Maybe it's raisins in your cereal, those foul little pellets. Maybe it's a wrong number ripping you out of the bathtub. Maybe it's the guy downstairs, the one who plays Eminem at full throttle at 3AM. Here's your chance. Vent!

To provide inspiration, a great cursing poem by Robert Francis follows. (Yours need not be as long!) Like his, let your poem "take on" one of the little annoyances of life, not one of the big injustices, and let it avoid scatalogy. Have fun!

-----
The Buzz Plane

May my Irish grandfather from Tyrells Pass
Grant me the grace to make a proper curse on you, accursed!
You who on a holy Sabbath or a fair holiday
Buzz and circle above my head like the progeny
Of the miscegenation of a buzzard and a bumble-bee.

The great bombers I hate with a lofty hatred,
But you, Harpy, with your unspeakable clatter,
Your sputtering, stuttering, and you know what,
Queering both my music and my silence,
I despise as the perfection of pure nuisance.

Where is the wind-wailed island of mist and seagulls,
Where is the mountain crag mounting to eagles,
Where is the saint's cell, the hermit's citadel,
The nine bean rows and the hive for the honey bee,
Safe from your snoopings, swoopings, and defilements?

May your wife be a gad, a goad, and a gadfly.
May all your bawling, brawling brats never leave you peace.
May you grow bald and birds defile your head.
May your flights be tailspins and your landings crashes.
Fie, fie, fie on you! And the word has power!

Here's an old one of mine. I'll also work on a new one.

You, I hate


I'm sorry, but it is you I hate.
Not as I hated my father
with passion deep with each strike
he made on my bare ass.
Not as I hate the power men
who kill my people in the name of
some cruel god I do not know.
Not as I hate money that makes one man
beg and scratch un-helped by
the fat ones.
But you, I hate and I am sorry
for you are not worth
that much emotion
or even this poem.



------------------
Just one person's opinion.
Davida Chazan

Procrastination


Nemesis to accomplishment
Bane of success
Thief to fulfillment
Procrastination,
I call the rage of hell upon you

Slithering snake, consuming time
Swallowing wonderfully conceived plans
Procrastination,
I anticipate your demise
And will dance as I defile your tomb

May your efforts earn you
A vile post in the vilest of hells
And may any offspring you spew
into this world be cursed with
Procrastination


-Lila Waste, April 2001-


------------------------------------------

That was fun... I enjoy this site because it will cause me to grow... Thank you...




[This message has been edited by Lila Waste (edited April 26, 2001).]

Timothy, what I want for you is not a grave;
a place for the other mis-martyered to come
and seek your counsel.

For you I want a dark corner of concrete
where all day, like prayer,
some one will speak the names of those
you buried.

A tone just outside your door
in a voice lower than a whisper,
like the scraping of a fingernail
against the wall.

The type of near silence your bomb routed to life.

When you close your eyes I will introduce light
the way a child opens the eyelid of a sleepng parent
asking if anyone is home.

This light will look for life inside your eyes.

But what I want for you most is a weight
for the end of time, like the load a parent
of a dead child drags through their days
waiting for peace.

And this, Timothy, I want you to carry forever.






------------------
~~Mary

Not Me

There’s a child in my house
that I have never seen.
He moved in uninvited
and never consoled me.
He leaves crumbs upon the counter,
dirty dishes in the sink,
laundry on the bathroom floor,
empty milk gallons from which to drink,
and when I asked, "Who did this?",
all replied quite certainly,
“I don’t know Mom, I didn’t do it,
really Mom...Not Me."
This child is so sneaky,
he destroys almost everything,
he broke my antique table
and stole my wedding ring.
He cut off the dog’s whiskers
spilt mustard on the rug,
and when I asked, "Who did this!",
my children only shrugged.
He leaves the lights on in every room,
lets water drip, drip, drip,
throws garbage right next to the can,
and leaves toys around to trip.
So I bought him a Christmas present,
for which he never showed to claim.
I wrapped it with a big red bow,
and on the tag I wrote his name.
My children asked, "Oh, who’s that for?"
I held the package up with glee.
"Oh, this Playstation game?
....I bought it for Not Me."

