"cesspit" poems
why are so many things so tempting?
why do people let their hearts rule their hands
rule their mouths
rule their minds
why do I?
I can't control my hands, my words my mind
the seduction is there
every step of the time
the rules the lines they all become blurred
and all my thoughts just whirl and stir
a cesspit of temptation
to do things I shouldn't
to do things that would hurt others but make life easier,
to disobey the rules
I've followed my entire life
don't spend too much time reading and study instead
the seduction is there
pulling along
changing my ways
making everyday a little harder
but
a little bit better
a cruel mistress with
the best
of intentions
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
Please sing the following to the melody of (Sittin' On) The Dock Of The Bay.
Sittin' for my morning poo,
Every morning it's what I like to do,
Hearing the ***** fall in,
Then I'll watch them flush away again
Sittin' for my morning poo,
Letting one piece-a crap out or two
Sittin' for my morning poo,
Making this rhyme
Well sometimes it's like torture
'Specially when I make a mess
Whilst it can seem like a chore
My straining always tends to end in success
So I'm just sitting for my morning poo
Taking a crap whilst here on the loo,
Sittin' for my morning poo,
Making this rhyme
Looks like I'm all outta luck,
There's no toilet paper here; oh ****
But all while there's nobody here to witness
Well I guess I'll just use my fist
Sittin' here using my hand
And I hope that all of you'd understand
Didn't have much of a choice
Use my hand or let my pants get all moist
Sittin' here taking a ****
With my hand smelling like a cesspit
Sittin' here taking a ****
Making my rhymeee
Whistles
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 12:55 PM UTC
Revisited Merak harbor one late evening
a shape of sea fairy and colorful torches
were seen from afar , chattering calls in 4 languages. 4 squalls in once was a plage
their dancing flames asked me to come closer
I hurried along the sleepy shipyards
passing massive warehouses fenced by rusty wooden doors
giant padlocks accenting (reminded me of a fancy cocotte loaded with blingbling)
stacks of oversized containers solidly sat speechless. Sleepless.
The light of each torch lifted into the sky. Seen by another eye
1883 eruption of the Krakatau crater. 130 years later the odor of its curators
I ran closer. I fell. I laid there a while , got up and ran again.
I lost my head and missed my right foot along the way. I did not care.
When I arrived the torches were there in front of me
reincarnated into thousands inhabitants who had lost their lives
bodies covered with revolting cesspit oil
For a second they transformed into torches again. One blazing in my hands.
Regretfully, I had lost my head so I did not understand.
The fairy stared . I wasn't scared.
: come, come, …come purifying Sunda strait
dissatisfying the idiots thought it could all be fixed with tax rate
I moved toward embracing fairy arms
(Possibly, this close hugging love was only for beach-sea friends)
So, I united with the torches
A bit of a breach pushed us towards the petroleum . Demolished it all. Cannonball.
Black fog shrieking that same words : Keep up the struggle . Stay strong !
The alien residents might think I was making choices
but the fairy was leading me around
the torches reshaping the ghost-town
Chattering calls in 4 voices. 4 languages.
Yet, for the officials ears , all were still voiceless. Pointless.
(Pulo Merak - Cilegon - Indonesia )
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
makeup messily blurs the outline
of your face, the one the sun is
beating sandpaper ciphers across--
translated they reflect the cesspit
of the first smile I have meant
in months--please just caress
the entropy of this water-winged sunset,
you cannot swallow your shyness
by intimidating everyone into not
speaking to you and by god
I don’t want to hurt you but
I can feel a hot one.
if those who’ve known hell
never talk about it
and nothing much bothers them
after that
why do we talk circles
around each moonrise, exhale
leaden stories like smoke
and charred vapor
everyone tastes like brimstone
so why are you so afraid of
being beautiful, why am I
so afraid of my ligaments eroding,
and we are so *******
tragic fuck-it
we’re ******* tragic
time blurs you
whipped the insomnia into
a frenzy
the way you kiss me
when the sun lurks backstage
waiting for her que makes it
okay for now not numb
so much because ******* was I
knife-fight numb. I can talk
about the hell with you the
other girl, not so much, the
tricky-bitch was that she
made it go away but it
never really does does it?
just blurs the time so
it can fast-pitch the happy
out of your lungs, like
my me is still here, so maybe
we can rub selves
while the sun bears down
from behind her curtain
of starless sky.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 6:20 PM UTC
I'm a hung dumpster! Alcohol flask bucket
Sacked into the trash can of grocery store monopoly the end of all produce and of production
Collapse
Coronary killer vegetables
Rotting in the stomach
Begotten sons of Aspergers eating asparagus
the symptoms of collectivism and social surplus. colliding and,
The end of evolve.
