Pus Poems

Butt out - humour warning!

Bill prodded his sebaceous cyst
‘Twas massive the size of his fist
It spurted green pus
His wife made a fuss
“Get treatment NOW, I must insist”

Blue lighted to the A & E
Huge spurting cyst medics could see
Bill’s livid butt boil
Made doctor’s recoil
Needs lancing now, they all agree

They bundle Bill onto a table
“Don’t sedate him” said his wife Mable
I will succinctly put
He’s a pain in the butt
I’m leaving him when I am able

The medics gave Bill’s boil a prick
Green gunky pus splurts, it’s so thick
Poor Mable was heaving
She said, “Bill I’m leaving
Because you’re an ignorant dick”

“You wouldn’t seek treatment for years
Your constant moans left me in tears
I’ll file for divorce
I’m leaving of course
I’m going to live in Algiers”!

Bills visage turned ever so pale
His final breath he did exhale
The cad passed away
There’s no more to say
I’ve finished the end of this tale!

A Sea of Pus

They call it a profession.
Selling your skin is not the same
as selling your skill.

They call it a bad habit.
Nose picking is not the same
as digging dignity.

They call it empowerment.
Selling a product is different
from being the product.

They call it freedom,
Walking naked in a cage is
not the same as walking free.

They call it a choice
But selecting whose hunger to feed is
not the same as selecting your outfit.

It is what it is-
a meat market, where bodies hang in cuts of desire,
priced by the pound.
a silent auction, where the highest price
buys nothing but shame.
It's a landfill, where discarded intimacy rots
beneath the glitter of screens.
It's a plague, spreading through wires,
infecting touch, until love itself coughs blood.
It's a parasite, gnawing through the bones of society,
spitting out empathy like gristle.

It is a wound which bleeds on both ends.
the watcher and watched are both
drowning in the sea of pus.
Behind the curtains, hands grow fat,
minting coins from pain and spat.

America Lost Its Innocence

                                  7/14/2025

Oh, how could this have ever happened here?
A free naton with baseball, movies and beer?

Those days when other nations cry against the USA…….DIE?
I think on tha, when we turned  far left… America’s very soul died.

Those who so loathe and hate our free nation.
Created conspiracy theories,like…boll weevils.
They would do anything to destroy this nation and make America evil?

None of us realizing,  how this would divide all of us.
A necrotic snake filled some, like decaying green pus.

And the proof is in the yowling streets of PA is heard .
Of misled shouts of hate, like  some insane, hysterical, mysteriuos birds.

Many people died but  many unaware, people could care less!
They much prefer riotinh and lies and walk in a state of mental undress.

Our streets full of both USA and Israeli shrill haters.
In masks and flags,green flafs~ such insane, victim baiters.

That “religious” mantra shouted aboard the 9/11 plaines,
Rings in my tender ears, like an exploding, crashing train.

Sonnet 243

Spring sunshine, idly sparks our souls with freezing glow,
Still shy to shine, as winter's callous ghost refus'd to bow.
Yet bold like brass, thy brightness beams unto our frosty eyes,
Reluctant still, yet cannot help but gaze at newly bluest skies,
The earlybirds, arise once more to heed their children's cry,
On blossom'd trees, pink doves of peace with whom new hope's arriv'd.
Spring sunshine, gives birth to life and light once more,
With winter's wounds, once painful, pus-filled, now less sore.
New hope's alive, upon thy spring-like eyes I fix my gaze,
Now dar'd to dream, that hope of love for one and thou remain'd.

And though my mind, once wreck'd and ravag'd be still divided,
As great white trust, and darkest fear be now once more collided.
But hope's alive, upon thine angel's smile I fix my gaze,
And dar'd to dream, that hope of love for one and thou remain'd.

Poison

I threw the dice, wishing for it to land on the vertically,  
I spoke complaints, hoping people understood it correctly.  
My words are sharp like a sword, only my weapon in hand,  
I cannot rest, I cannot yield, for I won't let it stand.

An alien thing, it getting pus in your flesh,  
It turns into poison, unnoticed at its best.  
A tiny black scorpion kills the camel at the end,
A small sting from the foot and its small venom rend.

Leather Chair

Leather Chair

My leather chair shakes every time 
pus-filled spots develop on
her back.To cheer Mrs Intimacy up (she wed my 
old clock last spring. It was quite a good wedding, but it 
was too long and I had to 
sit – no slouch – at the end of
the warm hallway!) I spoil her with
all the compliments I can think of, and 
all the 
compliments she can handle to
make feel better one whom can’t 
treat their skin disease.

