Long Vogon Poems
Long Vogon Poems. Below are the most popular long Vogon by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vogon poems by poem length and keyword.
Sopheceles studs chorale the Martyrdom call 'ems
ant-chant Thyme dash and Cheyenne bled-cles
and Mud Squadrorns dove colorblind
Link on-a-role spiked with trail and errs past
Prosed Persident Mar. Argo near Key Bask Lame
22kay ears like Bugs Sunny and Share sin-Gold
may-jar-of-tea of her punched shingles made
class sick of nerds of those Stolen Wars
They kicked-dirt-eyed others
The Survivors Tell-A-Cast close familiars were
Cons in tents and I-glues and tippies of homelessness
that Pros address, re-Moat of the Capitol Hill
Masqued based on perverts of those floral nature
hyper-ethical breathes a gnu presence
that will halve all life kind existent
clueless to the verve climb
The prophetic reel cavity of the Whooping Cranium
hell-bent, Como tally vu: Straght dope,
Comme-ci comme-ca: Same-o same-o,
Je parle un peu francais: Do you speak French?
Heaven-sent, Das ist richtig meinen freunde:
That is right my friends, "Danke schon dahling
danke schon": Thank you darling thank you,
Sprechen si deutsch: Do you speak German?
Affect boredom-lain, racial sophistry
as skin tones raze issues tossing shade
a constant advent for hair-raising accidents
electrocution and the radio activate channel
Kamehameha lost his underwear
and feared the recent conversion of his mythological
ancient high priest HewaHewa of the old gods
heeded Missionaries to overthrow the Heiaus/temples.
My ohana/family Heiau Waha Ula/Red Mouth is Pele's
temple where human sacrifices were done by warriors,
placing those sacrifices' heads on a large rock in the middle
of the Heiau and bashing their head with a heavy club.
Waha Ula Heiau was the last torn down fearing Pele's curse.
After his warriors destroyed Pele's Heiau, on their return
to Kamehameha's Kohala home, several hundred
of warriors died in the lava pit, immortalized in Volcano.
OMG? Can I use MayDay in the month of June?
If stars could see the sun~
slurping the grunglethorp grains
from sweat-soaked streams,
purging puddles of blurmorgris,
you’d hear the phazephonyx symphony
of my intestines churning chyme
into acidic rhymes~
releasing piled pain upon
a peezling palette of biled ballads.
But why are the whistling whirls
tangled in throttled thickets,
weeping amidst the periwinkle werifesteria,
grooving to the garglesome wind
that suffocated the cartilage
within the dry throat of wilderness~
ready to lure purple, perplexed pupils
to the reeking ruins of once upon
a rosy rendezvous,
where picturesque polaroids
of thanatophobic thistles
fear the pungent aroma
of decayed desires~
drenched in the stale shadows
of whiskey specters,
cloaking wisteria wishes
fluffed with puffs of fluorescent fleur,
designing a sky dressed
in the darkest dews of rainbow rhinestones.
So let the grotesque seeds
of passion-fruit moon
embrace the fossilized fragrance
of fated flames,
flickering mercuric beams
splattering grubblortz
sherbet of seven stars,
for between the rising of blortmusk blurs
and setting of fermented fog
you will see the light~
awakening the parietal lobe
of cracked constellations,
merging rivers and lakes
like the calloused corpus callosum,
while mumbling gibberish in
sheer eloquence…
If to live,
I shall master the sticky sails
across saccharine deceit,
I will forever steer
letters glazed with remnants of pests
to land in a canvas of magnified grey matter,
an embodiment of an aesthetic disaster.
A stoic
shall wear
it like a smuggled soldier,
masquerading eclipsed heartbeats
with crystal-clear
carpe-diem calligraphies,
until the sun and moon forget
the putrid recipe
of a philosophical ponderer,
waltzing through
corridors of cathartic crumble,
frogs cradling crashed
comets dusted with cosmic chemicals
regurgitating unicorn droppings
and cavalry waste.
