Wormy Quotes & Sayings

How insane we are as humans when having received a nasty offense we return the same awful offense. If given an apple found to be rotten and wormy, would we not toss it aside rather than force a soul to eat it? Offenses should be discarded, not returned. — Richelle E. Goodrich

Grief broke down in phrases
And extrapolated lines
From me without myself
Tear-stained pillow of stone
I felt I was lying
Beside him in the coffin
Wormy mother
Who takes us into the ground
With her whenever and wherever
She wants the grass glistens
And grows over us in the heat
Of late summer in the country — Edward Hirsch

I like words. I like fat buttery words, such as ooze, turpitude, glutinous, toady. I like solemn, angular, creaky words, such as straitlaced, cantankerous, pecunious, valedictory. I like spurious, black-is-white words, such as mortician, liquidate, tonsorial, demi-monde. I like suave "V" words, such as Svengali, svelte, bravura, verve. I like crunchy, brittle, crackly words, such as splinter, grapple, jostle, crusty. I like sullen, crabbed, scowling words, such as skulk, glower, scabby, churl. I like Oh-Heavens, my-gracious, land's-sake words, such as tricksy, tucker, genteel, horrid. I like elegant, flowery words, such as estivate, peregrinate, elysium, halcyon. I like wormy, squirmy, mealy words, such as crawl, blubber, squeal, drip. I like sniggly, chuckling words, such as cowlick, gurgle, bubble and burp. — Robert Pirosh

All the rare and royal names
Wormy sheepskin yet retains — John Millington Synge

Well, I'm here to tell you: I've seen women passionately devoted to men who couldn't pile bricks, and whole families of slack-jawed nose pickers held together by "love," not to mention all those people who curl up at night with dogs that have gunk running out of their eyes, dogs who earlier peed where they were about to walk and spent ten minutes licking their own wormy butts. — Haven Kimmel

I like my hands. They're certainly scarred up, but they're wormy. They're knuckly. They're hands that have done stuff, and they're not going anywhere. — Hilarie Burton

Kasen lifted one of the bottles and read the label. "This stuff can kill you." "Yeah, but obviously not quick enough." He went to take another swig. Nykyrian jerked it out of his hand. "Hey!" He pulled it away from his grasping hand. "Don't even make that noise at me." Syn curled his lip. "You and Vik. You're both traitors. You might as well move in with Shahara, too." Vik had gone to live with her and refused to come back until Syn "got over himself". Little wormy betraying mecha bastard. Kasen shook her head. "I think this is the first time I've ever seen you drink from a bottle." Nykyrian snorted. "Lucky you. I've seen him tap a keg and funnel it."
- Kasen, Syn, & Nykyrian — Sherrilyn Kenyon

One can trace the relics of this former happiness in the trim shapes of the buildings, the occasional graceful churches, and the evidences of original art and background in bits of detail here and there - a worn flight of steps, a wormy pair of decorative columns of pilasters, or a fragment of once green space with bent and rusted iron railing. — H.P. Lovecraft

how small he was and how wormy in manner, — James A. Michener

He hymns the rotten queen with saffron hair
Who has saltier aphrodisiacs
Than virgins' tears. That bawdy queen of death,
Her wormy couriers are at his bones.
Still he hymns juice of her, hot nectarine. — Sylvia Plath

The time of dangling insects arrived. White houses with caterpillars dangling from the eaves. White stones in driveways. You can walk at night down the middle of the street and hear women talking on the telephone. Warmer weather produces voices in the dark. They are talking about their adolescent sons. How big, how fast. The sons are almost frightening. The quantities they eat. The way they loom in doorways. These are the days that are full of wormy bugs. They are in the grass, stuck to the siding, hanging in the hair, hanging from the trees and eaves, stuck to the window screens. The women talk long-distance to grandparents of growing boys. They share the Trimline phone, beamish old folks in hand-knit sweaters on fixed incomes.
What happens to them when the commercial ends? — Don DeLillo

Tell him I write of worms and corruption, because I like worms and corruption. Tell him I believe in the fundamental wickedness and worthlessness of man, & in the rot in life. Tell him I am all for cancers. And tell him, too, that I loathe poetry. I'd prefer to be an anatomist or the keeper of a morgue any day. Tell him I live exclusively on toenails and rumours. I sleep in a coffin too, and a wormy shroud is my summer suit. — Dylan Thomas