Long Stank Poems
Long Stank Poems. Below are the most popular long Stank by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stank poems by poem length and keyword.
Wie waak oor ons gans die wakkernag?
Vind sondes.lank vergete
n aanklag eggo in die gewete
Dalk net stank demone
Wat slaaploos toi-toi in talle drome
Watter wekker skrik sy meester kaal
Wyl hy rondtol.in n lakenhel?
Skape, pennies en sy woorde tel
Of plak gebede saam met drome vas
Teen blank plafonne en die linnekas?
En ook skimme wat eens mense was
n vingerskrif op die klagstaat straf
Ander sluimer niksbeduidend
Wereld werk nog steeds misleidend
Introspeksie hou het geen verband
Onwelkom het net ingekom
Soos infeksie in n agtertand
Prokureur teem onbeholpe
'k kort n advokaat
n leuenverklikker wat moet wèèt waarvan hy praat
Opgetof en opgetoga en n omkoopmagistraat
Sinies en insomnies
naghof ronddool in n doodloopstraat
Wie sake uitgooi maar dan skelm uitstel
Weereens more ons beroof van geld en slaap
my Muse and i
i went for proper
grammar instead
of the sonority of
my Muse and me
but back to the
poem if that's what
you want to call it so
my Muse and i
we're texting
about having a
baby but not
just any baby
because
my Muse and i
live far from each
other with only the
occasional cell
conversation but
many emails and
photo sharing
sharing each
other in these
modern times
love will always be
love as long as we
keep sustainability
in our long distance
relationship as long
as we are here for
each other to love
and comfort but
my Muse and i
decided having
a girl would be
best because if
a boy he might
grow up and be
like me and that
i wish upon no
one so on a given
day decided so
decidedly
excitedly
i stopped putting
a condom on my
mouse and now
saw how easy it
was to scroll down
and up her photos
while she stopped
taking the pill and
started popping M
& M's making her
belly big giving the
impression it was
working and in doing
so we started mailing
more and the photos
became more risque
a pirate's rating of
arrr as we now had
come to that point
in time discussing
cyber baby names
and i started stocking
up on ipads for the sure
to be constant changing
but then came the thought
i ought not to have thunk
since it stank of jealousy
but i asked her what about
your teets mainly meaning
her teets and me and that
thing as now i saw it as an
it frankensteinishly pieced
piece by piece and she
began crying and i tried
to appease her sensibilities
but then without word pulled
out
the
USB
cord
Form:
She stood there and slooshed on the grass at her feet
She’d have to move forward before she dared eat
She walked a few paces to discover that
Some other cow had left a foul splat
Wherever she looked there was piddle or poo
And that was the moment she knew what to do
She looked at the grass which was drying and brown
She might well have cringed but a cow cannot frown
She went to the river to drink some clean water
Across it, the farmer, his wife and his daughter
Live in a house with a lush green lawn
The greenest she’d seen since the day she was born
But why should she settle for this frazzled field
When over the river, a bounteous yield
Well she had to go where she had to go
And then in the water was hit by the flow
She struggled against it, her progress was slow
But she battled on to where green grass does grow
Why should the farmer keep it to himself
When cows were the subject of all of his wealth
The river was raging, the current was strong
She aimed for the lawn so she didn't go wrong
And finally clambered the opposite side
Astounded she’d managed a river so wide
She pushed herself out and up onto the bank
And looked back across to where the grass stank
She’ll savour this green grass for all it is worth
She took her first mouthful...
Yuk...
Astroturf!
When I was fifteen my friend 'Riff' and I
started our very own garage band,
and for the first year we truly stank,
but I've always been a dedicated man.
I pushed Riff, and we quickly got better,
soon started writing songs of our own,
got a drummer, 'Bomber,' and bassist, Caplan,
folks were downloading our songs to their phones.
Soon we attracted big league attention,
and at twenty I signed us to a deal,
our album sold big, our downloads bigger,
all of our rock star dreams become real.
It was at this time I sat and thought
of the musicians who had gone before,
the mistakes and pitfalls that had dogged them,
and would be the end of many bands more.
