"defecating" poems
waste matter discharged from the mother's bowels; feces,
excreta, stools, droppings; waste matter,
ordure, dung; **** poo, dirt, turds, ****
"cleaning up ferret excrement":
mid 16th century: from French excrément
or Latin excrementum, from excernere ‘to sift out’ feces;
act of defecating;
a contemptible or worthless person;
something worthless; garbage; nonsense;
"this book is **** unpleasant experiences
or treatment; "I went through a lot of **** last year"
things or stuff, especially personal belongings;
"he left all his **** in my apartment"
events or circumstances;
_"some crazy **** went down last night"_
any psychoactive drug, especially marijuana [the good ****
good **** verb: **** 3rd person present: *****
past tense: ******* past participle: *******
past tense: **** past participle: **** past tense: shat;
past participle: shat; gerund or present participle: ********
expel feces from the body,
soiling one's clothes as a result;
expelling feces accidentally; very frightened.
tease or try to deceive someone or thing.
"I **** you not" exclamation
exclamation: ****
[exclamation of disgust, anger, or annoyance]
Old English scitte ‘diarrhea,’ of Germanic origin;
related to Dutch schijten, German scheissen [verb];
_The term was originally neutral and used without ****** connotation_;
*********** from Greek κόπρος,
kópros—excrement & φιλία, philía—
liking, fondness, also called scatophilia
or **** [Greek: σκατά, skatá-feces],
is the paraphilia involving
****** arousal & pleasure
from specific feces;
meanly, his mother said, _u can drink my ***
but don't eat my **** then she ****
& *** & the boy drank but when
he put the warm **** to his mouth,
she slapped it out of his hand &
yelled, I told u not to eat my ****
& the boy began to cry & feeling
bad his mother turned to let him lick
the bowl & rim the moist wet hole between
her pudgy cheeks & then gave him more
of her tangy *** to drink like lemonade
& chocolate chips, sometimes it was
more like sweet sherbet; but she never
hit him again & he's been eating her ****
ever since; now, his wife lets him drink
her *** & he eats from the baby's *****
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
They're a funny lot, some of these poets,
feisty feminists, dreamers, anti-money,
and even some who are very self-defecating
about themselves.
And then there's the literary, learned allusion lot,
and some who've got their eye on eternity, that's what,
and others who rub too much turps on the **** of their imagination.
But it's the long-winded poets who make me squirm,
and for god’s sake, give me a bottle of red wine when the ones
with blue-rinse hair get up to have their turn.
They're terribly nice, but they need an echidna
stuffed right up you know where - at least once, if not twice.
And give me another bottle of the red, even if it's rough,
or better still a whole case of that stuff,
just to protect me from those who bleed too much in poems.
Psychoanalytic stuff makes me paralytic
and I have to stifle groans.
But most of all, I like the poets with their tongues on fire,
the ones who lick lightening before they write
and who throw a sizzling poem down
like a thunderbolt from Zeus.
I like poems marsh mellow soft and bitter-sweet, too,
and those oozing with the juice. And if a poem's loud and flash,
so what? I like a bit of swagger, with shameless **** and ***
And sometimes, I just like words that rhyme with licorice,
Dionysius, Priapus, Bacchus and preposterous!
Also, what the **** a poem can even give offense.
Poets sometimes need to do this to stop indifference.
They call this poet's license, but really,
indifference is the only hell from which
us poets need deliverance.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 6:56 AM UTC
Some of the first mecha featured in manga
& anime were super robots [スーパーロボット _sūpā robotto_],
ultimate, sometimes transforming into weapons
w/ superpowers. They are often one of a kind
products of an ancient civilization, aliens or
mad genius, are usually piloted by Japanese teenagers
& often powered by mystical or exotic energy sources;
Getter Rays, Photonic Energy, Ide, Spiral Power &c.
Sometimes they are formed from
a combination of a few weaker robots;
their abilities described as "quasi-magical";
w/ Miss America becoming less & less
a beauty pageant, it's only a matter of time
before Medusa inherits the mantle;
the revived gods of the ancient world
crossing the rainbow bridge to do battle w/
high-tech monster robots; AI meaning nothing to a flying fist;
Apotheosis, from Greek ἀποθέωσις from ἀποθεοῦν,
apotheoun "to deify"; in Latin deificatio "make divine";
also called divinization & deification;
is the glorification of a subject to divine level;
The term has meanings in theology, where it refers to a belief in art where it refers to a genre;
Defecation is the final act of digestion,
by which organisms eliminate solid, semisolid,
or liquid waste material from the digestive tract via the ****
Humans expel feces w/ a frequency varying
from a few times daily to a few times weekly;
Waves of muscular contraction known as peristalsis
in the walls of the colon move ***** matter
through the digestive tract towards the ******
Undigested food may also be expelled this way,
in a process called _egestion_
Open defecation, the practice of defecating outside
w/out using a toilet of any kind,
is still widespread in some countries,
for example in India, home of the
heroic deities of Hinduism that evolved
from the Vedic era 2nd millennium BCE
through the medieval era, 1st millennium CE
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC
What was her name?
**** I can’t remember.
It was a boy’s name
made feminine
with a little “i” at the end
like maybe hearing it would
make you think of
some fat guy making pizzas
until you see it
spelled out or
until it becomes attached
to her lips and hair and
skin.
The “i” was not dotted
with a little heart,
(not her style at all) but
I should have a picture
in a box some where with more pictures.
I don’t.
I’ve got little notes,
tiny thoughts scribbled
on empty match book covers,
on the backs of
pretentious
business cards,
in the borders of
the mutilated,
amputated flesh
of decrepit
used up yellow pages,
ripped from a dead and
disjointed phone book.
I woke up from this dream
and groped for something
to scrawl on,
anything,
because it seemed significant
at 2:38 am.
In the desert somewhere,
(I’ve never even been)
you were
looking out the window
and the way the parched
dry light crackled
around you
you might have been an angel
or a sign
partially occluded by glass
advertising something
I could never afford
like family or god
when suddenly you were not
a silhouette,
not back lit,
but glowing.
You were so in love, with
who I don’t know, and you
went into free fall
back
onto the bed
pulled your knees up
to your chest and
kicked your legs giggling.
I was part dead, half ghost
and still happy that you
were so happy.
I said, “you’re pregnant?”
knowing the way you
know things without
really having a way
of knowing
in a dream.
You laughed again
grabbed your little dog up
in your arms,
(I’ve no idea where the pup
came from), and baby-whispered,
“You’re going to cut
the umbilical,
aren’t you?”
and I woke with
the image of that mongrel
chewing through
the cord.
I am
waiting at the pharmacy
and the…
technician,
is reading the
cryptic symbols
penned in
indiscernible Latin,
my prescription.
She is not beautiful
but very fuckable
And in my mind
I am constructing an
image of her ******
likening
the shape,
size, color, etc.,
to her mouth,
when I see
my own writing on
the back
through her precise
fingers.
The tech,
she is holding a
snapshot of her.
It might as well be
a picture of me
vomiting or
************ or
defecating.
This
is what I have left,
my version of a photo,
my dream,
scrawled on the back
of my medicine.
**** getting better.
I ****** it from her hand.
I leave fast. I will
never go back.
This is no chemical imbalance.
This is not my inheritance.
The loss and pain, sometimes,
that's the pill we need to swallow.
Oct 30, 2011
Oct 30, 2011 at 11:14 PM UTC
we did not Dye in vain!
by michael r. burch
(from “songs of the sea snails”)
though i’m just a slimy crawler,
my lineage is proud:
my forebears gave their lives
(oh, let the trumps blare loud!)
so purple-mantled Royals
might stand out in a crowd.
i salute you, fellow loyals,
who labor without scruple
as your incomes fall
while deficits quadruple
to swaddle unjust Lords
in bright imperial purple!
Originally published by The American Dissident
Notes: In ancient times the purple dye produced from the secretions of purpura mollusks (sea snails) was known as “Tyrian purple,” “royal purple” and “imperial purple.” It was greatly prized in antiquity, and was very expensive according to the historian Theopompus: “Purple for dyes fetched its weight in silver at Colophon.” Thus, purple-dyed fabrics became status symbols, and laws often prevented commoners from possessing them. The production of Tyrian purple was tightly controlled in Byzantium, where the imperial court restricted its use to the coloring of imperial silks. A child born to the reigning emperor was literally porphyrogenitos ("born to the purple") because the imperial birthing apartment was walled in porphyry, a purple-hued rock, and draped with purple silks. Royal babies were swaddled in purple; we know this because the iconodules, who disagreed with the emperor Constantine about the veneration of images, accused him of defecating on his imperial purple swaddling clothes!
Keywords/Tags: royal, purple, imperial, Tyrian, Byzantium, porphyry, swaddling, clothes, porphyrogenitos, mollusks, sea snails, royalty, kings, lords, emperors, popes
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 4:35 AM UTC
suds fall on black like endless snow.
tarnished paint to spry—
engine's diminutive breath
clout of metal coil, ballasts of portent...
defacing the fog and giving
it a brand new meaning. beside the rice fields in sullen Bulacan,
i ache for the frog defecating
on this tortured piece of land.
birds in migratory V-positions cleave
the azure, vanishing behind the tough ornate. to whence they flee
and to where they shall land
on their poised talons, i do not know.
underneath the dermis and over
it, a long stillness of waiting,
trapped is this
man of Earth.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 3:43 AM UTC
Sing to me, O dark vault of night.
The divine muse is upon me;
Up on my shoulders.
She doesn’t appear to have
anything instructive to say
apart from “And how the ruddy,
blasted, Viking-snogging,
****** ****** mother-defecating
hell did I get up here!?”
Inspiring words indeed.
Apr 9, 2010
Apr 9, 2010 at 1:04 PM UTC
I TOOK WALK TO BULLER BEACH
I COULD NOT WALK ON THE SAND WITH MY BARE FEET
THE WAVES BROUGHT TO THE SHORE TAMPONS, CONDOMS AND PLASTIC
EVERYWHERE WAS CHAOTIC
THE SEAS HAVE BECOME A DUMPING SITE
WITH ******* PILED TO AN UNIMAGINABLE HEIGHT
MEN, WOMEN AND CHILDREN DEFECATING ON ROCKS
WITH NO SHAME
NO WONDER ITS NAME
TURTLES , DOLPHINS AND SEA BIRDS ARE DYING
THEY SWALLOW PLASTICS AND DIE FROM CHOKING
IF FISHER MEN ARE CATCHING PLASTIC TRASH
HOW CAN THEY MAKE MORE CASH?
CHANGE UR WAYS
AVOID THE TAKEAWAYS
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 8:58 AM UTC
subhuman.
desolation.
desolation.
discrimination.
distribution
It's nothing but a everlasting dynamo.
Powered by anger and rage
it will never cease to turn.
Spawning
the hatred that has conquered our race.
Overcoming
the mutual love that has seeped through the cracks.
Defecating
the morals of those immoral.
Foundations
that our fathers built
have been destroyed.
Killing
the dream that
is now a nightmare.
Suffocating
the choices that define us.
Abandoning
all hope, ye who enter here.
Deformation
of the unborn child.
God.
Heaven.
Hell.
Earth.
Nature.
You.
Me.
Them.
All of us.
We're all the same.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 6:34 PM UTC
Shortly after the school systems began defecating on the dreams of my generation,
We found different outlets
Through which we could bring our loathing to a head.
My generation now writes poetry and
Finds solace in video games we can beat
In lives we can't seem to live the right way.
It's funny to me that The Legend of Zelda,
When completed,
Tells you that "You are great!"
While your teacher berates you for being sub-par
Though you tried your damnedest
To please them through drafts and drafts
And drafts of work
Spat out at 4am because
There are more important things to deal with
In regular waking hours,
In regular waking life.
They tell us that we have failed
Because we ****** up in one class,
A single credit,
A single number on a sheet of paper
That tries to measure us
When we can't even attempt to do the same.
They tell us we have failed
Because we do not look good on file
And apparently we do not look good
Walking down the street
With ****** eyes and baggy sweaters,
The only clean clothes we own
Because the system has ****** us clean of time
To do much else than
Study, study, STUDY our **** lives away.
This is atrocious.
When a young boy feels more accomplished
Beating Pokemon
Than he does when he writes a stellar paper,
The best he can pen
Only to be told he has a lot more work to do
And that the paper
"Is good...
But it needs work."
The culture of my generation does not discriminate.
It does not tell us that we have more work to do.
Instead, it tells us that "we are great" and
It gives us a restart screen when we **** up beyond repair.
It does not tell us we have failed,
Instead offers us a kind
"Try again?"
It is sad
When the voice over of a video game
Offers more kindness
Than our instructors and parents
Combined.
