Rick's Poetry Corner. Focus on Male Feet

[alexonedeath]

Your poetry gets juicier and juicier, Rick! I really do like that they rhyme. Free verse and blank verse are too much like abstract modern art, where you can't be sure the artist actually has any talent.

 

[verlup1]

Great stuff! I like the fall poem and it didn't leave me sad in the end like someone else commented. I thought it was uplifting. The Horror of Love is amazing, it reminds me of HP Lovecraft but sexualized. Very hot! I also love "interfici" how it starts with a victim and it's like a monster, then it switches to sociopath. That took me by surprise.

 

[ArrowMan]

An amazing gift of poetry,
so rarely seen.

Truly stellar!

"Heaven's Scent"
is my favorite,
quite potently sensually homoerotic!

​

 

[alexonedeath]

We should have suspected all along that Rick was a poet, from his rhyming name...stustustugoo.

 

[stustustugoo]

STEALTH AND RAGE

with proclamation i play my part
my prowl comes in rage and stealth
eyes engaged containing caution and harm

look into these eyes
with vibrating fangs
i'll be there as you come into my world
welcome to my jungle
my breath upon the hours

in your fear my chase begins
no turning back
turn left
turn right
turn and hide
you're flicker of life is certainly mine and from your soul and from your eyes such trembling cries

as i approach and expose my claws to rule with muscle and wolf-like power
i'll pierce your scream so readily to rip and shred as you expire
your beating heart will still be beating

i'll take you into my mouth and devour

 

[stustustugoo]

DRIVE ME TO MADNESS

fear flashes before my quivering eyes
all you can hear are my fearful cries
darkness surrounding me
has someone else found the key?
creaks and groans fill the void
my senses twitch as i feel like a droid
heart in my throat as i hide in my coat
silhouettes on the walls
too scared to make the right calls
i'm not afraid of the dark
just the monsters in it
who come out to hit their mark
a small light fills the room
someone soon might meet their doom
silence echoes in this house
so silent you couldn't even hear a mouse
light is gone
will it ever turn back on?
tensions as thick as butter
sometimes you think you hear a mad man mutter
at half past two the light never came anew
why? because you're dead, because he murdered you

 

[stustustugoo]

GRIDLOCK

I'm awakened
by the scream of steam
from a spicy coffee scented dream
for sleep can't ignore that piercing sound nor the scent of fragrant beans fresh ground

knowing that today's schedule is tight
i leave for work while the traffic is still light
for the city crawls at it's peak rush and many cars are caught in the crush

bumper to bumper the madness starts
jostling for position stressing hearts and when engines stall out tempers flair
drivers get mad and they start to swear

a serpentine line of rust and paint slings forth fueled by constant complaint
and exhaust fumes start to fill my car as i creep ahead with my windows ajar

flashing break lights or a honking horn invites the finger and instant scorn
time inches forward as i drive past
the screeching tires and the broken glass

yet i arrive safe despite the squeeze and exiting my car my tensions ease
yet after work i'll fight my way back
leaving early to beat the rat pack

 

[alexonedeath]

Rick, you qualify as a PROLIFIC POET! Have you thought about submitting some of your less frightening poems to poetry journals? You need to be published, and then, once you make a name for yourself, your more explicit verse will be readily accepted...because it's by a MASTER. Perhaps you have already made it into print, and are too modest to say so. We need to know so we can buy the journals!

 

[Meatpie]

Yeah, I agree. You should also try writing a short story that could be turned into a film or tv series. This is unique very dark stuff. You are obviously gifted and talanted writer I am so proud of you.

 

[stustustugoo]

THE GORY IN MY STORY

rip off my fingernails and eat them for fun and when you're done, i'll be the sorry one.
choke on my abdomen and seethe in my veins until only chameleon like bloodstains remain.
gory in my story i'm so tired i'm wired only the demented are the sane.

carnage and fierce come here and pierce from my eyes to my thighs while your slaughter interferes
you wear a disguise, i'll wear a veil, a shroud full of lies, consuming my skin till it's stale, what a sin.

puncture with a spear what i hold dear
butcher me inside my blindness can hear, oh, how you tried not a noose a round my neck, what the hell, oh what the heck, walk away don't worry about what to say, keep me in check this dark gauging day.

perforate my lung and rip out my tongue
do it for fun until your damage is done.
retreat and massacre, only blood can allure and when you stop you will have won
that's what murder is for

 

[stustustugoo]

SWEETTOOTH

sweet baby calories, stuffed inside your gut, i drown your corpse in frosting while i smoke my blunt
chop up all your insides, pour in some sugar too baby, i gotta say, you're giving me a sweettooth!
gouge the batter out of your eyes
oh look! here come the flies.
pierce your lips with pixy sticks, staple up your wounds, watch your flesh turn light grey, my favorite parts is coming soon.

sweet baby calories, stuffed inside your gut, i drown your corpse in frosting, while i smoke my blunt
stab pretty candles in your skull, watch the blood flow out, saw into your sugary bone, you'll taste sweet no doubt.
lift up your fingernails as i drink cocktails, shove your face in butter crème, shank your chest with butcher knives
no one can hear you scream

i scalp your candle head right down to the bone and sow it onto your face as i eat my blueberry scone.
bake you in the oven at 375 degrees, i finally take you out when your skin gets bubbly.
i let your carcass cool off and top you with purple icing
baby, i gotta say, you look pretty damn enticing

