By Bicpen
.jpg)
I dream to be a butterfly
celerity enchanted wings
perched poised on a flower
rich words I'd tell you things.
~.~
I dream to be a fish
gliding selflessly through sea
each breath with joyous gills
sail the ocean for a cup of tea.
~.~
I dream to be a rabbit
fluffy soft with twitching nose
thumping paws until they bleed
I'll even eat a rose.
~.~
Alas I am none of these
but a creature I am
God bless you and ... M ...
all because I am a man.
~.~
I'd still like
to be
a
tree!
| Author Notes | Free Verse. |
By Bicpen
.jpg)
Professes or is it confesses?
All your anatomical solutions
are but the stench of your breath.
Both hands found guilty; wandering
misdemeanours in the night.
Your cerebrum has no place
nor does your soul;
not in this life,
What about the next?
~.~
Your sons are your prodigy,
those of a lost kind.
Sneering and snooping
on others misfortune;
liabilities in time,
while their Father professes
to the rape of the mind.
~.~
Does it sit well, my friend?
Your adultery and heresy
both carry you to Hell.
Fare ye well, my friend!
I know my foes;
Professor, a nemesis strong;
blight and irresistible sop
where Lucifer burns bright.
~.~
Does it sit well, Professor?
Your victims bring sighs
and you Professor:
your heart
is full of
pride.
By Bicpen
.jpg)
Sit comfortable, it is your throne
where scales are found.
Your sceptre is poison;
spouting venom
of pompous relief.
~.~
High above in that chair
you have forgotten
the day of your birth,
whereby,
life breached the whore
with mirth.
~.~
Your belly devours widows;
orphans know your name.
Linger not long with your shame;
you disgust the earth.
~.~
How does it feel,
man of wealth and fame?
Infamous for what?
A soul of sickness.
For compassion on fools
you forget mankind,
take your children and rot.
~.~
How does it feel,
wandering Cain?
Remember the mark
upon your brow,
a mark of destruction:
written with an implement
you cannot control
nor attain.
~.~
How does it feel?
By Bicpen
.jpg)
Splendid scarlet drapes the frame
clothed head to toe with gold
wafers of a sun god
blood and flesh galore
~.~
Why?
So some priest can fornicate!
~.~
Forgiveness is a right
man forgiving man
~.~
Where were you born?
My soul is not cheap!
~.~
Neither
are
indulgences--
cry louder no justification
yet you expect
reputation
~.~
Rome and Jahbalon
always
settle old scores
~.~
Me?
I'm free!
By Bicpen
.jpg)
You have an itch, like scabs of rust;
broken glass against shattered dreams.
Your friends scratch, high flyers, achievers,
people with degrees.
You say,
"The money pays well;
not enough to please!"
You have an itch your friends scratch,
a small mind, a factory of doom.
You say,
"I have no time to share
with rancid loathsome you!"
You say,
"No stranger or pauper ever offends,
my small mind is only fit for me!"
You shelter your friends,
like children cowering from the rain;
animals from God's thunder.
You call them by name,
my dear, my blessed, my cherub;
daring not to restrain.
You say,
"You are a rancid loathsome disease
my mind cannot breathe!"
I,
I have an itch;
my friends will scratch it,
when I offend.
"Do I offend?"
"You are nothing to me!"
My small mind and I like to please,
but only my friends;
not you,
you rancid
loathsome
disease.
By Bicpen
.jpg)
Guardians, chosen servitors of grace
Invested with Holy inheritance.
What has become of your watchfulness?
You peep and pervert,
Holding the branch to the nose;
Your women weep for Tamuz.
What has become of your mantle?
It is as a menstrous cloth,
A child polluted in its own blood.
What has become of your stand?
As gate keepers you are weak,
Justice and charity no longer;
Injury and injustice festers.
Guardians, chosen servitors of grace
Invested with Holy inheritance.
His eye see's all,
When he sends the man around
A slaughter will cleanse;
Cheribums sanctify an unholy mess,
Fire will burn each unholy wretch;
What will you become, when,
The man comes around.
Unholy desire will cease,
Rich purity blesses God's peace.
What has become of you now?
Wait till the man comes around!
| Author Notes | Taken from the vision of Ezekiel of the impending judgement to the church for its perverse actions. |
By Bicpen
Scented ink on lonesome ground,
smells of teen spirit now bound.
Gay quills refuse to become unfettered streams;
bold stories are now shattered dreams;
bland profanity fills my screen;
truth lies jesting, riveted and branded.
A Steer broke loose kicking and writhing;
he strikes a pose, his ego enchanted,
from all of his sinew comes proud boastings;
his chest expanding, crying,
where are all the Poets !
Here ...
Here we are ...
But what the H*** would you care ?
| Author Notes | ... just some thoughts on my experience on this website ... though few have recognised my work I thank them for the pleasure, as for the rest ... enjoy your work. |
By Bicpen
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Out of sight Odd Ball sails in flight,
reading obituaries, he's got a sale.
Come the night Odd Ball changes into a fright,
"Bloody Mary" went missing the other day.
Odd Ball say`s she's over at his place,
"What she doing with a guy like Ed?"
Butchered and severed she's hanging around,
the guy made a bowl from her head.
With lampshades of human skin, death masks
to parade, Odd Ball's got a mammary suit
with vaginal strap on's to excite the maid.
"Hey, Ed what happened? You used to be nice,
threshing with the guys ... all you need is
a slice of cheddar on top of your apple pie!"
"It was Mother!" He cried, "She made me!
Crying whore and bastard! She's coming
to take me home!" Locked in her room, she's
where his childhood remains. Enchanted
with graves and adorning corpses, Rigamortis
Ed, The Odd Ball is going to do it all again.
In a State Mental Hospital, Ed remains
peaceful and lucid with the full moon--
insanity, delusion, hallucination of Hell ...
poor Ed Gein is not very well.
By Bicpen
None wrote his expectation better,
Over ninety years ago.
Evil stalked the land;
Lives, determined, were given for victory`s crown.
Hope in death was his sentiment,
Outstanding cadence
Drowned realities of horror,
Giving words to each soldier's sorrow.
Soon the Somme began,
Over in two days for him;
Now, "Before Action," his poetry lives on.
|
You've read it - now go back to FanStory.com to comment on each chapter and show your thanks to the author! |
| © Copyright 2015 Bicpen All rights reserved. Bicpen has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
© 2015 FanStory.com, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Statement