Women For the Men

Here's a little comic poem on one of man's great obsessions - even if they deny it!


To clasp a silken-textured breast
Is nothing but a daily quest
Of preternatural drive.

We wonder of the fulsome fare
Her bra undone might bring to bear –
Disclosing all for us to stare
For hours on end upon the pair of
Why-do-woman’s-curves-ensnare-
the-brains-of-men? –

A bleak affair;
And why we still survive!


Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010

Payment

Affected by the mood in which I found myself when writing a commissioned poem, I penned this musing over the grind of work-life monotony (this is also on my page at Poems123: see http://poems123.com/2010/11/07/payment/)

Payment

A tortuous path of neurons arced a call: ‘Awake!’

I did; in rising, peering, stretching, bearing,

Pained anticipation saw it all:

Foretold, another filthy day.

I drew the drape: diluvian lay the ground

Beneath a lazy leaden cloud – apissing out

The puddles; irksome on the roof –

The drumming drops of bitter glee

Were hounding out a hapless me –

Reinforcing doubt that I am sound.

I left the house

to go to work

to earn a crust

without a perk

then on to bust

another straining vessel.

Trudging on thro’ mud and clay, I pondered:

‘Why a drought of happy times?

Auspicious climes were

Old and fusty books

Atop a dusty shelf

Inside a morgue-of-a-room,

Somewhere in a long-forgotten library

Down a lane without a way.’

I thought again: ‘And still I pay.’

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010

My new Website

Oops! I haven't logged on my account for some time now; busy with so many other things. One of these has been to establish a new website. I am offering a limited amount of commissioned work for those people who would like a customized poem - see my website for details at: http://succumbedtothinking.webs.com/

The Mirror Struggled

In a more pensive mood, I found myself writing this:


The mirror struggled

The mirror struggled; reflecting beauty such as hers
Prescribed a glory in the challenge; a fairytale
Or so to be! To shimmer back hypnotic hues
From auras of her skin – how do mirrors cope?
Hoary tales of pretty adolescent buds
Could never hope to match the tomes of dreamy
Pulchritude apprising us of such a belle as she.

The mirror shone; and as it worked itself, a moment -
Did it overlook the hidden melancholy?
Were melting eyes bedewed-? Florid lips imbued
With mournfulness? The hindrance of the silver glass!
Oh! to seek; to know the meaning of the sorrow!
She, with tearful hair, an image out of heaven,
Never opened up her heart; the mirror struggled.




Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009

She, the Dark

And in a gothic mood I so remain....


Dark, She is the mind of yours.
Icy chill of thought becomes
A steely shimmer.
Behold a glimmer in the black -
A flash of grey, that even glows
In show against the hallowed dark of you.

And that is why you scream in jarring tones
'I have no heart for joy!
My white and brittle bones have died'
You cried in dark and fractured moans.

So now the Queen of Black you writhe,
Whence from dark of shade
That honed an evil form afar;
In curse of me you bade:

'I, the wave shall rape the shore!
Violence will there be in glares I'll throw
At all who prey, and more:
A dark and fetid sea I'll bleed.'

And now, the bitter tinge
And bleak of waste
That eyed the death of once your soul
Will here forever be!

Indeed you tell:
'The cramping pain is here!
Eternal spasm, infinite chasm,
The Devil's chaplain plays!
We'll climax in a tortured glee
As all my love decays.'

Her Bliss

I stay in the vein of death...

Death is in the flower's heart – don't
Ever cry for life of any petal; and so is

Death in purple ink of weary pens: the
Written yearnings on her scented paper;

Death is laughing in her cry: the
Beating heart disclosing from a sleeve.

Death ignores the plight of any purity – He
Doesn't care or seem to be aware

Of what her dewy eye desires, for
Death beckoned: 'Embrace the jar!'

And yes, she did – for Death of course.
No other man would open up her hand

And bid her with a kiss, so
Death became her bliss.

Beldame of Death

It's been a long time since I posted anything - been away.
So upon my return, a little gothic ditty for you....



A crunch: afoot a dead arachnid
Spanning once a serving plate -
Oh! that others be alive
With such as me for spider bait!

I slunk along the silent hall
Of ancient ore attired in grime, and
Feculent beyond the nose;
No bearing here, no feel for time.

I shuddered in appreciation -
An ambience to mortify
A feeble mind, aghast, opined
Of murky thought, and justify
The will of Belial err I brought
Upon myself to loathe and dread
Exquisite retribution: to linger
Oftentimes alive, then dead.

Compulsion saw me edging on
Toward a narrow door of oak.
Behind, I knew, a greater evil
Waiting in her fusty cloak.

A choice of nil upon the table;
Aught of leave, I had to face
Alone the shrew; her flaming aura
Angling me; my deep disgrace
From ugly deeds I dealt in life -
A heinous world I honed in glee…

'Now take a crooked path to death,
For now I come to torture thee!'

Out of eyes of orange flame,
A piercing glare, then here it came:
The cackling cry of chanting song:

'You thought you'd die alone in pain
The once – nay nay! you'll die with me,
And so a catch: you'll die again
Ad infinitum - ever be!

Your soul to curse; my heart we'll gore,
Your liver to draw and quarter.
A sadomasochistic pair,
We'll slither together in slaughter!'

I answered only with a scream,
Sensing near her craving lust -
My crimes to answer; wrongs annul.
Renounce my soul! For I be dust!

On an evening cool and quiet,
Stretch an ear to listen tight -
And be you lucky of a moment,
To hear my clarion call of plight.

Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009