"crapping" poems
To **** or not to **** that’s the ******* question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the bowels to suffer
The twists and turns of outrageous rumblings
Or to take action against a bellyful of gas,
And by farting pump one out? To strain, to bloat
No more; and by a mighty outburst we’ll end
The gut’s ache, and the thousand natural stenches
That the **** is heir to, 'tis a resolution
Right devoutly to be wish'd. To **** to ****
But perchance to **** there's the ******* problem;
For in that mighty **** of doom what turds may come,
When we have let the little beauty out from mortal tail,
Must give us pause; there's the danger
That makes calamity of the farter’s life;
For who would bear the sneers and mocks of men,
The neighbour’s shock, the lover’s curling lip,
The pangs of horrid stench, the ******* o’erflowing,
The leaking **** orifice, and the drips,
Impatient strainings that the tragic farter makes,
When he himself might sweet easance make
With a careful prodding finger? Who would a ******** wear,
Grunting and sweating with noisome convulsions,
But that the dread of solids after air-release,
The undiscover'd oozings, from whose delivery
No toilet visitor recovers, puzzles the will,
And makes us bear the bellyache we have
Than fly to others we know not of?
Thus indigestion does make cowards of us all;
And then the native heave of constipation
Is sicklied o'er with the pale fear of defecation;
And enterprises of both ******* and crapping
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of exciting toilet action.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
on a dark desert highway, hot fart-wind in my hair
with a warm smell of diarrheoa rising up through the air
I was scared of pant-crapping on that starry starry night
my belly heavy and my sphincter groaned in pain
I had to stop for a *****
there she stood in the doorway, the receptionist from hell,
and I was thinking to myself what a ******* smell,
then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way
I rushed into the bathroom shrieking, hey,
I need to pump it out.
welcome to the hotel california;
such a lovely toilet;
be careful don't soil it
with an ill-timed **** splatter;
any time of year, it don't ******* matter.
now my bot is oozing brownly, it's got the mercedes bends;
I'd better wash it for the sake of her pretty boy friends
dancing in the courtyard, k-y jelly in their pockets,
some dancing in the **** some in their jockeys.
so I called up the waiter, please bring a bucket of wine;
he said: we haven't had such a ****** here since eighteen forty nine,
and then I got hold of this cute looking guy
who was a ******* great fairy
and he showed me his **** so hairy
probably laiden with a.i.d.s. ....
welcome to the hotel california;
such a lovely toilet;
be careful don't soil it
with an ill-timed **** splatter;
any time of year, it don't ******* matter.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
A lady whose heart as big as her boils
as ugly as rust, yet kindly through toils
for troubled she was and poor as a pitcher
her purse full of holes, but loving stuck with her.
And having this love with nowhere to store it –
her house filled with cats, the neighbors abhorred it.
For all through the day was scratching and crying
If they hadn't known better, they'd think she was dying.
Her house overflowing and no food to eat;
she cared for her cats like they care for heat.
And one day the folk came at her door wrapping
but she couldn't answer, for she was still crapping.
The folk weren't new; they'd been here before;
she'd leave them long often to wait at the door.
But now with no answer, the cats left to mewing;
the lady left helpless while she was still pooing.
The folk grew impatient and broke down the door;
the smell was of rodent mixed with cheap *****
And all through their nostrils, the folk kept on smelling:
mold, cabbage and ***** then faintly a yelling.
The noise sounded desperate – a cat may be sick!
so holding their noses they trudged through the thick.
The yelling grew louder till the back of the house,
Lady needed some t.p. – instead used her blouse.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC
[These are quotes taken from a New York Magazine article around 10 years ago. They are all from firefighters]
"doing funerals....getting the bunting, hanging the bunting...step by step...
When it became a myth, the whole event...
people were terrified, crapping their pants...a woman in the lobby...no legs...her face...like someone took it off with a saw.
Why did I survive?
...None of 'em were ever found. Not even a tool.
I didn't see victims. They were dust... When the wind blew, you couldn't grab them.
long spears of glass...Huge panels turned into shards...a piece of window, a small piece....It's right here in my hands now.