The cities you see are the collecting cells pooling to cesspit trudging on tracheing breath.
Collapsing lungs with no space left
The cornucopia is over. It fell down with its mortar and grout lain to crust into soil. Traipsed through toil torture and insolence.
The Crimea fell next comes bombs next comes Obamba. Capitulation with motor skills
Feigning docility and anti-hostility mortar round bills.
Mountains from Jerusalem cricket ant hills
I am your friend though we owe the same blood
I am no different yet I give nothing up
I claim all the land just as you do
You take and you take and I lose and lose
Corruption and solitude
Killing people only gets you less friends
We are mirror yet very mad at it
.
My time will be up only but once.
This is the one time I'm not scared of death
But the glimmer in her eyes laughs me through it.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
Ugly little pigs,
hooting and howling
they revel in slush
as if there is no bliss like this
and nothing is worth seeking
outside this pit, full of slimy stuff.
How long they entertain him
with their inimitable gift!
Dirt gets a new status, dainty news,
with the cute litter working on it.
What thought passes his mind?
"Fair is foul and foul is fair,
No angel would look as nice
in such a cesspit, holy pig!"
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
Sat in the doorway,
a throwaway man with a
cigarette and beer can
and a hangdog look on his face.
In this city of wealth,poverty takes some by stealth,
those who are healthy and fit often don't give a shit,it's not them in the doorway,they cannot see themselves brought down so low,
but go down to Mayfair or Stepney or Bow,there's a tidal flow of the throwaway men,who have nowhere to stay and if they do, then,
there is no job for them,no way to earn
and the cigarette burns,the beer can is crushed, a bit like the throwaways beaten and rushed to an end.
The end is an end by no means,
to the hungry and needy
who watch as the well fed and greedy go by,who sigh through the day in a throwaway kind of a throwaway way,
but it's what people expect from the 'workshy' and worthless,the cesspit of the city, and life does not pity them,nor do the throwaway men really care,
sitting there
in the doorway
where there seems no way
to escape.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 4:11 AM UTC
“You know what’s wrong with this world?
We sell away our innocent girls,
We fight and bicker,
Ignoring the lonely man reaching for another bottle of liquor,
We tell our kids not to smoke,
As we reach for another to laugh and joke,
We point to our happiest guy on file,
Not seeing that he’s hiding behind a crooked smile,
We go to parties and raves,
Forgetting about our veterans who are slipping into the grave,
We argue that the rich man should pay,
While we kick our beggars out of the way,
We believe that race
Has an incriminating face,
Not realizing that under our skin,
We are all kin,
We ignore our newborns grin,
While we go out and sin,
We trample on the desperate,
While we fight over who’s going to be the head of the cesspit,
We say “only a few dollars more”,
Thinking about a raise instead of the poor,
We say “there’s no I in Team”
While our eyes gleam,
Blinded by our greedy dreams,
And we bully those who stick out,
As if they didn’t already have doubts,
Instead of caring about others,
We only look out for our brothers,
But what’s saddest of all,
Is that in the end, everyone will fall,
Regardless of wealth, power, age, or race,
We are all going to be gone without a trace,
Except for a few daisies marking our grave."
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 1:17 PM UTC
Love can make you a slave
To its charms
The come and go of the hearts pulse
In the throat of a lover
Love can be a laugh
A high five
A smile
But love won't be around for a while
I remember what "love" used to be
The carefree innocence
Climbing that tree
....towards freedom
I dropped my innocence
The climb became hard
And right now I feel....