I had no desire to exit this world,
as had the great Bonham and Mercury,
made myself a goal, even wrote it out,
I would moderate my debauchery.
This was no easy thing for a young man
now living the celebrity life,
it's not like I didn't sleep with groupies,
hell one of them would become my wife!
But I tried to avoid the easier ones,
which is a difficult thing to do,
could you turn away a smoking hot girl
wearing just a smile and tattoo?
But more often than not my will won out,
an I always used good protection,
no use throwing all your health away
in the name of temporary fun.
And it isn't like I did not drink,
I have always enjoyed a cold beer,
but I'd get drunk no more than once a week,
and hired drivers to assuage our fears.
It's also fair to say that I smoke some pot,
though honestly, it was never my thing,
but I used it to draw a hard line,
because the hard stuff was damn frightening.
The result was that I managed to keep
my head despite all the money and fame,
unfortunately I just kind of assumed
that all my band-mates would think the same way.
I guess that's a common human mistake,
as Caplan's problems soon would attest,
he wasn't satisfied with Mary Jane,
and was soon fond of heroin and meth.
He missed interviews, he even missed shows,
even woke up naked in Central Park,
whenever he was called out about it
he'd say,”Guys, I'm just having a lark!”
But it got so bad that Caplan was fired,
on him we could no longer rely,
a year later he overdosed at home,
only twenty-seven and he died...
CONTINUES IN PART II
6-22-2015
It was the last door for me to open.
I didn’t know what lay behind, hidden
Forgotten memories, feelings packed high?
Or if not forgotten, just painful. Lost.
It’s not special, chosen… But it's the last.
And it must open to finish my task
Twelve long months I’ve cleaned, twelve months long I’ve toiled.
Alone I’ve removed the detritus, ash,
Leftovers from a party unwanted.
The furniture was destroyed, bespoiled, torn
Trash and garbage stank, the rooms were quite soiled.
Gagged with what I saw, I retched at the thought
I allowed this to happen, decided
Naught. But now all clean were the rooms, the halls
The funk was removed, the place was renewed
Less this last door in the shadows of thought.
...And then, I opened that door. Hidden. Last.
I dreamed I accidentally bought two expensive tickets to a musical play about Thomas Jefferson, then figured, what the hell, Rhonda and I might as well go. Then an ex showed up, someone I get along with fine to this day, but I was surprised in the dream that she screamed horrible curses at me.
As I was walking over a drum bridge at a zoo, I realized I had to take care of the Jefferson tickets which I'd wadded up and put in my right-hand pocket, the one with the hole in it. Fortunately it hadn't fallen through the hole, so I took the two attached tickets and tried to unwad them and smooth them out on the bridge's railing, but the tickets preferred to stay wadded up.
As I was waking up, something smelled like it was cooking and I momentarily wondered if I'd left the stove on the night before when I made spring-burgers. But the radio was on and they said the reason the atmosphere stank of barbecue was towns around Puget Sound were being "smoked" by forest fires in British Columbia. So good, I hadn't left the stove top on, I could relax.
I'd been up most of the night and hadn't gone to bed until about 4:30, so I fell back to sleep and dreamed I was wandering the countryside with the ghost of Johnny Cash. He was so pleasant. I was so happy to be with him. I wasn't sure he was dead, because here we were together, I must've misremembered. It's not my usual sort of dream, a happy one that is.
I didn't wake up until ten. Went down stairs and discovered the oven was on! Rhonda had put a big slice of apple pie in there hours earlier, then went off to work forgetting about it. Surprisingly it wasn't burned. It was dehydrated and flattened into a crispy apple tart. So I ate it.
