Everything I do seems to find a way to mock me.
A jeering derision to the paradox of my delicacy.
Each impulsive haste of emotion knocks on the wood of my wretch.
A doleful stimulation to invigorate the louse of my lassitude.
The inertia of my cunning shrewd howls against the odium of my filth.
Against the odium of my haste.
The odium of my humility.
And the odium of my unadulterated abhorrence.
I find myself comparing the speckled illustrations of my masked exploitation.
One of a noble morality.
One of a sinful salvation.
And one of the reprehensible dignity I carry within the reality of my reviled anatomy.
The reality of my depiction.
The reality of my void.
Every word of degradation invokes the ice of my celestial petition.
A celestial plead for an implosion so grave; it dares to uphold a cathedral of my indented dejection.
My fortitude of a sunken dejection.
My poverty of an exiled dejection.
My deception of a gouged dejection.
I am nothing but the prolonged corpus of my own vile vulgarity;
I am nothing but the corrupted potency of my own induced pallet;
I am nothing but the misdemeanour of my own cholerised pertinence.
moon drunk cleric
let them fall by your hand
their design esoteric
they will make their last stand
as the dim from what's new
falls over their heads
and they lie under you
they will wish they were dead
do not hesitate
daughter of peace
carve blood in blank slate
your control musn't cease
moon drunk cleric
do not falter, my child
do not say that you'll spare it
leave your wound, be reviled
They accuse me of cutting of my cock
Just to wear a frock
And hang about in bogs
When all I want
Is the peace to piss
Or to piss in peace
Just another of their
Disgusting spiels
Designed to turn me extreme
But hate is there language
Not mine I just rhyme
Im happy it’s gone
My meaty schlong
It just hung there all flaccid
It was always so wrong
But it never once said
Get this straight in your head
That off I should go
On the chance
A women to catch
In the stench of the lavs
I mean
Who’s idea was that
What warped mind
Full of hate could create
Such absurdist disgrace
Or maybe they reveal
A piece of them selves
All twisted and dark
So self loathing and reviled
Then push it out on the world
Rather than live with their shame
So as billionaires burn the world to the ground
And presidents and princes
Abuse kids with no charges
Of course they want you focused on me
Cos I’m the real threat
Cos I cut of my cock
I don't know my father or my mother.
Do I see my sister and my brother
in this lovely garden here?
Who is the scruffy, scraggly stray?
Who invited him here, anyway?
(Oh, my goodness! Oh, my dear!)
I did not ask to sprout and be born.
thought the lonely weed, forlorn,
so thoughtlessly reviled.
About then, Jack Frost would arrive,
saying, "May the heartiest of you survive",
leaving only something wild.
The Deplorables
Because there was hilly billy running around all willy nilly. flipping and flopping his fishy filet, now he's sloppin the mopin today. Out walikin' n chillin', n stalkin road killin', for black pot fillin', the kettle's the villain. Can't quite get it right, fight though he might, his light not bight by a right sight. Yet never has he ever, on any endeavor, goten it together to weather the whatever. Whether he's hootin' n hollerin' or rockin' n rollin', he's stumbling n bumbling, "dem cookie be crumblin." A pathetic excuse this obtuse red recluse, this mighty white wighty n righty up tighty should never reproduce. These cringey, whingey, power stingy, fumblin', grumblin', crumblin', mumbling, creatures' main feature's are backwards preachers, thruth bleachers, no teachers, and NASCAR skreechers. Hee-haw, southern draw, drug withdrawal, slack jaw, Maw n Uncle Papaw. Trumpy dumpy little stumpy, frumpy clumpy always grumpy, no last straw. Vile and bile, world reviled, can't reconcile such a defiled lifestyles, and all the while, siege heil siege heil.
Reviled Comedic Mongrel Pariahs
No more endorsement i feel? is required )
Mr. Kelcie posted a selfie,
That swiftly went all viral.
In it he said he’d like to be wed
In a suit of chiefly red.
His tailor didn’t sing along.
Reviled by his lack of style,
Claimed she wouldn’t stitch a thread
On a suit of chiefly red.
He put his boots on
He stares at the rising sun
A pale, strange fire
This is not the world in which he was born
A man out of place out of time
Out on the lawn, the ancient
Face hung on a tree, skeletal and forlorn
Shadows stretch into the sands
An empty beach, eternal
The sky is burning to cold ash
He walked down the pier
The Ferris wheel turns
Its light blazing into the starless
Night a void cold the sentient
Are you buzzed for the carnival
As it turns along the horizon, the land stretches
Far and away, along a wall, stands a door
A fracture, a gaping hole into reality
Beyond a stary arc across heaven reviled
A stranger stood as a silhouette stands
At twilight, a wraith upon the shore
The Stranger woke before dawn
He put his boots on
He stared at the setting sun
A pale, strange halo of fire
This is not the world he was from
Born in, nor the last
World he would tread upon…
Ode to Jim
For years and four days,
I await a knock, a stark reply,
The unknown a wretched price to pay,
And it burns me alive.
