"defecate" poems
A strange kind of people
whose hegemonic ways dictate
and justify them
to exhort their rituals upon outsiders
and breathe fire on those
who refuse.
They have people called Slareneg
whose job it is to decide the fate
of the outsiders.
They claim to be receptive
of foreign rites
but are known to somehow be able to
coerce others into
blindly discerning matters their way.
They even have a history of
confining their own,
the ones they care not for at least,
to do their bidding for them
even though they are of akin heritage.
These people also defecate in the same place
where they consume meals.
They are backwards.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
The day I opened a Bible was a tale of two cities,
The best and the worst of times,
I could no longer lay back and leave the sand in my hourglass,
watch the days of my life drift,
while logans lurk,
wolverine around the brook in the forest,
looking to claw the hope away,
make a ridge between the family I claimed to love.
There seems to be harmony in passions,
But not even Timmy knows which spell Tabitha will cast to cause more division.
The continent of the canine always barking with it's mouth open,
Feed me,
We cry,
now we are fat with corruption,
preying on the piety of poverty,
prophiting leviathans,
the cultish land with a superstition,
fearful never able to hear the mission.
We hold fast but not to the word,
starving ourselves from understanding,
traditions trump truth,
as we defecate more dangerous nonsense into our ear holes,
perhaps we're better off,
we have some peace and food,
we don't have the rat race,
maybe I've been too sheltered,
failing to truly discern the state of the land that houses me.
I couldn't even see that my house was burning but it was cool if it was watered down by a firetruck .
I used to think that every African knows Jesus. Sometimes I act like I don't.
-Kanyanta
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
the seagull diddled
when he perched on my dock,
though no invitation extended,
no offense was taken,
when in observation,
of the foolish humanish varietal,
did it opine
*"dude,
u need to move more
and exercise those legs,
eat right,
many small meals,
like me,
write your-poetry
while in airborne motion."*
all this was spoke
while he speared and swallowed
a little river perch,
in my face,
flying off contentedly,
just to drive his point home -
directly into my gut
so should the next
pedestrian creation,
be typo'd plenty,
though,
I can walk and talk,
even chew gum simultaneously,
advice from seagulls,
who defecate on my dock,
should be taken as well,
in small sized portion control
poetry is best served,
proudly prone-ly
though I did thank him kindly,
and went back to bed...
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
I defecate in forms of riches
In the pockets of you *******
Strangle egos with my hold,
Suffocate the young and old;
Thanks to man I'll never perish,
As long as something's there to cherish;
I have everything you need--
I'll swallow you, for I am greed.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 9:26 PM UTC
Crude and ****** words are for the crude and ****** birds
As I **** **** **** and otherwise defecate on everything that ever mattered to you or I
Clever sweat beads cascade off the forehead of someone far more important than I
And the cleverest of intentions leave the cleaverest wounds in the forethoughts of those who I care for
Nevermind you or I, or the fact that these words have yet to grace the thought-o-sphere,
let us be, let us me
Let us remember who we tried to aren't.
Insecurities be ******
I have words.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
Hacked
Every hook
Every cue
Every one of my references and internal pantheon
He's wired into it.
How did that happen?
He's a stranger
I didn't even know he existed two weeks ago
And yet...
He gets it so right every time.
~~
self referential
I like it when he writes of me. To me.
That curly feeling.
His revelations, and the mirror held up.
Tribute, affection, the wry smile of a stranger.
The slightly bonkers obsession and fascination.
Glimpses of a convoluted mind.
~~
Rib Ice
Standing on thin ice
Peacoat open, arms wide
I step into that hug
Burned by warm skin and hard ribs
Even more by his kiss
He likes to hear me moan
~~
Whose mindfuck now?
Are my actions consistent with my words?
Am I as I say I am?
Do I mean what I say, or am I playing you?
How's your ******** detector?
cards on the table time
abdicate or defecate
ante up
~~
headlong
He leads me on a scavenger hunt, insinuating, enticing, pulling me into dark corners to kiss me and probe me intimately, until we're off to cross the next threshold in this trip...
I have no idea how I got here. Turned round, disoriented, down the rabbit hole.
~~
Deep Purple
On the way out
Curious discoveries
Door handle sticky
Musk in the air
Who's that knocking at my back door?
~~
Goddess, lit
I like this intimate touch I have on your mind and emotions. It makes me feel powerful and protective of you. And pulls me closer in.
When you say I am a goddess, your goddess, I suspend disbelief and nod in acknowledgment and agreement. Yes, of course. In those times, I know I am powerful, wise, feminine, and mysterious, And that you are before me, kneeling, clasping my legs, leaning on me, head against hip and belly, worshipful.
