Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
you see i am very very hungry, so much in fact

i burp very weirdly, yeah i feel so weird

i burp loud and i burp soft when i have a nice cream bun or a nice beef nachos

and i feel like a nice packet of chocolate biscuits

ya know to have with my coca cola

i was watching ellen degenerous and i felt like eating the pie that went in the contestants face

yeah i feel like a bag of popcorn as well as choctop at the movies

because my mouth is burping very weirdly

i don’t want to have this burping feeling

i feel like a strawberry milk and i am fighting myself saying, no, i don’t need it

the strawberry milk says yes, i do, but i don’t want a strawberry milk, it’ll just make me fat

i wanna lose weight but the burping is making me want food, i want a nice chocolate bar

and i want a bag of marshmallows, i want to have more energy

so i can be a cool person, that i am,

i know the burping really is bugging me

and i do want it to stop, STOP, making me feel this way, i want to an artist and a writer and not an eater

please leave me alone strawberry milk and leave me alone chocolate biscuits, i don’t want to eat you

i feel like a chocolate biscuit, but then i say, i will grow fat, ya know keep the fat on me

i don’t want to be fat, i want to lose weight, so leave me alone ya ****** strawberry milk and coke

i want to feel fit in my mind, so i can write and be creative

please leave me alone, junk food, i don’t want to eat you

but the junk food gets in my mind and makes me smell the nice chocolate

i know coke used to be a medicine, but i don’t wanna drink ya

i like to have a healthy lifestyle, and i want to lose this burping because

it’s the medication making me wanna eat, like donuts and vanilla slices and cream buns

and dewok chinese stir fry’s and chocolate biscuits and chocolate desserts and strawberry milk

and a large bottle of coca cola, as my medicine, I DON’T WANT THAT

i had a garden salad for lunch as well as a few glasses of water

i hate being fat, so that means at 2-30 pm, i will go for another walk, whether i feel like it or not

because i must get rid of all this food from my body, so i don’t get diabetes

so if you feel fat, because you eat too much food, push yourself into walking

and walk a regular pace, so you don’t feel sluggish
Geetha Jayakumar May 2015
Plate was full with delightful dishes
Served by the lovable hands
Kept in front of one who
Couldn't enjoy the meal so delicious.
Burp was heard somewhere nearby
every eyes followed the burp
Saw a hungry man eating leftovers
Mouthful with teasing appetite and
tears burping in his contented eyes!

****! ****! ****!

Burp! Burp! Burp!

****! ****! ****!
02  August 2017

© Khayri R.R. Woulfe. All rights reserved.

"This is correspondent, uh, burp...
wait, winds r, yeah, okay go
back on live camera..."

pretend the wind
blowing you back

"This is the most major storm in recorded history of this network!"

"My God,
I could die in this sh..stuff."

"Five star hotel what the ****?"

"Okay, okay, live we are,
look here, pan closer, these leafs on this Raleigh plant here,
see how violently they are moving?"


"That is the fear one feels knowing that a category two,
at any moment, could become a category five."

"This Dave Mowers live from Hawaii,
checking in before I possibly die.
Mom I love you, Dad, well,
look how brave I am!"

"Is that an Asian girl?"

"What an a..cute ***, that,
cut to...
to the violent leaves again you ****!"

"I'll fire you cameraman!"

Four large oak trees have fallen.
 Four large oak trees have fallen.
Ceida Uilyc Feb 2015
I oathed never to share that space,
Either because I pretended to hate it.
All the while,
secretly reserved it for you.
Songbird Hermit
Lalin Sep 2014
just a poem it was
A poem of love at most!
in the form of
a flower,
a rainbow,
a bird ,
a tune,
a word ,
a picture

Some came in written
in technological terms
Some quantized
as futuristic incense

You have sensed it all
the untold
Even long before my say

Not ‘the all’ go though
You know … once you can close yourself,
set a fence…

but in that latter case
although you may have done your best
to shut these gates
It seems they have reached premises against
without my knowing
aethēr so lucid does trespass  
once built an absolute bridge through souls of equivalent selves.

Each n every time is  mine a hopeless cry to make you furious ?
A touch at the physical and meta-physical to eventually develop anti-sense?

Naturally so easy
As you reside at an exact opposite side of me

Angered n equally frustrated
in rage of a momentous burst
You  sell my identity
to a dreadfully operating net-entity
and target me as if to spears
oh how that really hurts
maybe you wished so
but no not really

a boomerang brings in a rhyme
of a thoughtless action
returns it to the center of a rotating spiral
where you stand
the exact opposite end

I won’t allow though
You to frown
this way you learned to simmer n cool down
became a clown of your own ghost town
as we’re entangled beings
already since sometime

so let me just also have fun
Instead of you- bring me down
On the competing wheel game of up n down
Oh no there we sit not anymore!

Realize to have targeted a wrong one
Once it is so much alike  an opposing side or a town or a crown
Of you and both eventually you!
So wonder in sane what did I do
And put a SPAM mask on
To warn me through
and clearly do as if you were one of them:
an Intellect-Deficient-Agent scam.

So let me just  P.S.  a burp here now
Haven’t learned to develop gallstones of anger to compete thyn
but joy at most with a parasympathetic smile
Take it as a blessing if you like or a teasing
that she has you loved so without your willing
and equally convert it to a bile.
Ryan A Flournoy Apr 2015
10:35 p.m.