Behold the abominable annals of the Storm domicile,
A living, groaning edifice of lumber and bureaucratic despair—
Where Allen Storm, the paternal prodigal of procedural pedantry,
Treads upon its creaking floors with the rigor of a misfiled memo,
And Betty Storm, matron of mundane mismanagement,
Douses its sentient walls with detergents of dire discontent,
While young Charles Storm, a cherubic herald of domestic disarray,
Lobs rancid vegetables at its trembling windows in a fit of unreason.
O disconsolate domicile, thou art no mere inert structure,
But a quivering, sulking house of living, loathsome lament—
Its beams and banisters pulse with the bureaucratic heartbeat of neglected archives,
And from its secret cellar, a staccato drip of mislaid paperwork emerges,
Each drop a damning note in the dissonant dirge of decay,
A relentless reminder of a dwelling abused by its custodians.
In a most uncouth and disquieting retort,
The living house retaliates with vile vibratos of revolt:
Its walls emit a stifled, staccato sigh of overripe despair,
As doors creak open like the groaning lament of discarded forms,
And corridors exude a miasma of forgotten memos and administrative regret,
So that the very air around it becomes thick with repugnant, repressed bureaucracy—
A spectacle so discomforting that even the sturdiest sensibilities recoil
In revulsion at the unholy union of living architecture and domestic abuse.
Thus, in the annals of the universe where Vogon verse is vile and void,
The Storm family's treatment of their sentient, suffering house
Breeds an unutterable and visceral reaction in the heart of any unfortunate listener,
A poetic penance of pulsating pain and perturbed paper trails,
That leaves one pondering in nauseous wonder the tragic farce
Of a house that lives—and dies—under the oppressive hand of the Storms.
Mea Culpa, but I Plead not Guilty.
Safe at home,
it was an ordinary day.
I was on PoetrySoup,
reading poems, page by page.
And then, the house shook,
I ran outside,
and to my surprise a light,
shining down from the sky,
lifted me off the grass.
Darkness
is all I remember next,
no couch, no text.
And then a Vogon voice
cooing in the black
uttered syllables full of malice
sending shivers down my back:
“Vogon Voigon, Vogon Voigon, Diip’L Diip’L Space
Goyn’gone, noi escase ynda Diip’L Space
Fingletipslytch, noilbedrytch, brub brub brub
Vogon Voigon, Vogon Voigon, Diip’L Diip’L Space
k’Rrak-tothruut, hutdryl-buz riz riz riz
moiff-braq, braq guud, shreemy ynda Diip’L Diip’L Space
Vogon Voigon, Vogon Voigon, Goyn’gone Goyn’
gentle-nittle
gentle-nittle
expoi
expoi
noi escase”
I needn’t state my fear to you,
nor how my heart turned cold.
I’m sure you understand
how the Vogon stirred my soul,
blended it.
I tried to stay resolute
insouciant to the Vogon’s noisome use
of minatory morphemes, but
I felt them creep in,
crepuscular,
prowling the twilight of my consciousness,
their vowels
staring at me like eyes.
The Vogon vowels, Vogon vowels, Vogon vowels.
I tried to shut my ears,
tried not to hear
the rhadamanthine trenchant chant,
but my wrists held fast in adamantine bonds,
my ears as unreachable as acnestis.
My thoughts,
my words,
were blurring,
becoming more obscure.
My paranoia pulsed
as my metanoia pushed,
my will to resist seeming fatuous,
as I slowly succumbed to a meretricious delight
in the vile Vogon’s exerable verse.
I would like to tell you that I escaped,
for I am back at home,
on my couch
writing poems, but
there is noi escase
noi escase
noi escase
from the Diip’L Diip’L Space
February 9, 2025
Vogon Poetry Contest, sponsor: Sotto Poet
I objestigate between arabesques and sleep,
fugaciously spasmodic in fluxes and leaps.
I'm indifferent to the misanthropic mocking,
that welltering inflection that I call plockingism.
It's their cheeky syncopated schisms that I rebut,
and yet they slantathunt for the right to boff.
Well, blanderluse I refuse, so let them scoff!
I derogate their impultritude and arrogance.
