Long Slug Poems
Long Slug Poems. Below are the most popular long Slug by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slug poems by poem length and keyword.
(This is a fictional poem)
You hit the sauce every night and you get drunk.
When this happens, you turn into a punk.
You become intoxicated and then you challenge people to fight.
You think you can win but they always punch out your lights.
A man beat you up when you pinched his wife's butt and I'd never seen so much
blood.
When you tried to fight my friend, I kicked your ### and threw you in some mud.
As you laid in the mud, you started crying.
If I said that you took it like a man, I'd be lying.
When you get drunk, you stagger and you fight like a slug.
You've spent so much time on the floor that you ought to be a rug.
Form:
Thanks for another day
Others curse their luck, stale breath
Eventually our enemy becomes our brother
Cancer checkup, another swinging dick who fears his death
To not necessarily sacrifice each and every day for another day
I’m going to go to my grave unsung like almost everyone
Numerous number systems beyond the real
Look one way, from another come the heart’s missed beats
One way out of the mind’s limitations is through another mind’s
contemplations
Another autumn, another election, so aimless and sublime
The white egret ate fish after fish, one then another then another...
You get a limited number of long walks, so take your time
One gives up body and soul but that’s not what I came to talk about
Slug the world and the world slugs back
It was amusing in my youth that God’s finger could move me to another
square
Another duality, a day in the woods, jet passing overhead
I am in favor of kindness and you prefer concentration camps
The slow death of one sometimes makes the sudden murder of another
To survive only as many more years as there are petals on a randomly
picked (ox-eye) daisy
Another winter passing its calling card in at the window
One day follows another until the last day and on that day there will be
weather
My driver’s education instructor was a keen cat named Trixie.
During our drives, she sat on my shoulder and whistled “Dixie”
How is she qualified? Asked my snoopy aunt named Pixie.
I could not answer, for I was slightly afraid of Miss Trixie.
She would bark in my ear with the call of a Great Dane.
“MOVE OVER FOOL! You are nearly in that fellow’s lane!”
She was startling assertive, and afraid of nothing at all.
She may have been a cat, but she seemed nine foot tall.
One time she took my face in her hands and made my head swivel.
I wish I was kidding, but I have to tell you, this is no drivel.
She said “Stop using the mirrors, fool! Turn your head NOW!”
She had a bellow that was angry, like a bull not a cow.
I learned what to do, and I learned it quickly through fear.
She was a no-nonsense cat, this was always quite clear.
She would not hesitate to slap me or slug me or pull on my ear.
I am always on my toes when Miss Trixie is near.
Bleached bones have retained no smell
The smile of the skull is missing many teeth
I want to be his friend, but he is maniacal
There is something frightening here
Maybe because he reminds me of my own demise
I feel a macabre feeling about this skeleton
He is starting at me without turning his head
His eye sockets give me the jeebie creebies
I try to smile, but feel my lips are forced in an ugly way
He is mocking me now, looking me over as if I am a slug
Why did you want to make his acquaintance? My heart asks.
I have no idea, but I am rethinking this now,
For there is something eerily familiar about him.
I feel I have been a skeleton before this lifetime
And will possibly be one again.
PRUNING THE ROSES
Prune Roses here, Prune Roses there,
Dancing in my garden,
With Sweet William and Fred Astaire.
Wallflower there, Gardenia over here,
My Fuchsia’s looking bright,
I’m going to retire this year.
Working on the Rockery,
and making it a Dahlia routine.
The Hydrangea looks wonderful,
Magnolia’s standing supreme.
Perennials in here, Heather over there,
Talking to my Sunflower,
Petunia’s shrug and stare.
Slug pellets there, Slug pellets here,
Touch my French Marigolds,
and its salt on your tail my dear.
Love to spend the day, working in my garden,
Then relax in the evening sun.
Surveying creation all around me,
With a nice Cuppa and a Currant Bun.
As October draws to a close,
If you listen with careful ears,
You’ll hear the whispers of the moss,
And the sighs of the lichen as the soil exhales.
Tonight, I will tell you a lament for the autumn -
A ghost story and comedy divine,
Of Mrs Thornbury and her garden.
Every year she had tended to the clipped hedges,
Nasturtium and marigold clung to the edges.
Her pride and joy.
“How do you keep such a garden of delights?”
The town folk would ask of her;
And her pride swelled.
Free from pests and the blemish of the compost bin,
Mrs Thornbury kept her secret in
When asked if it's upkeep, remained cryptic.
No one knew that beneath the veil of dusk,
Mrs Thornbury would take the path
That led down to the tool shed
At the bottom of the garden,
To select with a cool precision,
The secateurs -
Snip, snip, snip.
Nobody noticed in the mist of the morning,
The dismemberment of slugs.
Green soled and large red,
Cut in half and quite dead.
Nor did they see the sunken pools of peril,
Where gluttonous green cellar slugs
Drunk, and drunk, and drunk,
Until they could drink no more,
Slid down to their fate,
Bloated and moon pale,
Entombed in ale.
Any grey field slugs remaining,
The slow or infirm,
Were dispatched within efficiency,
Eroded by salt,
Dissolved into the gloom,
Whilst Mrs Thornbury’s hostas and lupins
Continued to bloom
Come autumn, the leaves fell.
Algae crept in covering the panes
Of the greenhouse windows.
One by one, small creatures left.
The shrew and would mouse scuttled no more,
Their bodies frost-kissed, forsaken on the floor.
The toad ceased to croak its reply to the call of the owl,
And the spider’s web lay empty.