I cant say it
Cant make the words form on lips
When I see the face in my dreams
The face I loved
That left me
On the steep climb up
I lose my innocence and watch it shatter
Below me
Jagged rocks tear at its core
Ripped innocence
Right now
I feel....
Mentally
Scarred
No other way to put it
Drown in the cesspit
Hate surrounds you
Going down
Down
Down
Screaming names
That mean nothing
To the ears
That may hear
The final death cry
Of love.
Shouting words
That mean everything
To no one
You know the song?
The words?
Dancing to the same tune?
I've lost the reason I had
I lost it when I lost you
This may seem
Melodramatic..
But I promise you..
I can't promise anything
I can't keep a word I say
There's another word
I crave the feeling of saying
Knowing that it means everything
To me
Yet nothing
To you
Hurts me
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
drip fed,
being fed on drips and dregs and how many campylobacter in six dairy fresh eggs?
raw meat, diced, sliced or crushed and
pushed through,
acts by the government **** you, nothing's your own,
go it alone but the eye in the sky, on the wall, up your **** always follows you,
what's the world coming to and how many bacilli in the ideas that you see in your minds eye?
fed up to the back teeth? rip them out with the pliers and you get no relief, not from the welfare and you share and share and only when no one is there do you get your sweeties and treats from the N.H.S.
We live in the cesspit and they smell of roses which in turn look like dog **** and we're still being drip led by the rich and the well fed and it's doing my head in.
Skeletal?
I want to go back to pre-foetal
before fertilization was an i or the dot on some distant horizon,
untapped as potential and potentially dangerous.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 7:05 AM UTC
They swim the cesspit
of greed and usury
mouths wide open
hungry always
for more
and deserving it,
too.
~ mce
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 9:10 PM UTC
Strange place, even stranger times,
Every unfit thing, strangely finds its place,
But in kleptopia strangers become bedfellows,
The strangeness all the more welcoming;
Outside the uneven lines, weeping, wailing,
Many complaining, more agonising,
But within the cesspit of gluttonous philandering,
Merriment upon merriment, endless mirthing;
So they negotiate a rollback,
Of the misaligned circumference of the perimeter,
Try to redraw this untidy arrangement,
Only still at it, many lifetimes after.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC
Hello in-built shell,
how shell-fish of me to think
I could avoid your beckoning
bell, of self pity.
Let us welcome in Sin-City.
Here is every bad thought you've
ever had.
Every signal sad wander
clad in bleak black memory.
The goodness drifting away
in a puddle of ink,
removing my ability to think
clearly.
No matter how dearly I cling to
the loved ones.
Look to your right and there's the
childhood.
Which you would not change even
if you could.
Because, detested as it seems, I still
feel a gleam of familiarity and
clarity
from my gloriously ****** up family.
Look to your left and you'll see yourself,
bereft of all emotion,
going through the motions of
life,
burning cold, rife
with emptiness.
Positively cesspit.
Look down, not straight ahead,
and you'll see all of the relationships
left dead on the highway of life.
The ghosts of what you said
pinning them anchored to drown,
stapled further by words
you regretted typing down.
Look up, far up in the sky,
endless arch of black,
dark harpies shrilly whispering
all that you lack.
The only crack of light, lightning,
allowing further attack
on your senses.
It dispenses quickly with
the pleasantries.
You're a regular here.
Now look sharp straight ahead,
stop stooping with dread.
Look up to the light, and fight
for the figure you see.
Look past the debris, and into her
eyes,
whose blue offers glimpses of less
stormy skies.
They speak of cold coffee, and
too milky tea.
Pedal your boat faster
She's where you're meant to be.
Think Positivity.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
It's not that I'm proud
Of mischief
Or misdeed
I don't flaunt
Impropriety
Blithely
At ease
And I often consider
The ramifications
On who is affected
By what I have taken
But still I revert
Consciously,
No remorse
To deliberate persistence
To veering off course
From a straight,
Perhaps narrow
And risk-averse path
But still one of integrity
Balanced, on-track
And progressing ahead
At sustainable paces
But reckless behavior
Is off to the races
The truth is
I like it
The thrill of the steal
The adrenaline, nerve-pumping
Rush
I can feel
And enjoy
I'm remiss to admit
Is the most fun I've had
In this boring cesspit
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 4:24 AM UTC
It would be easy to submit
to admit that total failure,
and the cesspit smells so sweet
when you're beat.
But if you beat the blues you win,when you
lose the frown begin to grin and
spin the wheel again.
We're all a little bit roulette
spinning round until we get the
back to front and back attack and yet we lap it up
and when your cup does overflow
where do you go?
back to roulette ,I bet.
The alpha set,the wire net,we're all caught and one day we'll get a double zero, go and catch a super hero,
we all need one of them.
I am not now nor have I ever been a perfect ten,I am the tarnished score and the music in me wants some more of what it is that I require and I want it now lest I retire and fade into the wallpaper.
If life's a caper then I'm the apron that the butcher wore,stained by blood and guts and gore,no wonder then that I should want much more,
or is that being greedy?
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 3:42 AM UTC
Your bow is all elbow,
a flank of forearm that is
supporting and simply cradling
my imagination
where a dozen or so
lifeboats hang off starboard
in case things get too much
I, captained by your sturdy arms,
nip up to the crow’s nest
for a sip of spiced ***
for a bit of warmth and
perhaps more—
a full beard that reminds
me so much of Darwin
I feel certain I am on the Beagle
and hungry to shoot some
lame birds one by one!
Your shoulder
where I can sleep forever—
come sharks and eat my catch
while I whisper poetry,
summon ghosts and
**** off Hemingway,
whose macho act was betrayed
by his pain-filled eyes
and sensitively painted
one-word skies
You, my aching hull
in human form,
rocking gently as the sea
slows our progress
knowing we are
wishing away time too often
the working of the gyro
prevents my seasick blushes
we do not yet know each other
that well but all is fine as I see it,
your arms really are made of
shipworthy wood and
beneath deck, where I will sleep
tonight above Atlantis’s cesspit,
we just bounce off each wave,
getting closer and closer to the moon
but not yet arrived,
has sleep come too soon for me tonight?
I’ll rest and stretch and groan
like weary ****** do
once Surya helps me turn out the light
—Yes, once my ship did start to sink. I called until my throat was gone and ended up swimming a good distance until crucially a boat came by and pulled me out of the sea. I remember thinking: I should feel more grateful to be alive. I went back to where it sank and retrieved a few personal items, then I sat on the beach a wept as if the whole thing had just hit me.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
plagued by lethargy i am led through the internet
by an unseen monarch whose name is Boredom
until i go cross eyed
what does the good king Boredom seek?
not wenches or jesters or feasts to quaff.
the good king Boredom seeks to cease
but it isn't as easy as that
a battle looms...
Boredom rallies his armies with the deafening cry of a tyrant with a cause
and we descend with the dull and vacant hum of somebody who has work in the morning
storming the gates of the internet
we google things and browse youtube
we play meaningless games
and curse our broadband.
all while scrolling through a virtual popularity contest
a bottomless cesspit full of our hobbies, our thoughts, and pictures of us on holiday
we sit and judge eachother
the stench of jealousy and false smugness hang in the air
facebook is indeed, the great masquerade of our generation.
a battle ends
no wars are won
still the good king stands tall
still he looms. we are enthralled.
and so the cycle continues,
a swirling void of
acronyms and bigotry
of arguments and fallacies
no empathy, all lies.
stopping us from doing anything productive
or real
and like lambs to the slaughter
we are sent to our doom
by the good king Boredom
his cause is just, but he'll never learn
take advice from myself,
and instead of spending time doing something useless
find an outlet for your creativity
i ****** out a load of hyperbole
and here i am now
free of the Good Kings reign
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
How do i lay this into you?
Eye with eyes and ears for naught,
yet i can not stop wondering.
The sun will never rise in the west.
Passed myself again to yearn.
I empty the cesspit and polished the edges, "good sir!"
Oh, i want to fill your treasure troves to the eye with ****
Empty my throat for promises; tongue forked to pussyfoot the bits at the zenith of your bone plates.
Out my throat a night-crawler pirouettes.
Up the spiral on waves ridden only by an igno-rant; terrified.
to say sorry for the plague.
