Madman’s Poems

I had always liked verse. That is why I made many poems. I made poems from the “clean” ones to the totally vulgar ones.

One day, I was invited to a meeting, to which were also invited several other poets from our city. The one who organized this meeting was a elderly man, about to turn 70, whose name was Charles Howard Simonson.

As I entered the room, I was greeted by the organizer and the other poets, among who I could see famous people with names like Daniel Toll, Steve Wellington, Norman Clarkshun and Stefan Bruce. I sat down on a chair, and we began to recite our poems, taking turns.

A poet whose name I don’t remember started, with his poem “Pointless”, which is a piece of crap if you ask me. It went like this :

“The world is so pointless
The man is so restless
And things that once were
Are now lost for sure.

You live and you begin to live
And in your life you seek
Nothing but God’s forgive
Merciful God that is so meek.

But as I said before
And I will say many times more
Sometimes the world has no goal
And you begin to think of man’s role.

Why did God bring forth some things
Which now art not in songs of sings ?
Why did God make men think
If men would bring this world on destruction’s brink ?

Why did God make men think ?
Merciful God that is so meek ?
Why do beings with no shadows
Live deep in forgotten meadows ?

Who is man, and why is he
In this world, where I am me ?
In this world where you are you
Who is man and where’s he to ?

The world is so pointless
The man is so restless
And things that once were
Are now lost for sure.

And who lost these things ?
Sometimes man did
But also all beings
God should had hid.

Hide them from who ?
I don’t think from you
But then, from who hide ?
From world’s own tide.

Many species extinct
On this world once were
But why has God thinked
To lose them for sure ?

But I am just a mortal
A simple person with a simple mind
I came from a portal
And I came after the tide.”

You can probably see why I didn’t bother to remember his name !

Stefan went next, with his poem “Scars”, which was supposed to be a little “werid”. And so it was, but not nearly as weird as those which followed it. Anyway, this was the poem :

“Look : I have a scar here
To me it is quite very dear.
A wolf gave it to me
When I caught a hare, in the forest, by the sea.

Another one I have just here.
And when I think of it I fear
The man who gave it to me is dead
For he was such a good, old friend.

I also have one; not on the shoulder
But on the left arm.
A mad man gave this one to me
What do you say ? Isn’t it pretty ?

One I have here, just below my knee.
This one was given to me by a shark in the sea.
I remember how I fought with that shark
The sky was filled with stars; it was just after dark.

I love my scars so much
But I love making scars too
So I stabbed you as such
That’s just what I do.”

Next came Norman Clarkshun, with his poem titled “Fearsome Beast”. I’m telling you, dear Reader, that this was merely the beginning of a mad evening, with many a madman’s poems. “Fearsome Beast” went like this :

“I was walking through a forest
And now, I tell you very honest
I recall to be headed to east
When I saw a fearsome beast.

It had horns and teeth so wide
So I tried and tried to hide
But it saw me and it came
With its eyes full of red flame.

It began to walk around me
And the terror I felt then
I can hardly tell to thee
In these simple words of men.

I was trying to run
The beast could had killed me
But he first had some fun.

Only God could had saved me
But so busy was he
Yet, I am not dying
I am simply lying.”

Then came I, with my poem “Torture”, which I admit was inspired from Stefan’s “Scars”, which I had heard before this meeting as well. Anyway, “Torture” goes like this :

“He stood defiant till the end
Until his mouth I filled with sand.
And then, while blood was flowing from his ears
I could feel he had some fears.
He feared he’d die; die by my hand
But no, I didn’t kill him with my arm
I mean, it would had done too little harm
And I would had been scolded by Vand.

I took a little dagger from a shelf
And to see if it was sharp, I tried it on myself
And sharp it was; it could had killed a calf
So I took the dagger and I cut my prisonier’s tongue in half.
Yes, I know I’m quite really mean
But even worser and evil I could had been.
I was quite merciful, though
In his torso, I made a single hole !

