"bladders" poems
I
Half of the fellow father as he doubles
His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow hulk,
Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles
To-morrow's diver in her ***** milk,
Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone
Bolt for the salt unborn.
The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled
Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop,
The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled
The swing of milk was tufted in the pap,
For half of love was planted in the lost,
And the unplanted ghost.
The broken halves are fellowed in a *******
The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep,
Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble
Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep,
And stake the sleepers in the savage grave
That the vampire laugh.
The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded
The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees,
******* the dark, kissed on the cyanide,
And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs,
Rotating halves are horning as they drill
The arterial angel.
What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble
The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air,
And ***** the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble.
The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw,
The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew
Blinds their cloud-tracking eye.
II
My world is pyramid. The padded mummer
Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt
Incising summer.
My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet,
I scrape through resin to a starry bone
And a blood parhelion.
My world is cypress, and an English valley.
I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards
Red in an Austrian volley.
I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads,
******** their bowels from a hill of bones,
Cry Eloi to the guns.
My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan.
The Arctic scut, and basin of the South,
Drip on my dead house garden.
Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth
The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn
Through the Atlantic corn.
The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel
On casting tides, are tangled in the shells,
Bearding the unborn devil,
Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels.
The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide
Binding my angel's hood.
Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour?
I blow the stammel feather in the vein.
The **** is glory in a working pallor.
My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn,
The secret child, I sift about the sea
Dry in the half-tracked thigh.
3.9k
Taffeta dress.
Pink bows and ribbons,
Plaited elegantly through her shiny hair.
Shoes made of crystal glass.
Azure eyes that allure.
Princes and spinsters.
All vying for love.
In ball gowns.
Feel the frowns.
The pauper descends.
Out of place, amid friends.
Pretences of sisters who whisper and moan.
Two sisters and mother that clamour the throne.
They're trying for love.
Met on the staircase.
We really don't really care case.
Sisters on ladders of heels,as they stagger .
Their mouths filthy as bladders and bowels.
Nasty creatures.
Vile in lust.
Lustful greed.
Maternal demon seed.
Stepmother, toxically crumbles to dust.
Crone godmother.
A quick sip of milk.
Cinderella my lovely became but a sylph.
Dispelled stepmother and daughter's that cussed.
Transport to the princes ball.
In a pumpkin, should maybe have been made into a sickly sweet pie.
Lizards as footmen, stood fast on the back on the coach pulled by white mice.
The creatures were shocked.
By the changes, all the rearrangements.
Built up with Cinderella before, a creature comfort kind of rapport.
Be back by midnight said the fairy godmother, she knew he'd really grow to love her.
Midnight came midnight went.
A glorious evening only lent.
She tripped on the stair,
Nobody cared, except the prince and cute cinders.
She lost her shoe, in a hurry to flee.
Prince himself picked it up, unable to believe in lady luck was meant to be.
He searched his dominions far and wide, just to find his princess bride.
All the best things found in fairy tales.
What do I find?
Just slugs and snails.
Yep, you guessed it I'm a bit of a cynic.
(c)Livvi MMCV
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
I remember that Day when we sat
(side by side)
On those Stairs
(Waiting for our Train)
And you bought us Miso Soup
(It tasted like Tears)
The Sun hit my legs
(With all the force of sepia toned Nostalgia)
Covering them, bathing them. glorifying.
The traffic was the push and pull
(To and fro, magnetising, Synchronising)
Of waves.
Harsh, solid, mechanical waves
(Full of the force of Human Atrocity)
Japanese Culture was "in" and everything was "kawaii" and sweet
(With the underlying disturbance of Sexualisation - *** takes pride of place in our Civilisation)
I thought I was eating the sea.
(I could see the tiny fish Nibbling us that time we went snorkelling. We saw a Sting Ray that reminded us of Steve Irwin: Danger; Barbed Wire)
The Snow-flakes
(Fish-flakes)
Swirling in the snow globe of my Polystyrene Cup
(A new kind of Fish Bowl, A new Exposure)
And they swam around and around, Hiding
(Cyclical, controlled by Lunar Activity. Natural?)
