Long Whorish Poems
Long Whorish Poems. Below are the most popular long Whorish by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Whorish poems by poem length and keyword.
Juice had a call that carried to the outer limits of the next galaxy.
We all thought he was a tad bit touched in his pure ecstasy.
I think he seems more orange today, said a feline on the block.
Look at his muscles said another, his boots I’d like to knock.
You hussies are whorish I thought, feeling I was better than them.
The next thing I knew they were clashing down an old Tom named Jim.
Two of the wildest felines in New York, they have had dozens of litters.
Not a bit discriminating, they are an embarrassment to cat critters.
Juice was throwing his call out there, with insane bits of might.
I knew he was calling the mothership. I saw her antennas bright.
Get me off of this planet he told the beam that came down from the sky.
At this moment, he became a pretty damned desirable guy.
I preened and I primped, and I sashayed up to that alley in a bit.
He had stopped sing wailing, but he did not see me one whit.
The aliens had brought him something ten times better than cat nip.
I lingered for days. The smell sent me on a fantastic psychedelic trip.
What is wrong with those two? Juice asked, indicating the sluts.
I was honest and mean, throwing out words in disapproving struts.
We became close friends that day. High as kite, Juice and happy me.
The next time he made the alien cry, I was next to him singing off key.
Cackle like hens
might the fox
find you
he spoke.
that those who
feedest thee sowest not
but sprinkle grains to fatten
might the fox
spoil the harvest
there labors shall be in vain!
Nyx raised stranger people
with the teachings of the night
she offered them suggestions
how to use and make poorish
troublings barable: so we thought
make way that the ballet shall
never be written and the song
never sung.
Hera over hearing Nyx, interuped
and cursed Nyx who told the women
to have there men save there money
and buy expensive things
and tell these men that you will marry them
and when all the women shall meet
together
they shall agree then not to marry
and the men shall be emotional and uncaring
and the Followers of Dolus
will be able to trick them of there
tresures by making them
assocate there wealth with there enablity to
gain the hand of those they had loved.
Hera cursed them with words of division
and spoke there ills before the other Gods.
Dolus sought Nyx and stood beside her
as to the honor they had developed.
Chorest thee might
others might prosper.
that chariots might make strong men weak
and then the women who act as they adore him
might become wealthy from being deceptive.
Might the the horses make dust
that they might not see
and the noise of
the wheels
might distort there decision making
spoke Dolus. Again Hera herd these words and said.
Might the consortment of deception
be your own undoing.
Three hundred nights mights might these
women barest.
that those who chore
to aquire there hands in marrage
might chore no more said Hera!
A the tricks of whorish women
shall be story's of
trustest persons warnings to all against
the devlsh ways of whoring folk.
An hour has hatched in my feeble head all the actually tormented minutes,
many stuffed seconds, the past's terrible death that haunts me obsessively,
to lurk, appear in the future, after a present that aged too quickly,
from the future, absent apparition, of being or never being clearly anymore.
And look how I've found through a me too often rushed through labyrinths,
infinitesimal traces of infinity, of my current occupation like a toxic river,
attached to life in my unprofitable square dream - from THOUGHT exploding in me,
the secret mission - hatred! - the tenacious demented fight with my phantom windmills!
To find for my poetry the neurotoxic antidote, the anti-EVERYTHING destroying meanings,
of candles transpired tears of hot melted wax, my most whorish passions,
of our statues celebrities, still unhewn, in marble stones waiting,
when from youth's exhausting sprint, I feel my labored soul throwing away.
I shake as long as I'm still alive from the biosphere all imaginary windmills,
of life's intensely total electric stress that burns my neurons in small fires,
I, the successful illiterate who reads chaos on the pages of burnt time,
of seconds' past sonorously screaming, on the definitively broken from lost future!
The hour hatches minutes like time embryos boiling in the skull,
the past's memories die and turn into ash of pallid memory,
the future lurks somewhere in the present like an untamed wild animal,
and I, rushed through myself, find infinite traces in my brutal finitude.
"When a man who is drinking neat gin starts talking about his mother he is past all argument."