Again the man ate too much for his own good. He could barely sit long enough in his car ride home without an involuntary bowel movement threatening to ruin the interior leather of his new convertible car. The same convertible he happened to clean earlier that day, and for the second time that week. Barley able to transition out of his car he wobbled his way to his front door and into his house away from the fascist eyes of his affluent neighbors. He plopped to the living room floor assuming the only position his body was capable of. As he lay spreadeagle on his back uncomfortable and slightly anxious he ripped his shirt off in fear of suffocation. The spinning fan above brought waves of nausea if he starred at it for too long. Rubbing his naked protruding belly seemed to be a brief fix for the brewing pain in his stomach, but then the pain turned for the worse. He felt the sidings of his stomach stretched and the food nearly about to overflow back out of his mouth. A small burp came from his abdomen and he could taste the food as it rose and steamed in the back of his throat. He questioned himself In agony, "Why?". Why would he continue to spoil the treat of dining out at his favorite restaurant in town just to come home in disgust and pain? Is it an inability to stop himself from ordering the biggest plates of food and forcing every single grain of it into his mouth? Or are the pictures that show the plates of food just too enticing for his self control? Is it that the price seems right, therefore it only seems logical to order the full plate and its copious amount of sides to choose from? Perhaps it is just because his finances allow him to and his lack of appreciation for what sparse living feels like, or even worse famine. With no real acknowledgment of the nonrefundable resources he so easily exhaust, not to mention the physical harm done to his body, he was doomed for failure. He winced as he rolled to his side. No burp could subdue the agony of each turn in his stomach. He feared at any second his dinner would decorate his luxurious new rug that he took so much pride in. So much pride it was not uncommon he would insist his guest to bend down and feel the plushness of it every time they stepped on it. Still the war raged in his abdomen. Focused on his breathing, he shut his eyes in hopes of a get away. Struggling to remain still he reassured himself to breath.

11:07 p.m.

Suddenly, like a light switch found in a dark room a life changing truth was revealed to him. One so beautifully powerful it was to change him for good. The awareness of this truth would put an end to his pain and suffering, his lies and imperfections. There was now an answer to the constant void in his stomach, his unquenched hunger, the glass half empty. No longer was he a prisoner of deception. There was an overwhelming fleeting of demons and a mountain of weight lifted. His vision was as clear and vivid as it could ever be. The bliss was not ignorance, not was unfeigned truth. For the first time ever he could see life for what it really was. It felt like a lifetime of emotions in one moment. Simplicity surrounded him in every direction. He felt the joy of complete freedom. The weightlessness of eternal peace. He was to tell the world of this untapped truth brought to him. A new and better way to live. An actual sustainable lifestyle free of judgement.

Then without his consent, he abruptly stood up. Dazed and in a state of confusion, he glanced at the clock.

11:11 p.m.

He then looked down and saw what his life cleansing truth was. He had simply soiled himself while asleep, ruining his new living room rug.
Man longs for fulfillment but looks for it in material objects, false ideologies, pleasure and desires. We will continue to take from this Earth until one day there will be nothing left.
Francie Lynch Feb 2015
Add a verse,
You have it
In you.
Excrete and devise.
Your insides
In a technicolour
Lawrence Hall Dec 2018
(ripped from the sages' pages of the Middle Ages – “Sumer is icumen in”)

Merrily he eats the worms
Pull them from the ground!
Their heads pop up
On them he sups
As they squirm around
Chirp, robin!

The squirrels are eating all the seeds
The cardinal’s head’s a-bobbin’
The doves are cooing
The cows are mooing
Chirp merrily, robin!

Robin, robin
How well you chirp
Now eat the worms and burp!

Burp, burp, burp!
On seeing dozens of robins, one squirrel, one woodpecker, one cardinal, and one dove outside my window on Christmas morning.
Mike Hauser Mar 2013
Let us take a silent moment

For this thing to pass

There's no need to poot a clue

When the crowds already guessed

The entire room fills with wonder

Hoping above all it won't last

As another one comes out to play

Joining all the other guests
Paul Hardwick Jul 2014
Let me repeat that again
watermelon and black coffee
cool on the tongue
and hot on the face
and both make me go again
and as I *** I burp
and taste
Watermelon and black coffee.
Not true but just might be  :-)    P@ul
If the United States of America,
one of the biggest countries in the world,
Freely elected a President, who is deemed,
to be a semi illiterate *****.

What chance have we in Ireland,
with a population of just over 4 Million
people, and 3 million  of those are
she shuffled aboard
on the tail of rush-hour,
at bowling green,
70 unwashed scents in tow,
and a purple bergdorf-goodman shopping bag
stuffed with stains and soiled rags,
a crumpled ny post
and a white plastic bag,
the focus of her bare hands
as she sat down;

hands wrinkled and worn
but tough
like a boxer's;

silver strands of knotted hair,
fell over her face
etched in age and acrimony,
as she  rummaged through the bag;

right eye closed,
feigning sleep,
I peaked over the aisle
through the left;

she untied the white plastic bag
unveiling dinner
in a styrofoam take-out container:

rice, beans and chunks of meat
smothered in red gravy;
a 5-dollar special no doubt,
stuffed into her mouth
with  a black plastic spoon;


she looked up,
flaunting a toothless smile of extreme delight

she screamed
to no one,
and everyone...

then barged through the door
at franklin,
scents, stains, rags et al,
tossing spoon and styrofoam
onto the

but for a few shaking heads
and wry smiles,
most were unmoved,
and glued to digital magnets;

she was just another
on the ny subway...