Oh yes he OWES YOU!
Owes you only the pock and rust.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 10:37 PM UTC
Cesspit
The **** shovelling soldiers are sent off to war
To dig latrines so their soldier brethren can ****
Not in peace but to empty their guts between fights
Ukrainians have other ideas they want to **** them all
Dead soldiers and ******** diggers means more Russians
Who can no longer fight or hurt innocent Ukrainians
How many Ivan cesspit ***** men have been eradicated?
**** them all so the soldiers **** their pants before dying
From Ukrainian bullets and high tech Allied weapons
The more the better in this video game war
May 7, 2023
May 7, 2023 at 10:38 PM UTC
it can be hard to assess necessity in a cesspit,
calculating and scouring different ways to find respite.
it can be hard to commit time against the heart.
finding access to hiatus just to breathe,
it's never been easy to be lazarus.
unsure of consequence, skirting bereavement,
reborn doesn't necessarily imply previous demise,
what's almost new cannot be considered unwhole,
nor can it be trusted as a reprise.
it's an artful venture to learn the cadence of presence,
not an effort or a movement, but something of a lucid sweven,
something nestled in the stitching of the seventh heaven.
autonomously authoring my perception,
desecularizing my intense intent and conception.
understand that the brain is a somatosensory mech pilot,
no shame, no rhythm, just an absently-go-lucky organism,
chasing imaginary crystalline butterflies into the background,
thriving in the quietness, malaprop to say forever semper-vivus.
i consume my need to separate ideas as fuel for philomathematics,
pioneering new tactics, new habits, through acts of active practice,
emphatically denouncing the topical, the maladroit, the labels,
let me sing my own mantra,
humming to the hymn of my own humble tantra.
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 6:12 AM UTC
A great, big fish, slapped
out on the ice. Rainbow
skin, and the smell of seawater.
I sit
and chat with the fishmonger.
Four kilos of salmon or herring,
for chowder, or something.
I keep finding drugs in my bra.
I'm not even sure
how they get there. I told a boy
how I felt. He got scared, and he ran,
but then he came back
like they usually do.
My boss makes me tired.
This town makes me tired.
I'm getting ***** looks from a pregnant girl
because I slept with the father
of her unborn child.
And I can't even blame her.
This town is a cesspit.
A melting black hole of *******
ecstasy, Guinness and cheap cocktails.
It smells of cigarette smoke
and no one uses condoms.
I'll be going back to school soon.
A different world where books are cool,
where drugs aren't glamorous
and tobacco is stupid.
Xanax is my new best friend,
it numbs me to dish-washing,
fish shopping, coke sniffing,
********
and hopeless despair.
Get me out of here.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 6:57 AM UTC
Clutching at straws for purchase, I dive in every direction.
Leaping off faith like churches, I bend to the will of the wind.
Searching for scraps of focus, my heart beats the way as it sings.
Thanking the world as it teaches,
I exalt what the future may bring.
The drive lights in my head as sparks, forced from my mind pray they fly.
The weight of “what if" pockmarks, eager sow seeds ‘til one catches.
Doubts thrown at me from my darks, each explosion paint ******* my way.
A way out not promised yet trying,
Is the only thing worth ‘til I die.
Fear lords over me as a despot, chance spirals before me like time.
Crawling from lazy this cesspit, resistance the bane of us all.
My goal simple as respite, shed stress I know vestigial
Find me my path steady carving.
Eroding at life ‘til I'm fine.
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
I am the god of nothing
I am the Lord of lies
I have fallen from my grace
to the very thing that I despise
whatever's good is broken
I don't really care
for when the inferno does erupt
I simply won't be there
Did you mistake my face for friendliness
Sorry but it doesn't exist
for I've rose up from the stagnating cesspit
within in which we continue to persist
I reward nothing with loyalty
I'll take and use and choose
fallen stars, broken hearts -
nothing to me but a bruise
For I am the righteous
I am the whole story
I am favored by nobody, inside grotesque and gory
I am the air you breathe, the dust upon your seats,
I am the Pale God
so get down upon your knees
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 2:26 PM UTC