Published: Edge of Humanity Magazine
July 2026
________________________
So the tree stood in the centre of the desert
mangled by winds of change and truth of joy
chains of dust and torrents of rare rain
Burnt black and senseless by an
unrelenting Sun of nightmare beauty
orange was the sand of scorpions
orange was the mirage of miracles
orange was her veil of innocence
As the tree stank of heavenly myrrh
itched to pour its oil over orange
nippled breasts and buttocks
stroke curves and carves
of luminous beauty with its
ancient branches of stony bark
as beetles made holy love in its
crevices of dark deep velvet depth
And the mangled magic of the myrrh
stood short and stumped and watched
the breath of a timeless desert
slow movements of noble camels
with long thick lashes speaking of
magnificent slowness in the lick of lick
a lip in a lip
Tree of a thousand loves
sprinklings in sparkles spaced
over a tent of chiffon on sand
slithering with patterned serpents
and eyes of dark magic, of long
limbs all in One
twine and twine and grow together
as all become One
with myrrh and magic
heavy beads of sweat and
amber laugh and scream
Moments of a tree of ugly love
as ugly melts into vacant beauty
irresistible wordless wrinkles ageless
Deep furrows of sweet scent
sent desert creatures weeping
to smiling stars as a tree of life
stood stock still to imbibe
eternal myrrh itself
_____________________
That amber liquid far from insipid
Like molten honey but drawn from a tap,
Bitter or dark, the choices quite stark,
God's malted ale, nature's true sap.
Vikings grew strong, strengthened their bond,
Giving them courage for mayhem galore,
A beer in their hand, they pillaged the land
Never quite feeling tired or sore.
The Celts used for curing, Egyptians for luring
Their gods from the heavens bribed to partake,
The English just drank as their water so stank,
Beer their solution to gulp for life's sake.
Wine lovers admit that their glass needs
be sipped
While describing aromas of berries and earth,
No such constraint, nor need for restraint
For drinkers of ale are freewheeling from birth.
So let raise a jug or a frothy filled mug
While watching a game and eating junk food,
Nothing is wetter, more luscious and better
Than a cold tasty beer when expertly brewed.
I scrubbed the shame from under my fingernails,
as if guilt could be washed like dirt.
Cold showers never baptized the ache;
just gave it discipline,
a neat little collar for the beast inside.
They called me godly.
I stood on pulpits of silence,
hiding my hard truths in folded hands
and stitched lips.
“Virtue,” I said once,
like it was a sword I forged from purity.
But truth?
I was celibate because I was afraid.
Afraid that my hunger would make the church tremble.
Afraid of the moan
that would betray my masculinity,
that would out the softness
under my well-pressed sermons.
You were my fifth year of Sunday bests and unwashed bedsheets,
a ghost in my room,
waiting for me to touch you
with more than doctrine.
“You’re mistaking sexual sparks for soul,”
I told you once,
coldly, like I had never burned for you.
But I had.
God knows,
I choked on the fire every night.
You slammed the door with your back turned,
spat,
“The sex only felt euphoric because I was starving everywhere else.”
Your words landed like psalms of rebellion.
And maybe you were right.
Because in my celibate kingdom,
I reigned alone.
Hard, holy, and unheld.
They told me it was wisdom.
That lust is a devil’s whisper,
not knowing it’s also a scream of aliveness.
But is virtue still virtue
if it silences the body
just to please the soul?
I have loved with my eyes shut tight,
and prayed the ******** away;
but my prayers stank of fear,
not faith.
Let’s not pretend,
that choosing not to
makes me cleaner than the one who moaned last night
with the lights on
and the shame off.
This is not
an altar call to purity culture.
This is not
a hymn of repression.
This is me,
uncloaked,
a sinner in skin,
redefining holiness in the mirror.
Touché,
you said.
And I bled truth
for the first time
without guilt.
I haven’t toked in many years
And though it’s just as well,
In Amsterdam three years ago,
My nose picked up that smell.
I breathed in deep and reminisced
About my younger days,
Those weekend nights engulfed in such
A mellow stoned-out haze.
These days in New York City, though,
A scent pervades the air.
It’s weed, I’m told, but to the old stuff
It does not compare.
In fact, its noxious odor
Comes the closest to a skunk.
I wonder if imbibers
Are aware they stink, stank, stunk!
When we partook so long ago,
The ways that one could tell
Were our beatific faces
And our cravings – not our smell!