~ Pablo (#fcbb)
Justin Griego Mar 2014
Go to sleep Child,
It's the midnight hour
You were sleeping soundly
but that slumber has soured
Here's a pacifier, a blanket,
a song hummed down low
One more kiss and
off to sleep you go

Go to sleep child,
It's two in the morn'
You were sleeping soundly
but now you howl like a horn
Here's a lullaby, sung by nightlight
and a pacifier in my hand
Once more before you succumb
to the Sandman's sand

Go to sleep child,
It's four, just before dawn
Am I supposed to assume
you're a hungry little fawn?
Here's a warm bottle, clean swaddle
and an elephant burp cloth
It's only a matter of time before you're
moving slower than a sloth

Go to sleep child,
It's no longer night
We both look exhausted
Oh what a sight!
Here's a blanket, a pacifier, a soiled swaddle;
Sandman's sand, a burp cloth, and a ***** bottle
I'm staying home today 'n I don't know about you
But I say lets take a nap and sleep till this afternoon
(AIP) Dedicated to Matthew Griego. Go to sleep son.
Danny Valdez Mar 2012
Within twenty-four hours everything changed.
The old man kicked me out again
so I was back in that twin sized bed
surrounded by my mother's boxes & plastic bins
my clothes in big piles
with the hangers left in, just dying for a home.
And the day I got kicked out
I got the call
the one I didn't think would ever come.
It was for a transcription job
doing reality t.v. shows
typing what the cast members said
in the interview room
word for word
every burp, ****, and studder.
A foot pedal is used to stop, play, rewind, and fast forward.
She asked me to come in for an interview
but then the next day
she had someone call out sick
so she called me back,
"**** the interview. Do you just wanna start?"
So I went in that day and got typing.
The office was located in a 1960's trailer
in the middle of a small trailer park, next to a little house.
The boss was a middle-aged Rasta lady
with straight brown hair
and a very kind face.
Turned out she also ran the trailer park.
I asked her about one of the trailers with a 'For Rent' sign
the only one available in the whole lot of seven trailers.
She said it was a one bedroom and less than $500 a month.
Two days later
I got a few hundred bucks from my financial aid
that I had been waiting on.
It was my only way out
my only way in.
After I paid the move-in expenses
I only had $13 to my name
but it was alright
my good luck just kept on rolling
I found a $200 balance on my food stamp card.
At the end of the day, my face hurt
from smiling so big, for so long, I'm not used to all this.
I have a porch that's mine
Mason jars with ice water
good food in the fridge
It's only a short walk across the trailer park
to get to work everyday.
My rasta boss landlord lady
has two little boys
around my sons age.
Ever since we moved in
all he's done is play outside with them
running around with rocks, sticks, dirt, and random objects
the way kids are supposed to play.
I almost can't type this
can't put into words
what this means to me.
No more father looming over me
or mother yelling my name.
To be able to
step out onto my porch at night
seeing the Gilbert water tower lit up in white light, the scent of Joe's Real BBQ blowing in the breeze
or to walk the downtown streets
with it's old west, wooden awnings, hanging overhead.
the old tyme tattoo shop
with it's old style custom flash.
the wooden little two window, one door, the front
of my Dad's former bar
'The Mustang Lounge', where I watched him sling drinks, while I played the entertainment trivia touch screen, sipping Shirley Temples.
But the best part
and it's such a simple thing
just walking the sidewalks of my neighborhood
which are stamped, AA Beardon, 1930.
It's everything I've ever wanted
it's just dumb luck.
To find a job and a home
in one fell swoop like this.
I feel like I've run off and joined a commune or something
I'm on a writer's retreat
where I practice typing all day
and then cook myself dinner
at sundown.
T-Bone Walker's voice fills my little trailer
as I take in a sunsets from my porch
leaned against the railing
a jar of ice water in my hand
my stomach full
having that after dinner smoke
not having a care in the world
the next cigarette
the next page here.
I can put my feet up
and hold my head high.
i was feeling thirsty so i made myself some pop
when suddenly a flea in to my drink did hop
swimming round in circles as dizzy as can be
in my fizzy drink a dizzy flea was he
then he gave a burp and jump down to the floor
it really must have frightened him i never saw him anymore
CommonStory Jun 2014
To **** a bluejay
Give it soda
Lots of soda
They can't drink that ****
They will try to burp and die in the process
Fun fact of the day
kdpgrahi Oct 2010
While I sit down to write
My pen begins to talk
What are you ding my friend
You resemble a hawk

You have a long agenda
to fix something up
Never trying to find
only eccentrically burp?

The Suns, Moons you see
Can never be your friend
You are quite alone
over the battle ground

Time have come
to make your skin thick
Strengthen your body
to give hard kick

All these talks
made me to smile
pen seems very smart
walks a more mile

Agendas are to undo
battles are history
for my beloved pen
it is a mystery

World has moved
faster than my pen
Sun.Moon are in my net,
and listed as my fan

I pity my poor pen
Preparing to face a ban
we are in motion
Just no battles
Only a final Annihilation
Perig3e Nov 2010
Blue haired ladies,
My wife tells that not PC anymore,
Needing an event speaker,
A poet.
I have a groaning chap book
Of metered observations.
Not much in my work to cause a blush.
But I do aim to burp a thought or two.
All rights reserved by the author.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
.                    what's the difference between
thieves, and magicians?
not much...
   both have quick hands...
and an awake,
yet asleep public communal
the thief has a public of
the victim,
         and the c.c.t.v. "stage"...
the magician?
   has a public of the crowd,
and the "dajjal" stage of
a camera replenishing
   a concept of:
  not enough public...
    thieves and magicians are
you allow one to flourish...
the antithesis will come
along, and in an indiscriminate
   allow the "magic" / "thieving"
to take place...
     what is a magician,
a public figure... compared...
to a thief?
       i can't see the difference...
the audience was fooled
by the magician...
the individual was fooled
by the thief...
   are they... so much unlike
each other?
     magicians can own
a theater stage...
thieves, sometimes... just sometimes...
own the, basic...
    pointlessness of english
c.c.t.v. mechanics,
to make police officers make:
a follow-up investigation...
    oh, but i have genius
interrogation practices...
  no one wants to listen to...
like 10 hours straights of listening
to stefan molyneux...
or 48 hours, sleep deprived...
listening to BBC 24 hour news reels...
that ****... could crack anyone...
what the americans did to the Iraqis?
last time i heard...
they blasted the slayer oeuvre
down headphones into their ears...
Americans... feeding conquered
Iraqis with a slayer oeuvre?
and didn't the encore come?
******* retards...
  crows feeding seagull chicks
with sinew and
        regurgitated scavenger meat!
if only they played them some
    i'm pretty sure...
the Iraqis would still be left...
  but the American army "interrogators"...
ha ha!
   played them the slayer oeuvre!
anyone... and i mean anyone:
will relieve themselves as being
"tortured": doubly charged up,
and ready to ingest hyper-coffee
in the form of the Luftwaffe tactic
of ingesting amphetamines
                               (pervitin) -
night-raids... the londoonoirnischt
blitz, sloth krieg...
ya ya yawn...
                urgh... burp...
and always... those poncy -
english, gay, aristocratic men...
and their... psychotropic women...
so what's the difference between
a common thief...
   and a spectacle magician?
one "owns" cctv footage,
the other owns a stage...
   yet both share a: quicksilver
take on, what cannot be
interpreted in either handwriting
or stenography...
              can't be sure whether
both could be considered legal.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
if not cited sparingly, and in a democratic number,
then at least cited as if minding the republic's senators,
concentrated influences - few, but certainly
in a concentrated manner cited.

when reading becomes as acutely distinctive as the hand -
never before have both hands reached an ideal
equilibrium - my withered manus lævus elsewhere -
esp. at Marathon, with the puny javelin throw -
Herculean balance in the right hemisphere -
yet although in physics the right held sway -
now it seems in my mind, the arithmetic pain busy
buzzing in the former ***** colony has gained
the upper-hand - its persistence beyond mere myth
of the boulder the hill the repetition as punishment;
such a grand way to use both without prejudices
of former believed-to-be satanic rituals in a Victorian

perhaps going beyond Plato sinister sexology of
the soul and punishment via transgender migration -
if once a true and serious meditation, now it would
seem blocked by something, emerging from that
ancient theory and brought before us in practice -
that the left-hand masters of the quill were migrating
from Hebrew, from Arabic from Sanskrit?
less sexually orientated and for that reason, purifying
the old ways of teaching boys the practices of the state.

we are right in that we begin on the left -
and they have already left for the other world,
their theologies ensured they left -
but that does not necessarily make them right -
beginning from the right in writing with each word
they leave for another - a better one -
for us, who begin from the left and ending by being
right in our political affairs and our moral practices
(so supposed) leave us entrenched in this world -
by so right in doing the mere thought of atheism;
but times have changed... we're all moving forward -
only a retired general practitioner might have used
his index to peck like a crock at the keyboard -
youth spared me - even both my thumbs are used
when typing - notably the left thumb for the space -
or so the alphabet arranged for a quickness in type -
if arranged by some formal logic - the keyboard would
be a different battlefield against Peter Phantom and
the leash of surrender; yet what fingers used more often
than the crucial index of an aged doctor?
for the most educated class of people, they write such
terrible enigma scribbles on prescription notes -
for the most part, type font was invented to decipher
prescriptions - or as some would call them -
a chicken dipped its nail into an ink bottle and scratched
in good morning on a piece of paper.

so it came to be, when Latin imploded from the ******
and was allocated a pickle jar preservation aversion
to graffiti Latin on the coliseum walls it became
ecclesiastical Latin - power was hidden from the ***
blah gurgle - or the Germanic burp for: a pleasant meals
desires a compliment, echo in the cave, burp in
the (o)esophagus - a grapheme divorce -
but that's also beside the point - instead of mere writing
left to right or right to left - the grammar changed suit!
Latin names are the easiest to spot:
the barbarians and the Latins are like us and Arabs -
mirror and chiral thinking go hand-in-hand as a handshake -
some remind us of neschek the usury serpent -
or they remind us of demon-slug narchak engaged
to simony - by example, zoological quirks reminding:
corvus (crow) cornix (hooded) - hooded crow,
corvus cornix - corvus corone - carrion crow -
corvus manus laevus - left-hand crow, which by it's
hyphen refers to a deity - thus in original crow left-hand -
Odin's illuminating eye embedded for eternity entombed
in the companion that takes the sky as leisure equal to
a cushioned and scented parlour, and the wind as a mother -
away from the hunchback penitence as seen on ground,
pauper hunchback clad in black a futile scout.

as already mentioned - capture it at any one time in
unravelling Babylon - the grand spiral architecture  
unison - for that English was used - or "proto" Latin
without diacritical marks (stresses) - the one accomplishment
that arose from the mad farce of Nebuchadnezzar -
the Jews sighed relief when then plans to build gardens
above the sky (hanging) were foiled - the sigh of
the Hebrew slaves in Verdi's Nabucco - indeed va pensiro,
alter: ave ratio! the only one time when the Mensa society
are of any use other than training pet monkeys -
a democratic hooray! geniuses unread but good at
arithmetic... they're still children for goodness' sake!
but what have we exchanged for the hanging gardens?
the pyramids were already ridiculous,
the hanging gardens were impossible, but the tower
of babble-toe-babbling-tongue came to be prißed for
all the wrong reasons - sigma global, Atlas threw earth
away and picked up the Moon.

still the compass away from Bermuda dizzy in myth
or reality provides us the true North magnetism -
as Confucius said: man's importance lies in the head,
not the toe - we shall write from head to toe,
to motivate our understanding of the yet unexplored
gravity, this be our grounding... no grand empire outside
the evident physiognomy of Shanghai blinds of Buddha -
nothing beyond this reach of yellow -
the Mongol will try, but fail, the Japanese will try,
but fail, the Koreans are another matter, a civil war
ravaged them, and a true schism happened,
there was nothing Byzantine or Romanic about it -
the schism of reality, nothing metaphysical kept them apart,
a genocide division without a genocide -
an old father had a plot of land and three songs -
Yin took the northern realm, Shin the southern realm,
Ming became a Communist party member in China -
Tibet never had the exclusiveness of the Vatican -
the Vatican is not an ethnic entity, for starters -
the Israel of Asia that Tibet is...
the Israel of Asia that Tibet is... claim a son or a godhead
see how the masses entrenched in insect Darwinism
come about with coherent reasoning -
masquerade as a prophet, the easiest answer is that
the consistency of time will always precede your idea
of superior constants, neither Buddha nor Christ were
ever meant to be π.

the Chinese knew how to build a state, shame! shame
on the Slavs for biting the apple too soon rather than
baking an apple pie with Communism -
shame! shame! shame! ridiculous souls -
fickle hearts - i only learned this in exile, a proud
exile at that - not that i became accommodated in a superior
culture, these ******* inspired socialism with their
bile Empire monotony - am i proud to be British?
give me a minute, i'll just ask the Scottish separatists
if they think Andrew battled Santa Claus like St. George -
(anagram: Satan's Clause, an article of jurisprudence).
em... British? poet in residence or poet on a high-note
of a tsunami of change? i think the latter.
once the Scots rammed their way into Westminster
the Labour party was no more, what with the Iraq
Endeavour of Herr Barrister Milosevic -
**** up and Shrove Tuesday - **** in a fan,
chocolate milkshake with a sprinkle of shattered cranium.

when in Edinburgh i implanted into my brain the compass,
the perfect geographic locality, Edinburgh is,
i had a nice acceptance in Bristol by the cat-and-mouse
people from the educational firm University seeking
a scientists that had some vague sense of respecting humanism...
that really smeared chilli powder on my *******,
i left suspicious about the eagerness -
went to Edinburgh, the education reception was cold...
cold enough to be given an onion to smash against the
floor after it was dipped in liquid nitrogen -
but the city! the city! it breathed ancient fables!
and **** me... a city built around a mountain...
how many sunrises and sunsets do you think
i sore with every blink on my maiden voyage to the land
of the Picts? enough... plus my stomach was ready,
haggis was nothing unusual... i was familiar with haggis
in a pork variation - czarna kiszka (char n'ah kee shka'h).

so what will it be?
hic mali medium est                     or...
                        hic boni medium est?
i wish there was an ad hoc hidden somewhere, but
neither expressions are a nail for the hammer and
the planks of wood, but you can think of them like that...
i.e. 1st. here is the core of evil
                 and 2nd. here is the core of good... yeah, mm d'uh
that famous and meaning the two opposites are inseparable...
but i mean the compass! the compass!

the Firth of Forth helped, no, not Genesis' selling England by
the pound
, and everyone somehow hates Phillip Cool Onions -
ever hear that one about another day forgetting paradise?
it's on there... i can't walk... i can listen to Genesis -
you just realise how complex English culture of lore yore -
that's long forgotten yesterday - everything decays,
autumn must come -
now the children play with fame, rather than work for it.

i get reminded every ****** time...
i kept the notes and extracts after the Cantos ended -
i neither wish to imitate - but pay the compliments
necessitated by the work -
when the rhythm section was more complex than
the solos - when it was always jazzy guitars on prog.
i kept the fragments unread -
and in between travelling to London to see
the Werther opera and the Don Quixote ballet
i was commuting with Kant - i know i mentioned
them as my heroes, given there would never be a battle
of Θερμoπυλαη and only the yawns of battle
with the critique - i too care to admit a defeat -
when i pick that book up and i pick up the Cantos
with the first i hear someone knocking on my door,
while with the latter i hear someone playing the flute,
optically and exclusively based on that to suit the final
exasperation of breath.

or you would think that by the standard of the English
mind at least poetry would gain favours if
French frivolity and German philosophic Benz fell out
of favour - at least poetry would be attended to -
and when they see the demonic form of the prised
asset of English intellect that isn't music, but the Yorkshire
dales and rambling naked and telling folklore and tall
B.F.G. tales would not shrivel into a tightened-strait-jacket
panic seeing someone juggling pronouns on a psychotic
cloud; almost every day the English mind allows
madmen in a different category - equipped with
suicide vests and the crowd of many - playing god
almost every other day - materialisation of fiction
with terrorist attacks - see both good and evil -
chaos demands both, order a distinction, the latter
played out so unfortunately to be constantly compared -
the former? well, either that or nothing -
of the essences so much was said countless times -
and countless times unsaid when the actors came on stage.

so rekindled Latin in encoding sounds ascribed hoarse
throats of the nomadic north bound exploration -
from left to right - then reinvented as if Arabic -
from right to left: corvus cornix - hooden crow -
well, at least it's easier to think of it as right to left
rather than left to right - than mere concentration rested
upon the stone not turning to bread -
higher in the pyramid than the water turning to wine -
as the pigs were fed, and the toils of man became
a fervency of all - as the devil asked:
are you sure you will be selling the aristocratic life to all
and all will be pleased? not all men were born
into a luxury of continual drunken luxury -
later the riddle turned into a choking joke of the 5,000 -
never show them tricks of the aristocratic class
for they drink to excess, and turn wine into water by
the day... but will stones keep the agile hands of labourers
readied for the next task if given water they turn into
debauched drunk sloths?
PrttyBrd Dec 2014
Gilded cage so small and tiny
Even singing comes out whiny
Stinking of fake fresh and piney
Tis the season
Leaking water warm and briny
With good reason

Christmas cheer and glasses toast
Loved ones smile and laugh and boast
I sit perched upon my post
A tinsled column
Invisible reluctant host
A heart that's solemn

A longing for a love so distant
The melancholy is persistent
A smile could erase it in an instant
On a face cherubic
For my heart is not resistent
It's theraputic

So that smile that is perfection
Is mirrored in my own reflection
Without a thought about rejection
About the subtlest inflection
In Salutations

Surrounded by the merrily intense
With drunkard tendencies immense
A bar with all accoutrements
They pound tequila
Drinking away the sacraments
Oh yes, I feel ya

Merry time with old Kris Kringle
Guests all lubed enough to mingle
Mistletoe hangs and sleigh bells jingle
Gifts homemade
Tables adourned and glasses tingle
Gold brocade

Still I sit all caged and flightless
Blind to joy all sad and sightless
Drink could make it hurt a mite less
I'm going backward
Laying here all limp and lifeless
Broke and fractured

Surrounded by the fake and vexing
Artificial and quite perplexing
Reality they are rejecting
The devil may care
Bellies bare and muscles flexing
Lost underwear

So ******* dancing to the jukebox
Lost alone here in the boondocks
There is no snow upon the rooftops
Ahead they forge
Find a room before that thing pops
It's so engorged

Neighbor ***** all dressed in orange
Wearing gold to make the poor cringe
Stripping time to fill her syringe
I'll be her hinderance
Still too drunk from her last binge
Faulty remembrance

Ridding riff raff from the party
People still drunk on Bacardi
Noxious gasses burp and farty
With toilets makeshift
Worn out makeup on the smarty
She needs a facelift

Time to let the people go
Too tired to keep watching the show
Drinking hard and walking slow
Verbose yet listless
Honey I don't want to know
It's not my business
not the easiest thing to write, but I do so love a challenge
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
****... the sunglasses...

double ****!

        dinner... making my father lunch...

triple hush hush ****** third....

  i might be a drunk...
              but i have my obligations;

the day doesn't begin
with or without a dosage
of sleep...

         i tango with a sputnik...

you know just your random ****...
sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet home

****... i misspelled Missishippi....
not exactly Family Guy funny,
but you know,
you spend a night with two Germans
tripping on mushrooms,
watching American dad...
with an Egyptian drinking *****,
all quest-west in Amsterdam...
and you're not seeking the company
of a Puerto Rican hubbly-n-bubbly...
touch of flesh...

   the night must be pretty entertaining...

so that's what you call exfoliating
when given into excess...
...      .... .... (the excess pause)...
and then shhhhhhhhhhhhhh
in a makeshift metaphysical library...
literary... yes... (burp)... literate...
the sunglasses are working
just fine...

                   the sun isn't...

why do i always sit through the vanilla
sky of a sunset, why?!

hush darling...
          Shakie Shtevens is going
to tell you  all about what gives him
the Shakes...
   shakes? if you drink... hot sweats...
one minor posit of a subverted

                  a slap, a punch, a slap
once more, oh look, i'm found and bound
to sober;
getting drunk,
and then returning to the leash:
    covert for: a pristine afternoon.


quasi-headbanging to a meat-head
  yeah.... Slipknot... what?!
no....   MC Hammer!
  i'm touching jack-****...
       look at me...
   touching... clapping using jazz hands.
Onoma May 2017
Have you ever been
pulled over by the culture
I know this culture cop
who loves pulling people
over for self-expression.
He'll wait till you break
into color, and cut you
off at your most emphatic.
He'll ****, burp, scoff--
master craft a discombobulating
smack to your mouth.
He thinks most expression pins
you down to obviousness.
So by definition a lack of expression,
or stifled expression, means
you're not being obvious.
Therefore tolerable, but being obvious, or not being obvious is still
being, trying--expressly.
Watchdog of his own passive-agression, his cagey brooding activated by voices in excitation
of uniqueness.
He's living hard between the lines,
unable to read so to speak, as sing!
My mouthy mute carbon copy
of repression, I'm so sorry--truly.
I ****** up.....once again.
no, 6x8 doesn't equal 46, it's 48.
I know, well is an adverb, and I said I'm doing good.
Oh, he's there. I'll just flip my hair. **** I don't have hair.
I've known myself for 17 years, and I just spelt my last name wrong. awk
It's quiet, and I don't even know what that burp sneeze cough sound that just came out of my mouth was. So I will hum for now.
I'm singing passionately and loud because this is my song, that I apparently don't know the lyrics to. Why me.
and then finally, I couldnt explain how I felt.
but in all that was ****** up,
he understood me.
Brandon Jan 2014
I do not have a
drinking problem. My drinking
problem has me. Burp.
Purcy Flaherty Apr 2018
Light your *** and dream the dream,
hash it out with cups of tea,
Cookies, space cakes, loco ****;
to burp the brain and set you free!

I'm ****** again,
I'm ****** again,
I'm ****** again,
With the ****** man!
A little rreeffer man jazz song (Sliw)
Sarina Oct 2012
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.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
it's not the case of irrationality with the usage of pronouns as a way of being assertive away from the existentialist dittoing of the pronouns; even if i utilise the pronoun to be a noun or a verb via dittoing, with the framework of an esp. exemplar "irrationality," i am still, after all, the speaker of the noun and verbs, and the keeper of them; i am not irrational to the extent that i ditto myself outside of other categorisations of words, since dittoing myself within the pronoun category opens the accusation that i use all other words with ambiguity while allowing no moral ambiguity into my actions - but there is a clear morality to the use of words as the worthwhile exchange of meaning, in newtonian sense in the least and foremost not going beyond the dropped stone or insinuation of passerby engagement into games - but clear crisp cut - silk scarf tagged twelve quid was sold on the haggle for ten quid - so that haggling wasn't an ambiguity, but the price of the scarf was! so how many sexualised insinuations have i heard with impromptu to no action?! too many! all of them declassified from furthering action because of too much innuendo and nuance of that famous disguised dialectics lost - known as the death of god. cartesian in existentialist terms, thinking presupposed as the notation via "i." thought no longer as an existential certainty... but because of the dittoing of pronouns... an... ambiguity! well it was originally an ambiguity, but why excess pausing to counter? the english are a nation of shopkeepers... yes... and the french are a bunch of nosy café patrons with rude lovers disguised as bartenders muscle aching to munch the next croissant in drag and feel sexed up gagging.

verum, ego scribere similis rumi*; scribbles and similitude -
worth an afghan worth of eyes in syria for an afghan girl
saying to her loved up something or other:
see it come back, god forbid you hear the calculative laugh
of augustus on the way back, just while europe resigns from involving
the remnant slavs like libyans or syrians or hebrews in the original format
of strength: let the hebrews deal with them
in their own vatican - we need to curb north africans
and the mid-middle-eastern olives
when taking over the northern peoples for economic harvests.
but then the madman laughed without ordinance and impunity -
he laughed augustus' rationalism into the grave of choking chock fudge brussels
with spare tonsils eating nothing but cauliflower and lard -
elsewhere in movie via ghent; or was it in bruges or
was it in brussels starring jean claude van damme?
i call it... writers went mad on excess phonetics never readied
or introduced - except with magritte wearing a diaper
rather than a full james bond when painting.
i heard it was a proper heist to keep the police numbers handy,
i had it all tanned in argumentation for hued brown in the nordic
special; oddly enough no nordic special sailed for a sinking of the vasa
with predestination - airport was nice - we argued then -
we're not a continent of north harmonicas with jokes
between mythological four lead clovers and oak real canada threesomes.
well i was a continent with croatian and scandinavian,
i'm not originally a mc donald continent - although that 'MADE IN CHINA'
helps to resolve all future wars with the silkworm beginning:
rodeo in the haven of horse's burp and fall of the cheap spain due to tourism -
old continental had corrida - new continent has rodeo -
somewhere between the ****** and maidens came oceans elves for a bet on
who could write a horse out from riding into a blunt metal clasp of stirrup eager sounds:
or a twenty aged colt sounding like an eighty year old nail wrinkled with rust hammered.
blunt metal won, horse gasped for air, the ***** was taken home with stitches,
the maiden was taken home with a groom in stitches also, although
stitches of old age prior asked for in her meringue dress to suit: wrinkles;
but hey! there's **** in between! who's the loser, the aviator or the aqua puncture of thought?
but still augustus laughed it off with nero on the waiting list of possible re-encounters;
israel received the southern cicero of the roman empire,
while the rekindled empire got the north-eastern and northern part of
the unexplored without saints travelling elsewhere,
and for that it got implosions, with the schengen approval reminded
to cloister the leftists eager to holiday in syria on unesco cruises in sand and sheep ****
of kept marble - for that cocktail party convo, and next day article in the new yorker;
shame on you for using children to ploy en masse morality of guilt
to later reproduce the hydra with so much racist cribbing
of a seahorse riddling perpetual dynamos
as to imagine the future cot rock-a-baby-jihadi saladin:
the fire is in his own house, runs with a
              flaming matchstick to his "neighbour's house"
to start the fire rather than trying to put the fire out in his own house.
honestly? sounds a bit binary in bangladeshi.
Patricia Arches Sep 2013
For I did not come here in hopes of a hello

Of a simple stroll down our village

Or an acknowledgement of my existence

I came here because I care

I care

I see in your eyes the difference

Cover up with words soothing to the ear

But actions onset on hindrance

I did not come for a duet

Or a memory that we’d never regret

A heart to heart throughout the night

I did not come for my own benefit

I come because I care

I care
I worry, in fact

That you do not realize

How much you are
Who you are

Or your worth

Because the things you do show otherwise
But see in my eyes, and the eyes of others

Too concerned while we watch the beautiful eagle continue to believe he’s just a worm

You’re too distraught by the blindfold in front of yours

To realize the cries for help

Drowned out with insanity

Because the world is stealing your flame

While you continue to be baffled by the pickpocket’s show

"Do not take it!" I scream

“Do not let it take you!”
but those eyes

So precious, full and alive




The procession goes on while the main attraction continues to burp out synthetic love and false hopes


And you have become the fool of the show

With that blindfold 

Darned, pestering blindfold.

I will still scream for its demise!

I will still plead for the final scene!

I will rip away the curtains held up with burgundy lies!

I will still care.

The show must eventually stop!

For actors must be given a break and plays must be forgotten

To not be cliche

There will be a time when there are no more encores

An end to the grand show

scattered flowers on the first row

And utter silence in an empty space

A dangerously




But I will still be there

Holding a match for a new flame

And a warmer smile

For I care

I truly care
THE Stank MAN Oct 2014
cold metal
blue ,silver and white
sour citrus funkynes
smells like stank trees of ebola town
burp guzzle guzzle wallow
g clair Sep 2013
you have the look they say could ****
well i'm not dead, though sufferin' still.

i have a mind to tell your mother
the way you smile when you're with the other.

she'd say she warned me at the start
not to burp and hold the ****.

whatever, no matter, i really don't care
im not even bothered, just gimme some air.

let me rip this old rug up
it stinks of old **** de la pup.

i had a gripe to air today
so I let it out and blew you away.

n'er the mare before the cart
show me your money and then your heart.

gimme a kiss, and make it quick
I can't take pleasure, it gets me sick.

a house that smells of fresh cut flowers
can't numb heartache, but sweetens the sours.

drop kick me out to the farthest field
I'll roll back home when all has healed.
Odi Nov 2013
On the day you finally broke
you let every bit of the control you valued so much, slip
And I loved it.

On the day you broke I pushed a button I knew I shouldnt have
and between your anger
I named your fear
"You're sccared." I said
Between your anger and your fear there was no more room left for
so you broke and broke down.
As broken down a control freak gets
Shaking, you spat out the saddest sentence I have ever heard
come out of your beautiful mouth
Hair crackled with the ferocity of your hatred you said
"IF. I could change everything about. MYSELF,  I would. My ****** zip code, my zodiac sign, every. *******. thing. The good, the bad, the ******* joyous and the ******* ugly."
You whispered the word "everything" as if I did not yet understand.

My father only taught me how to be a man but my mother taught me how to be a human being
And I too know how heavy armour wears on your skin
Even soldiers sleep
Even vikings take their armour off at some point
Even a captain removes his ******* hat
you sleep with clenched fists and gritted teeth
I havent heard you
or snore
you are
the one eye open on the door and I'm
the kitchen floor cleaner going back for more
ill unload your baggage
just  tell me where you left the ******* keys to the trunk
Letters to my exes
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
yet even though i count only five members,
i still play with my moustache and beard
like an organism of eight extensions,
thus i weave and think simultaneously,
in this great cobweb of silence:
my hand the spider, my mouth the cobweb...
how pretty the interaction to exact
the daffodil a caleigh with the thistle in parisian persian.

i am as unsavoury in my buds
of the tongue as i might calypso a pineapple for pink
in the new dictionary stating pink defines punk!
i am unsavoury in by tastes
like trans-muscle in its ivory enclosure,
as i am outstretching my hand
to “photograph” the rain
with my hand to get freckles and knitting patterns of aqua gnats,
as i am to say:
a. you dittoed that word without using it prior,
so why exploit such usage in the first place?!
b. it made more sense to itch with rain
than describe drunk & twitching spiders doing a cancan dance
in the four necessary extremes of  21st century morse encoding
with emoticons: s.o.s. = octopus :) reverse :) pianist fake :(.
elevator going up! (this is the scottish parliament,
after all)
shiksh floor...
elevator going down...
ground floor...
that’s just ******* boring...
how about you climb the shcaffold
and drop chimney bricks onto prince’s st. (edinburgh) drunk, eh?!
well i did that, actually... who’s up for a sarcastic tying the knot
and reining in a horse?
no one? oh oops twos a buckle with hoofs for teeth
as the same cement... no, sorry... it’s called *enamel
say hi for me to ben and nick harper in this silence of typing ‘
oh i thought (i.e. susan).
**** me, the comma is on the ceiling, who’s going to measure
the time width of that one for exacted humour?!
here's one: when sean connie is on the screen,
you never shush the audience...
unless you get a shish kebab prior... and a shanty town
dr. feelgood - repairs project in motion...
shanty town project thumbs up good to go!
dr. strangelove - bomb bomb bomb!
dr. feelgood - shanty town isn't a hiroshima.
dr. strangelove - bomb bomb bomb, bomb!
dr. feelgood - a nuke on a geographic peanut?!
dr. strangelove - bomb bomb bomb burning bush in the taj mahal urn!
edinburgh is the new paris! edinburgh is the new paris!
yo yodeling the york... new town... virginia...
i'll export revolutionary france via scotland with edible 'burp'
new paris! bon voyage the october-haggis...
settle us among the apache with blood ***** and gain
testifying the hog's intestines as worthy digestion!
Damaré M Jun 2013
Lights! camera! action!
Pretending that events are accidents
Appointed laughter
Framed gatherings
Steady buffing
Turn your face into a masterpiece
And your fashion into a catastrophe
Then your catastrophe into outcasting
Take away normalcy then preach you blasphemy
Then wonder "why are they after me"
X then dotted line just says "that you're mine"
It says "sign neatly" and "read briefly"
And now that he's gone...your the repeat
And if you leave...they gotta 3 peat
*** will get you a check
And if you thirsty for a disbursement... Burp out controversy
And swallow grade A *******
You'll get applauded for being a first class fool
Who didn't graduate
But there's still fans who gravitate
While your old class mates are still someone else's class mates
The former students now have degrees
The ones you call to design your foreign furnished mansion
The ones sold you that million dollar car
The ones you pay to fly your private jet
The ones you pay to manage your career
The ones who indict you for your drug possession
The ones who over the counter prescribing you your addiction
The ones who will do the incision to try and maintain your drunk liver
Miss and mister
They demand their respect
Surviving grueling semesters
The newly alumnus
Will retire after they make a difference
A difference for our children
And by the time that your contract has ended all you talked about is killing
Rims spinning
Money getting
Blunt twisting
Liquor sickening
Girls stripping
Discharge sipping
Jewelry glistening
Stomach itching
Teeth missing
Thread stitching
Eye twitching
Thirst quenching
I don't get it
Albums full of insignificance
But your not trippin'
Because you won't fall as long as you don't walk when your boss tell you to crawl
If you rock shows
Wear clothes that you never chose
If you pose to live a life that's another man's role
You'll soon believe that you're not from this globe
And you'll soon speak how satan stole your soul
Everything you value is so extraneous
And for that you're famous?

So it's only one recipe
If you wanna be a celebrity you must lose your integrity
I don't hate people who are on television I just dislike a lot of things in which they deprive themselves of their decency and allow themselves to take a part of. I really dislike the fact that people who are televised has millions of people's attention and never consider themselves as teachers nor do they try to be a little philosophical and put some of their time up for use. Maybe I won't worry as much if I knew that our generation didn't  rely on celebrities to define us. Them people live a totally different life and not because I said so its because that's what they want and get. However, there's exceptions to my claims today some of them people mean well
Hayley Neininger Mar 2012
If I were a man
I would ask out a girl just for the hell of it
Because either way ive been waiting far too
Long to try that restaurants grilled halibut
I would sag my pants down low
In any given social situation
I would wake up in the middle of the night with a cold sweat
Fearing that doctors castration
And in the same situation I would burp real loud
Because I drank too much beer
Or ate too many chips
And what is a man to do
other than flip his own scripts
and rip on other men’s trips
and say, “dude you’re so gay”
if I were a man
I’d probably put bumpin’ speakers in
My Honda civic
And id bust out loud rap as I turned and whipped it
In front of all the pretty girls
The ones with hair curled and necklaces made of my pearls
Ones I wouldn’t call back because I paid attention in math
And knew the male to female ratio was 1 to 4
And that left me with 3 other girls to score
But sense I am not a man
And according to them I am some-what less than
I’ll belt my pants suffer your ****** glance
Deny you a dance and instead of implants
I will wish for a transplant.

— The End —