If I stared hard enough I would, no, could see myself
(Floating, Filleted)
Amongst those Ribbons of Sea ****
With each Salty slurp
(That tasted of you, of the bitter Crust that Crowns your body in Heat)
I expected saltier Bladders to Burst in my Mouth
(Drowning me in Poison; Poisson)
I imagined the Japanese fisherman Catching Sun-Warmed Sea
(In a Polystyrene Cup)
The thousands of fish, tiny eyes that Blink, tiny gills that Palpitate - Suffocating in Air
(Aboard his boat, that Famed boat: "Daigo Fukuryu Maru")
Harvesting Silken Strands of Sea **** that Clung to its Crate
(In the same way that his Wife's Freshly washed Hair Twines about her Body. Static, Electric, Alive)
We didn't finish the Miso Soup;
It tasted too much of the Tears that I Cried.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
Jesus was looking impatient
It was already quarter past nine
He was sure he'd sent out invitations
And he'd turned all the water to wine
He'd promised a memorable banquet
As tomorrow he'd surely be dead
But the shops had been short of a few things
So he'd just had to settle for bread
When a knock at the door made him flutter
He adjusted his dress and his hair
He opened and bid all assembled
"Wipe your feet and then sit over there"
They shuffled and took to their places
But they looked slightly I'll at their ease
They could see all the wine and the bread rolls
But what of the ham and the cheese?
Jesus said grace in his fashion
"Cheers Dad" with his thumb held up high
"But be careful, this bread is my body"
"Now who wants a nice bit of thigh?"
They tucked in with nervous expressions
He'd been guzzling since they had arrived
He explained "It's my blood in these bottles"
"And without it I'd not have survived"
The apostles were forming conclusions
Their boss had been ****** all these years
But the wine washed away their objections
And the music drowned out all their fears
So they partied and danced on the table
They played twister and tidily-winks
Then stumbled off out to a nightclub
Because Judas was buying the drinks
They caroused and they conga'd till morning
Till their stomachs and bladders had failed
And that's how young Jesus got hammered
And the very next day he got nailed
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
nature's remedies
boost Spring-time stem-cell research--
bladders grown in labs
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
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.
Bonding,
With a bunch of hairy, overweight men,
Who clear their throats, bladders and colons,
In my personal space.
Nov 13, 2023
Nov 13, 2023 at 9:41 PM UTC
-on a local beer at a local pub, or
another good reason to speak out as a poet
An angel in an apron offered me a drink.
"Here comes Eternal Youth," she said,
"it is meant to make you think."
While I drank, the world billowed like a sail.
Time went crazy, bladders appeared,
the world's front peeled off like a veil.
Heroes and gods alike were humbled.
Their faces aged, their bones crumbled,
the wind swept away what remained of them.
With them they took the light.
I stumbled in pitch black darkness
and man, from the deep I cried.
And then, suddenly, I knew:
my voice, that's me, I'm here!
I'm not too young to interfere!
I shouted and pushed up the curtain,
reflected light cut through the dark:
the waving sea, time to embark!
My angel again was in her counsellor's role.
"Now sail in song forever," she spoke,
"raise your voice, save your soul!"
I peered into the golden waves...
and found it was this magic potion,
that turned and turned in its majestic motion.
There is truth in wine but there's soul in beer;
and when it sends you spinning, sing, sing!
sing, so all the world can hear!
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 9:01 AM UTC
Know not lest ye be known thyself,
A phrase followed from some strange, onyx, snake placenta and spittle covered book,
From which phrases are chanted and sewn inwardly, perversely backed into the bladders of demons and spewed from the nostrils,
Solids and seeds of dollars and oil.
Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase not written as we have been taught, shown in action
By those blocking fruits, pinching fingers at the ends of urethras
To keep children from being born.
Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase preventing man and woman from marrying,
Withholding, slothfully, idling, waiting,
Placing plugs in all our orifices.
Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase stopping perception: touch, sight, hearing, smell, taste, And any others if there are others,
Saying it alone will fill your mind.
Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase keeping us working with the unidentified,
The unfamiliar, the unknown,
Keeping us discriminating, nepotizing, judging.
Know not lest ye be known thyself,
The summation of rejection,
Instructing us to reject those things around us except what we already know.
And what do we know?
The Cover-up.