With an absence of slugs to chew and poo,
Fruit waited, bletted and failed to rot.
Without slugs,
The slow penitent monks of the soil,
In their slime shroud and mantle,
No holy work ministered,
No last rites for the dead and decaying,
The garden soon piled high,
Became stagnant and still.
The sound of birdsong gone.
With no slugs to digest the past,
Life and death became distilled prayers
In a persistence of purgatory.
In time both garden and Mrs Thornbury
Became ashen phantoms of their former selves.
The vicar at her funeral,
remarked of Mrs Thornbury in his eulogy,
How, in her prime,
She’d loved her garden to death.
Hit them where it hurts
President Trump said “Ukraine has no cards to play to end war with Russia”. Yet deep inside Russia, Ukraine masterfully destroys over 40 warplanes that could carry nuclear weapons, using smuggled drones; simultaneously attacks multiple air fields. Russia loses an estimated $7,000,000,000 dollars in one day. This is the one for the history books
It’s what you call “the art of war”
Unseen, unheard, not done before
Hit in the balls, the chin and mug
Ukraine plants hurtful wartime slug
The “Trojan Horse” of modern times
Payback for vicious bloody crimes
Can’t puff your cheeks, the air’s gone
Deprives the evil of its brawn
No one can tell them what to do
Defeating goons is peace, that’s true
As heavy blow, as ever been
Support the noble fight, to win
Burned planes launched heaviest attacks
Could threaten world with N-word axe
And now they’re gone, ain’t that a shame?
We watch. Hey, “Slava to Ukraine”!
June 2, 2025
Cold
is the
iron bench
I sit upon,
watching for you on
this cool Autumn morning
but all I see is a lone
slug moving slowly from lichen
to lichen on the far arm rest, a
thick trail of slime marks its supine passage.
I remember our long talks as evening
approached, sitting on this old worn bench,
the sky blushing at us as it
shared its multi-hued secrets,
flowers fragrant and sweet.
The birds singing songs
of love to us
but it all
had to
end.
It
was on
your birthday
when I told you
I love you and gave
you the gift, a thin gold
chain. You just stared at me, the
chain dangled between your fingers.
Letting it slowly fall to the ground
you smiled sadly then turned and walked away.
That was the last time I sat on this bench,
the last time I saw your gentle smile.
Now, it is a lonely refuge
for me and my torpid friend,
a lost, eremitic
soul, searching for what?
Only he knows.
How I wish
to be
him.
I
watch as
he slowly
traverses the
handle when through the
dim morning haze I glimpse
a gleam of light from under
the bench. It is the chain buried
in the sand, only the clasp showing.
I leave it for some young lovers to find.
08/17/16
young people all across this country
(The United States Of America),
this middle aged papa doth adore
stand arm against
pervasive arms that didst bore
un-necessary slain school students
robbing society of core
as unwitting targets,
sans vibrant youths
forever snatched to enter door
of homes, where loving
kith and kin no longer behold
a cherished biological product
lowered six feet under into cold
terra firmae, where Mother Earth
entombs the fruits
(ripened to their prime), now...en fold
did taken down by random bullets, which gold
din precious person murdered,
where maniacal gunman didst hold
down the trigger, which high powered weapon
loosed asper indiscriminate aim
mass destruction
of sons and/or daughters killed fired,
whence slug didst claim
another abhorrent statistic
from easy access snatching a darling dame
or handsome lad, while soundless horror
many a countenance
doth non verbally exclaim
the profound sadness,
now murdered offspring
solely enshrined within picture frame
where sorry lost life haint no board game
yet, random dice throw
courtesy of second amendment
fuels American's passion
asper right to bear arms, particularly re: cent
spate of wanton mounting killed
(within storied halls of academia)
spurred many well organized national event
reached a tipping point,
where lock, stock and barrel deadly age gent
brought together this day
(March 24 th, 2018), an immense crowd
staged across America within major metropolitan areas
(from sea to shining sea) with actions loud
her than words,
suffusing this older dada to feel proud
unsure if thine eldest progeny joined
the Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
swell organized protests, which wowed!
Central air conditioning quickly
found this creature comfort acclimated,
defies, contradicts, bumps uglies...
up against rugged individualist
I meekly profess to idealize
admitting propensity nothing
distinguishable differentiating
all talk no action, no less tolerant
than aversion to extreme heat index
burrowing into sixty degree Fahrenheit
climate control mancave
quite divergent weathering
humid, hot, and hazy
dog days of summer,
when boyhood at 324 Level Road
lacked luxuriating aforestated amenity
first poetic line
introducing anonymous reader
familiar or otherwise
regaling modest literary versatility,
whereby yours truly
dealt with temperatures
registering bajillion degrees,
especially level housing bedrooms
about half dozen steps above landing
suddenly experiencing indisputable
scientific principle hot air rises
undermining ability to function
no more active rather equally inert
as inanimate object
mainly cuz estate complex edifice
formerly christened "Glen Elm"
built approximately half century
preceding incorporating
said modern HVAC conveniences,
no modern building lacks,
plus ability to tolerate hardship
much more omnipresent
before yours truly
racked quite numerous
orbitz round the sun
versus now, when
greater sensitivity prevails,
I admit pioneer spirit plummeted,
and if forced to forego
custom tailored environment
would be immovable prey,
for even the most
harried styled carrion,
which admission would
only present challenge
predicated on severe disruption
compromising being hermetically
sealed, linkedin, cocooned...
within man-made dwelling
hardship analogous no name brand
garden variety slug
essentially homeless snail
shell lacked with mew cuss!