There is nothing left to eat
but their stomach still churn
and the emergency shut off switch
that will keep them from being hungry anymore
is forever at arms length.
They've watched themselves waste away
trying to feed their swollen bellies on clothes,
hair, shoes, skin, rocks and fingernails.
All slid down their dry throats
and retched their putrid stomachs.
Instead of huddled together for warmth,
they seperate themselves,
hoping the isolation will allow the cold to take them away,
to freeze their hearts and brains.
To allow them to not be cold and hungry, but feel nothing.
Grasping a wet stick in his gnarled hands
one of them tilts his head back
and shoves it into his throat
like a sword swallower on a budget,
and he gags and wretches and dry heaves.
He bends over on his knees
the stick still in his esophagus,
and around the wet, grey bark expells acid,
pure stomach acid onto the ground and burning his teeth.
His body shives but his eyes show triumph.
Maybe they once had genders
maybe they once had ages
but now they have lost their individualites
and remain stinking and pale as the hungry,
the ones not good enough for death.
Eyelidless eyes stare and match into another
pair of sore conjuctivitis infected *****
Blinking but incapable of the solace of sleep,
as they impatiently wait for something,
anything to happen.
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 2:33 PM UTC
The world!
The entire world!
I own the entire ******* world!
Or at least I have stocks in it.
I bought my fair share of stocks in this god-forsaken rock,
shouldn't I have a say in how this place is run?
People!
You people!
You're running the world into the ground, you ******* people!
I vote for a change in the board!
What do you mean I don't have enough stock
in the company to make decisions?
Wait?
******* wait?
You destroy my wealth, my well-being and my life and you ask me to ******* wait!
I refuse to be a party in this!
I'm going to the brokerage when it opens in the morning
and selling my stocks
with the business end of a Remmington.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 7:56 PM UTC
Po- Slang for "poor"
E-Electronic
Try-Something you do when you're afraid you won't succeed.
Poetry makes no sense.
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 8:56 PM UTC
Jesus Christ. Do you always look like this?
I forced my eyes open. I felt like I was on an old roller coaster with a broken axle.
What the **** is wrong with you?
I tried to focus but it made my eye muscles hurt. So I closed them again.
Get up!
So I sat up. My stomach hurt.
Get up!
I braced myself with my arms. My skin was burning.
It's almost four!
Why are you being so loud?
Because it's almost four!
I laid back down and put my chin to my chest so the tendons in my back could stretch out.
Did you hear me?
I heard you.
You know I'm not going to feel bad for you.
Could you go away then?
It's almost four!
I don't have to be up til seven.
Four in the afternoon four. Itll be dark in two hours four.
I squeezed my eye lids together and yanked the scratchy yellow blanket up past my shoulder.
...
Then why do I even have to bother getting up?
Because that's what people do. They get up and have lives.
That's really cool for people. But I'm not a people. I'm the biggest man in the world.
What?
I'm still asleep.
What the **** is wrong with you?
I'm still asleep.
...
My stomach wretches. Go get a bucket.
What?
Go get a bu-. I roll onto my side and puke off of the mattress and onto the grey stubbly carpet.
What the ****
I think I'm okay now.
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 8:05 PM UTC
When the eggs all hatch
inside of our bellies
and begin to bore holes
we will bear it
because we're
not good enough
for a doctor to touch
When we give birth to the babies of flies
we will love them like our own.
Because they're
not good enough
for better parents.
When our fly babies grow up
they will ask us why
they are so different than the other kids
We will tell them it's
because they are better
than the other kids.
When we die slowly and painfully
from sepsis when the holes
in our stomachs finally leak out
because we were too engrossed
in our fly babies
We will wonder if it was worth it.
After our funerals,
attended by our fly babies
and our parents
there will be hor d'eourves
with which our children
will mate.
Our dads and our moms
will eat the food
crunchy with their eggs
because they are not good enough
to ignore free food
we will be reborn.
And leave holes in the stomachs of those who made us not good enough.
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 8:34 PM UTC
His face and the wall
attempt to operate in the same space
at the same time.
As his head reels back,
fragments of tooth are left
in a smatter.
Blood spittles from his mouth
When he tries to form words.
The world is crimsidescent
when he sees with his "third eye".
His face
the wall
and he can't go around.
Feb 3, 2010
Feb 3, 2010 at 9:11 PM UTC
Robert was 13
when he walked to his family's refrigerator
and Systematically he tore off the drawings,
the report cards,
the pictures.
What are you doing, Robert?
I've got a big list on my fridge
of things I'm gonna buy
when I'm
Old
Enough
To pay taxes.
Feb 3, 2010
Feb 3, 2010 at 8:58 PM UTC
On the beach
waves collide with the shore,
coming from above
and slamming down
battering the sand.
As the ocean retreats back into itself
it claws the beach
and rips away its skin.
Clouds
huddle together and through sheer mass,
hue black.
Screams
bellows
and the pummeling sound of behemoths in disrest.
Tiny daggers drop from the riot,
denting the crust,
softening it.
And finally
the sand is pierced
by the feet of a hundred stampeding tourists,
failing to outrun the bullets
of a ****** in a rage.
Jan 31, 2010
Jan 31, 2010 at 7:52 PM UTC
Charles Bukowski
Died with a wife
at the end of his life
left a world that was rife
with the blade of a knife
And a soul filled with stife
And another word that sounds alike is fife.
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 9:49 PM UTC
The average police officer makes $55,000 dollars are year.
The average police officer makes 55,000 friends a year.
Bad friends
who will never back him up
when he needs them most.
Green friends,
jealous of each other,
who, ironically, only work well in huge groups.
The average police officer is yelled at
at least once a day.
The average police officer sits in a car,
waiting for his chance to be yelled at.
A good car,
made of steel,
with a bright light and a speaker for shouting,
"Pull over."
And an air conditioner.
The average police officer has a gun for self protection,
and a baton for the offensive.
The average police officer wears black
or blue.
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 9:46 PM UTC