"bedpan" poems
A pale sky hovered above me as I walked
Through mountains and valleys vast,
Passing folk who chattered and talked
About days of old and the past,
Of when dragons roamed freely
Bringing terror and fire and fear,
Of when people breathed heavily
Wanting life while the end was near.
“For only beasts could bring the end of man.”
Although man was one of the greatest,
Condemning kin to their bedpan,
Truly, the worst ever created.
And yet they fear the children of time!
As if marvelous creatures so divine
Could bring harm to those without crime!
Who only care to build temple and shrine!
While the true masters of mankind
Are the ones breathing fire in the sky…
Dragonborn, the last of my kind,
As I wandered, I chose who to glorify.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 2:34 AM UTC
Tattered and torn,
Old, and quite worn.
She lives in the street,
No shoes on her feet.
They call her "Old Hag",
Her clothes, but a rag.
Children throw stones,
Never leave her alone.
But somehow she thrives,
Lest her will to survive.
Despite her poor health,
And absence of wealth.
She sleeps where she's able,
Park benches, old tables,
Eats food from trash cans,
Her bathroom-- A bedpan.
Seeks shelter from rain,
Most often in vain.
Finds warmth in the winter,
From restaurant air-venters.
She smiles at the sun,
Gives birds half her crumbs,
Has only three teeth,
To chew what she eats.
And each night she does pray,
To see a new day.
Before she closes her eyes,
And quietly dies...
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
Mosh pit
at the Senior Center:
giving God the finger at 76.
Names no one heard of,
(bands long-dead
on their leather jackets)
still squatting anarchy,
arthritically smashing the State,
babbling Mao,
drooling Bakunin,
shocking the middle-class mores
as their Christian nurse
empties their bedpan
no sellout, etc.
Years
since ******** songs
were used for car commercials
on network T.V.
Sep 5, 2020
Sep 5, 2020 at 7:52 AM UTC
Bring together.
Tear apart.
(SIMULTANEITY)
Command or be carried,
be free or be ferried,
believe or be bleary,
wear on or be weary.
The bedpan of old age,
the deadpan of expression--
at the end
before beyond,
inward evacuation
/
outward ingestion,
a life lived to die--
but life exists, after all.
The "pan" of Pangaea,
the pan of a camera--
at the start
before tectonic cataclysm,
localized catastrophe
/
universal symphony,
indifference until perception--
but perception exists, after all.
Either
/
Or:
equal opponents at one moment
until chosen.
It could be said no dimension is parallel.
-LP
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 10:04 PM UTC
I brought you my still beating heart
In a bismol pink bedpan,
Your hands lifting from the gurney
Awaiting salvation through my touch.
In my visions I am seventeen.
I am seeing you for the first time at my work
And you make me laugh.
You reiterate the scarring in your soul and down your back
And I ask, rudely, if I may see some time.
You say sure,
But your face wishes that I had never asked.
In my wonders
I am eighteen and telling a group of people my age at a party
Why I am sober,
Because my body is weak
And I am not tempted.
Thoughts of you and my future swirl in my mind
But they do not connect.
I will try in vain for another year
Before I realize that maybe I need to sober up from you.
In my recent memory,
I'm sitting on the side of your bed
Hoping that you do not die.
But I'm half naked,
Underwear and undershirt the only things I have on
And your skin is too hot
And your voice sounds coked over
And your breathing is not a slow hum
But a ravenous wheeze
And I'm scared
And my breathing becomes torn.
I'm nineteen again
But now I am saying goodbye
Though you are still living
And a week earlier I had pledged myself to you forever.
You cry to me that you were saving for a ring
And I had hoped to hear that
But now that you've said it,
I can feel my stomach toss
Into the bedpan
Which houses my heart
In your hands,
I've taken my place among the dreadfully unbalanced
And the perpetually sad.
I have come to the conclusion that I have made a mistake
That is too late in the making to be remedied.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
i.
diapered
fat legged
baby, propped in posture
by a stack of wet bricks
the flooded basement
provides and provides
often
ii.
baby, under foot
bedpan for the sadness
of the upright
iii.
I stand
to sleep
standing
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 11:28 AM UTC
It has been a long fortnight of half-change,
Collecting tips for charity buckets
And scrawling ink in my hand-bound notebook.
I am nesting. Preparing my bedpan
For tomorrow’s hangover, as I learn
Artefacts of knowledge passed through these books.
There is no career plan. No thought of the
Ladders I’ll need to set on the brickwork,
Just to weep at the windows of success.
I am learning for the sake of learning,
and loving for the sake of a story.
Sorrow is wanted, just for the moment;
Just so that I can stumble through the door
And hold onto the receipt in your mind.
These agonised thoughts have to mean something.
If not, well, I suppose not much will change.
I’ll work this shift and retire again,
Always slipping back into a routine.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC