"bowel" poems
i'm your o so wanna be lover
I'm afraid not what you would expect though
i admit to being a difficult pleasure
perhaps
a tad strange looking
squishy with long tentacles
half man half octopus
with a winking cycloptic eye
i entreat you
looks can be deceiving
how many pretty boys have you loved
crawling worms for a soul
that have left you a ruined creel
a jagged cry chattering tears of desolation
have you ever asked your self
who adores you
who would give all to protect love and cherish
i'm waving my eight arms at you
from the center of the universe
i eat black holes to kiss your ***
am i not a cosmic horror
with my big Cthulhu smile
quivering with tenderness
do you hunger for butter **** lollypop
i have two big **** heartbreakers
with teardrop curves
a feast for your ravenous holes of emptiness
and many armed tentacles to hold you tight
to slither all over your tender woven caves
to pull you into me
with suckers that thrill
during swirling inky *****
i will unravel your mind
your soul tilthed
if you can get passed
my
gray rubbery boneless head
i can push this shape-shifting balloon face
through your annul tubular contours
all the way up your beautiful ***
licking
salivating
tickling into your
tender bowel and throat
like a great dancing tongue
a stretched waving goodness
entering your mouth from the back side
can pretty pretty do that?
come slowly unto me my beloved
i am all chromatophores
endless glittering nightlights
incandescent
so we may wander our way through long dim nights ******
in the deep deep dark
with tentacle ***** galore
an infinity of entertainment
for every crevice and desire
and one winking cycloptic eye
that pierces your soul
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 3:31 PM UTC
I heard the world's loudest **** today
It echoed round the town enough to say
*"I am a **** of great renown and fame,
I am a **** who's worthy of the name
Of* KING of FARTS!" Unthinkingly I sniffed
And, let me tell you, I have never whiffed
Aught so potent, dank and dread and foul
Blasted out from heaving human bowel
As that king of farts I smelled today
And which took my ******* breath away.
Who was the pumper of that putrid beauty?
How many curries in the line of duty
Had he consumed? It must have been a man -
No pong so strong ere blew from female can.
Can no one answer yet my urgent question:
And say who suffereth such dire indigestion?
O heavens! his torment must be something chronic.
Can no one subsidise a high colonic
Irrigation to prevent another
Noisier and more noisome than its younger brother?
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
Some women marry houses.
It's another kind of skin; it has a heart,
a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
The walls are permanent and pink.
See how she sits on her knees all day,
faithfully washing herself down.
Men enter by force, drawn back like Jonah
into their fleshy mothers.
A woman is her mother.
That's the main thing.
14.7k
There's a yellow green gas,
You can't see in your glass.
Sometimes you can tell,
It's there by the smell.
It does a great job removing bacteria,
Like Diphtheria,
Or even Listeria.
But what do you think,
Happens to the chlorine in your drink?
I don't want to alarm,
But there's a chance it might harm.
It protects at a price,
Attacking our bacteria that are nice,
And I'm sure it excels,
At killing your own cells,
Forcing new ones to grow,
When a mistake could cause woe.
Some studies have found it an enhancer,
Of bladder and bowel cancer.
Whether old or young,
Do you want it in your lung?
You have the power,
To remove it from your shower.
It's rather grim,
To have to breathe it when you swim.
You're more likely to wheeze,
Or sneeze.
Do you think it will please,
Your inflammatory bowel disease?
Perhaps it's the key,
To why there's Crohns and UC.
Do you think that your skin,
Might become a little thin,
And be filled with dread,
As it starts to turn red.
Can you not feel,
How it's harder to heal?
It makes our tissues grow old,
From what I've been told.
Our cells can only divide,
A few times before they're stupified.
With asthma and chlorine on a map,
You can see they overlap.
Sadly in the West,
Not everyone has guessed,
That there may be a link,
With the gas in our drink.
“But!”, I hear you cry,
“Without it people will die.”
Let go of your dread,
We can use something instead.
The answer is well known,
It's called 'ozone'.
Made from pure water,
It's gone when it reaches my daughter,
Unlike chlorine it's life is brief,
What a relief.
There's many a city,
That make it with electricity,
Splitting water into hydrogen,
And best of all, oxygen!
For ozone is made from O2,
Yes, it's true!
Imagine if you had,
Water with nothing they add.
Already there's Paris and Nice in France,
Where people can dance.
San Diego and Los Angeles in the USA,
Have water that's ok.
And Osaka in Japan,
Now use this plan.