Thou hideous shard-borne flap-dragon!

Thou waggish full-gorged jolthead!

Thou warped toad-spotted gudgeon!

Thou vacant rough-hewn pumpion!

Thou lewd fool-born bugbear!


If you're short of a few ideas for insults, I recommend The Random Elizabethan Curse Generator at the following address. As you can see, you get some excellent ideas!
http://www.tower.org/insult/insult.

How DO you post a working link?

Nigel

Nigel,

Random Elizabethan Curse Generator

If you'll push 'quote' on this post you'll see the coding! http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif

Looks like an interesting place.




------------------
~~Mary

"Limits"

The Sister is not Sisyphus, to learn
From this recalcitrance, another way.
And right up to the end the fist stays clenched,
And right up to the last, the bitter words:

As if he were the only one who bombed.

No Bijou Girl
--------------

Do not accuse me of a feline mien;
you may mistake disdain for kitten's coy.
I am no toy, no gilded top
that spins a glittered path across
the table top.

I am no pearl, no bijou girl
to grace monsieur's fine earlobe or
his pinky ring.

I'm hard as glass, a brittle churl
to hurl an insult as a stone
against a window pane.

So do not toy with me,
I'm plainly quite a fright,
a knife slice in the night.
Your pain is my delight,
and I will batter bruises on
your sternum bone.

I've had enough of men. I'd sooner slit
your wit than kiss your hem, and you
can take your pride and hide
it where the blows won't show.

Well, I couldn't resist this--not something to be proud of--and I sort of think good clean cursing is like good clean sex, nowhere near as fun as great sex. And it's not free; somehow the subject seemed to demand the mortifying rigor of formal verse. Here goes.

POET'S OATH

It gives me no joy to acknowledge you here,
You mezcal-less worm, you flat glass of beer.

I'd live well not knowing you, too, were alive,
You echoless canyon, you honeyless hive.

Your vacuum-like mind Mother Nature abhors,
You midnight drip faucet, you borer of bores.

You drool on your foolscap and call it a poem,
You night without moonlight, you sea with no foam.

What God would employ you in His cosmic joke?
You're proof without pudding, no fire, all smoke.

It's said we've evolved from more primitive species;
In your case the source might be fly-breeding feces.

The alchemist claims, "As above, so below."
If true, you've inflated your codpiece for show.

Divorce law decrees we stay wed 'til proved guilty--
Your Muse sues on cause of incompatibility.

If Satan exists, I'll demand, should I meet him,
That he force you to read your poems ad infinitum.

If loving one's neighbor is our great commandment,
I pity folks next to your spiritual tenement.

For nothing annoys so much as a loud poet
Whose verses tell of his great gift but don't show it.

Bills, Bills And More Bills!

Rot, snot, who cares if one works or not!
Work all day and then its for nought.
Bills go up, inflow goes down,
Tax time comes to bring a frown,

Truck on off to the CPA,
Hoping for a better day.
Money back would bring a glow -
Drat! No such luck, what a blow!

How is one to make up the lack?
Become a part-time poet hack?
Curses to all those bill collectors,
Foul dirty little pesky vectors!

Roses are dead, and violets are strewn,
Your head looks much better, when roughly hewn.

Dear Sir,
I know not who you are,
or why.
But I know you took my money
with a grin.
One month's wage.

I had complained too late,
you said,
to your delayed tax letter.
My fault!
you said.

Then let it also be
my fault
when they try to gather
your remains from the gutter.

[This message has been edited by Solan (edited July 30, 2001).]

Good show, everyone! It's taken me this long to "come up" with something myself but here goes.