And sometimes, you clasp my wrist as I'm turning to go and pull me back, quietly certain and not to be resisted. Inevitable. And then what? Kisses? Your hand on my breast bone? Gently steadied to meet your gaze, interminably and for no time at all?
I begin to believe you won't vanish.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
I know what we have is really quite solid.
But today I convinced myself of an earthquake.
Perhaps it began on screen
Some distant, modern tragedy.
I felt
The gravity
You know the kind
Some feel in a theme park ride
At first
It was a calculated calm
A day in the park
Vision shot through
pixilated
Bedding me
under
in **** fixation.
Such is my kaleidoscope to our collective,
defecate,
fantasy.
When the world turns 'round
those candy colors
dissolve into perfect fractals
geometry.
Single-file they beam--
pushing out
pop-cultural enemas
like frosting.
And then— too bright!
A riveting newsflash
the kaleidoscope
is
cracked.
flickering
gasps.
We watch
a city as
its body's streets--
collapsed.
see the banner of
blood now runs
down the news anchor's face:
There's been a
catatonic quake.
Interrupting this program
the woman
with a saccharine smile
makes A Devastating Report:
Yes.
We're all undertow
Evacuate then buy this ****** cream
move and upgrade your resume
The water broke and the oil spilled,
but the economy is definitively
under control.
This puppetry is
sedation by generalized asphixiation,
this American Dream glaring from the T.V. screen
is mindless work
-our salvation-
Harder work? Isolated suffering.
What with toxic invasion,
designer cantaloupe to nuclear waste,
more storms and third world turnover rates.
Higher and higher inflation,
predatory insurance claims-
minimum wage won't cover my education.
Bloated babies
not on T.V. and not in Africa
but holding Mamma's hand
loitering downtown,
near the grocery chains.
See the quake perpetuate:
These are American hunger pangs.
Occupy for Change.
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 1:22 AM UTC
Its a minute past midnight
My thoughts won't let me sleep
Memories are haunting me
I think of the last time I saw you
The pipes in my eyes burst
Impure water is released
Salty drops that carry untold pain
From the eyes to my soul
I never should have let you go
The walls of my life are a prison cell now
I watch as reality slices me
Sadness swallows me
Truth digest me and
Regrets defecate me
I close my eyes in the hopes of not waking up in the morning
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
i can
conjurer up words
mix delicate
intricacies of verse
with poetic license
i might defecate
upon scripted genius
of the past
a scourge
on the eloquence
of perfected prose
a pariah
with semantics
that hang in the air
like a frequented noose
the rhetoric of
this rhetoric
both dumbfounds
and delights
the agenda of the learned;
to supress
the syntax spat forth
the phlegm and catarrh
of a gut
of derivatives
i could compose
a verse
for young lovers
to cherish
if i could
only stop
the rot;
genius
nonsense
or ignorance
i couldn't
tell you
which
May 7, 2022
May 7, 2022 at 7:41 PM UTC
We...
Eat only to hunger,
Drink only to thirst,
Rest only to tire,
Defecate only to eat,
********* only to be aroused,
And so goes the merry-go-round!
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
The night was made for loving
But the days are said to be
The death of a poet’s eye before,
He says what has to be said.
There’s no heat in the city,
Only depression and misery
All around town, no garbage collection,
Only rental units with
high vacancy rates seems counterintuitive,
The colours of the disposable bags
Said, sacks and waste, bed bugs, and roaches,
So take your landlord to court and come out on top
Said the poet, before death trap us
As I drove around the city, my heart is oppressed with
anguish to the very point of death that surround us.
That awful display on every city block.
Homeless men and women urinate, defecate,
Behind, the doors and alleys,
we need a wind of change today
the night not so much matter
However, it’s the day after everything comes to light,
Another lost soul, another day to push forward
Is it illegal to be homeless, when trying to try to stay alive?
The Devil will try to stop anything good!
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 8:26 AM UTC
it has become
cliché
we know
the once delicious
alien
names are
only
everyday
not
fiercesome
not
fiendish
not promises of
blood
drenched
daggers anymore.
these names were
standards
rally around the flag wear the flag
proudly
pin-striped lapel on porch on bumper
these names
fail
fall
flat
we must seek
something new flavored with
just the right taste of
wet
iron
new
rallying cry to
gather in
constructed
terror
behind
architecture
unknown
shelter
united deflected covered wrapped
against
this
shiny new promise
seductive new enemy more
toothsome
sharper
and
we are re
focused dis-
tracted
bound to-
gether
against
new pre-
fabricated
foe
with tasty new name
and we can watch mouths agape
drooling
fascinated
seduced
titillated
the new-fashioned series waiting for
next
exciting
episode
while outside
elsewhere
plump ravenous generals
masticate
digest
defecate
small
carcasses
empty
skulls
shredded
skin
under a
building-powdered
once golden
dome
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
I see myself draped in red from the waste down, locking the door of a carpeted bathroom to which I may or may not have a right according to the owner.