School should not send us home, wanting to **** ourselves.
The system should not make a pen cap,
A pair of underpants, a simple metal bookmark
A weapon
In the hands of the human entity of depression.
We will not be marked suicide risks.
As long as we keep getting our restart screens and
Compliments from bits,
We will triumph.
We will be the heroes of our generation
As long as we keep getting the chance.
One day, when all the suffering is over
And we have escaped this war-torn soul of "The Caring Community,"
Maybe those words will extend from an NES and find their way
Into the mouth of a boyfriend, girlfriend,
Wife, husband, friend, professor...
Someday, we will hear the words and we will truly believe them.
"You are great!"
Maybe not today...
But someday.
Soon.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC
So they cut
These words
Like the blade that sung your melody
As you cast it from your razor
Or your plethora of phrases
Come backs
Snarky remarks
And stainless steel
Like frost bitten angels we wail
And spit words like knives
If insults could sever arteries
We'd be less
Left
For dead
So we cut
With shaking hands and quivering jawlines
We cut with our moms good sewing scissors
And bitter cusses
And self defecating tunes
To save our souls from being cut by someone else
We are our own
Worst enemy
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 7:15 AM UTC
I'm gonna run away from humanity.
Stop eating, defecating, urinating,
consuming, moving, dying, lying, loving,.........(the samsara subset; with a cardinality of the continuum)
I'll take a long good look at God and say,
"Thanks for the apple mate, but I've got bigger fish to fry:
Thanks for the life, but it wasn't all it was cracked up to be."
There was a telephone booth
next to me which I promptly
occupied. I stood there waiting,
wading in my brain seizures.
Someone came an knocked on
the glass saying, "Hey man,
I need to use that thing!"
"I'm waiting!" I say.
"Waiting for what?"
"A phone call from God."
The reply sent shivers down
the spine of the receiver,
sending some kind of
illegible morse code.
The telephone line spoke in tongues.
If you couldn't tell, I'm a pretty jolly fellow.
Fun to have at parties, where I practically **** at all the mirth.
Not because I'm some kind of offset of Richard III, where it's some kind of "winter of discontent," I'm not some kind of scrooge ******** myself out of happiness! it's a much deeper objection.
If you must know, it's because of the trees.
It's life that makes me love death.
It's the beautiful that makes me ugly.
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 3:21 PM UTC
The animals
are driving their cars,
the animals...
with their streetlamps
and traffic lights
and their red stop signs.
The animals...
The animals
are gangsters in black,
the animals...
with their hand guns
and sharp knives
and their backward hats.
The animals...
The animals
are hiding in bricks,
the animals...
with their arm chairs
and hallway rugs,
they're full of ****
The animals...
The animals
are urinating,
the animals
are defecating,
the animals
have fancy bathrooms,
the animals
are ******* in the next room,
it's highly irritating.
The animals
are trying so hard,
the animals...
with their therapy,
prescription drugs
and their self-help books.
The animals
are trying so hard!
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
I write at night, it seems the best way
to deal with the horror of day.
Quietude, peace and darkness surround me
Clears my mind, focuses my thoughts.
Allows me to demonstrate through words
my understanding, of this, they call living.
Living in the light of day, means a lot of
shadow play, fake smiles, small talk,
neighbourly actions, following the rules
to keep you in your place.
Being friendly, making small talk, pretending to care.
When all you want to do is lock them all in a zoo.
Gossip, malice, neighbourly disputes, cars scratched
Dogs defecating, owners not caring, traffic noise
Kids shouting, parents shouting, horns blaring.
Pretence, grievance, affectation, keeping up appearances.
Front door closed, you realise that you're feigning interest.
Hypocrisy reigns during the day.
Pretension, feigning interest, losing your soul to the classes
the masses, paying lip-service to the day.
When all you want is the night and to be able to say
**** off. Leave me to the chill calm of the night, and to write.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 10:26 AM UTC
It’s a Hard Knocks Life.
Learn, unlearn, violence, survive, thrive, and drive on.
The old mind.
To sit and listen to the words being uttered by those who have seen many things and done many but have not been through many winters.
The mind like the liver, always replenishing, always detoxifying, understanding sordid experiences, taking in only that which is needed and defecating that which is not.
The old mind, an androgynous creature of the divine, collector of tales, never a shape but ethereal, and delicate.
