Long Retch Poems
Long Retch Poems. Below are the most popular long Retch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Retch poems by poem length and keyword.
Murk Rammer froze as he felt the nuzzle
of a snub-nosed thirty-eight’s deadly muzzle.
Louis The Retch poked it into his back.
“The jig’s up, Rammer. I ain’t cuttin’ no slack.”
Murk had been tricked by a double-crossing dame,
alias “Frigitte,” he didn’t know her real name.
She’d been his undoing, that cute little louse,
undoing the buttons on her bulging blouse,
then slipping out of her slip and her hose,
and her holster too; yeah, she had one of those.
He’d fallen for Frigitte, completely deluded.
She’d come on strong, delightfully denuded.
She’d kissed him hard and let him get a good grab,
but when he dozed off she skipped out and blabbed.
The shamed shamus woke up and found a clue
and went to a warehouse -- a decision he’d rue.
He’d fallen for the ruse, he’d taken the bait,
and walked right in to a date with fate.
That darn dame had put him on the spot.
He was one peeved peeper who’d loved for naught.
The warehouse was full of contraband goods.
They belonged to The Retch, a sleazeball hood --
lead falcons from “Malta” and vases from “Ming,”
dubious diamonds and other blarney-ish bling,
a lading of lies from a smug little smuggler,
who played for keeps and went for the jugular.
And now The Retch had gotten the drop.
No chance for Murk to call for the cops.
“It’s curtains for you,” the Retched one said,
“The only way out is to go down dead.”
“You win,” Murk said, with a little shrug.
He knew he was beat and waited for the slug.
A bullet in the back was the final payoff.
Fat chance The Retch would decide to lay off.
Murk heard the click of a cocked-back hammer
and waited for death in his taciturn manner.
Bang! went a gun – but not the thirty-eight.
The shot came from someone hiding behind a crate.
The Retch went down with blood on his chest,
then high heels approached; you know the rest.
Bad girl Frigitte leapt into Murk’s arms.
She just couldn’t stand to see him harmed.
And that had been Murk’s ace in the hole,
playing so well the Romeo role.
He wrapped his arms around Frigitte’s waist
and their mouths joined together, such a spicy taste!
Then he took her hand and led her out
into rain washed streets where wet shadows slouched.
Did Murk turn Frigitte in to the cops?
Or let love fill his head with mushy slop?
The ending of this tale I’ll leave up to you,
but as for me, I haven’t a clue.
.
A whale in a pail is far more active in a gale or in copious amounts of hail. Putting money into sharks is a shifty act involving the shuffling of coats in cloakrooms. And clown costumes placed in the bowls of women's frames are reserved for the elite attire of lemmon lipped bowler heads whose acidic tongue holds the weaponry speeches of tomorrows gore. Pain is a painted potato placed with the pilots to place on a place numbered out and planned on maps arriving by facetious fax machines whose many layered buttons seek to halt a single growing grass level with a shard spoken key. Turning a keyboard to an angle one can visit the highest climate but coinage is best reserved for a large bull with a blue tie. Behind many layers. Many layers is not many lettuces it is merely many lanes. And lanes are lovely on a summer evening returning from the abbey to the house in eighteen fifty-three in long beautiful blue dress with fancy earrings and hair wound in a tight bun. Looking around it is unsurprising that history repeats in the timeless whorl akin to stirring an acre pan of stew or making sandwiches for two hundred people at a picnic. Societal swamps seek some swanky shuffle starting storms. And all the while the little pixies dance in the trees. The unicorns prance, the fairies fly round and round, and all other realmes folk sigh at the endless processions of humans making endless chain of woe. Cause no pattern to rise up from a paper print. For if you do your whole world and house will be prints causing visitors to arrive in many windows to create a karmic reaction and a reaction is a realism and a responsive reach but not a retch. Little frog hums in the kitchen cupboard. He is very bored today and would like to go visit the pond but the machinery placed there ensures it is not safe to hop and when hopping it often is the case that shots are fired from the artillery of the ant people in plastic helmets. They move akin to a swarm of kettledrums on a backlit of carbonised baking trays. Powder that then. Beetroot faced woman in that raspberry printed dress. And to encourage the wrath of a walnut is to embellish a multicolumn of static electricity. Wow. Mish mash mush then. Hahahaha the dancing in the bathroom door hahaha mixed-use mixers mingling mangy mincemeat. Xxxxxxx prese tart structure Paden tar xxxxxxx invertebrates z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z THAT;
Form:
The virile Knight gives evil eye to all
And champion to all who missed the call,
A long forgotten conflict ripped our soul
The virile Knight defends the final toll.
