A wonderland awaits,
For all who dare to enter,
To fall down through the ground,
And to the world surrender.
There anything can dare to pounce,
Or growl or prowl or prance,
Or break out in black pustules,
Spinning in a dance.
A world unsure in peachy fuzz,
Airs fizzing effervescent,
Adds new dimensions, onion layers,
A moon of seven crescents.
Down falls the leaded curtain,
Velvet shields the scene behind,
Of sweating swans with bleeding toes,
Cracked from pointe, those hollow bones.
And trichotillomaniacs,
Pluck out their flightless plumes,
So shot-down shrapnel downs,
Are hung on hooks as hunted gowns.
Categories:
pustules, dance, dream, psychological, sleep,
Form: Rhyme
Cold, warm, horrifying, inviting
Grinding away at the last pink and grey pustules
pooling at the bottom of my
Skull
Gods own light pushes and claws helplessly
against thin nylon
Its primordial importance
Toppled by billions and billions of bright bulbs
Burning and boring into my eyeballs
Spiralling and spiralling down
an everlasting pit of fluctuating fun and fear
And skin and sin and guilt, guided
Down as fast or as slow as
You want, your choice
Quick glimpses of the very bottom shoot sharp
Icicles of despair into my sedentary soul
Thick mist
Clears temporarily from my
Glazed eyes, I push and claw helplessly against images
Of razed villages and burgundy-bloodied bodies,
Kicking and
Screaming against the unfeeling and undulating
Dilated eyes
of fellow billions
Categories:
pustules, allusion,
Form: Free verse
The stench of puerile self-aggrandizement wafts through the air, a noxious cloud of platitudes and pomp, as the pusillanimous pustules of pseudo-intellectualism congregate to lavish accolades upon one another. How... amusing. The notion that these self-absorbed aesthetes, ye armchair sybarites, consider themselves arbiters of taste and talent, is nothing short of grotesque. And yet, here it persists, leeches on the cadavers of real artistry, perpetuating a vicious cycle of backslapping mediocrity, as they vomit forth oozing saccharine, cliche-ridden tripe, and elevate it to the status of holy scripture. Quaint indeed. The stench of their ignominy is almost... palpable.
How does it feel to know that playing by the rules was your downfall, I said I would be the last poetess standing because I can do: abattoir hymns of crimson vortices shredding the children to rain sanguinary as viscera chunks hail from above. Sorry ai can’t touch me, it would freak out to even read that. I may not have won many contests, but oops. Hehe.
Categories:
pustules, dark,
Form: Free verse
Witch in Salem, you see,
Needs spelling, tee hee,
Wizard held another,
Toad was his mother,
Witchy cast charms,
Warts on his arms,
Bald was his head,
Maidens did dread,
Pustules appeared,
Grinning, witch feared!
Categories:
pustules, betrayal, fantasy, magic, men,
Form: Rhyme
A STINGING REVENGE by Tom Cunningham
A husband was found out playing away
His wife not happy vowed to make him pay
Caught them in their bed
Both were butt naked
She threw fire ants over them as they lay...
Jenna's addition
She caught them in bed and cursed them in rants
Still covering the cheaters with fire ants
Red pustules were stinging
But she kept on slinging
That should teach him to stop dropping his pants
Posted with Tom's permission. Thank you!
Categories:
pustules, humor,
Form: Limerick
These changes in a day are
rippling through me
Down right crippling
you'll see
Some days I feel like
a toilet of crap
A revolting smell
that snaps at my back
Other days I speak
sideways in tongues
The language of cohesion
levitating unhung
And other days I see
the spreading of canker
A slow bubbling
of pernicious anger
Popping pustules
of infectious rancor
(Work in progress)
Categories:
pustules, feelings,
Form: Rhyme
His pelvis thrusts
awkward gyrations of a sickly man
Bruised sternum erupts will cream filled pustules
Enema pleasing dissidents fond of enigmatic words
Cursed with knowledge, forsaken with guilt, humbled with life
Categories:
pustules, art
Form: Elegy
A little girl's heard crying
In her room at Mary kings close
Not everyone hears, only a few
If you listen carefully
You may hear her to
Let's call her little Annie
As no one knows her name
People leave her presents
To try and ease her pain
Pustules on her face they weep
Her body red and sore
She prays each night the pain to stop
She can't take it any more
The pain it keeps her crying
At night it hurts the most
In 1645 Annie died of the plague
And what we hear now is her ghost
Categories:
pustules, death, health, sad, pain,
Form: Dramatic Verse