...can't look at a plane landing"
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
i,m electric. its, the pisshard light
crapping ugly vowels off the bulbs
on the stree tonthestreet spitting webs
of iridescent ridiculous tubercular scarlet
folds of loose legs
akimbo receptive culling frilly cotton
nets
about their thighs. their thighs crying
white dark femurs
blasting hot
on my i's. on my eyes. on my
punch heavy brooding crumble
slashing the serious night air nightmare
night blaring
neon daughters
dna
in little flecks
some cordial bums; laugh ******** nonsense
birds. they're a bottle away. a bottle away
a oblivion. sip sip. drink your soul away
and rude the clean folks
passing on the asphalt rivers
veining in the cold hot bright darkness
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 12:52 PM UTC
I really don't like the idea of growing old.
Don't patronize me with the alternative.
You know squat about that.
There's the smell of bleach and ****
And the lingering odor of soiling
Up and down the corridor.
There's the swish of mops,
And night comes early.
You say you'll visit, but when? You're busy with life.
I won't be seen at gatherings,
Perhaps a visitation for old friends.
The world should spin counter-clockwise
Before expelling me in its daily gyration.
I want a giant to hold me again,
And tell me I'm a good boy for eating,
For crapping in the toilet.
Soon enough, but you don't dare say so aloud.
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 1:00 PM UTC
****** of Beccas *****
My ***** mix the moistures together to make. The mixture of cocktion
Of a mist
Of dank un integrity
Crapping on the fall of shat marriage
As we bask in the dance of *****
Falling down the legs of the most beautiful of beatnik
Without knowing
It
How I've forgotten my divisions
Of the words.
I used to care of those things
Now though I am listening to howl and not in the writing criteria for my writing
I
Usually have the things I need
Now I will have a small baby head
Who knows not **** from suckle
From honey from agave
From desert
How I miss ***** in how drunk I froth in the night dry and the calm she can never know in my head how I wish to be her and for her to be me
How I wish to be one as the howl of two larynx in a bird body
Come thy voice.
Calm child soothe
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
If you roll snake eyes
for the come-out
you might be out of luck
But then again the odds
were greater in your favor
so you might just be
turned around
And though it may seem
foolish to bet long after
crapping out
snake eyes can be sneaky
and just might strike again
Because snakes can move
their eyes in whatever
way they choose
they can shift them
forward backward
up and down or just
leave them sideways
And they never blink
They are always lurking
when no one is watching
and even more when
they are cursed
So you might just turn the
odds around again and
count on snake eyes
especially after
You've been bit
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 8:42 AM UTC
With two meanings and a poem about each
I
"Here Lies, the
Last Dog
To Crap in This Yard"
Random corner lot with patchy grass
Dual tired pickup owner, cantankerous,
got tired
got wired
got to thinking,
about why his
yard was stinking,
looked out the back
nothing there to attack
looked out the front window,
rising
sun pooched a crescendo,
as it rose,
he stood, cigarette and coffee,
the order of the day,
other hand on the hood,
of his red neck tribute, a Ford truck
but that odor,
that smell,
he felt unwell
spinning, more like reeling,
he had a nauseous feeling,
that some dog was crapping in his yard,
excrement was on the breeze,
silhouetted by the bright yellow ball,
was the last dog to crap in his yard,
he grabbed his shotgun with ease,
pulled the trigger, buried the dog,
No one saw, everyone heard, when the
police showed up not a word was said,
not a witness could be found, as each knew,
in that 'hood, that dog got around,
to every yard in turn, the sign is all
that remains, a warning and a refrain,
this neighbourhood,
may have ****** lawns
do not get caught doing your business at dawn.