I do have a right, though, for I forever outrun owners and dignitaries, malcontents and over-fed politicians.
I defecate happily something harsh to their ears but soft on my *** Gratefully, I turn the page to another day. This one will not catch me in such distress.
My bowel symphony this morning has four movements and I begin to get impatient after the third because I've made up my mind that I want to read Fitzgerald.
The fourth comes appeasingly and short, a toot in good nature and I clean myself quickly, completely.
I hop downstairs to comb my hair and eat carrots. But my mother is chasing after me stronger than usual, still holding the pill she wants me to take.
I get the carrot and end the poem.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 4:26 AM UTC
My nails are perfectly manicured, and nice to look at,
But they took ten minutes to start punching the keyboard.
Lethargy is not beautiful.
They had no trouble gripping the stem of the martini I mixed,
With a few of the pickled ingredients that were supposed to mask the heavily peppered *****
But my lips still burn with every dipping.
Only after settling on self-indulgence,
Did I start pressing down on the sticky keys.
I used a lot of commas,
And I painted satisfactorily crap images,
that would allow me to describe destruction.
This rotten passage lets me fantasize about slamming my laptop shut,
Gripping the end between my two fat lazy hands,
And slamming it against the ****** living room wall
That separates me from my ****** bedroom.
My words are violent,
But that just isn't enough.
When you can’t blame emotions on a subject, or a person,
You can transfer them to something physical.
You can crumple it, shatter it, burn it.
You can destroy and indulge in your heavy soul.
You can self-deprecate
Defecate
Alleviate.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
There she is sneaking around
hush, you will not hear her pads on the ground
soft claws withdrawn with venom within
little killer of sparrows and mice
You knock my favorite ornaments
and they go crashing to the ground
I do care for you
but you make me so so lonely
My pleasant garden I grow
now dies by your feet
as you, my feline friend
you defecate all over my flowers
Don't take it in the wrong way
but you are a pussycat thief
killing my plants
then hiding your doing's under leaf
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
while out and about
an unexpected over bare ring bout
to defecate arose,
where sphincter asserted clout
and would excrete
despite without doubt...
if closing distance
(to reach rental abode)
beaten out by loosening sphincter muscle
transmitting excretory code
set sights on prowl for outlawed, secluded,
and wooded make shift commode
and essentially for naught negating
toddler toilet training, sans
getting ***** trained undone
via my ***** ready to explode
and blast immense solid waste byproduct
(oh...close to the size of Rhode Island)
thus a marathon race against time
found immediate readiness to pull off roadside
to access make shift water closet
generating image firmly in pooping mode
grabbing hold of a tree trunk
(a mini rocky horror picture show, -
this analogy included for no particular reason
other than as a non-sequitur)
and also to convey, how I tried
to allay distractions
while painful contractions flowed
(perhaps approximating a woman
on verge of giving birth)
but...no matter, aye could envision,
an ever increasing heavy m**f*** load
hence approaching Highland Manor Apartments
this chap abandoned
prior simultaneous evacuation plan
starkly aware probability for secluded spot sunk
(nonetheless, thy darting darting
anguish, futile lizard like lookout,
a geico Gekko whose cheeks did blush
even for a measly Georgian bush
quickened nsync with ****** spasms
visual scouting industrialized
where backhoes didst crush
once a time sacred happy hunting grounds
of native Americans, now flush
with newly built vinyl city re: urban sprawl a gush,
where cookie cutter houses long since bringing hush
puppies muzzled, yet never the less and mush
a doo doo about nothing) except sprint
ting to a void push
immortalizing indigenous tribes ghosts rush
peopling infrastructure affixing
urbanization with their warrior whoosh!
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 4:25 PM UTC
people eat each other.
they lick the skin,
fresh from the shower,
from the gym,
sweating with
salt and pheromones
and then nibble.
Take a bite,
a test taste. Most
don’t know it until
they are full, having
eaten their share.
They walk away carrying,
pregnant, someone else,
that they will defecate
in a perfectly tapered log
kept as reference.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 12:48 PM UTC
Can a 9 mm lead composite slug introduced
to a human anatomy at high velocity turn to gold at
Point of exit ? No.
Will that human composite of blood and bone change forever ?
Will a bear defecate in the woods ?
Words not war.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 8:14 AM UTC
Today comes alacrity aloof
My face is sagging now, should I cut it or let loose,
These amorphous little greys on my front structure
Are out of control
They dip in my soup
They sit in my bowl
And I am wondering,
Why am I getting skinnier"
My beard eats all my food
And the beard defecate's it back out
Through my armpits.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
You look at me with such contempt
A room filled with the smell of
Water lilies and ***
I am done with you
I do not ask you to stay
I watch you leave
Slamming the door
The noise echoes in my ears
I lost my purity years ago
That does not ease the ache
Between my legs
Or the throb in my chest
The moon will bloom tonight
And I will plant it in my bed
I will lie with it
And **** on its glow
Like a newborn
Filling my body with youth
And purity all again
A fresh ******
I am reborn
Only to fall victim to sin
To defecate and purge
All beauty in my brain
I cannot ask the moon
To come lie with me again
I cannot breathe in night
To give me lungs.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 9:59 PM UTC
Red winged blackbirds gather by the hundreds , like a few honest men and women , running for public office . Most blackbirds have someplace to be , far removed from publicity ..Incumbent Vultures pick up rotted flesh beneath them , fly in circles , pinpoint their next meal .!..Blackbirds focus on their survival , flying quickly South to avoid potential hardship ...Rarely do the two come together , Vultures voraciously feed , scoff at the Winter ! .Blackbirds leave droppings as they retreat ...Vultures defecate where they feed !..Scream selfishly picking a carcass ...Leaving nothing but bones and gristle ! Are blackbirds and vultures birds of a feather ? Does the sighting of one portend arrival of the other ? Beware , be mindful of the blackbirds of Fall , for the Vultures have a mind to consume them all !
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
You are mortal,
regardless of how you choose
to go about it. There will be
an infinite amount of time
surrounding the beginning
and end
of your hilariously brief existence.
The universe will go on without you.
You are one
out of seven billion
humans, inhabiting a planet
we are slowly destroying,
orbiting about
an un-noteworthy star
within a dull suburb of
the Milky Way Galaxy—
one out of billions, by the way—
which is expected
to eventually collide with Andromeda,
flinging Earth like a ping-pong ball
into oblivion.
No matter what you have done
with your life, or
how special you think you are,
we are all
born naked
and screaming,
and defecate when we die.
You will eventually be a corpse.
Your beautiful
animate
breathing body
will decompose into something
revolting.
If it’s any consolation, your mistakes
(like your achievements) mean nothing.
What have you got to lose?
Don’t discard the fruit
blemished only
by one unsightly spot—
Let its juices drip
savagely down your chin;
savor the frustratingly temporary
sweetness
that will never be tasted again.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
I want to pull a Jack Kerouac
A car
A friend
And the open road
Now my mom will probably **** herself when I tell her this
But I want to go 80 across America
I want to drive with the wind sending chills down my spine
I want to go
I want to leave this **** hole of South Haven
I want to cruise coast to coast
Just stopping to urinate, defecate and get gas
Jamming to the Beatles, The Stones, and Cat Stevens the whole way
***** the AC we won't need that
No point with the top down
Collecting bugs in my mouth
And a smile on my face
Writing rigorously like a mad man with no money but the singles in my pocket
I want to break the sound barrier with a Volvo 240
Just me her
The wind
pavement
Sleeping at the ********* motels money can buy
Stomaching on spam and whatever's on sale
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC
PURE is attractive
because they can corrupt it--
they can tear it to shreds,
leaving tears in your eyes;
defecate on the innocent
like stealing candy from a baby
And once you are used
like a tool, worn out
from the pain,
the pleasure
The masked face
The empty face-like death-
coming to reap your soul
and **** your heart
***** is old and bent
flexible like a contortionist
whose bones were removed
by force.
Tie me up and beat me--
until i erode like a mineral,
until i dissolve from solid to liquid,
until i break down my components--
I'm all I've got left
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 10:54 PM UTC
You want to play war,
you think you’re so tough,
go ahead then,
I’ve got something
for your belligerence.
That’s right,
put up your dukes,
let’s fight!
O yeah soldier,
sniff some of my vapor,
inhale it deep,
get a good whiff.
At first you’ll get a runny nose,
probably try to rip off your clothes,
you’ll have trouble breathing
with a constricted chest,
as your pupils dilate,
you’ll make a confessional,
get blistered.
Then you’ll *****
urinate & defecate,
soil your pants,
do the funky-monkey
spin spastic
& keel over
with a closed-throat,
stone cold dead.
You see,
I am the result
of diabolical science,
I’m manufactured specifically
to ruin your day
& I will.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC