Sadists Poems | Examples

Nameless Whatever

Madly 
but above madness
I rant against dirty light
  as I stumble into obscurity.

There’s no rest for the leery.
No escape hatch in sight.
No rescue from inhuman cacophony.
Solitude exhales dust--
  inhales dark vacuum.

The sadists laugh
as I tumble into burning horizons,  
awaiting a rendezvous
   with a nameless Whatever.

animals and revenge

animals and revenge



in Canada, it is not legal to shoot bears
Whether brown, black, or polar bears 
Bear doesn't know this, and sometimes
kill humans caught in the forest or
on ice flakes
Given a choice, a bear prefers Salmonds
Since ice is disappearing, life is tough
for the polar bear, they have to swim 
ashore and live of human garbage 
Sadists mix shaving blades in the rubbish
they relish the thought of blood on fur.
Hatred is alien to bears, it's a human
trait to hate someone who did their
great grandfather great harm 100
years ago, waiting for a chance to make
even and so it continues

The next Whiskey Bar

War to go
One scream away
From murder
Art done right 
Never to fight
Conscience of convenience
Sand blind cold boots pant rash hair clay mud pies
Resident sadists social decay
Where there are no truths and no lies
Foot soldiers claim
Their genocide bouquet
When one of the greatest stays 
Gives people time to escape
You already can guess his fate

The Mirth of Monsters

A picture appeared on my phone today,
on the proverbial page I perused.

A view of an evil most vile,
villainy veiled behind verve and vim.

Sadists from Auschwitz,
smiling in a storm.
Shoulders shrugging,
to shield from the sky.

No hint of the horrors,
the Holocaust they heralded.
Not haunted like the humans they harrow,
but hyenas, howling, in high humor after the hunt.

Their consciences clear, their cruelty concealed,
their cheer chills me to the core.
They caused such wicked calvary,
a calamity that echoes into the current century.

Yet they dare to delight,
while they deal in death and dread.
Their depravity so deep that they grin,
as they decry virtue and destroy millions.

But what mortifies me more is,
how mundane their mien.

Will we fear the next fiends fittingly,
or in time... if their faces feel like friends'?

W T F

W T F

Let’s imagine somebody 
naive as they can be.
What might they imagine when
WTF they see?

For someone on a diet
could it mean “Withhold the Fat?”
“Wash the Fridge” perhaps?
My mom would think of that!

A girl into clothing could suppose
WTF means “Wear Trendy Fashion.”
“Wear Tight Footwear” no one though
could think and have compassion.

“Wash Tired Feet” might someone think?
Or “Warm the Feet” after time in snow?
“Wrap the Fracture.”  Is that done?
I’m not sure that I know!

“Warm the Furnace”? That sounds lame.
“Woo The Folks” could be
a slogan for politicians
who can’t get to ME!

“Whack the Fiend.” I like that.
And “Whack the Fibber,” but
“What‘s the fuss?” sounds better.
than “Walk the Feline”.  . . . What?

“Whip the Flesh” works for sadists.
Could “Wave the Fists” sound cool?
I like “Welcome Tiny Folks”
for a nursery school.

Just a few more. How about
“Wake the Family”?
Watch the Fuel” also works
in this economy.

Finally, when I think
of N/A’s from a judge,
if I feel my poem is really good,
I murmur “What the (bleeping bleeping) Fudge.”

Golf Widows

What is it, this royal and ancient game
  that gets in your blood and under your skin?
That invites in men’s hearts a peaceful aim
  till you shank one and your head starts to spin.
Not just a game for sadists and man-boys
  though it helps if misery becomes you -
new graphite, titanium and steel toys
  vex me slowly but what am I to do?
I am hooked, addicted to the flagged green,
  and no persuasion can my fix deny -
no finer joy (with pants on) has there been
  but take my wife before my clubs or die!
To all you widows who mourn us at play
hear this…it’s the fairway or the highway.


          Written: September 2004

The Pride of the Defeated

come on, open that door to face
what did you leave in the antechamber of your happiness
(I'm talking about the sad, chained lions roaring their nightmares
of the bloodthirsty watering that produced the fruits of illusion
of the black nights that drowned out the desperate cries
of those who didn't care to be exuberantly happy
while his brothers were swallowed by the murderous maw
of those who gorge themselves on the flesh of the innocent)

all these spilled cups for your disguised smile
that inflates and explodes in the egocentrism of an infinite space
(I'm talking about these empty tributes we pay
to the sadists who torture us with their inhumane successes
while we crawl on the slime ground of the defeated).

Answer To the Siren

Fiercely, darkly burn
As wolves howl and sadists yearn
Dark seduction learn.