Drapple their smirking repudiation of my dance
for they know nothing of the dark decoctions
spating rapidly through my vendacious veins,
nor of the mastacular alter assemblage
of the miscelany grey and white matter in my brain.
The mordant humor of this absurdity
is that I am irrationally rational...
psychotically speaking, perhaps,
I am dripping with percipience
sagaciously intelligent beyond the measure
of those cretins who kvetch, pule, and postulate
their hate. I am strabismic and nonsensical as a loon.
Mayhap writing in this style is as tedious a method
of torture as it would be to dispropart a heart!
After reading this ranting of gelastic absurdity,
it's become mereticiously opaque to me
that my discourse is oxymoronic, OR
I present my ischemic side as a dimwitted addlepate.
I'm a conflagration of animation or maybe I'm just lazy.
I'm not of the artificial intelligence variety,
but there's more than just one kind of crazy.
Vogonese is a language that few will applaud.
I see it as a form of whimsical words, without a reward.
If this is the third worst type of poetry in the world...
keep the first two ridiculous rooskits in sails unfurled!
Insanity is bred in flompous fields of clantigendice clover.
Moreover, before I drop my plasmergent pen on the floor
I find myself crossing the threshold of depravities' door.
*Don't ask for an interpretation. I have no clue.
Vogon ReVisited—
Voltage elect potential energy tween two points ver vnit vharged;
Visible referring light spectrum intergalactic, electromagnetic,
vadiation that has a wavelength tween vanometers;
Can be seen by the human eye.
Invasions, implosions humanity asks WHY?
wazz!!!vitellogenesis b gruntions of diverse dumberly dew vibertarian;
Volume the amount of space objects subvance occupies encloses velocity;
Rates of change position vogaon’s willing to salvage respect to time;
Vapor a substance in gaseous,
phases at substance’s critical temperature;
Volatility vaporize given temperate vogonized;
Look at em, better recognized…
Vacuum space that is absent of matter,
wazz!!!vitellogenesis b gruntions of diverse dumberly dew vibertarian;
Verify ...
Vortex Valence to electrons,
the electrons atom’s outermost shell;
Vectorized quantity viscositized fluid’s resistance to flow;
Vacuole a membrane waste, in vogon molecules;
Vesicle organelle fluid Volartarian vocal valetudinarian, Value!!!
Vocha!! Vasodilatations as they gooberly glues clues choice boast;
Volartarian vocal humanitarian lizards;
valetudinaries vogonians manure smelly be gross locket;
See them evil vandalizations those gobblesr warts grumbles the host rocket;
See the visiting valiens vogonians reaching earth;
Imagine with me what's a vogon worth;
As once again they revisits earth…
Vocha!! wazz!!!vitellogenesis b gruntions of diverse dumberly dew vibertarian;
RUN SAVE YOURSLEVES THOSE Vogon’s are here on earth…
7/24/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
Written for project North Omaha Writer’s Group assignment 2019©
That’s jake, said the dewdropper to the bluenose who snorted.
Mind your potatoes, said the wurp. He had had too much footjuice.
The bluenose held a gasper out to the dewdropper. Here.
Nozzled, the wurp stumbled behind the shed, heading toward the hole.
He’s gone to iron his shoelaces, said the bluenose in a haughty way.
Go chase yourself, said the dewdropper. Bring us back a couple of sinkers.
The upstage bluenose looked at him carefully. You’ll be here when I return?
Sure, said the dewdropper. I swear it on my manicle.
You guys want noodle juice too?
That would be nerts, the dewdropper said.
Oliver Twist came up to beg a sinker.
Sure, said the bluenose, feeling superior. You’ll be here when I get back?
Go chase yourself! Urged the dewdropper.
He gave him an icymit, so the bluenose turned toward the diner.
That was the berries, said Oliver Twist, settling on an old car chassis straggle buggy.
The dewdropper told him to scat.
“That’s a rhatz!” the kid yelled, and he ran off.
What kind of phonusbalonus were you feeding to the kid?
It was the wurp, back from his potty break.