 

[stustustugoo]

THE DUKE

Oh! the grand old duke of York, he had ten thousand men
he marched them to the top pf a hill, then marched them down again.

then when they were up, one day, he marched them even more
he kept them going and didn't stop till their feet were blistered sore.

he led his army forces and set out for a quay, wearing battle boots and crimson coats and shipped them on their way

he took his troops to Holland, to neutralize it's fleet
but his soldiers died in battle, so he pulled back and retreat.

they fought alongside Russians in rancid filth and gore, deceased in 1799 in this brutal bloody war

so the grand old duke of York, he lost ten thousand men
for when he lead them over the hill, they never came back again

 

[ArrowMan]

"Gridlock"
reminds me of a Chicago commute,

And that
"Duke"
really was quite a brute!!


​

 

[stustustugoo]

PUT THE KIDS TO BED

i wrap my hands around his neck, screaming at me dragging him all along the deck.
the crickets sign a song for me, a symphony of agony
i dragged his corpse down the steps to bury him in the grassy depths
wipe the sweat off my brow, reminding me to disavow
now with the shovel in the shed i can finally put these kids to bed

 

[stustustugoo]

PSYCHOPATH

his eyes insane, unfocussed and dark set in a visage, cruel and stark.
looked down upon his latest kill, now finished twitching
his spine lays still, a male victim but aren't they all?
their feet is what he craves to beguile his gall
insidious they weasel in, committing every mortal sin
then do they leave and comes the pain?
relentless in a sad refrain
they must be punished, that is clear, my duty is too remove this fear.
and though now dead, i strike with glee again and again i must feel free.
a pool of blood, a copper smell, a vision from the depths of hell.
in time he stops, breaks down to pray, absolves himself, begins to play

the ritual dismemberment he carries out with grim intent
the limbs he buries where they lie then from their heads removes their eyes.
(so wondrous are these orbs of sight and as dessert a real delight.)
now seeded he collects the feet and departs the scene so calm, relaxed and quite serene

 

[stustustugoo]

THE GRAVE

as you lay in the ground peacefully in your rest, you'll lay lifelessly in your coffin, no heart beating within your chest, just laying there, cold, stiff, dead and alone
insects are eating at your flesh, all the way to the bone, your coffin's surrounded by nothing but dirt and mud, fixed up, dressed in all black, embalming fluid replaces your blood.
your soul departs from your body and exceeds beyond the skies
your friends and family gather around your coffin to say their tearful goodbyes
you'll be loaded into a hearse once your coffin is closed and sealed
you'll be lowered into a hole which will be dirt filled, lacking all appeal
you'll be in your black suit, your black tie, your black socks forever unless ricky's cock gropes a feel
you'll be rotting forever inside your box

 

[stustustugoo]

the flower of life is speckled with rot
all people reflect in each dying spot
and as the blossom wounds attempt to clot
it's life is cut short by a sickly human's plot
a vice rules existence, a planet of shameful indulgence
despite all its pleasure, it still remains a cursed treasure

our time is running through the hourglass
the grains of sand becoming coarse and crass
there is no redemption for sinners such as us
as the moon becomes red with human blood and lust
we'll consume each other's flesh from the mud
can you now feel the blooms of death begin to bud?

drunk with power we stumble into our own black deathbed
even with green life that our disease ridden breath fed
we must face the fact we are but beasts shrouded in skins, controlled by priests
the stories of a savior now have died, in their comfort some will still try to hide
their lies will, their cries will all be ignored in the face of our dark ends
our deserved demise

our time is running through the hourglass
our blood now gives new life to the dry grass.
the earth will quench its thirst with our fragile bodies
the cracks of earth seal and smother our lungs
our dishonest words choked behind our tongues
who would have thought that soil would cease our self-inflicted turmoil?

 

[ArrowMan]

Most macabre,
Stustustugo !

Your dark, powerful poetry reminds me very much
of one of America's most spectral poets and ghastly short story authors:

EDGAR ALLEN POE

Such striking similarities
.... here is Poe's most gholish of poems:

THE RAVEN

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

Only this and nothing more.”



Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Nameless here for evermore.



And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

This it is and nothing more.”



Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

Darkness there and nothing more.



Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

Merely this and nothing more.



Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

’Tis the wind and nothing more!”



Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.



Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as “Nevermore.”



But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

Then the bird said “Nevermore.”



Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”



But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”



This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!



Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;


And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore! "

​

 

[alexonedeath]

Rick, ArrowMan's tribute to Poe has suggested the next logical step in the evolution of your work...illustrations! Are you perhaps an artist as well as author? If you can't draw the accompanying images yourself, you could probably find ready-made and appropriate artwork online.

 

[stustustugoo]

Rick, ArrowMan's tribute to Poe has suggested the next logical step in the evolution of your work...illustrations! Are you perhaps an artist as well as author? If you can't draw the accompanying images yourself, you could probably find ready-made and appropriate artwork online.

something to look into, thank u for the great idea!