(In a hole
Where the bones
Of the bold
Smoulder cold)
A wisp of whimsy light ignites the breeze,
As fox-fire floats a grove of willow trees;
A devious diversion brief with peace
But conflicts of convergence will not cease.
(It has been said:
War is only over
For the dead and the dead
And the dead, dead, soldier)
Give glory to the glory of the dead,
In sacrificial life are heroes bred;
They find their strength above the maudlin din -
Aware of who they are by where they've been.
(Life can be confusing
For a Vet who lives it boozing
'Cause booze will lose its kick
And leave a troubled Vet quite sick)
Your faith in friends and God has disappeared
Still buried deep in jungle heat as feared;
And dreams of truth once dreamed in youth were vain -
Too vain a brain can make a brain insane.
(All young and strong
In Vietnam -
Till dead from the blood
that they bled
From worms deep inside
they were fed)
Your wife and children gone so long ago,
Her claim to fame became but shame's dull glow;
Her main cognitions slipped and stripped all gears -
Aladdin on a carpet-ride in tears.
(Full blown crazy
Was your Daisy
Quite the shady
Little lady)
Now sunshine splitter's split the light of dawn
To blind and euthanize the spermless pawn;
Our Knight complains about the awful strain,
The pawn is gone too long and dies inane.
(We pay each day
For check-mate fears
And turn away
From all the tears
That fall like rain
From children's pain)
The dead now share your bed inside your room
And you assume their AWOL from the tomb -
But truth confides they hide inside your bones
And soon you hear their rising manic tones.
(They died as we cried
And they think that we lied
That is why they now ride
On our bones deep inside:
"Alive! Alive! Alive!
Our souls in you do thrive")
The ghosts of comrades past do crowd my bed;
I retch from stench of fetid flesh long dead.
But dead now in my bed are heroes all:
Dead heroes in my bed who met the call.
(The casualties of war
When war be but a lie
Will wander evermore
For they will never die.)
Small And Large, Black And Brown Cats And Dogs
A Concrete Poem
be
casted in
vomit fur
nocturnal! a cat
small and large!
positively fun
positively fun
as cats and dogs
small and large!
fluffy and curly
a cat and a dog
black, wry, grim
rather fluffy and curly
positively small and large
lovely, nighttime, endearing
nighttime, resilient, sardonic
nighttime, lively, lovable, wry
black, endearing, cat resilient,
resilient, amusing, lovable, wry
black, lovely, nighttime, lovable
dog black, nighttime, endearing,
lovely, amusing, lively, lovable
black, both lovely, nighttime, lively
black, resilient, sardonic, wry, wry
black, lovely, sardonic, lively, wry
black, sardonic, lively, and lovable,
lovely, endearing, lovable, wry
lovely, endearing, lovable, wry
lovely, resilient, lovable, wry
lovely, resilient, lovable, wry
black, nighttime, endearing, resilient, lovable
it makes me think of very, very extraordinary things
all springy black, lovely, resilient, sardonic, amusing
running black, lovely, resilient, sardonic, amusing
retch true cat
ruff/meow feline
wry
so
EVOL UT I ON ... NO 1 TU LOVE
(The Eden Agenda III)
I have loved most everyone, yet so few have loved me back.
So much good I have done, but suspicions aroused, they attack.
How I so long to drown my sorrows and drown in a tank of arrack.
Is it that they are taken aback, or is it ‘true love’ they truly lack?
How can one with so much love get so little love back?
As long as I have lived, I’ve lived to love so long as I’ve loved to live.
But how can I live for long in a world that does not love to give? ….nor has love enough to give?
Surely I must grieve.
…Or perhaps I shall evolve to no longer believe in all that I perceive.
Therein lies the urge for the surge of my dirge.
Rejected of love, subjected to hate - now dejected with life.
So sensitive that my soul is sliced by the blunt end of a knife.
To whom shall I turn for bandage for these emotional scars?
Even in moments of desperation I’ve looked up to the stars
For out there [I’ve been told] is that which is the Sea of Tranquility,
All I have here is a Dead Sea - in which to drown with my vulnerability.
My shadow refuses to be seen with me - it’s nowhere to be seen at high noon,
Come setting of the Sun, it runs further from me - and stretches out for the Moon.
Why do I not shine such that the Sun beams …and perhaps even squints?
Why do the vultures retch? ….and away from my carcass, the hyena sprints?
I have looked up to the raindrops from heaven - simply yearning to be kissed,
But even they, with accursed stealth - my sad lips they missed.
Who shall cut me a slice of love?
Please apportion a portion.
Who will pour me a cup of warmth?
Please don’t ration the passion.