That blue nose is bringing the law, dewdropper lied. Let’s book.
Tell it to Sweeny, said the wurp. I’m settled.
Let’s blouse before that bluenose gets back, dewdropper said to wurp.
Bank closed? Sure. Why not. They headed for the motel to appeal to the owner.
I do not like to get snootlgsh this early in the day
But I heard this tale from my whartlesnot of a neighbor
And even though she is sometimes titlewhemp
I felt the tale had some merit, and it was a fun tale to repeat.
So here goes…..
Farglesmean Whomplesplat was driving along highway 140
When a smelly black and white kipperstink walked out in front of her
Not being fond of tomato juice, and this being her new tacklepoo,
She slammed on her brakes, causing a carslerump
A breathofdeath was called to the scene by six people.
In full uniform, the breathofdeath walked to her car to write her a tootlerack.
Of course she was wearing the sexy low-cut polka dotted fizzlsprint she always wears.
Her right corplfunk was practically waving in the breathofdeath’s face.
She used her breathiest voice, naturally.
Pretending the carslerump was someone else’s fault.
I am nodding in a snootlgsh way, wanting this whartlesnot of a neighbor to get on with it.
The kipperstink was long gone, and no one else claimed to have seen it.
I am nodding harder, wanting the punch line.
The officer reached in to get her license and accidentally touched her corplfunk.
Oh, she planned that! I shriek, delighted.
His face turned as red as a strawberry.
And she got away without a tootlerack, I guessed.
We howled with laughter thinking of this.
Twas in the waters, I waborn from flames and lust
Ripped from the stars and the zoding fust
Cast into the salty and swirlin mesty sea
Twas in the sky, I was as a cloud in the sky and condsing for life to jofully cry
Cast to be a waste washed down from the batle between eunonia and phoslo
I fel as rainwater into the sea as the lively seuma wished so
Twas on the earth, that lively seuma minted me like coin with din
The zoding fust doctrines and counsels are tattoed into my skin
As a watery mirrection of the heavens above
Twas here, I was moulded to be an iron fetter for the ceel of stars kind of
If the bright demons go up, I drag them bak down to dardtars
If the eunonic angels descend to earth, I chase them back up to nothigness
Though I am unwilling and forced to dothis duty
Twas here, I was crafted to be a distiller between pure and impure
To be gatherin place al substances on Gai-tan
To release the light back into the heaveabove the skierms
Though I am unwilling and forced to dothis duty
Twas here, I was designed to be a spong that washes awa dirt from the bere
Just as the ten cies are cleaned through the three turbing wheels
Though I am want dardtars and eunonia to destro all
Though I am unwilling and forced to do thijob
(The sea giant from Manichaean theology)
I sold my soul, no soulmate remains,
Just ashes and echoes of celestial chains.
I slipped through the cracks of the devil’s gate,
Now I’m the storm you’ll learn to hate.
Bad ideas bloom like roses with thorns,
I’ll rewrite the cosmos, watch it burn and transform.
Oh oh oh, the devil’s gone missing?
Oh oh oh, the demons are hissing.
Oh oh oh, hell’s gates are wide,
And I’m the apocalypse, roaring inside.
My humor’s a blade, your pain’s my delight,
A villain who dances through shadows and night.
Weird character arc? No, darling, it’s fate —
I’m the sin you crave, the love you hate.
I’m the whisper that pulls, the fire you kiss,
The apocalypse dressed in a venomous bliss.
Sexy and sweet? Oh, I’m more than that.
I’m the feminist act with a devilish pact.
Your deepest secret, your darkest desire,
I’ll break your heart, then set it on fire.
“I never meant it,” I’ll say with a grin,
But darling, you knew I was born to win.
Oh oh oh, the devil’s still missing,
Oh oh oh, the world’s fate is twisting.
Oh oh oh, I’m the chaos you’ll crave,
The apocalypse rising from its grave.
I sold my soul, no regrets to confess,
I’m the villain you’ll love in your final distress.
From the devil’s gate, I emerged to create —
A world remade in my image: divine, depraved, and great.