One tarp can be pulled from off this particular hidden item in the garage,
That can be assured,
(though the rest may be inveigled away by filibustering and hidden, but hopefully not):
"Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged Thyself" is The Holy Bible verse to be followed.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
In our subset of society we
worship sweet caramel syrup and
double tall soy lattes with extra foam
and extra shots of whatever
can keep us pumping through
marathon long meetings
where we meddle
in our market’s perception
of health savings accounts,
a muddle of mindless
power point presentations
and persistent pencil tapping
on a cold granite table top.
We cannot blame the
young baristas with tattooed
arms and early morning
smiles for simply slipping
us the goods- we must blame
the comfortable coffee pushing
peddlers with heavy pockets,
the evil executives
who sit in their soft leather
armchairs and export
expensive beans from South America.
They empty our leather wallets
but fill our bladders;
offer less calories for
a slightly heavier price-
only $4.15 for a Grande
Caramel Frapuccino Light,
so many in our stomach
that we undoubtedly
will email ourselves into a
caffeine induced coma.
If we could see the constant account
debiting that swarms cyberspace-
millions of dollars transferring
between molecules-
we would drown in
the onslaught of dollar bills into
the hungry
Starbucks black hole that is
never full.
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 12:27 PM UTC
All of your curves, how do we walk in straight lines;
how do we dance so sublime – how are you the weight
on my mind in my wet dreams, from tears that flow?
_You drown out my pride!_
Had I ****** you that much, to want to change bladders;
though sleeping alone is it’s own song, would you be
the song bird singing in my dawn?
As the sands of time flow down your hourglass figure,
how are the days of our lives, any less worth, when we
get to spend the night… _together!_
But as you rest your thoughts on my chest, there’s a deep
pressure, when you take your time to say you love me –
it’s a slow pleasure, when I try to rule out the space that
should be between our breaths, it’s a small measure…
_I must be murmuring your name under my breath_
An atheist might not believe in God or angels, but maybe
around you, he could believe in being around a person that
feels like a place close to a heaven.
Feb 11, 2025
Feb 11, 2025 at 4:30 PM UTC
gargle guppy bladders in the saline of your tears
be the punchline of all joking any time you chance to hear
may your days of life be long and restless
may your nights be short and hard
may the cycle of your suffering become your holy lord
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 7:46 PM UTC
There's a minute mouse hidden in the darkness under the house.
Hear it scooting around, it's chewing on paper.
All the books are getting distressed.
Notice the scuffling things.
A peek from the corner of householder's eye.
Wonder why she didn't call upon the services of the exterminator man.
Not the daleks naturally.
See them darting across the room, honed almost invisible darts.
In they pop to empty their bladders and bowels, all over the house.
Discarded broken pencil leads.
Their broods hidden under the host's cosy house.
And they nibbled the wire.
Gnaw, gnaw,nibble,nibble .
Ignited a spark.
Now the house is on fire.
(C) Livvi
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 6:14 PM UTC
Violet light Bleaches steaming emptied emus' bladders on time, I want I want I am amongst the Atman at dusk man's lust rises ****** parry as a guardian of the gourd the glory of the gore internal innards languish read the spare change small children inquire currency smell of bleach eases the crucible fixing my easel with ease as all society is, is a trap, a trap lime citrus as sweet as Virginity as **** as a tarp pushing out rain water for a creature's belief in solidarity, soil begs to return sustained by nourishment of the water table and rain shadow, fees lie fallow I am a three field system mid evil as a midwife. aggregate agates gating Gaelic gaiety, fair as faith fairly free as a fairy, pixie sticks mixed well with angel dust I return my receipt as I am an alchemist to Egypt saying 2 sips taste better, who's at a crude joke who explains rude yokes poked by a spear leering silence at the steer awaiting an opacity to light my lantern, forsake advancement for the sun bends gravity as an attitude, who of many resist the power of effulgence, even lycanthropes need hope for the souls as the basis of reflection brings the rains sparked in rainbows.
What makes a friend? cogar a creyo una mi Amiga Bonita hace difficl estoy muy triste para la pnta y ala comer mierda.
UV is not a Cavalier, the ultra violet alpha is a royalist
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 4:26 AM UTC
As time quickly approaches
On the planed escape
Gunther smuggles the files in
While Mildred bakes the cake
But that doesn't much matter
For our two on the run
In all the confusion
The oven was never turned on
So they slipped out the front door
When Gladys the receptionist was gone
Out for her morning coffee
And cigarette on the lawn
They made it as far as the sidewalk
As far as the authorities could tell
When they both turned around
Before their bladders gave out
They need a new plan of escape
One that can be followed with ease
Before it's to late
Since they're both weak in the knees
Our hero's will have to wait another day
For their chance at freedoms song
For now they'll hang up their walkers
And devise another plan on getting gone
It was a heated night of Bingo
When Gunther got the idea
They'd go out with the wash
In a basket both hid
So they packed up their dentures
Along with their Poly Grip
As both of them readied
For their laundry trip
Now in the back of the truck
Rolling down 95
Same age as our escapee's
If you care to count time
They later hijacked the truck
When the driver they sacked
Now they travel life's highway
With nothing but the wind to their back
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 7:56 AM UTC
Do you know what we men love, ladies?
We love the raisins in our apple pie
when we just want apple pie
We love the broccoli in every dish
how you beg 'just give it a try!'
We love the fortune in toiletries
so there's no room for our combs
perfumes, shampoos and body creams
blow dryers, curlers and foams
We love how you sneak to the bathroom
just prior to us awaking
we plea for you to hurry
as our bladders are sorely aching
We love to join you shopping
and discuss the cashier's hair
and if we happen to like it
do we tell you...do we dare?
but most of all we love you
for the biggest, most valuable perk
is the motivation you provide
to get our ***** off to work!
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 1:41 PM UTC
And so, a breath is taken,
and the colourful universe feels
Scales and trunks halting,
causing the world to pause
A Witches' hat lowers
Hairpin halting
On the path to the bun,
A toothless grin falters,
A mother shushes her young,
A triple voice soars, and cracks,
falls
silence
just for a second
just this one
A hedgehog stirs from slumber,
a palace, blacksmiths, markets, circle,
Elves cease to smile
Just this moment
There is peace
The trolls, asleep in sunlight, are bought to
consciousness, and they lift their lichen in a salute
more beautiful than any enchanted guitar or
harp.
Dwarves halt in the smell of gold, lips parted in
shock, beneath beards which now quiver, rather
than quaff.
Hex's parts come to a standstill, the ants, overcome,
clutch the teddy bear and Hex's light, blinks off
then on.
A single word flashes on the output screen
<Gone>
The Wizards, third helping finished, long for
answers: anything but this
so wrong
But Susan only shrugs
Poker held aloft, she searches the the
monster, but even Iron is not
that strong.
Stop The Press
Stop All the Clocks
Even Dibbler stops picking a lock
All the egg timers stop
A howl from the forest
A salute
A Goodbye
The universe filled with an inevitable sigh
Pyramid's shaking
Orcs quaking
Goblin's sobbing
Tiffany Aching
Even de'Quirm's thinking
is placed on pause
As hats
and staffs
and lords
and trees
and daggers
and guitars
and paws
Even sad little bladders on sticks
Are raised in tribute
As reality quickens
And a thin arm asks for an AUTOGRAPH
The Cori Celesti bows
To the Chief of all Gods
As the timer runs of Sand
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
Having loved and lived more than many, you're one that has feared and toiled in the garden of life. This garden that is now untended, dried, and withered; a vast wasteland, littered with cigarette butts, broken beer bottles, used condoms, and bullet casings. Those seeds of ruin are sowed by your very own callous hands of destruction. Once, golden opportunities and golden showers were warm and comforting, till you realized you were being ****** on by weak hearts and failing bladders. An ongoing stream of liquored up nights, self-loathing heathens, and rotten misanthropes now have you bowing to the porcelain gods beside a freshly dug grave, fit for your honor. One more shot is what you want, finely driving that final nail into your coffin of a liver. Feeling flushed and torn, nobody will be bringing you flowers, you wilted oaf. A half-eaten vegetable, you are. Left with nothing more than skin and bone, there's a sign that sustenance has not been a friend of indulgence.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
anyone can tire of the belittling hippy pacifism hiding Stalin in its underwear like it was the höchste lösung without nappies; because the left believes we were born with drink-hardened-bladders!
we can't fathom the new intellectuals
and their soberness
like we can't fathom the fact
that some went into battle
with amphetamines and some with
alcohol; we simply can't accept
a sober enemy, the fear of death too dragging
in a reggae of a continuum
and bedrooms' pleasure racked
in lacking a womb -
found the index imitating a fly,
and a king with it too - who's to kneel?
thus they fought intoxicated, but argued sober?
why not reverse?
why let these schoolchildren, these hitlerjungen
fight intoxicated while the bulging argue sober?
the fighters intoxicated and the politicians sober?
sombre? did i hear it right?
the berserker fight intoxicated while
while the old men squabble sober?
send the old men to fight sober and the youth
to politicise intoxicated!
i take to war the intellectual concern for
your piano and your wallpaper and your pseudo
Marxist class struggle -
where war knocks via intellectuals, war will come
and intoxication will be the new intellectualism -
where intellectuals knock for ginger
they will reap Blitzkrieg...
where war comes intellectuals exploit first...
with intellectual agitation war comes easily,
******** animal readied...
you cleave from the vacuum you created
you will meet the tailor and the barber...
so must intelligence gone to waste...
your little post-communist intelligentsia...
with us not involved come party come the new
right and dei neu nord!
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC
It's a slow train
On a very fast track
And it's not gonna end well
All things that end
Don't end well
All things don't end
That doesn't make them better
Just longer lasting
And slower decaying
The final stages
Smells and linger
Whistle stop
Fried green bladders
Golden hags
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 4:57 PM UTC
When nature calls
Thou must obey
Except when in slumber
That just isn’t ok
Suddenly you wake
And wonder why
Until you hear
Your bladder cry
The sensation creeps in
Building in strength
You try to ignore it
But it won’t relent
You turn and twist
Willing it to subside
But a swell is building
Between your thighs
With the dam about to burst
You yank yourself up
Leg it to the loo
Entreating the urge to stop
Til you’re safely in the bathroom
And can finally let go
Bleary eyed yet relieved
As you allow your *** to flow
But your problems aren’t over yet
Here’s where the real challenge comes
Will you ever get back to sleep
Now you bladder has banged it’s drum?
It’s 5 am
Dawn has started to break
You’re no longer in pain
But you’re wide awake!
And no amount of counting sheep
Can knock you out again
And so you curse your bladder
For depriving of sleep your brain
You lie there staring at the ceiling
Lamenting your bad luck
Conclude you must admit defeat
And reluctantly get up
Way too early.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
Single storey, long brick building,
curtained stage and wooden floors,
overture beginners, teachers,
scouts and guides in Sunday chorus.
Sounds of pennies dropping,
scraping chairs, coughing, iching, scratching,
and fidgets tiny bladders filling.
Holy high days came in cycles,
Whit Walks, banners, carnivals.
Many living on in stories,
since their final church parade.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC
It is a modern miracle
To fly safely
But why is there turbulence
Only when I ***
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 10:48 PM UTC
Please don't call me darling,
It gets right on my ****
You might think your being clever,
But I really don't like it.
Please don't creep up behind me,
And grab hold of my *******
You could just try to talk to me,
Not prompt a cardiac arrest.
Please don't **** beneath the covers,
And hold my head underneath,
It's really just not ****
And makes me sick behind my teeth.
Please don't hold me on the floor,
Mercilessly tickling my toes,
My bladders not what it used to be,
I don't want to scream and wet my clothes.
Please do treat me like a lady,
If it's not to much to ask,
Or I might decide I've had enough,
And kick out your annoying ****
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC
passive perception points out a small
visitor
just below the ***** window sill
as
dishes on the edge of biology are slogged through
the
[wet]
cerebrospinal tendrils cling to the thin line of wall behind the pockmarked metal faucet
like
far-flung dendrite fingers cling to passing notions : such as a soft-focused background sensation of the clouds moving by you in the sky beyond the confines of this room.
dark opaque eyes
first two, at the end of each antennae like the body-plan of a Cambrian killer
then four more present from the amorphous body
bulging out like dive bladders filling up with ambience
tracking you like leaves do to the sun much slower
thin
not-bug appendages get too long to be normal
then even longer
it is reaching for you in the camp kitchen as
y o u
back up to the light honeycomb
door
May 3, 2024
May 3, 2024 at 4:01 AM UTC
"Open door!" yells he,
"Outta way, need a wee!"
After piddle,
Timeless riddle,
"What's for tea?"
"Can't chat!' says she,
"Need a wee!"
So you and me,
Aging bladders for you,
"Where's the loo?"
Anywhere you go,
Wait, soon you'll know!
May 11, 2025
May 11, 2025 at 9:47 PM UTC