My spirit is broken, the Spirits have spoken…
The daemons mean to take my life as a token.
Let ‘Caution’ throw me to the wind, I pray;
Havoc, please invite me out to play.
Misery, won’t you hold my hand ….everyday?
Loneliness won’t you be my friend? …Please stay.
Oh, how I feel so low, so lifeless. But then, who cares?
Just another life less….
….another life less
…just another lifeless.
The evolution of my life, I’ve looked at from back to front:
……no 1 tu love.
The creation of my life, I’ve looked, from on high to low:
…….Love from above.
(The Fg 81.5.8)
It’s been 10 years since you last saw me.
I’m softer. Matured. Unrecognizable. And yet
the feeling of your roaming eyes still darkens my skin,
the phantom sensations making me retch.
Your vile intentions occupy a corner of my brain
with no sign of conceding territory.
I can’t go to the doctor
lest that hotel room comes rushing back
and renders me unable to bear sight of my skin for a week.
I swear colorfully,
as often as I did refusing you.
Would you like that?
Would you take pleasure being reminded of the resistance you so toyed with?
Or would you prefer me docile and doe-eyed?
God, I can’t think of a version of me that wouldn’t bring that greed to your mind.
I can only hope my age would shatter your desire
or turn it to ash on your tongue.
You’re a faceless monster,
carefully calculating and breaking down your victims’ walls
without revealing a hint of yourself in return.
I showed you everything.
(I want to gag at the thought.)
I know nothing of you.
You make up too much of me.
I used to find joy in who I was.
Believed my difference to be wholly my own,
an escape from you and the shaming eyes of God.
Turns out you were the cause all along.
You wrecked me, didn’t you?
Is what was once a source of pride truly a stain of ruin?
I am disfigured and discolored,
and no amount of bleach will ever remove your mark.
To add insult to injury, this was never bad enough anyway.
My ache is unwarranted; I’ve suffered so little in comparison.
I was 10.
I was smart enough to log off,
to say no,
to realize no dream was important enough to surrender myself over.
I’m not a true victim.
Your hands never grazed my skin
or caused deeper harm; you scarred me with eyes alone.
Our paths crossed for maybe an hour or two,
not nearly enough to last a lifetime.
So why have you staked your claim on my psyche?
I want to burn you clean from me.
You forced me into a prop for your pleasure,
faceless and inhuman.
There’s no telling if you sold what was never meant to be seen
and then how many times I’ve been used.
I want you to suffer.
I want you to ache.
Maybe that’s immature,
but that turns you on, right?
The Crushed Skulls
the crushed skulls
and the
torn-off legs
and the
single shots piercing countless heads
women, men, children
young, old, everyone just a human being
when will we tire of the senseless killing which we keep on impotently seeing
the gaping wounds soaked in blood
dismembered corpses piled high in some humid make-shift ****-stenched mortuary
who will remain to someday write, war's final obituary
for the killing goes on in the name of tribe
faith
race
religion
caste
sect
and the vested interests above all
but who really hears the whimpering sobs of a 4 year olds call
for her mother, father, brother, sister
as she lies dying, bleeding out like a gutted animal, on the stinging gravel
while we deliberate and engage and while to Geneva we always travel
to sign some scraps of paper that merely postpone the killing for a while
while the putrefying carcasses of human beings lie side by side, mile after bloody mile
war is ugly, they tell us
but necessary too
and we go to war for peace
while the generals and the money-men and the politicians drink and dance and screw
war is ugly
it is indeed
but so are we
if we fail to see the humanity stripped away
and peeled off the skin of that 4 year old girl
and if her cries for help we do not heed
war and guns and bombs and the very latest smart nuke
sickens me as it should us all
making us retch and puke
but who gives a **** about the bombs falling far away
we've got chores to do, margarine to buy, and take the family out for the day
war is ugly
so they tell us
while loading the magazines without much of a fuss
war is ugly
and cold and brutal and evil as the hounds of some distant hell
but who gives a **** for we have sneakers to buy and stocks to sell
war is ugly
but so are you and I
for we remain silent
as the bombs fall incessantly on
out of the open sky
shame on me and shame on us all, that much I believe is true
for our silence in the face of misery is tacit acceptance
and try as we might to inure ourselves
I am as complicit in it all
as are you...
Form:
You know not why you're now here,
just that you are bound by fear-
(and a couple incised wires)
watching me, enticed with pliers.
Naked, cold, taught, and crying,
you can't move, although you're trying.
All stretched out, upon your stomach,
odors retch, your nostrils plummet.
Your head aches and thoughts are clouding,
slowly, memories are shrouding.
You ask out of blatant fear,
"Please, why have you brought me here?!"
