio City, Walter Mitty,
Buddy Rich, Seven-Year Itch)
could sing the song of Stetson-wearing guys,
could capture something of the poetry
of men who have no words.
But then it grew, as all these projects do.
And then I fell in love with Norma-Jean
(no, Marilyn is someone else). I knew
I had to show the world what I had seen
of men who chase the herds.
(Levi jeans, chilli beans,
mustang culls, rodeo bulls,
Misfit Flats, lariats,
pony carts, engine parts,
happy hour, whiskey sour,
bronkin' bucks, pickup trucks,
buying beers, tying steers,
fancy boots, turkey shoots).
Sincerely? Dearly? Yes. I loved that woman -
the one inside, not on the billboard, pouting.
I cared so much, I guess I had it coming.
I was The Man, the one to take it out on.
A mustang in the dirt,
the more I squirmed, the tighter drew the ropes.
She ran to Gable. Primal passion? Rather,
the one thing that extinguished all my hopes:
he was, to her, the archetypal father.
Varieties of hurt
are infinite. The Pansy, Gable, Tusker -
all sorrowing for something. Norma-Jean
has kept her looks (can't say that for The Husker).
Inside, she putrefied. Love turns to mean,
it's ugly to behold.
The pills? The booze? Or was the problem me?
Or maybe everything just comes unraveled,
but some can hide it where the world won't see.
The consolation of philosophy?
The journey is itself the prize. I travelled
in the realms of gold.
Teardrops had fallen
and wrung my heart dry
too weak to cry
sweat had trickled down
to feet and palms
hiding in my bulging
eyes.
I had searched
for three days
trembling at a doorknob
locking the masked one
to open the bandaged one
doorknob to doorknob
the night of a mind
searching the labyrinth
of a deadened heart
hoping for life.
I had waited on the waves
to return my cry
combing the sand
sniffing your scent
among the putrefied
begging the fish to vomit up
a lock, a foot, an eye
waiting on the waves
to return my cry
my heart jumped
stretching my lips smiled:
“I know you. My eyes see you”
I ran ahead of my arms
to embrace my life!
Four steps on the sand
where there were only mine
Because you live I live.
I wasn’t ready to see you die.
First Place Winner: Brian Strand-All yours May 5/7/21
After a lifetime
(pronounced like millennium),
where tenacity futilely braced
psyche deeply purpled,
hellishly, and lethally
traced resulting scars -
jackknifed, emasculated
cruelly chaste
sexuality expired, lapsed,
and petered out testosterone
begone to waste,
and how this abased
bereft of eroded optimism,
nee faith no more - erased,
solitary carbon based animal
coalesced into countless
foreborn generations
(glommed *****sapiens
salient survival skills)
mortified, putrefied, and
stagnated toxic brew
quaffing poisonous
score peon - composite gin,
barley distilled, exiled,
and fragmented
human encased
faculties doggedly
catapulted, with haste
squandered genetic inheritance
kamikaze potential
apathetically plundered, akin
how Hindenburg plummeted
like led zeppelin,
(scare way to craven)
his foghorn emitting distinctive
Semitic bulbous
shofar shaped schnozzle traced
analogous to decrepit son -
dialed helpline to late
promising lad once vaunted
lauded, and
deemed hereditarily, -
he busted great expectations
quintessentially, psycho
socially, and opportunistically
lineage noble storied
standing déclassé debased
forced to take stock at aging
non-thrilled man
in the mirror
haggard heavily creased
doughy paste poker face
(born that way)
blankly stare ring back, spaced
out, no longer boyish,
but gray bearly grizzled,
flecked, and etched stubble,
scraggly unkempt whiskers
discombobulated
straggly matted hair
limply drape stupefied noggin
utterly disc graced
countenance eye spy
crows feet laced
blotchy complexion re: placed
once smooth skin
donned dawning senescence
amplification trumped
"NON FAKE" crudely
aping scrim age lost
fight of his life.
Roaming around the mysterious domain of oblivion
I crept into the caves of pleasure
The crimson joy enveloped me in utter passion
I tried to stand up, but
The lustful hug of the darkness
Prevented me; I prevented myself
From getting an ordained release
Swarms of gothic darkness covered me from tip to toe
They were thirsty; they sucked the present out of me
Myriad ancient tales of kings of emperors of their concubines
Steadily peeled me out, the ecstasy I felt in the pain…
I ran towards the dense and dark woods
With outstretched arms
Because I wanted to hug darkness
To drown in darkness
To elicit darkness from the trees from the herbs
The mythical herbs
That often provided immortality to mystic lovers
The treetops lapped me up in their bosoms
I smiled like a child wept like a child crept
In the wombs of myth of darkness
I know not where to bury my corpse of present
My putrefied me