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Francis Nov 14
The expectation,
Of you to accept the inhalation,
Of the evaporation,
Of someone else’s waste.

Make it make sense,
How the walls of stalls,
Fail to reach its maximum highs and lows,
For all of us to share what we release.

We listen to the air,
That flubs between *** cheeks,
Just as the **** projects deuces,
Into the bowl that cups the sound of wind.

We hear the moans and sighs,
Of relief, constipation and strain,
As we urinate nearby,
Adjacent to the incomplete **** shack.

Make it make sense,
How tasting the gases,
Of Joe Blow, blowing out his insides,
Is a customary to our community.

A sociological experiment,
Deemed to generate sociopathy,
As we laugh at the flatulence,
And giggle at one’s vulnerability.

Merely a forgotten fact,
That we have been there too,
We go there every day,
And pretend that others don’t do the same.

And without a mere act of courtesy,
The space is left filthier than the last,
Because why be considerate for the next?
Someone’s job is to cleanse my waste.

Furthermore is the neglect,
Of faucets, soap and towels,
Aimed to **** bacteria,
That exits biological passageways.

Why oh why,
Must I be forced to study,
Why this is simply unacceptable,
This concept of oversharing?

Recurring stage fright,
Readily apparent,
When forced to **** beside men,
More than double my size.

I’ll simply never understand,
How by design,
What we wouldn’t do in front of house guests,
Is something we are urged to do in front of strangers.

With a bunch of hairy, overweight men,
Who clear their throats, bladders and colons,
In my personal space.
Seriously, what the ****?
They think we are gross
"Why don't you two get a room?"
I love PDA
What can I say?
I'm not ashamed
Ylzm Mar 2022
Making a living Wage from the living Word
Inevitably shades, obscures, taints and corrupts
Betrays the apparently living Faith
And exalting the Man than the Word

Balaam refused silver and gold in public
But embraced death's wages in secret
Certainly the labourer deserves his dues
But from his Master and not from fellow labourers

If the lives you saved leave you hungry
But for your whip, perhaps they're yet slaves
neth jones Mar 2022
The great gaudy flage is screamin' blood in the streets
                                          loose yawn of a gob on him
                                              all bombast n' swagger
he makes a barrage of nuisance
     channels through the public
         and scatters a juggler's performance spot
                  lobs away his change hat
then, roughly over the cobbles  
                                        he hoicks a resuscitation doll
         and stamps down a posing boot
                                                 on the 'defeated form'

an unprepared scoop of tourists
a pause for silence and begins a rant
a great performance
of well harassed combustion :

"i smear to god all the phalluses
      [he roars, all saliva]
i smug to god
             a full jug of uglies
tug on       [makes the hand gesture for male *******]
i **** off the forger
would slug it in the mug
                          if it ever did form a tissue oath
took a plug at some drunk straggler
called the baffled *** 'god-father'
            and spate spume on his fallen anatomy
[with one hand he indicates the mannequin at his heel]
       amen ******* !"

he bows
a long quiet
some people clap awkwardly
two police officers appear and hook him by the elbows
(it has been this show before)
Owen Oct 2021
And I should never have shared
my presence here
on HP
for now I find myself
censoring what I write
to avoid
I wish people
would leave me
oh the chaos that my drafts would incite
Mike Chigo Jul 2021
I see a hooded man walk into my neighborhood
Dressed up in black, from the boots to the hood
He prowls the street like a cat in the middle of the night
Walks around hands in his pocket until he reaches his target

Kablaam kablaam kablaam

Gunshots ring in the air
The people disappear
Only to reappear with fear to find their star lying dead

What's his crime? They all asked...
Who's the killer? They all wonder...
Yet nobody knows but the sender
Nicole Bataclan Jul 2021
I see my book on your shelf
And yours on mine,

I would take our afterthoughts
And turn them into rhyme.

Every love story starts with
A blank page.
Take note,

People still write letters
Left for others to quote.

Each day with you
Leaves a poet at a loss for words.

I love you, Darragh.

A time for us,

A private bookcase
Sealed with kisses.
EmperorOfMine Feb 2021
The black hole is the other side of God's eye.

We cannot travel through and survive because of the limitations set.
Light can escape, as light has cone access that we do not have.
Until we are able to dematerialize and rematerialize while also keeping our consciousness, we will never be able to see what is on the other side.

There are creatures inconceivable to our reality on that side, almost like enlarged versions of bacteria and etc.

We are like cells, complex and working to keep this reality at work.
Our planet is like this.

The core, nucleus. You can go along those lines.

Anyways, we are able to leave this giant version of us, but only when it is accessible.
This could be a theory, or not...
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