"Now, now, settle down my dear,
the time to disclose that is near.
For now, just try to hold quite still,
enjoy your home, in my landfill.
This is where I store my trash-
oops, I guess I'm being rash,
I've already said too much,
try to focus on my touch."
Icy hands trace your bare back,
arcing circles, until SMACK!
Instantly you begin screaming,
trying to believe you're dreaming.
His handprint is a stark white
on blued flesh of your behind.
Helplessly, you wriggle there,
too afraid to meet his stare.
His left hand covers your mouth,
drowning out your smothered shouts.
"Hush my darling, don't you wail,
or yours will be a grim tale.
Since I know you won't stay still,
this should help you lay tranquil."
Another, piercing, white-hot pain,
penetrates your cheek again.
"Don't worry, I use this often,
a simple tetrodotoxin.
Do you feel it inside you,
tingling your lips, so blue?
Save your breath until we're through,
believe me, I know you do.
It's particularly potent,
cost an arm and leg to own it,
but it works it's charm, I see,
as you're not resisting me."
Slowly, it gets hard to breath,
your head pounds astoundingly,
cold sweat trickles as you seize,
minutes pass, nausea proceeds.
You feel loosening restraints,
but your feelings aren't the same-
hallucinations now mingle,
reality barely tingles.
Vomit trudges languidly,
making it harder to breath.
Hands caress you underneath,
then flip you over with ease.
Now, only your eyes can plea
for a hope of empathy.
Lastly, as you take death in,
you are faced with your demon.
Brothers Levi, Jordan, Matthews, Joe and Jedden,
You were sheer shocked as did Sister Hussein
That even this day we can still adjure, argue, advocate,
And advance active activism for the rule of law stolen,
As did Dr Manuele or Orton Chirwa before this date
Who blustered against the egalitarian promise broken;
Or as before them, Rev. Chilembwe’s burst with rage
Being shocked and choked with downright disbelief
At the atsamundas’ well premeditated prejudice cage;
Segregation and Thangata, and such other mischief.
Brothers, that day of shock, you also shade sad tears,
Which many of us here have also done over the years
Seeing that even this day the gods had stolen the show;
Not for good reasons, but for partying ragged ignorance
Of commoners: of clapping again, of praising as before,
Egalitarian impotence these present day gods prance
As constructive criticism they castigate; at times cajole
With constipated wallets: aiming to gag, retch reprimand;
As they throw all to keep the land in the hopeless hole
They had damned it in with their fresh oppressive wand.
Brothers, it is truly sad that even today we expostulate
As the present gods fancy people that do not remonstrate;
Sad they hate to hear the philosophy that does not blush
When it comes to slam their ‘big-man’ mind-set upfront
As was done to the past cruel gods in their groan, and gush
Of verbose at critics, who did not fear their haunt and hunt
But stood firm amidst the god’s aggressive intimidation,
Jeer, jolly josh, lampoon, lies, lash outs, lectures or leer,
Or needle and outrageous orates, aimed at the obfuscation
Of the commoners so they fail to question or query this *****
Performance of raging and ranting even this present day
To have this blast from the past, Brothers you saw, at play.
Southgate and Sterling discourse on the disturbing. Alarming' The focus of classes through
Which much chattering passes, in meme graph and drama a gasp'orama of division's incision draconian Intrusion, reality never meeting; insanity tries our reason, as all seasons grow evil.'
Three meters apart, we survey the heart to heart, Sterling is speaking of racisms seeping
In establishments 'a steeping.' Against the grade he'd kept keeping moving in reason
Playing believing, although at times seething he'd still kept on keeping, right in his sights'
Southgate spoke fairly of efforts and aims, of soul searching to gain, for the betterment
Waiting not to get lost in the making, in the race to a summit not to jeopardise something
A reaching of reason, he expounded his thesis I believe he is open from what he has spoken
He and many knee taking, their sign to humanity with its fractures and vanity's in the making
Yet apartheid was there breathing it's death stench, I felt my inside almost up-retch invisible
Walling from floor up to ceiling 3 meters from reason; from the spirit of Christ's season
The farce of pandemic with dystopian rhetoric, was adhered to in action complying with
Coercion while denying its perversion, living out an in-version blind were the sighted
Yet puppet masters so delighted, set the scene and invited this righteous pair; so united
The validation of division apartheid in Britain! an acceptable evil; is this truly liveable?
Imagination un-holy in the scenes now bestowed me I saw the spectre of evil
Strutting in between them, breathing their words in, and spitting out silent signs'
Pseudo derived 'lateral inanity' our salvation? And To embrace such insanity?
© Joe Maverick 2021