But you don't have to be rich,
To make the switch.
Ask a clever committee,
To stop chlorine in your city.
See if you can arrange,
To have your water change.
I hear you shout,
“Can 'I' get this chlorine out?”
If you leave water in a jug overnight,
What's left will be slight.
Boiling will send it away in the air,
So there's no need to despair.
You can also remove it with a filter,
Or a water distiller.
To learn more have a look,
At 'Question Chlorine' on facebook.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
It’s something that try we should
To provide the parrot its basic food
Apple minus seeds mango banana
Grape orange guava papaya
As for vegetables cooked dried bean
With beet broccoli its heart you can win
Cucumber carrot and cauliflower
They surely love like they love a shower
Corn on the cob is fun for parrot
They aren’t fussy as them you thought
Hot peppers peapod lettuce
For them delicacies you can choose
Sweet and baked potato well cooked yam
They devour in delight add to their glam
Parrots are cute friendly and nice
Give them oatmeal millet brown rice
They’re not greedy from you they won’t beg
Though these birds love scrambled boiled egg
The parrot is innocent gorgeous and sweet
Can’t call them carnivore yes they like meat
Must talk to them and not keep your mouth shut
Your loving pet the parrot loves occasional nut.
Now words of caution what don’t do them good
Candy and chocolate and all junk food
I know you are smart and not at all mean
To offer this wonder bird mushrooms caffeine
Believe my words they aren’t my opinion
Use them in your food don’t give them onion
Dairy products for them are a big ‘no’ ‘no’
You surely want them to healthily glow
Give the parrot shower keep its cage clean
Give them just fresh foods no sugar no caffeine
Say ‘no’ to pesticides choose only organic
See in their bowel nothing goes toxic
Follow what I’ve said the task is not hard
Spend your time well with this beautiful bird.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
If your silky lavender eyes choose not to meet mine
That’s fine.
Fantasies live and then die.
But for you, I'll try.
A man whose eyes hold only yours,
Sweet, lavender gazing privately,
Other sight blinded by joviality.
Uncontrollable emotion,
A shotgun blast from dad,
Deters no serious man.
A princess,
A jewel,
An emerald,
A girl.
Not an object,
But a privilege.
A man not centered on ***
Relationship not just in the bed,
Kisses on tangerine cheeks,
Through rain,
Foretelling lifelong love.
Soft skin swims,
I touch with permission,
We laugh and love,
None other.
Flawless beauty,
Like diamond,
Like velvet,
A wonderful image.
Thus you.
----Ardent Bowel ----
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 6:10 AM UTC
*Fried brinjal rolled in flatbread
Her magic recipe of love homemade
What treasure they hold what charm unlocks
When sharp at two opens up lunchbox!
A sweet candy from the finest cheese
Made from cow milk a salivary bliss
I feel helpless and little can do
My belly when growls sharp at two!
I feel entranced in that magic hour
When smell green peas and cauliflower
She makes them fine rich butter spread
The toasted breads her love homemade!
She knows my bowel not makes it rich
Fine cut cucumber in soft sandwich
In all them I find her special brew
Of love homemade to be opened at two!
Though it’s never that I made her known
How sweetly relish her love homegrown
But when I open lunchbox at two
Wonder without her what I would do!*
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 6:18 AM UTC
EAST BOSTON, 1996
ON THE BUS
Franz Wright
It's one thing when you're twenty-one,
and I was way past twenty-one.
With unshaven face half concealed in the collar
of some deceased porcine philanthropist's
black cashmere rag of a coat,
I knew that I looked like a suicide
returning an overdue book to the library.
Almost everyone else did as well,
but I found no particular solace in this;
at best, the fact awakened some diverting speculations
on the comparative benefits
of waiting in front of a ditch to be shot
alone or in company
of others, and then whether one would prefer
these last hypothetical others
to be friends, family, enemies, total
or relative strangers. Would you hold hands?
Or would you rather like a good **** sapiens
monster employ them
to cover your genitals?
What percentage would lose bowel control?
And given time restrictions -
and assuming some still had the ability to move -
would ostracism result? Anyway,
I knew the rules on this bus.
No eye contact: the eyes of the terrified
terrify. Look
like you know where you're going,
possess ample change to get there,
and don't move your lips when you talk
to yourself: the destroyed
and sick, the poor, the hungry
and the disturbed estrange.
The badly dressed estrange, even,
and that is uncalled for. The degree
of one's power to estrange will increase
in direct proportion to the depth
of need for others. Do not cry.