They say fire is but cleansing, if so my soul is burnished bright,
Yet it does not warm the morning, nor brighten black night.
But mourning the past, what has been and could be, brings a heart only sorrow, and threatens ill deed.
So I'll turn red rimmed eyes, from smoke and weary tears, to the God who is wise, to whom prayers never fall on deaf ears.
For the years I have waited, a lifetime of trial,
He never wavered, my heart never reviled.
For His goodness and mercy, are neither bound nor abated,
Through the waiting and fire,
I see it is in Him, I've truly waited.
In 1948 Nina Ricca released a new fragrance – L’Air du Temp which means present time. The first spicy floral fragrance. The bottle was designed by Lalique. The two intertwined doves represent peace after WWII.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Perfume Bottle
In the quiet of silenced cannons,
And odor of reviled salutes now impotent,
Midst plaster dust and stained souls
Of shattered windows
A flacon rises from battle torn ashes
Caressing the breath of a woman
In present time
As two doves intertwine
Above crystal swirls of sunshine
Reborn in signature scents of treaties.
Flawless guardian
For the newborn bouquet of hope,
Beneath wings of peace,
As a silhouette of scent
Overpowers the stench of gunpower
And ministers to children’s cries for bread
In a kiss from immortality
Accents of new notes for princess and pauper –
Spicy and floral –
Released like doves of peace.
I used to say come to London.' Yet not now.' The violence
Is spiralling.' There is less value wow.' Not of tawdry glam
And glitz and such.' Yet of life.. and futures they don't seem
Worth that much.' I know Blues familiy.' No nonsense folk
Now living a nightmare.' Delivered by the social enrichment
Joke.' In 'sad-diks london...Or londinistan.? Its violence in
The morning.' Afternoon, evenings.' Who's the next target?
There must be a plan.? As it seems systemic yet some dystopian
Action
Slam.' Against the values that have endured.' Through times
Hourglass sands.' As Christianity has been mocked indeed
Reviled.' So has lawlesness exploded.' Perceptions run wild.'
Rampant violence.' Has entered Englands womb.. And things arn't quiet..Nor will they be anytime soon.' Will there
Be justice by the authouritys.? The people require redress.'
Just look back three decades..It was never like this mess.!!!
If you live in Britain.' I advise raise your voice.' Or perhaps a
Finger or two .? Email inspector Christina Jessah.' Let the reckoning start with you.'
I look in the mirror and nothing is there.
I cry but there’s no trace of tears.
I scream and the night wind answers my call.
I am just what everyone fears.
I fly through the shadows under the moon.
In darkness I’ve hunted and fed.
I bleed through the alleys, my hunger as guide
And I follow wherever I’m led.
I am not a legend, I am real. I am free!
I run with the beasts in the wild.
I cannot be taken. I’ll never be tamed,
But I’ll never be loved, just reviled.
While you are sleeping, I enter your dreams.
I’m the cold chill that runs down your back.
My thirst is stronger than your will to live.
I am everything you wish to lack.
I hypnotize with the sound of my voice,
My eyes absorb all trace of light.
I hide in the darkness under the earth
But at nightfall I always take flight.
I know you can hear me, you know what I need.
I can feel the warmth in your bones.
I long to take you into my embrace
But I’m doomed to be always alone.
Oh, I’ll be alive forever.
And I will be dead for all time.
Survival is really my only endeavor
But my soul will never be mine.
No, my soul will never be mine…
I.
One cloudless day, without spring shower
or monsoon, angels made their stand;
and conjured otherworldly power,
one cloudless day, without spring shower.
But God pruned me like a flower,
when I clutched lightning in my hand,
that cloudless day without spring shower:
I then was chosen that same hour.
II.
Though crucified, reviled by hate,
I dwelt in my ivory tower;
inspired by love, as I create,
though crucified, reviled by hate.
My sweet songs showed how God was great;
fertilized by life's manure, my flower
bled, crucified, reviled by hate,
by evil men, the world, and fate.
Is there hope when it’s hopeless?
Is there peace when it’s wild?
Is there love when I’m hated?
Is there joy when reviled?
Can I find what I’ve longed for?
Can I ever succeed?
Yes, most certainly, always,
If to Jesus I plead!
“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who according to His abundant mercy has begotten us again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead.” 1 Peter 1:3
Like a termite eating willow oak, Herod felt empty.
Fear of the threat of dethroning Brim-filed abundantly
Could a little lamb invade the den of a lewd lion?
Could a rod of reed face the force of a pole of iron?
Like a mad monkey, Herod scattered fragile eggs and nests.
Troopers cut kids to pieces, pulling them from mothers' breasts.
Weeping and wailing tore the veils of the night of Ramah.
Who could consent to be consoled by Covert’s crude drama?
Wanting to know you, the unknown hero, they were born
Before seeing their hero face-to-face soon they were gone.
Had they seen you, their friend, wouldn't they have reviled Herod?
Was this why the coward, like a wounded jackal, worried?
Little humans, destined for eternity, were slaughtered
Wasn't this why roots and routes of law to love got altered?
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