C.S. Forester's "The African Queen”
MOTHER
(A MUTTERING)
My sweetheart gin is cast.
I stare at her reflective glass.
Like a crystal ball I see the past.
A small boy in prayer at mass.
Oh how blessed is my sweet Ma.
Her sweet lips pressed to my brow.
Back many years, I obeyed the law.
Now swirls of sin seek the cutlass-crow.
Her handkerchief, fringed with soft lace,
would erase the smudge of familial rift.
Her tender hands’d touch my small impish face,
until the day I’d hop a ship and wrongly drift
with suntanned palms, filled with whorish gin,
to never see the waterfall, the etch of tears,
the gray-spun wool that prayed to squelch my sin.
Oh mother, if I could find those wasted years.
I lay my head down on this feverishly cold bar.
Every muttering sold as slave to my abysmal past.
Your sky blue eyes hearken from heaven — so far
from the deepest well of wailing gin, that sinks me fast.
Ne’er woman clothed in silk or satin bait,
were as attentive as my ma’s eyes of grace.
Foolhardy fisherman, I’ve hooked my fate.
Now I drown my sorrows, in the darkest place.
2/25/2018
Gin In The Morning contest
Sponsored by Julia Ward
Sorplaisitese was his name
he was moderatly poor
and happy. He had aweful luck
with woman. So he thought.
One day he meet one of his
former female freinds
and became wise
to plots against him.
He learned his family members
would corner his female freinds
and ask had he consamated there
relationship citing a faith that lead him
to beleive certain things.
This would
make spectical of him and cause
the woman to be whorish with him
and mean. Instead of being the
woman he needed due
to the meddling of strange and
unwanted questioning
it would cause strain in
there fragile condition.
Dumbfounded he absorded what
she said and made mention of
it to his father. Well his father
told him if ever this would happen again
he would try to help him
resolve the matter.
This bowl is no longer mine,
was never so,
Let it go.
well worn before the oath,
A gift that despised the guardian,
Presented freely without a dowry in May.
tainted, and abandoned.
used, and widened by many.
too wide to keep a home.
This bowl is no longer mine,
Let it go,
insatiable, licentious and libidinous.
The bowl was scorned by many.
ere i fell a wandering,
incorrigible, rebellious, untutored.
a bait on my way, the sorrow on my path.
This bowl is no longer mine,
Let it go,
Like many seeking for prey, and so was i for a time.
intent concealed,,
desperate for the gift of the semen.
as adulterer urged rebellion by ignorance.
the rage, the rave of ego and bestiality.
deceived the Law for mere gain.
This bowl is no longer mine,
Let it go,
It is broken cannot be fixed by logic.
this bowl is old, alluring by mascara.
This bowl was used,
i take exception on your list,
This bowl is free available to all.
the next victim can explore.
the bowl is cheap,
forced a dowry to conceal the shame.
This bowl is no longer mine,
Let it go,
T'was sold for free at Ikoyi with ego,
Who is next?
A thousand many had the bowl,
I played along for a time,
ere this voyage of deceit,
I took a flight from restrain ,
hoping to make a jewel from the Flesh.
This bowl is no longer mine,
Let it go,
This bowl is addicted to the red zones,
Incurable addiction i recalled,
The friends,
The internet,
The phone,
The TV,
The cinema,
And tattling,
The routines of unending dark flights
Incorrigible,
Venomous.
You may have the bowl if you would.
think no shame on me, I lusted.
This bowl is No longer mine.
Let it go
Once a street bowl,
and always so.
Find the bowl in your homes,
Let's hope the bowl recovers.
but a broken bowl is irreparable by man
Absurdity walked this path of a whorish lane,
Dauntingly decked in a dark seductive garb
Egregiously seeks the thrones by craftiness,
Nebulous transverse for the wayfaring man.
Illusions of a well worn thigh concealed with facial mascara.
Killjoy bipolar nagging for control, demanding dominance by demonic antics,
Eccentric public commodity makes it the brothels for quickie.
Acrimony well taught from the market square by “Iyaloja”
Damaging defiance conscripting father to “garri Ijebu” and Fish
Egomania derailed from home and deprived of morals,
Sagged and perforated lurid frame perfumed for a prey
Offensive forlorn factious feigned facades
Lacklustre and noxious mien seduced the prey by lewd bait,
Absurd Incentive the goal, merchandise of greed, A week of affiance.
Lord, save this unholy Baptist!?
Her lactation, like mother's juice,
slakes thirsty tongues with creamy gist.
To flush her slick love-chamber's sluice,
with corkscrew thumbs, and practiced wrists,
like a gander she mauls her goose!
If hairy chest stirs those supple breasts
in whorish barns (near lover's inns),
then with my cock's erectest crest,
the buttocks (of her cleft nether-chin),
like meat pies, I durst hurry test,
lest I, limp, err in deadly sins!
But I pray Thee, O holy Godhead!
I durst not be so thus content'd,
when, like dogwood, is my sainthead,
when goes my pizzle unlament'd;
and, like Pan, to c*nt the nunhead,
I've foregone your grace, unrepent'd.
It so happen,
The hungry whale in hearty amity,
with an invisible scowl and a dreadful leer.
Led him to the gallows.
blackened by whorish adventurous traverse on many beds,
with mascara concealed the treacherous venom of invading serpent,
Delilah dressed in the garbs of Deborah,
gives a Judas kiss to their prey,
and at the other counting house,
quarrying on the destinies of many,
insincerity, what evil stems from your whorish womb,
hunting for prey as missioners from hell.
Did they find a victim in you?
The gold is now dross,your eyes gauged and locks cut.
And You the victim, Sometimes in reminisce,
Your dreams revived,
Yet, trudging the barren hill down the desolate vales
The Burden of Dumah,
buried at the alter of Jezebel
And there he sleeps,
cowering in the ship to Tarshish,
Is this the place for rest?
Ah! Terror concealed with a kiss,
The timber soon are strained.
This sinkhole is a path to misery,
many men groan on that path.
Tales of woe unspoken.
A thousand beckoning subtle smiles, could be the doorway to death,
with wanton lust enticing men of big dreams from the pathways.
Hush!
Should These Despots succeed?
Buried destinies,
Murdered dreams,
Swapped mission,
Alas!
In that grave over there,
crammed with unfulfilled destinies.
buried between their thighs.
Oh Man! Guard Your unfulfilled mission,
Lest like Samson,
You grind in the Mill.
I have condoned myself to suicide
To death
To feel acceptance, the burge of pain, enlightenment
All with immediacy
As if i was but a figment of a whorish imagination
I often find myself the stranger among the room of fallaced faces
The stranger among the few that thrive within the seeming warmth of human kindness
Albeit never from the settlement of warmth shadowed and blockaded with the grief of my own lacking position
I have no abstract line of movement
My blood shall lay upon the scythe of all apparent spectators
Belier a mirthless laugh at my own stupendous stupidity
As if a comedic moment
Be it believed all sins shall cower within swinish torrents of bloodily bodied liquids
My means of memory, a mere settlement of who i had once recounted
But a passing star within the leavening eye of all worthy to unworthiness, writhing within the clouded dust of saddened gloom
A star to befall the reputation strung by a mere trapezing wire
Mirthless, as mirthlessness shall soundly recede
Be it the bodice held within, the sacrificial lamb pungent with the blackest bile poignant within sorrowful sunlight
This one shall hold, dally a dogmatic dance upon the cherubim meadows
Be it, be it by this apparency of a death to be, shall concede
Be it, to be still the meadows' sleepless waters, a hind to be distinct
Led the dearest hatchet to sombre sleep, as all shall be it buried
Born a barred bastard to be slain and scandalous
Let it be the gore of ghoul to lay placid, unminding, the gall of all surrendered to swim within the waters of despair
Be it, as all shall stay, i do but bid the season's shallow greeting, by the morrow's meaningless adieu
A fallen farewell of my own, do pay the sun wilting fare, fictitious as the repetitive face may appear
My appetite for soundless life has departed
As my sultry dance burnt anew, shall depart by the wallowing song, of all apart of it.
Thus thou shall sleep no more...
27//1//2025
23:07
Tally-ho! Forever the foe.