This can only bring about, on the one hand,
an instant condition of banishment
from the sole available companionship, or
on the other, a near
fatal beating (one more disappointment).
Just follow the simple instruction
if you ever come here.
It's easy to remember - any idiot can do it.
Don't cry,
the world has abandoned us.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC
#The house yawned at him
as he trudged to the gate
a warm wind rose from his bowel
and tore his heart out
the walls reflected an emptiness
as if they too mourned with him
*the one face less
the one soul pouring heart's all kindness
forever gone*
paused the son
his eyes grew wet with moisture of rain
the house would never be the same again!#
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
Are you fatigued?
Do you have irritable bowel syndrome?
Are there irreconcilable differences in your life?
Are you Homophobic...
"I climb 1,576 stairs"
"But I have a lot of gay friends"
once we've reached the top,
there are no two quarters for the lens.
What's driving us, this feeling, this wander?
Could you imagine,
If kind was ****** compassion.
Could you imagine,
If kind has no reaction.
What a day, what a day, what a day, what a day;
it will be.
Like children lost in corn mazes.......
filled with glee.
Hollow are those shallow times,
don't you
forget
about me.
What a day, what a day, what a day, what a day;
it will be.
Luckily those prickly vines, are fading fantastically.
_TRF
sometimebforehalloween_
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 11:09 PM UTC
the dead re-materialise by the side of the roadside
they are visible as though seen through a spotlight
it is a brutally interrogative light
that magnifies these corpses
makes them resemble the fragments
of suicidal terracotta pots
it magnifies them as symbolic equivalents
of their real image
its beam dazzles broken glass on the pavement
the breakage an impersonation of their cataclysm
causing the edges of seeing to hurt
and hearing to submerge itself
in a turquoise blue aquarium in fear
as speech sounds a primitive retreat
in its atavistic echoes of inveterate distraction
there is a disorder of blood stains on the road
where all emotional impulse is volatilised
causing a wild distillation of programmed anxiety
which in a different vocabulary becomes
a figment of somebody else's imagination
causing a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy of sound
in palpitations, dropped heartbeats, nausea, headaches
and a foul change in bowel function
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 10:11 AM UTC
The voices inside my head are taking over.
These u-u-uncontrollable quirks I have.
My eyes twitch as many times as a heart beats after doing a triathlon.
In my head of runs a marathon of thoughts that don't belong,
things I can't do because they're wrong.
Within my blood stream flows 1.26 grams of dopamine given to me by doctors who don't know how to fix my situation,
only mix prescriptions to intensify vexation. Pharmacists eyeball me fearingly because I appear to be nothing but someone with chemicals wandering around into the little bit of a brain I have left.
Serotonin to regulate my mood, appetite, and sleep but I still only wish for all of this to be nothing but a dream.
All of this making my intestines mutilate, slowly dying inside as if I had Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Otherwise known as I.B.S. but I know for a fact that this is all just a bunch of B.S.
My enterochromaffin cells may just burst, I am often told.
If only I could tell what was real from what was fake.
For I also have A.D.H. - whoa! What's that?!
Sorry, where was I?
Oh. Tourettes Syndrome.
I guess I just twitch it off.
Maybe these are all figures of my imagination from the hallucinogens.
Who knows?
After all, I am a schizophrenic.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC
____I'LL NEVER FORGET "THAT-NIGHT"___ It was 8;00PM, a Thunder and Lightening storm had just begun and what seemed like thousands of BB sized HAIL WERE PELTING the roof, making it Hard to Hear the Ringing Phone ! ! I Barked OUT a "HELLO",,,the tearful, hesitant voice on the OTHER END....CRIED OUT... " Come over quickly" She pleaded and continued with "IT'S LIKE DEMONS Have CONTROL OF HER ! ! ! ,and SHE KEEPS CRYING OUT .. AUNT BEA,,, Aunt Bea... Over and over"_______ . This was going to require a SPECIAL-EXORCISM I Stated... "I'm ON MY WAY" ! Upon my Arrival , I was greeted by a trembling,sobbing LaCretia,,claiming, "HURRY to the Library Room.,Rochelle is waiting ! !" The repeating AUNT BEAS were spoken as if Gargling... "WHAT are her Symptoms " I Queried ? IN A VERY-SLOW Determined Voice, LaCretia detailed the following,,,, "She has the BLUES, She has the BLAHS, She has BLEMISHES, She has BOWEL Constriction, She has been BLASPHEMING, She has BUTTOCKS Wrinkles, She has BREAST quivers and has been having BELCHING FITS "! ! ! I THREW MYSELF ON THE FLOOR IN PRAYER...Asking for the strength to DEAL-WITH these DEMONS..._____** A N D **____Here's what CAME-OUT of ROCHELLE,,,, *(#1)=BREEZEWAY-LIPS= when encountering these rascals ,it's highly suggested that WE BE UNDER Proper Cover.. (#2)= BISTRO-BREATH-LEADER= Demons that emit SPECIAL AROMATICS into the air ,that keep screaming ,,"IT'S TIME TO EAT"....(#3)=BEHEMOTH -TESTER= Demon assigned to see how BIG OF A MONSTER he can turn you in to ....*( #4)=BRAZEN-FELLOWS= Demon who attempts to Get "YOU" TO **** INTO EVERYBODYS BUSINESS, and ruin their whole day & night...! ! ! I THEN SHOUTED OUT TO **ROCHELLE ** " ARE there any more " B " DEMONS IN there ??" Rochelle, collapsed to the floor,, I promptly RUBBED-IN the BROWN SHOE POLISH into the soles and heels of feet,,*** FOREVER-BLOCKING ***__" B " DEMONS , the ONLY-ENTRANCE to our BODIES .._______ Rochelle ,with a new found strength, lifted herself from the floor, Gingerly grasped my hand, Pulled me "VERY-CLOSE" . KISSED me with a FERVOR , THAT I CAN "TASTE" TO THIS very-day... I bid LaCretia and Rochelle "GOOD-NIGHT",, AND FOUND MYSELF "WHISTLING" and "THINKING" as I walked to my Vehicle.... "The Demons are increasing their activity ! ! I MUST "BE-PREPARED" for the NEXT-CALL_____PERHAPS FROM * Y O U * ??___
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 9:06 AM UTC
Death patiently files his nails
And smokes a casual cigarette
Grinning and eyeless
He says so calmly
"Catch you later
Brave little dreamer"
Despite such brittle certainty
Men and women build
Despite such small mortality
Every space is filled
In the midst of death's destruction
Men and women build again
Fear, like a cringing bowel
Exudes an acrid stench
And whimpers and whines
Simpers and cries
"Don't you dare
Don't you ever dare"
Despite this clinging dread
Some will need to dare
Despite the bursting head
Dreams insist on birth
In the midst of our stupidities
Something wondrous strives
By Phil Roberts
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 12:08 PM UTC
Another day, another hour spent looking at cadavers,
Surprisingly fun, and suspiciously fresh bodies-
"Hey Mrs. Johnson, what do you think John did with his life?"
She gave me a look that didn't seem too pleased at my inquisition.
Or the fact that I named our body John.
Morbidly, I thought she looked at me like a zombie would look at our friend John like a cold cut subway sandwich,
Although I figured if I were a zombie,
I'd prefer my meat fresh, and not embalmed
with formaldehydes and ethanol.
"That thought seems inappropriate and not respectful of the medical sacrifice 'john' made " she said dripping with in my opinion too much sarcasm for me to NOT respond too.
"Well, John is dead, I don't think he's getting offended anytime soon," I retorted.
Her smile contorted like the prudish smile John offered me in support.
"I'm not worried about offending the corpse as much as I am the ghost, and this Lab will NOT be haunted under my watch"
(Her pride in her wit inflated much like Johns body inflated with decomposition and bowel gases.)
I apologized internally for the comment and action I was about to make-
"This medical dictatorship has to collapse sooner or later-
and I still want an answer too my question"
And with that,
I took the nearest scalpel to his bloated stomach,
and watched in disgust and glee as everyone else ran for cover amongst the ****** of stomach contents and Johns final retribution in death.
I got an A+ in that class.
Apr 5, 2021
Apr 5, 2021 at 3:25 PM UTC
If Little Debbie was real, I'd never be sad.
Her very presence could rid this world of all things bad.
Her perfect cakes drive away responsibility
By forcing me to focus on my bowel irritability.
If Little Debbie was real, I'd never feel lonely.
I think her stuff makes any place more homely.
With every bite I take, I gain a pound
But that's alright because no one's around
To see me for the lonely fat girl that I am
Who often mixes cucumbers with bananas and jam
Surely it's not just me who awakes and thinks
"Forget the eagle! Little Debbie is our national link."
For I believe there is nothing more patriotic
Than relying on something that's abiotic.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
Ahh-he-che'em ack-ahem. Sorry, let me clear my throat.
One day I set out galavanting, looking for a high.
I meandered to the ocean shore and set a lively stride.
My eyes were wet, my heart was light as I looked out at the splendor,
About that time I heard a rumble, a sudden yearning for a chicken tender.
I galloped to an eatery in hopes of a hearty meal,
But had a measly handful of coins, so I opted for a deal.
The only place I found tat would accept my sum of coins
For anything sufficient enough to satisfy my *****
Was a gritty place called Taco Bell, but it was my only choice.
The cashier was a voluptuous dame and my trousers became quite moist.
She said to me, "what will you have?", in a shockingly low-pitched voice.
I was taken aback for a moment, but stuttered, "a number six, I think".
"Comin' right up honey", he or she said with a wink.
I just smiled shyly and went to go fill up my drink.
My food was finally ready, but I was a bit wary,
I could't tell what was in my taco - squirrel, beef or canary.
My hunger pushed me through my fear and I finally took a bite,
Although skeptical at first, my taste buds did delight!
I had finally finished with my meal and was satisfied and full,
But down below my abdomen I felt a mighty pull.
I had no time I knew at once and dashed to find relief.
The single men's room was in sight, but who should be a thief?!
The cashier with the arousing bosoms had stolen my salvation...
As I stood there in that Taco Bell I felt a curious sensation.
When normally I could have held it, a complete bowel prostration.
While the **** was pouring out like a broken sink,
My mind started to wander and I couldn't help but think,
*If the women's room is out of order, I wonder which she/he has,
A set of both, a meat-locker or a **** and nads?*
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
Dear Human (at first I wrote narrow minded *******
This is not a hate poem, although it started out as one
it's something finished before my time
a game already won
My tendons would love to stretch 15 minutes before beginning the race but I wake up every morning to a piercing toast, a celebratory guffaw
of an after party having been exploited and raw
there is no point for me to stretch
metaphorically that is
for if i don't stretch before I start my day
I tweak like a bike in need of WD40
I can't speak because everything I saw deserves an explanation
scratch that
I can't speak because I'm afraid of judgement like
heavy wet cement, I'll drown in my unspoken words though
so I write these down
back to the point
Irritable Bowel Syndrome is a *****
if I don't stretch my aching quaking body can't **** right
and if I can't **** right
every other stressor strangles my already mangled mind and body
Depression is wet cement dripping from my air vent
molding my notches and bolts stone solid
yet, I have to get up and stretch to walk amid, among, noodles
Falling asleep is difficult because I want to get the night over with
and Waking up is difficult because I want to get the day over with
Not a study session waiting for snacks more
my socks are stuffed with thumbtacks
and I forgot everyone finished their after party
so I'm pounding my feet sprinting
for a finish line
I'll never cross
Like when I woke up in the hospital,
banging my head against the wall believing I could smash my way outside on this day, three years ago
My mania surged lightning bolt electric jolt a thousand watt volt
I would never be released until normalcy increased
so I spent every waking moment stretching
desperately trying to release the
desperate stress molded
in my body
Depression is wet cement, I have learned to slip through it's cracks
by releasing the firey strength
I hold inside my bones
I hold inside my soul
Oh human, please hear me with your open ears
yet if you can't, I have no fear
your judgement cannot touch me
I am on fire, all victims of depression
you, we, are not weak
merely misunderstood by false desire
we are misunderstood
Blazing wet cement on fire
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
Fibre optic cables,
clipped conversations,
partial strangers,
networked communications,
keyboard ambiance,
anxious remonstrations,
system failures,
nicotine meditations
smudging frames,
hierarchical mediation,
computerised bleeps,
opaque mechanisations,
brightening windows,
verbose inflections,
silks ties,
limited reverberations,
exaggerated flirtation,
bowel eliminations,
pointless days,
power imitations,
numeric values.
insurmountable situations,
digital bleeds
eventual discontinuation
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
My world changed.
Now. I. am.
Dis- inherit.
More like the unwanted
guest,
in
a party for yourself.
That un wanted
is always
you.
Banners can say your name.
One thousand times.
Screaming.
Out of skyscrapers, bungee jumping
from space shuttles.
Saltating, from your inner
lung meat.
Banners, with names, can only spittle lies.
Now unwanted I wanna leave,
get out,
only 3 more miserly months
of a kingdom of intellectual
gods and tzars.
screaming my party name,
but I.
I.
gone.
I am sitting
While I'm grieving
and admitting in my seat
clenching to be let out
breaking cracking/gnashing teeth
left alone. all wanted
left to brain rot
but forced to sponge
learning what i want in
learning my ashcans full
i am done
I will. remain. despondent.
I wont apply my neurons
motor-sensory illusion
for math demagogues
what the ****
crust me over
cut my brain-case
destroy all brain
function and matter
grey dissolve to black
and white every *******
shade inside
cephalic
meat bowel
Lifeboats float back up to the top, after
re-inflated, I breathe air once again. My
retinas detect the light coming from
packets of waves emitting from the shore.
I float back up from the cold sea to the rock.
Alive.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
Lonely
I'm burning under your skin
I'm drowning in a tide of your blood
I love you with my fingers, with my teeth,
With coral hollows of my neck,
And
You don't even know it.
Maybe you don't need to know
That I'm eating you
Like unwashed strawberries.
Quietly, I'm spreading you
Over my lips,
I'm melting you on my taste buds,
I feel you gliding down my throat,
And ruling down my bowel,
You are twitching of surprise with
My every bite.
Covered with coconut flour
You are resting on my thighs,
You do not read my mind because for that
It takes more than a touch
Something decorated with Baroque epithets,
Hidden in the meadow with dandelions,
Something that is not ours and should not ever be spoken.
I drink you like wine left in the sun,
I sleep in the corners of your moves,
And
You don't even know it.
Maybe you don't need to know.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
a series of quatrains
Anchor’s bound for hell as it falls
Sadly I watch the fast rope slip
It is gone, I need a strong sip
From a sailor’s bottle, land calls
In a boat, earth and moon move you
these deceptive cargo ships hide
the stash of smugglers, I choose
To rock back and forth with the tide
Such fearless ships save lives at night
and daytime too but not for thanks
for it also ferries heartbreak
when lovers part on boarding planks
A message in a bottle lost
was found on a cold Cornish coast
The message read “darling please
know my love will swim across seas”
I daren’t live by sea much longer
Oh! what I’ve seen, fear gets stronger
with every lapping slurp I hear:
the drowned whispering in my ear
Once I fished in this bay of shells
My line was frayed from reeling sharks
A blue whale fought me three miles out
In his bowel I awoke at last
Boat or ship? For now ‘ships’ they fly
A rocking chair, without duty
They float, enchant, sink but don’t cry
shipwrecks are a thing of beauty
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:56 PM UTC
*** is one of the sillier of human behaviors
along with bowel movements
vomiting
and sometimes eating
trees are so much more civilized
orderly mating
quietly courting
producing and sharing
their efforts with all around them
their singing, dancing ,and laughing
is choreographed
not a frenetic jazz interpretation
but ballads
sweetly put
no *** crimes
no need to dominate
I know we are not trees
but we are related
they're the branch of the family
that plays instruments
reads long novels
discreetly meeting their needs
without high heels
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 7:13 PM UTC
There are three B's
intimately connected to a spinal cord injury,
bowel, bladder, and blather.
The gut severed from the brain
is rudderless.
Both bowel and bladder require outside assistance
which brings in blather.
The care giver, the talker.
One time, in my case
a born again ****** searcher.
Not for ****
but for digital conversion.
My *** well in hand I heard the purr,
"Do you believe in Jesus?"
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
Verse 1
Hello toilet, my old friend
I've got to go now once again
I've been waiting for a great while
This time I'm going the ex-tra mile
With a force that few have ever known,
Sheer will alone,
I'm taking...the poop...enormous
Verse 2
In truth it feels more than I can take
I could pass out-and yes there's no mistake
That this straining-it is as such
Upon a mountain where lightning struck
Where I felt the challenge
May be well beyond my strength
What it might take
Attempting...the poop...enormous
Verse 3
And in the end I can now feel
This force of nature makes me reel
Pushing a boulder of such great size
Pushing a stone so big-one can't deny
Making a log-giving it your all-one may survive
Yes-in all my life
As this was...the poop...enormous
Verse 4
By my word-I feel-that this is it
Upon this toilet throne I sit
An overwhelming explosion from inside
With no place in my mind left to hide
As this was-unreal-yes, you can take my word,
The gigantic...poop...enormous
Verse 5
And my goal it now seems in sight
I give it all with all my might
In a strange vision this very moment
As this an unreal bowel movement
And soon I feel:
Like the clear shaking in the earth
That as making n' breaking waves
I'm stunned and dazed
From taking...the poop...enormous
May 8, 2024
May 8, 2024 at 5:12 PM UTC