A place where I would return to become young, to empty my thoughts of judgements, to sacrifice and become anew.
The old mind like the snake sheds its designer skin of camouflage.
Life and-or death, but the old mind remains. Knowledge replenished. Identity affirmed, the old mind becomes a new, designs and redesigns, coalesce living experiences.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 12:06 PM UTC
In Ulzana's Raid,
the Native- and European-American concepts of property
ownership and rights
are incompatible and irresolvable. McIntosh
had no illusions about that. He said hating Apaches for killing
whites
is like hating the desert for having no water.
I suspect the movie's not a good source of anthropological
data
and overlooks the commonalities among human communities
to focus on just a few bold characters
as all art must.
I consider McIntosh fortunate
to have died commensurate with the way he lived his life,
rolling a final cigarette, nothing between him and the desert,
and no gravediggers waiting, jesting, defecating. Also,
he is lucky to have had one last, dispassionate friend
to whom there is nothing left to say, the Chiracahua tracher
Kah-ti-nay.
Last night's performance of Beauty and the Beast
may have been the most victorious, ecstatic, cohesive
moment in our little school's history. Emily was Beauty, a
filament of energy
who doesn't like to be touched and has been known to punch
boys hard. She had memorized her lines until she was hardly
Emily but only Beauty in a blue dress unselfconsciously
hiking up her tights between the Beast's advances.
Is this done in every American town and the world
over so there's no need to feel lost or lonely
ever?
There is no context for a man
outside the platoon or raiding party, home or shop.
When violence comes to the neighborhood,
the hierarchy of communicants will hold or fold
it is then the peace work proves relevant. I noticed McIntosh,
grizzled as he was, accepted the given hierarchy, a raw
lieutenant's orders,
as he did the desert and Apaches, with a shrug and
foreknowledge
of the outcome.
If there's anywhere with no Emily or Beauty
we should bring them such blessings at the point of a
gun. But there is no place without Emily, not
the least-known prison in deepest space as long
as we do not hate or hurt or shun
the Beast.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 6:41 AM UTC
we walk along the edge,
bodies lay, scattered, mangled,
leaves.
we notice tire marks in the mud,
the rains last week weeped on this scene.
the concrete feels meek,
ready to bust. feet upon its back
too much. the scores of energy
pulsing up naturally relax its stance.
the plants find single slits of space
and reach for the sun.
the land prepared to bake in the sun
with bodies of friends, slowly breaking
down. life released into the air.
we breath it in as we approach the mesquite.
we knew from glances ahead
her home was raided.
we come to find the ground shaken,
dug up, ripped with a force to ****
she is gone and her team of nourishing cousin
are too.
none survived the pillage of the
big white truck.
bodies, leaves, roots, blood of kin
poured into her skin, charging now.
the final message is,
rebirth! alive!
my eyes fill, my heart sighs.
the dark skies claim their victory.
the black fate of new.
all must return to her womb
and live again. i return to her womb
to live again.
we say prayers over our friends
and celebrate the time they had.
days before we were working with them,
right here, amongst living, breathing
beings of the light.
we harvested,
stored bits of their coding.
hoping their roots survive the assault.
in the city, we live cloudy visions,
manicured horizon, the eye shines
bright away from the skyline.
that night eye is watchful and we see
the life walk alongside.
we see the stars slowly twisting clockwise,
we know all the vibrations have been here,
before and will always prosper.
we reenter and the movements get
harder to see.
soon the night lights are on,
we are defecating in our water
and mass murdering healing beings.
and yet they still believe in us.
still grow for our shot at life.
at the very least,
they died knowing my children and i.
they died knowing they were seen and
recognized.
and the block moves on swiftly.
we end our survey and we see
survivors! a small patch of community.
the roots all sing and stretch to
send these beings energy,
love,
attention.
look, a new bud is forming.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 7:13 PM UTC
Most of my tries to
be funny end up being
self-defecating.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
After defecating
no tissue to wipe
our buttocks
no dry leaves to clean
our hands
no water to wash our
body
the government promised
the tissue
But their promise is christ
second coming
thousand years elapse
no sign of fullfilment
flies feast on our feaces
gurnor chased away
The air is Carbon (iv) Oxide
feaces taint it
when is the true Messaiah
coming?
Perhaps! God is the answer
the mother hen will protect
her children against the hawk
At dawn
the dogs swallowed
our feaces,leaked our hands
The answer is God
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 6:17 AM UTC
Well, I had to let it go - I just had to let it go.
I don’t know why I’m writing - I seriously don’t. You can believe, or not - it doesn’t matter in all honesty to me - but I do care. I actually always care. I care about the children and the sun and China and India and Africa and war and peace and food and water and highs and lows and the earth and the air and the grand color of life sewn into the fabric of experience through eyes and minds and legs and lives. How could I not care? To not care is borderline-blasphemy - it’s spitting in the face of God and defecating on the golden throne of responsibility. Having a life is a responsibility - one of massive cosmic proportions.
And so I wait for a call, from a friend, about business concerning sound and growth and direction and sharing - something along those lines...and I wait, and I wait - in the rain, on a cloud, in the street, alone, waiting. It’s okay - not quite as bad as it seems, but everything has a mask if you look at it in the right light (or shadow?). Perhaps, just perhaps...but here I am waiting for a call, and I’m thinking about a girl - about love - and I know that where I am is exactly where I’m supposed to be, but it’s sort of sad when you wish that somebody close to your heart is standing there with you, perhaps not even talking, but simply taking in the silence for what it truly is - beauty beyond life and death and dreams and the rest...beauty beyond idea and form...beauty beyond beauty - just love...love is all, and love is truth.
I wonder sometimes about my privilege in a “first-world world” and how I’m too lazy for my own good...sometimes I wonder what somebody else would do in my place if they were me and I were them...sometimes I wonder if I wonder too much...sometimes I wonder if anyone notices or even cares that I’m lost in the cosmic space of my own mind, swimming through endless wonderings about this and that and everything and nothing all together and between it all...sometimes I wonder what it’s like to stop wondering...
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 5:51 PM UTC
The News Today
Louvre in Paris has closed its door the staffs stand
on the steps and sing the national anthem they have
no lifeboats and can't stop Louvre being filled with
the art of debris, cleaning up will be a headache
what is art and what is *******
Meanwhile, 80 million rats have sought higher ground
occupying rich people’s homes sleeping and eating silk
sheets and Foie gras get drunk and aggressive on rare
wine and defecating on Persian carpets
Also in the news, a boy in Japan has been dancing with
bears and eating their blueberry jam.
The boy says he will be a zookeeper when he grows up
to put his parents in a cage. The rest of the news is boring
the routine stuff about useless wars on sand dunes
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 8:13 AM UTC
I'm suffocating without compare
Drowning in a sea of panic I shout "Unfair"
Time's defecating on all that has been waiting
Frowning at my screams that are sounding
Replicating a monumental crowning
Separating from all around me
Contusions have induced confusion
Making me question "is this all an illusion"
A fusion of a lesson, and sins confession
Losing the best of any possible relation
My desire for His Fire another complication
Am I a liar for not giving her communication
That this might halt us sharing sensation
That his sight shalt cause me to be shun
By the one whom I love, at least it's been fun
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
In the peak summer season, on a bright blue morning,
I saw 2 worlds as I travelled to my calling.
I saw a man sitting dehydrated in front of the sparkling blue lake,
And a man defecating right beside the cow dung cake.
I saw an ambulance sitting idly by,
And a son driving his sick father, unable to let out a cry.
I saw a girl with her head out the sunroof, enjoying the cool summer breeze,
And a little kid trying to hold down his kaccha house, down on the ground scraping his knees.
I saw a woman tending to the roadside hedge,
And another throwing an empty bottle at its edge.
I saw a bungalow’s water tank leaking,
And a man straining gutter water that was positively reeking.
I saw 2 worlds,
One with a necklace of stones and one made of pearls.
Under that same bright blue sky,
I saw 2 worlds - one that waited to be buried and one that longed to fly.
Apr 10, 2025
Apr 10, 2025 at 8:59 AM UTC
at one point
ranks of flowers
lined the garden;
none of which
i could name
nor did i care
to learn
but at full bloom
staring into that kaleidoscope
those colours and the shapes;
there was catharsis
looking now
the garden is
a palette smeared
a spectrum of brown;
brownish yellow
greeny brown
brown on
slightly darker brown
the dog maintains eye contact
while defecating
on the flower beds;
and this is also
strangely cathartic
Nov 25, 2020
Nov 25, 2020 at 11:37 AM UTC