I said that he had a hole
Well, it was to let the blood flow !
And while he was bleeding to death
I though of a good diet (I was fat).
“Hey, die already !” I said
But he just wouldn’t die yet.
And maybe if I took out his eyes
He’d stop his annoying cries !

Torture is truly an art
For art is that which you do from your heart
And what you do from your heart is that which gives joy
I truly can’t wait to eat his brain; oh boy ! oh boy !
Why call me a cannibal if I just eat food ?
It’s affordable, and plus : it’s good !
And not even hunting is more fun and thrilling
Than the fun you get when it’s people you’re killing !

Hey, why are you so hasty ?
I think that with a fine wine you’d be quite tasty !
Yum ! Yum ! You look so delicious !
I haven’t seen skin so soft…since I ate Lucius.
Oh, please ! Oh, please ! Just a tiny little bite !
It might leave a mark, in the form of a kite
But it’s better, let me say, that to torture you and ask
Where should I put your heart : in a bottle or a flask ?”

As I finished the poem, the other poets started whistling and applauding. However, that was exactly what they had done after the other poets had finished their poems, anyway.

The remaining poets recited their poems, which were not good or important enough to remember, and then we started all over again (We had each come with several poems). The guy who said “Pointless” said another pointless poem. Then came Stefan’s turn, who recited a poem which was quite weird and very bad. It’s name was “Memory” and it went like this :

“I have many memories since I was young.
Very well I remember, walking into dung.
Or sleeping very pretty until I awoke.
Guess what happened ? I was raped by a pope !

I never knew what meaning my whole life had.
It is only filled with memories sad.
Memories not memories, but nightmares that were true.
For example : I recall sniffing a smelly shoe !

I am crazy but I also think I’m sane.
Too bad I don’t remember my very own name.
Sometimes I also ask myself for a moment or an hour
When was the last time I ever had a shower ?

I know I smell entierly like dung;
But still, there are many songs I’ve sung !
I don’t know what made me say that.
Simply and fully, I found no other rhyme
So what, is that a crime ?
You see I’m very skinny ! Don’t ever think I’m fat !”

After this one, the poets started reciting their more vulgar poems. Norman Clarkshun recited his poem “Honey”, which was probably worser than Anonymous’s “Pointless” !
It was the worst verse I had heard since I was 10 and I seemed to have unluckily remembered it ! Anyway, it went like this :

“Honey from bees
Is like bird dung from trees.
I don’t like honey
It tastes too funny.

Do you like that s**t ?
Do you imagine to bears that’s a treat ?
When I see honey I puke.
How much I’d love to kill the bees’ duke.

I have bad memories
And all relate to honey !
I sailed around the seven seas
But never when t’was sunny !

Well, yes ! I am a little crazy !
But honey…darn my mind is hazy !
Please destroy the bee nest
And please destroy it fast !”

I never thought Norman Clarkshun capable of producing such crap, but now I thought him capable of producing things even worser. When he finished reading “Honey”, there were no applauses.

I came next. This time, I recited “Things in the Darkness”, which is not very good, however. It goes like this :

“There are things which I belive
Nobody can see and live.
There are things there, in the darkness
That will mar your weapon’s sharpness.

Monsters in the shadows lurk
He who comes there they will burke.
He who’s brave and has no fears
If he’ll travel there with peers
There, where crossroads come and meet
If they travel on their feet
They will come to death beneath
Death in places with no heat
Death in dungeons dark and frightening
Where the only sound is that of lightning.

There, in dungeons horrible
Lie things very terrible
Things that have no soul
Things alike the deadly ghoul.

In the depths of caverns under
Even the brave knights they sunder;
They, the most deadly of things
That a human mind might render
Things that fully lack our feelings
Oh, they kill you very tender
Like a lion kills its prey
With no remorse to obey
With no mercy, no dismay
Thinking later that he’ll lay
In the evening of the day
Full and happy that it’s May.”

I think you’ve had enough poems for one day, eh ? I’ll continue another time, then. Farewell !

By Sinder Velvin

I am a writer, altough I do other things as well. I don't really know what to say. I'm born on 24 March 1978. I have decided to write short stories for this website, to see if I'm any good...