THE CRUDDY SUPERMARKET

O Pioneer! Hellish emporium! --
where carts jostle in narrow aisles
made narrower by tipping carton-cliffs,
where half the stock is out of reach
and the milk sours
and the cheeses mold.
Sharp Kleenex boxes, falling from the heights,
have cut my face
and greasy spills have mucked my favorite shoes.
You have shortchanged me!
Your discourteous chattering checkers have deranged me!
The smell of catbox reeking from below
is the true essence of your fell concern.

I denounce you and I condemn you!
May your suppliers go on strike and your bank withhold credit.
May vandals break your windows and shoplifters plunder your shelves.
May your best customers desert you,
your staff stiff you,
and every bill in your circa 1950 registers turn counterfeit.
And may your three neglected cats arch their backs one morning,
pad up from the cellar,
hiss at the stock boys putting price stickers on top of expiration dates,
yowl like banshees,
and spray odiferous urine on your butcher's socks.

I once knew a girl called Betty Swollocks.
That random curse machine is the dogs bollox.

While I've come upon this thread late . . . I've enjoyed everyone's poetic rants. I didn't think I'd have a contribution to make, but then I came across the poem below, which arose from enduring a particularly long poetry reading last winter by a published poet.

Peter


THE ARK


Thirty butts scattered among
seats supporting spines that animate
illusions of insight. In this little cathedral,
set below the ground, the poet preaches.
As ten past nine slides by, a fog transforms

rigid chairs into chariots, taking us toward
some undefined circle of hell.
We are propelled like travelers trapped
in a heavy anvil set on wheels,
with wings welded awkwardly upon

its sides. Our pilot would have us soar
into the rare dimensions of Elysium.
She pauses, in mid-verse, to explain
we have arrived. The ears detect
a shower of golden words.

Her eloquent exposition leaves
these eager acolytes blinded
to any subtleties nestled
like costumed jewels in the folds
of boundless stanzas.

Swirling embers of intellect
adrift in the debris, thoughts break
from the smeary abstractions
of this elocution, toward more explicit
visions: leather coats, body piercing,
onion rings, flesh upon
fingertips, the tongue.

Discipline discarded, passengers strip
the fabric of false probity from
their skin. There is a boom box
vibrating behind the back wall,
as though Marilyn Manson’s beautiful people
can wait no longer to take the stage.

The flickering catharsis of earnest words
grows wet---its smoke mixing with sweat.
We would burst from this ship,
naked, dancing, restored to the lives
the poet must chant to describe.

Just keeping the topic active so it doesn't fall off into the invisible archive!

I finally come up with a curse and you post two more exercises! Now I am thinking of mice scurrying in the fall and the such. You're a fun moderator Kate.

Here's the

Curse

When the cold north wind
is a shiver caught
in your lungs & seeping
under your skin
& you no longer believe in fire
except as an anachronism,
then I will be ice down the back of your shirt.

Just a post to keep these topics active in the hopes they can still inspire you ...

PAYMENT DUE @
@@@@@@@@@@@@@

YOU'RE MY FRIEND
OR SO I'M TOLD
THE SHIRT ON MY BACK?
IS IT THAT COLD
TAKING FROM ME
THOUGH I HAVE NOT
GIVING TO THOSE
NAMED YOURSELF
ALTHOUGH I TRY
NEITHER FORGIVEN OR FORGOTTEN
GO AND BEWARE
I SEEK RETRIBUTION
I WISH I WAS
OF JEWISH DESCENT
SO I COULD INFLICT MY RAGE
UPON YOU,ONE-EYED MONSTER HEAD

@@@@@@@@@
ACHERON @
@@@@@@@@@

What Young Men Talk About-- the Testosterone Quatrains

"You've got no hair!"
"That's obvious, prick!
Would you like me to say
'you haven't a dick?'

*

I wish you would tell me
some words that inform--
'cuz your speaking, too often,
stokes the air warm."

[This message has been edited by 2JR (edited December 06, 2001).]