My Abdomen

My Abdomen

A great amount has been recorded about 
my 17-year-old abdomen. My pale stomach and intestines talk 
a great deal and 
sleep much less.
I shut them up and 
keep them awake by 
drinking sludge.
Remember: for perfect abdominal muscles consume the pus from
zits.

I am disgust

I can churn stomachs, with a stench of truth 
An abscess filled with maggots, pus profuse
As I feed off gunk, new nerve ends take root
Raw language in my words, not gross abuse 
Yes! I am disgust, old wounds fear my fruit 


To late for contest

Acnes

Acnes are craters
When sudden it will erupt
Of lava or pus.

human-shaped soils

a carcass is moving
out from the white of the eye it is 
so all-consuming 
dots form in lines on the absentee spine 
dry undefined lumps are soft and infusing
the bruises and rind and the opal contusions 
they fire with pus and with derelict mucus that 
rises in shape as if living and human 

adorned in the fumes as mycelium blooms and pours
wings form from mold stocks that spew from the local pores 
leeching the fluids the carcass now wizens forth 
reaching the sky with a forest of open sores 

sink in the bleak rims of deep skin have peaked 
they churn sinkage and reak sin that bleeds from the meat 
and it turns as it sings and pulls taught and it dreams 
knots drink him and blink in with pinkeye beliefs

Earth Eulogy

Earth Eulogy

By Mark D. Stucky
She was a good planet,
put to death in her prime
by a pandemic of people.
Homo-sapiens was a disease
with mutating and metastasizing
technological and industrial pus,
emitting environmental toxins,
exterminating flora and fauna,
until the infection’s surge
triggered its own extinction.

Vaccines of ecological education
and environmental regulations
could not overpower
the pathogen’s resistance.

When the global viral load
caused ever-rising fever,
Earth suffered convulsions
and, finally, Gaian coma.

Other sentient souls
amidst the starry galactic mist
will surely miss you very much.
Rest in peace, dear Earth.


(Image by Gerd Altmann on Pixabay.com.)

My Uncle Carbuncle

My Uncle Carbuncle lived all alone,
In a very small house made all of stone.
No one called him or ever came by,
Just a hermit by choice, My Oh My!

My Mother's Brother and a real sad sack,
Had pus-filled bumps on his face and his back.
An affliction he had since he was a kid,
Which affected most everything that he did.

Never ate out, had groceries delivered;
And all who saw him just shaked and shivered.
Multiple doctors had never cured him,
Try as they might had never assured him.

Resigned to the fact that nobody cared,
Just hid in his house that nobody shared.
Until one day completely by chance,
Learned of a doctor living in France.

A miracle drug to cure all his ills,
So twice a day took these miracle pills.
Then his skin cleared up I'm happy to say,
My Uncle Carbuncle got married today.

Bastards

There are bastards in the world,
too many of them for my liking,
but they don’t care about my likes
or dislikes for they are bastards.

Bastards!!
Hollowed out beings filled with a
pus green aura of
disdain.

Bastards!!
Scumbags, callous miscreants,
lousy, scuzzball, son-of-a-bit-chin,
sleazebag weasels.

Bastards!!
Villainous,
snake in the grass rogues,
reprobate swine, spineless, jellylike,
amorphous lowlife scoundrels,

Bastards!!


John G. Lawless
2/3/2013

Whistleblower

I’d rather be a whistleblower
Fighting for the right
Then just another thistle grower
Plucking out of sight

A whistleblower blows to be
The keeper of our crimes
A thistle-mower painfully
Is catching hell at times

The whistleblower wants to break
The folk who fake on us
The thistle-grower wants to make
The poke redeem the pus

Oh cautiously but selflessly
The whistleblower blows
Oh warily but carefully
The thistle-grower goes

The whistleblower fearlessly
Is fanning freedom's flame
The thistle-grower tearfully 
Is plucking just the same.

Cordolium

Perhaps you're apathetic to my ministrations
fatigued by my futile attempts at suturing 
the suppurating wounds inflicted by others 
who came before me much like those I suffer 
both of our spirits bearing similar scars
Upon removing the bandages to reveal 
they have not healed and rankle raw and red 
I turn my head not in disgust at the pus
but so you won’t see the tears I shed 
on account of my failure before binding them 
once again in clean linen after applying a balm 
of my best efforts that in spite of their sincerity 
will never be enough thus my own injuries 
I’ve clumsily dressed will continue to fester 
and decay without the catholicon physic 
of those three words you cannot say

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