Elmers Glue

The highest crime is silence from all the whispers and snares.
He bore a cross to witness for all our sins forebear..
Shackled to the stake as they gleamed with evil glares.
Knowing how this feels from victim shamers of men.
We take it back to Adam in which Eve bore the greatest sin.
Women are inferior making all of the mistakes.
As men get away with everything they take, and take and take.
If I dare offend you perhaps you can stone me too.
You can tape my mouth shut with a bit of elmers glue.
The world is full of sadists with no compassion at heart.
If you think I’m wrong; we shall now depart.
Jesus bore the cross for us, and I can feel the nails.
For the abuse is far too much for me to even tell.
Until you walk a mile in my fragile shoes.
I think you might think twice before using elmers glue.

Embarrassment

Last week, I walked up to a woman,
My arms encircling her un-notified waist,
After stiffly pointing out to some man
His not- funny miscalculations from childish haste…

Only yesterday was trailing after another woman in hilarity
Over her hip-describing shorts
And a not-tall one for a charity, 
My eyes her high-heeled shoes giving teasing shots.

All these: grudge-unleashing embarrassment
And in even kangaroo courts, a harassment;
A boulder-large embarrassment, an embrace by the insane
Sincerely acting one’s old acquaintance,
To surely leave one in palpable pain
A creditor for his money breathing open threats of disturbance.

Embarrassment is that a woman could kill for,
Of her gross belittling, exceedingly sure ;
Some wives proceeding on hunger strike
Until the sadists their husbands join them to dislike.

Squarely, a pitying of self while wallowing in shame,
A never ever feeling the same
With a shovelful of agitation
For the deliberate intimidation,
Sufferers carelessly freeing the lock to Violent Reaction
On the spot, denied the Shock Absorber for humorless action.

The Game

I believe in freedom
I believe in love
I believe in all things
Sent from up above

I don't believe in hatred
I don't believe in pain
I don't believe that's it's ok
To play a deadly game

Then they get the knives out
And cut you to the core
While all the sadists
Just laugh and beg for more

What can you do
In a world that's lost it's mind
Why does no-one ever say
Let's try being kind. 

The answer must surely be
Corruption and deception
It would take a miracle
To free me from rejection. 

They stand to make a fortune
From my demise
This is what I've got
For being worldly wise. 

The time is coming
They'll be knocking at my door
Then I won't be able 
To help you any more. 

So I say 
May God help you all
Be warned of false prophets
And break down the wall.

Murder Entitlement

Cop core culture cultivates racist malevolence,
	                 The profiling pseudoscience.

Cop core contempt, rogue roving terrorists in blue,
			Sadists through and through.

Cop core combatants harass, torture, then kill,
			Another handcuffed man choked still.

Cop core cruelty depraved indifference to the defenseless.
                        This story of brutality is relentless.

Cop core criminal entitlement to murder at will,
			The face of oppressive evil. 

Published: Dissident Voice 11/29/20

My Beloved Teachers

The greeter-teacher,
the smirkier at the door.
I feel his gimlet eyes at my back
and though it is 5o years later
and his mouth is now plugged with dirt
his leer can be traced
in the brown water stains
of mottled walls.

A female slave-unit whose name was ‘Miss’
I cannot recall her ever speaking to a child directly,
only through the thin lips of her personal intimidator
a third level teacher who spat into her ear
as if sexually lubricating her fears.

I am put right by a serial wrongdoer.
A second tier maniac with a lust for rhetoric.
His large hands flay like wind-sails, they
slap books and heads.

On, on, 
through narrowing corridors and echoing rooms
counting sadists, ticking off
a long mental list of ghouls
all dead and gone
except for the abusive drills.

One dead grinning fish-head
even opens a door for me
as I leave forever.

A Fitting Prayer

Someday. In old age.
My well-being will be in the hands of: 
Underpaid cutters and x-addicts 
serial texters and sadists
tide pod eaters-assorted derelicts
the odd minister, 
lost Christmas carolers...

I pray to remain somewhat fit.

Ghosthunter

Scientists open many bodies
to please the skeptics, like fathers proving
there are no monsters hidden beneath
the heart's sticky bed. No soul. No ghost. Just 
organs in metal pans.

Serial killers open many bodies
to please themselves, like sadists proving
it is not flesh that screams, but the heart, 
the soul, the ghost. 
Not the organs in metal pans.
 
Have you lost your mind? 
Can even you find your mind?
How can something unfindable die?
Ghosts are no more real than mind
and linger behind it in the same void.

Ghosts open many bodies.

9/23/2018
Ghosthunters and Spiritualists Contest, hosted by Kevin Shaw

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