"bellyful" poems
To **** or not to **** that’s the ******* question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the bowels to suffer
The twists and turns of outrageous rumblings
Or to take action against a bellyful of gas,
And by farting pump one out? To strain, to bloat
No more; and by a mighty outburst we’ll end
The gut’s ache, and the thousand natural stenches
That the **** is heir to, 'tis a resolution
Right devoutly to be wish'd. To **** to ****
But perchance to **** there's the ******* problem;
For in that mighty **** of doom what turds may come,
When we have let the little beauty out from mortal tail,
Must give us pause; there's the danger
That makes calamity of the farter’s life;
For who would bear the sneers and mocks of men,
The neighbour’s shock, the lover’s curling lip,
The pangs of horrid stench, the ******* o’erflowing,
The leaking **** orifice, and the drips,
Impatient strainings that the tragic farter makes,
When he himself might sweet easance make
With a careful prodding finger? Who would a ******** wear,
Grunting and sweating with noisome convulsions,
But that the dread of solids after air-release,
The undiscover'd oozings, from whose delivery
No toilet visitor recovers, puzzles the will,
And makes us bear the bellyache we have
Than fly to others we know not of?
Thus indigestion does make cowards of us all;
And then the native heave of constipation
Is sicklied o'er with the pale fear of defecation;
And enterprises of both ******* and crapping
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of exciting toilet action.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
Time skips in between screen time emptiness
Mind's fuzzy with the traffic sounds
Eyes blinded by the flashing lights
Hands struggle to reach something pleasurable, at least,
As the heart beats excited for the minute-lasting serotonin blast
The hair grows an inch each week,
The numbness comes in days and leaves for a couple hours by bits,
The blood's rage meets the grinning face of guilt,
And the will to change is temporary.
What will it be when I'm 70?
What will change in me?
What will it be like when I'm not me?
And if I'm not me, who else should I be?
Why should I care for the fate of the world?
Why can't I be cozy for 20 years and die alone, slowly?
Why do I have to get up in the first place?
Why do I have to belong to the human race?
Racing indefinitely
Pretending to wear the shield of bravery for someone else's dream-fuck-like-fantasy,
What are all these brands and all these bands of crows?
Eating fleshless people with money for bones
Why is the circus always in town?
Why does the TV lie?
Why does the Internet lie?
Why do the people who run our money lie?
Why do the people who run us lie?
Why is it all so fake and sly?
What is all this bellyful hunger?
What is it that I can't grasp?
Is our nature really all that nefast?
If this is peak humanity, why should it last?
Feb 8, 2023
Feb 8, 2023 at 11:15 AM UTC
Not from this anger, anticlimax after
Refusal struck her **** and the lame flower
Bent like a beast to lap the singular floods
In a land strapped by hunger
Shall she receive a bellyful of weeds
And bear those tendril hands I touch across
The agonized, two seas.
Behind my head a square of sky sags over
The circular smile tossed from lover to lover
And the golden ball spins out of the skies;
Not from this anger after
Refusal struck like a bell under water
Shall her smile breed that mouth, behind the mirror,
That burns along my eyes.
2.2k
poor buick good dog we’re almost done bad moon bellyful of big dumb blond last line i want uh a memory yes before yes atomic foreskins pink & fresh yes hunger for the womb **** **** **** *** junk food ****** with a walkman playing schumann to dilate woman oranges have more delicacy oranges orages oral fruit caught in the act the memory here it is a certain man crippled since birth caught in the act *** without hands his only defense: today today is only the beginning this is only the beginning a sick man’s argument okay last line
while in the street already leaves are falling
2k
What man would buy me a ticket,
and into a cocoon where moss bites?
I would sting like bees on buds,
or ***** rushing to fertilize, create
an angel no other gentlemen touches
with white hair, eyes like sesame seeds:
she seems more attractive than the
woman he made love with, for certain.
Looks unnatural to swim in a pool
when a waterfall can pour ice onto his
head: just as viney-things drape me.
I am but a fair girl, have no color.
He could not love me beneath green,
there is no comparison, me and trees,
but he does, and I feel April will return
sooner and ruddier than anticipated.
May will bark like a dog: on my knees,
cradling children who hold vanities up to
my forehead, I boast a bellyful of bugs,
brick-hued and even with red stripes;
I think they must wear sweaters to bed.
How noble in our thirty-six months!
We cuddle baby slugs, not counting sap,
then burp their brothers, spout-mouths.
He is, in fact, the man that would do
the unthinkable grey-lipped love,
authors gather inspiration from and
snakes slip, spiders webbing shapes of:
cocoon with our metamorphosis in mind.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 5:24 PM UTC
A blur that breathes, growing and abating,
tides of people, entombed in steel,
flowing and fading on riverbeds of tar.
A place of nomads,
all draped in cloth.
A place of symbols,
of concrete and rebar
Sheets of cold, ice grey
Falling spindles, cold rain
A graceful procession
With a bellyful of tears
A dreadful cortège
A heralder of fears
A young forest paved with ancient crushed stones
Nothing left but the inheritance of a thousand unknowns
Nothing left, but old fossilised bones
All that has happened is what I know
And all I know is what will happen.
All that remains is what I know
And all I know is ruin.
Oct 13, 2021
Oct 13, 2021 at 4:30 AM UTC
If you disinfect it they will come,
awash with hope
and stung with bees and swollen and lush and false.
Fat as love we lie prone on the soil,
ready to be ****** by the universe, grand sun and all
elements so revered
And then, oh, it fails us
that universe and all its myths
its stories turn out to be tissue,
so many spindly webs and we
scatter surprised like August spiders hungry and full and
all we wanted to do was weave and wait
but the winds of fate are passing through
and it doesn't like the clinging
touch of our well constructed
reality
no matter how well it caught
our next bellyful
and our continuing survival.
Eventually we'll mourn, drunk and tearless
scabs dried up and scars set.
That's it.
Whatever it was
it wasn't for me.
You're for me,
your invisible clothes
are the most important thing
in this whole universe
and if they cling and if fate doesn't like them and if I agree
well we know what I can do with myself
and this god-awful poetry.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 4:08 AM UTC
“Adam Kieslowski, I want to punch your face in, with all due respect.”
“Dan! Don’t do it! Don’t go there!”
“I’m gonna, do it Megan.”
“Don’t! You’ll **** him!”
I was at the point of snapping
No man scared me
The blood was pumping
Through my fists.
Mike Tyson could have
Walked through the door,
******* Gargantua
I would have got froggy for
Megan.
Silly cow could never even love me
Back, but alas, tis the work
Of lust and ******* desire.
I am by no means a good fighter
But a ***** one,
A tactician,
Teeth an’ claws are no bounds for me
******* Oedipus him if you have to
I had a bellyful of beer-shits
And I was ticking over
Idling
Thinking, teasing
Working the jaw.
The door opened and I pounced
Throwing him to the floor
I could feel Megan pawing at
My back
But it was futile
When a man is pumped, even
The God’s can’t stop him.
I threw him back against
The floor
Gritting my teeth
His lip swelled like a melon
And tears filled his
Watery eyes
“Oh my...”
“What the **** did you say, buddy?”
“Dan please...”
“What the **** you messing Megan around for?”
He mumbled, blood oozed from
Every orifice and his mouth
“Answer me!”
With that, he did something
No man expects,
He burst into tears!
Floods of tears, not just a trickle
A ****** fountain.
We nearly had to call in Moses
To do his party trick with the
Red Sea.
I let him up, as Megan’s eyes
Burned my head.
With that he ran out of door
And drove off.
Puff.
Safe to say, I now had to get
Out the room
Without Megan killing me
Multiple ways.
I didn’t return for several days
Like one doesn’t return to
And aeroplane crash site.
I saw her one day, and she
Said nothing
She came up and
Kissed me on the cheek
And walked on.
I guess Adam never
Bothered her again.
I returned home
And continued to write
And drink beer.
I didn’t think
That situation was
Too bad for my
Soul.
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 10:23 AM UTC
Served best cold, the soup of the day:
Should I go or should I stay?
In between stations, tossing rocks
settle in the seat, or get off next stop?
I want the whole cake
big as you can bake
I want the biggest slice of my future
I want a bellyful of something pure.
I want the wind, I want the rain
I want to dance, to love again
Should I go or should I stay?
"Everything seems perfect from far away."
I weary so fast of the City Games
I'm a Shire-born Took, I long for old names
Life isn't green here, the hues do not play
Colour-blind amidst the shades of grey.
When I run, I run in circles
I try to dream, my dreams are purples
I know you try to assuage my alone
I love you my dear, but I want to go home.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 8:23 PM UTC
Serpent undulation, bathed in
the ochre stink of summer sweat
and shuttered streetlight.
Inept lovers audible through the wall:
we awoke still drunk and bare
to show them how it's done.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 3:58 AM UTC
I am made for more than drudgery of world,
Each day awake, struggle out of bed,
To one more day, a difference I try
To make.
Within myself, a struggle for the ages, as past
Mistakes remind me of a life lived in
Failures of my mind, unable to please
God or man.
So aimlessly I wander through life, within a
Mess of questions, of motives, of
A purpose divine, planted perhaps upon
My soul.
I search, a little, here and there, for purpose,
Setting my soul in a dance of ages
With One divine, to reconcile world,
Myself to Him.
All around, I move in midst of walking dead,
Enslaved to sinful selfishness, chains
Binding against the Created One that
Loves, sets free.
Eyes to the soul filled with depth of pain, masked
By a bellyful of emptiness served up
On promises of Prince of this world, the
Evil serpent.
Everywhere, voices cry out in silent terror, unheard
By owner, enemy of God, stuck in their
Own mire of hopeless despair , no reason
To live on.
Too often, I choose not to hear, not to respond to
His creation crying for redemptive love,
Too caught up in my own selfish desires,
No time to care.
My praise is empty, as thoughts of God go rushing
By, ignored by one too caught up in comfort,
Self, content to live a life, not God’s, but my
Empty own.
So, each morn, a drudgery ensues, such little joy,
Wondering why this emptiness threatens to
Fill, to overwhelm a God-sized call, a purpose
That is mine.
One more day, one more tick of eternity drawing
Near; a spiritual zombie I become, no
Breath of life, no joy, such little presence, daily,
Of the Divine.
He draws me close, in love-filled rage, hurting for my
Soul, as it wanders once again, far from His
Presence of life and joy, grace and love, He
Wishes to display.
My life, it is my own. No, it is His—He has paid the
Price, poured out His wrath upon the Son,
Covered in my sin; my life is forfeit, He has
Given me His own.
I hear now the voices—the voices of the dead, the
Unredeemed—crying out for life as Spirit
Divine begins a work from beginning of time,
To draw to Him.
I am made for more than drudgery of world,
Each day awake, to share with those
Who are dead in sin—of life, of joy—to
Share the grace that comes only from
Him.
--To come alive
--to break the chains of sin
--to live forevermore in Him.
I am made for more than drudgery of world.
I am made for Him!
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 8:24 AM UTC
Get a bellyful of bubbles
And watch them form one by one
As they come to the surface
All your troubles are just gone
They just pop. Pop.
I will pop some for you
There goes another
Look, it’s so easy to do
We could do this all day
Just you and me
All that time spent worrying
It was a waste, don’t you see?
They were really nothing
It was nothing to hold back?
It was just little bits of nothing,
Air. One by one, in a stack
I see the bubbles floating up
I see it in your eyes
They become so blue when you let go
Of the bubbles of hurt and lies
These tiny little bubbles
They’re the things that held you back
When you just wanted to have fun
They didn’t cut you any slack
And so they’re really nothing
Blow them away and say ‘don’t come back’
The worst thing you can do is bottle them up
Because then the bottle goes crack.
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 1:38 PM UTC
run revel, run **** and run riot
after the work week
thirsty work
hashed together venges
and business pleasures exceed
to mature into vigorous crime
with the rights
this fit night have given
the office population clamber up their fears
and violently
cram their senses
fist feast your mouther
raw-torn with surplus
a Wendigo playground
go beast upon this crown
this fawn
this chalking morgue
- a bellyful
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 12:18 AM UTC
running choking,
blinded,
through emotional streets
of an erupting Pompeii of childhood,
a tidal wave of bile
swept me drowning away,
pruning me through and through
with poison
which I was left alone to digest
the best I could,
twisting my stunted growth
into a dwarf afterthought
in an oversized world
of family.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
i've hidden a note in an old library book that i never returned
i ripped the sleeve off and wrote my name in red permanent ink
it smells of oak wood and dust
i felt a warm guilt that i haven't felt since i was 8 years old
when my shoe slipped on dog ****
and i went into class with muddled shoes that smelled of underdeveloped intestines twisting
i think you would understand the embarrassment
the itching sting that my chest surrendered to when everyone asked where it was coming from
this particular note was written in a momentary relapse of admonition
an answer to a question that wasn't answered
will you look in the rubble, where i told myself to stop talking about god all the time
the moon never replied to my letters so i drank my weight in wine
and when i woke up the sender's address was swindled between postmen whose hands were too crooked to open the mails slots
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 10:32 PM UTC
7PM
Purple and twisting
It's a house party
Who the **** are all these ********
Where the **** am I even
I know George, he seems concerned with me
Holding his red cup like it's a shield
The guy never did anything but support me
I bet he's afraid of what I can do
But it's early, I'm all over
Nothing has even begun yet
A bottle of whiskey in one hand
9PM
No shapes and no faces
This tiny room of many people
Enjoying the mindless noise or some music
Dancing like there ain't no tomorrow
Twisting in shapes like they're fabric in spaces
Tiny pills and tiny tabs of destruction
My life's disgusting and collapsing
I know these nameless nobodies but do they know who I am
Two empty bottles, one in each hand
Midnight
It's on fire, but it's dark blue
I'm taking turns dying and spacing
A huge floor underground full of nameless something
Clearer than before, but still not too clear
Ben flicks the switch and they all disappear
I drop my two bottles confused as I'm here
I can feel the air looking at this husk of me
Tabs and needle in my arms
2AM
I'm seeing people, real people
I know who they are
They can't see me killing myself with what's real
They're too busy drinking and feeling life clear
Colors more vibrant than ever before
I'm bleeding from both of my hands
5AM
Aaron and Zoltan and others are speaking
Discussing things that are still inside reason
I'm looking for more acid, looking for *****
I want to end myself, it's the path I choose
I smash all the 40's and glasses on walls
The shards hit me everywhere, bleeding, no stalls
But I'm grey all over, no colors on me
So I guess this is what reality be
7AM
All these ******* are sleeping
I'm awake and that's keeping
Bleeding, high and drunk, I am just about ready
There's no more substance but time's keeping steady
My system is clearing, reality makes way
Amid illusions and fear, I find it's my birthday
Ironic that it's so, right now, don't know why
But on this sacred day, I wake up and now I die
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 11:50 AM UTC
*It's the same bellyful of
Butterflies as when I was
Younger.
Same fire; waterfall flame.
Only tame.*
It used to engulf me.
Now I swim
In it.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
Said One Of My Curious Comrades,
"Please Define Love In Lines Four,
Lines Should Not Be More Than Four."
Said I, "Dear! If Love Could Be Defined In Words,
Then It Might Have Been Understood By Everyone,
As Love Is That Sweetest Confectionery Of A Dumb,
Which He Eats His Bellyful, Knows but Can Tell Nothing.
May 6, 2020
May 6, 2020 at 6:54 AM UTC