II
"Here Lies, the
Last Dog
To Crap in This Yard"
They both sit a the table to eat a meal,
from where they will look at the dog bed,
by the dog bowls, and then look away,
just as fast,
it is the past
and recent loss,
of their beloved dog Boss,
beautiful boy, who died to soon,
left them alone, together,
such a calm and gentle giant,
one that they had become reliant,
to share
their journeys,
their truck trips,
their walks in the waning sun,
life,
until that terrible day,
when she called to say,
Boss had been hit, saving a toddler
crossing the road, the boy was okay,
but not the dog, "Come Home Quick,
please,"
he did and they rushed the dog to the vet,
it was awful, everyone was a wreck,
and then the vet called them in to the back,
to give the news that Boss was going fast,
he could do nothing to make his life, ...
soon he would take a breath and breathe his last,
they nodded and said "Put him down",
they went and looked him in the eye,
through sobs they said "goodbye"
Days later, they went back, to get the
urn of his ashes, he liked their lawn,
he loved the grasses,
so they decided, then that they would
never leave or sell, but buried him there,
in that spot where the sun first landed,
every summer morn,
summer was the season of Boss,
now they were at a total loss,
as each morning began with mourning.
But Boss will always be nearby.
And the sign above that spot read,
"Here Lies, the Last Dog To Crap in This Yard"
For they would never own another.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
The Madness of history gone,is sanity to our modern.Revolution does not come without -BloodBoundariesBreaking....A cage upon cage bearingthe changing calls barredin steel iron russian dolls.The madmen crying,chained,clinging, crapping,cutting..Aiai -We want.Aiai Aiai - We needAiai Aiai- We will......Yet the golden soiled sane, look on withnothing.Until the cage br-br-cracks.Convention stops,Changes.White to black,Rich to poor,Man to Citizen,Triangle pyramids of fruit and blossomescaping.Yet can I hear another mad man calling?Aiai-Aiai-Aiai!For madness will be tomorrow's sanity.........
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 11:56 AM UTC
The dork just stood there, Man!
Peeling back his mask
Then folding it back down again.
What a chancer!
Breaking in klangers;
Tip toeing through hoops;
Belching on tap;
Crapping on sand paper;
Bleaching hot tap,
With water-eye presentation
Flown from afar
In the cargo hold for Mr. Black,
Mount Nero;
Cnoc Dubh.
What's the fuzz?
what's the craic?
Let him have it
In 2's and 3's
End of:
'Life's a breeze'
Corporate jingomuggery
Daylight shrubbery
Catchall quantum thuggery
"Put him back in the hold"
Goodbye Mr.Black,
Mount Nero;
Cnoc Dubh.
What's the craic?
What the fuzz?
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 3:12 AM UTC
because when I was fourteen,
I'd put on my angsty coat
With its burlap pockets
And its itchy collar
And its ill-fit
And I'd go out with my middle fingers
Toasting the world
Blaming every stranger on the street
For every night I couldn't sleep.
And sick was a cold
Sick was a fever.
Sick was the shakes from not eating.
Because I'm a girl.
And my value does not stem
Past my appearance.
When I was sixteen
I rimmed my eyes in charcoal black
And donned a matching outfit
That would bring out
The feigned vacancy in my prying eyes
As the ambivalence of wanting to eat the world
And wanting to hide from it
Weighed on my narrow shoulders.
And a boy thought I was a Satanist.
And he avoided me.
And I loved it.
Now I'm older --
But still just a kid.
And I wear real clothes
That make me look like I'm twelve.
But at least I'm happy.
And sick has a different meaning.
It's reaches past the physiological nausea that accompanies
And into the aches and pains of waking up every day
And through the cold, cold labyrinth in which I've been lost
For seven years
And the sickness is laughing my *** off
In a room full of beautiful people
That I love
That I would do (almost) anything for
And trying to decide whether or not tonight is the night
With absolute glee I ponder
Is tonight the night
When I can cut the crap
And finally get a good ******* night's sleep
And not feel the obligation
And not deal with the fact my ******* body
Is crapping the **** out on me
At nineteen.
And that whatever the **** this is
Is only enough to make me miserable
And not enough to **** me
Because most days, the curiosity keeps me going
And going
And ******* going
And then I'm in pain.
And I laugh,
Because I take myself way too seriously.
And life is a **** beautiful gift after all
right?
And I've got the whole world at my feet.
Who cares about a little pain?
I need to be awake in seven hours
And tonight I don't feel destructive.
I want to apologize to my mother for being so cold
Even when I try not to be.
And I want to buy her a nice house and all the clothes she wants
So she can feel comfortable going to work.
So she sees that she's beautiful.
Even if it's superficial.
And I can't fix anything
And I can't turn my brain off
And this isn't even art anymore.
This is..
It's...
Because who the **** doesn't love being sick.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 5:13 AM UTC
You watch me from the bed
Where we have shared love's passion,
Your hair glistens in the morning light
O how I love you, my dearest.
My gorgeous form weaves its way
Gracefully across the room;
Then I throw the curtains back
On this bright April morning.
Let the Spring sunlight enter
And more fully illuminate
The next daring stage in our
Enticing ******** adventures.
Dazzled for a brief moment
By the brilliant solar rays,
You hear a rustling noise:
Precursor of new ****** delight.
I am wiping my well-toned bottom
After crapping on your carpet;
An enormous steaming mound awaits
To stimulate your ****** taste buds.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 1:16 PM UTC
A life of doublespeak,
I think you're weak,
Never mind, (you're a dipstick),
Means 'I don't give a blip',
Blip happens,
Means, 'You're crapping',
Do stop moaning,
And all your groaning,
Dull contemplation,
Of ex manipulation.
Yes, doublespeak,
Means I think you're weak,
'Have a good day,' so long,
Who cares why the ex carries on?
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 10:48 PM UTC
My dreams are drugs;
my hopes are dope
–the joie de vivre
of old so-so–
from waning eyes
to waxing grace
my spirit seeks
another place
And rhythmically
on pain of death
from newborn cry
to my last breath
with rancid teeth
and rheumy eye
around the globe
cutting soft sky
filling the stars
with water high
to flood and pour
to light and soar
to anger each
contented *****
But not so boiled
nor never baked
swathed transcendence
of all mistakes
melancholy left un-churned
around young danseur
crapping wealth unearned
fueling no immortal work,
marching still
against the dark;
Freshest grass-scent
Lingers long
past broken tractor
at break of dawn
as crumpled shrapnel
and sticks of oak
remain wedged throughout
the auger's blades,
refusing to reap
or shadow wheat;
Therefore, this vision
pulls and holds
on wisest minds,
with fools endures;
musty marble crumbles too
all garish gold
rusts through and through...
spinning slower
then Bosons are gone...
sunny sleep stops
mowing lawn
(All things must break
when left untouched
but touching wears toucher
oh so so much!)
Arrows fly,
inertly tickle
all that's evil
whatever's wicked;
But nothing so so much
as hope
fades quietly
oh so so much.
Slumping shoulders
warring forward
searching ever
for temperate porridge,
concluding all
to dust from dust
Inciting all
from lust to lust
But rarely ever
dreaming truths
science mangling
interstellar flight
because nothing good
rhymes with truths
devoid of pretense
and heckling youths
After crops have rotted
that fed our needs
One contemplates
tending the weeds.
I've lost you now
(I surely hope)
Because at last,
here is the dope:
Riddling madness
is a cancer.
Reading answers
is disaster.
We're much too late
to break the tractor.
Grapes left on vine
do not make wine,
so smiling scythe
will give me mine.
And in the end
it's not defeat:
For Beauty Grew,
And Many Ate.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
Should I throw a rock at your head,
Or should some ornate stone in passion
Be flung that it may open your mind?
There is a poem,
Natural in its state of emotional honesty,
And a bird can be on a branch crapping
On your windshield,
Or upon morning's first light
A golden bird gleams among
The verdant branches like
Emeralds in a feast of crystalline
Fields set aglow by calling stars.
Still the truth of the poem
And its severed beauty is that it
Does not lie among the constant
Heart, that frail and vicious
Emotionally challenged furnace,
And the words are compared
Like a rare comet vs. a constant star.
Holes in the words
Sap a poets blood, so he films them
With passions of flame and struggle,
And from fire to fire he spills
Himself within the pen.
From here to eternity's moment,
They will never slay his thirsting,
From verses that hold him,
To words that overtake even the spirit
Where his poems are forged like some
Ancient blacksmith
Beating together steel wings
To fly the world over for one mans
Fiery thought come to life ,
And he is a star and a begging dog,
A broken hearted moon,
A fragment of dead things
And alive in his words,
Before he dies he wants his
Soul to shed its poetry.
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 8:34 PM UTC
Hi you say
I wish I were
The stuff of dreams or so it seems is a world of wonder if it's time to seek
What a glorious day for happy toes at play on Pismo Beach
It's a bright morning
Of another shining day
A blessing it is that Life holds sway
With a brilliant glow and van-tastic sight
All made possible by those billowing winds, huffing and puffing last night
A nice position that ensures no concern with people who flop
Is experiencing the casual ebb and flow of ultra green tree tops
Hank and Frankie had their usual convention and loud beak fights
And then dived off the balcony railing versus soaring in flight
In addition to tossing my mollusk shells for no valid reason
So I threatened them both with a flame thrower later this season
The ***** are polished with a Biore Charcoal Scrub sheen
Which helps me enjoy the neater environment that someone else just cleaned
Yet,
One never knows how that day or this will be framed
Yesterday, making miso soup, my right front stove burner burst into flames
In the ensuing panic with many motions that were manic
It was way too scary with fire alarm screaming something about a wire
Luckily, I remembered my fire safety training re how to put out a grease fire
I was cooking miso soup
How did that cause a combustible grease loop ?
All made stranger by the proverbial question of why
It's been weeks since I used the stove to fry
It just goes to show
Between the bed and the door
Near the thin edge of a sheet of paper things can turn to crapping
On any given day - at any given time - anything can happen
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 3:57 PM UTC
Elsan! I know… it sounds like a sun-kissed Spanish Beach doesn’t it?. El San!
What it is, is a make of chemical toilet. In the old days, we called it The Can!
In the yard behind a Yorkshire farmhouse… your fate & your poo - was sealed!
Grandma Ellen’s WC was the best advert for crapping alfresco out in the nearest field.
But, in a corrugated shed… a plank seat on a galvanised bin with a cranking handle.
Always best visited in daytime ‘cos after dark you’d need to take a candle.
And, when you’d achieved your goal in there… and it was past your time,
you cranked it and your extrusion disappeared in the primordial slime.
It was not a reader’s loo… No time for catching up wit’ Daily Mail.
although the paper was held neatly to the shed’s timber frame with a trusty, rusty 6inch nail.
It was cut into handy squares. And almost without fail, you’d start to read still sitting there
and, when you got into the words, readable in the gloom, they were cut off just above the tear!
No, you’d just want to get out quick… The Jeyes Fluid scent would tend to make you gag,
It didn’t even allow my cousin Alan time for a crafty *** And monthly, according to occupancy,
Uncle Charlie did the job he’d said he’d never fancy, that of struggling toward the field
to empty the contents. Ironic really that after Uncle Charlie and Auntie Nellie died
the next owners plumbed their new one - up to the new fangled mains inside!
Mar 10, 2020
Mar 10, 2020 at 6:18 PM UTC
The train has passed
We're glad she's gone
She never did much good
Monarchs, satyrs-butterflies
could ****
But, she could not
Crapping through
a tubed-up bag
Ain't no way to live
Too much weight to bury
Now they burn them
all the dead
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 2:42 PM UTC
Our bees aren't social distancing,
As they buzz about the hive;
The ants aren't wearing masks
In their pismires, yet they thrive.
Racoons wash without soap,
Llamas spit without remorse,
Monkeys' feces fill the air,
Dogs are crapping everywhere,
The watering holes of the Kalahari
Have larger crowds
Than political rallies.
Every insect, bird and beast,
With scale or feather, beak or teeth,
With legs or wings, bellies or fins,
Still swim or fly, walk or crawl;
We succumbed before them all.
It's back to Eden,
Back to the fall.
Aug 10, 2020
Aug 10, 2020 at 12:07 PM UTC
Seagulls outdone
by 'little ones'
clapping and slapping
screeching and crapping
Acting much bigger
than they are
crying and vying
to rule the roost
Cacophony clowns
competing with sound
running around
all over town
Attention grabbers
perched on pinnacles
looking down
on the others around
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 4:36 AM UTC