"defecation" 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
*Another "randyhornbag" poem for all avid fans of *******
rip off my dripping *******
and part my waiting **********
sniff my fresh-scrubbed ****
then rim me ******* senseless
taste the sweet-sour tang
of my recent defecation
force your ***** mouth-prick
past my eager sphincter
seeking to engulf me
in my ****** cum-lust
and now for our delectation
shove your huge **** up me
and fill me with your hot *****
or fist me till I scream
my ******* brains out and
then **** myself in terror
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
The parasympathetic nervous system
is responsible for regulations
unconsciously transpiring
within the organs and
the glands of
the body.
Such as:
urination, salivation, digestion, defecation, and
lacrimation
(noun. ‘the flow of tears’. Latin.
from lacrimare (‘weep’) and lacrima (‘tear’).
It’s why I cry
even when I don’t want to.
You are the parasympathetic nervous system.
The (ortho-)sympathetic nervous system
is responsible for the mobilization
of the fight-or-flight response
and constantly maintaining
homeostasis within
the body.
It acts
rapidly, enacting an attempt at stability and
the necessary and critical ability
to suddenly escape
on pulsing legs or
cling to survival through
brandishing adrenaline-doused knuckles
and dilated pupils.
It’s why you live
even when you don’t want to.
I am the sympathetic nervous system.
The parasympathetic and sympathetic nervous systems
are two of three essential nervous systems which
compose the autonomic nervous system
(a part of the peripheral
nervous system)
that manages
involuntary
functions of the body. Such as:
swallowing, perspiration, arousal, breathing, and
heart rate
(noun. ‘the speed of the heartbeat’.
usually expressed in beats per minute. mine speeds up when I see you).
Individually these two systems oppose
but compliment
each other like our hands do—
pressed together and omitting equal force;
veins meeting
at the fingertips and throbbing at the wrists
but running amuck on our respective digits otherwise.
You are the invariable and unspoken reminder to
breath,
love,
sweat,
and live.
I am the sudden snap of reality always aiming to save you
but grudgingly willing to fight you and
ready
to
leave.
From the deepest lower half of my brainstem
and from every nerve
in my cycling body,
I’m sorry.
From all of my chromaffin cells
and from the truest parts of submandibular ganglian,
I am sorry.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
The representative from Ohio
wipes his *** with Jose’s brown
palms after a bout of verbal defecation.
Luckily, Jose’s food truck houses
a small sink in the corner where
he can wash his hands in between
baskets of chorizo prepared
for rich politicians.
Sometimes Jose scrubs so hard dream flakes
rub off of his skin and he throws them
into the wastebasket to be picked
up by the sanitation workers who
eagerly jump like frogs in orange vests
into the waste of Americana. When
the Representative stops by for
a plate of carne asada, Jose’s
dream specks pepper the beef
and his salty sweat flavors
the inside of the burrito. He grills
the onions and green peppers with
a dash of minimum wage and
boils the rice in a mixture of blood
and pieces of his heritage.
He serves the meal in a white Styrofoam
tray and drizzles it with cheese flowing
from an open wound. The receipt is an unpaid
medical bill, the drink an icy reminder
of his future sipped through a straw.
The nightly news tells Jose
the Representative is bedridden
with a stomach infection. He
complains his insides feel like
a million ***** feet kicking the lining,
like unheard mouths with rows of
sharp teeth gnawing at the liver.
Jose to the tv: tonight we’re not starving.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
The GLOBE hath gone infected
Media mobs
MOGUL infected
Bilderberg GODS!!!
Mother's shalt turneth against daughter's
And father against son
RISE of thine technology oh man
For thou shalt looseth by thine own guns
Thou shalt SCREAM PEACE...
Ourn savior hath come
ANTICHRIST beast
To the one's who chooseth dumb
CHIPS in thy hand's
Shackled at the feet
BURIED in sand
Defecation SECRETE
Babies shalt HOWL
No **** to be given
I bet I'll be gone
This time
By THANKSGIVING
Liveth out thy life,
PAY presidential bills
Down thy DRINK
Swallow thine pills
Mocketh me if thou WILT
Awaketh human slave
The CHAPTER is coming
To the end of thine DAY'S!!!!
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 11:31 PM 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
Excuse me as I rant.
I am tried of trying to inhale religious expectations
expecting it to restore some coloration
Within the walls of my longing to be accepted soul
Because once I inhale
I'm drowning with rules and regulations
Suffering by asphyxiation.
On one hand I am told not to fall into temptation
On the other my fingers count the scars of self mutilation.
And they wonder why there's lack of communication
When most spit their words calling us abominations.
But Franny that's what they believe
yeah and I believe their teachings are a form of defecation.
you see what I mean, it's all 'bout interpretation
They see lustful behavior needing modification
I see nature and nurture working in collaboration.
because I am more than just a concept of sexualization.
Because I am more than God's "Mistaken creation"
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
Scared from my bush with no name
They will brain wash the impaired
Such hefty goals they hide behind
Filling the holes you dug in their mind
Empty structured used to hold our souls
Constantly Walking down dank desolate halls
Feeling a strange comfort, yet impending doom
With every minute creeping closer to death
I do hope you cherish your last few breath
Soon all deranged intent reveals itself
You'll Find the TRUTH in finding yourself
Nothingness, the curtain closes over us
Pay to live, live to pay, pay to pray
Go down the line of our institutions
The line dead ends at supposed reality
Know now the solutions to vanity,
will come in due time. Ending your time
Minds grave stayed a slave, slave to stay
Walk the grey line.
Brain wash the impaired
The Morbid thoughts
Brain washed society
Do not be scared
of what we can't see
This personal
separation.
Hear vibrations
Feeling natures stair.
Strife not the end
Climb the tree of life
Thought deprivation, and oral defecation. Plant the seed
Repair wounds of time. Knowing everything must feed
Isolation growing intense psychology distorted mind
Undiscovered complex perversity living inside of the
There are some driven by the destruction of adversity
In Life and death, I tell you revision isn't key
Direct your inquiries to thriving minds
Be still in your decisions long pondered
Remove your mistakes, remove your memories
Time breaks for insanity, in alternate realities
Not acceptable. UNIVERSAL descent, a shame
Monetary gain, owning rights to humans brains
Its all about the capital and its punishment
The day we all thought would come true
This day we will soon enough forget.
New life surrounded by decay and death
We know you won’t, but you really should
enjoy the carcass. It will all end soon.
To many people fearing the day they’ll die
Open to the window of opportunity
Look through the window to the other side
If what you found was lifeless, run and hide
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 5:55 AM UTC
This is me, Rachael.
I would die from a papercut and blame it on the finger.
I would argue with an eraser if the words didn't look right.
I would tell the moon to shine all day just to **** off the sun.
I see colours in my imagination; my dreams are wild and beyond comparison.
I tend to love too hard and quickly get burnt by the one I flew so high for.
I read too much and believe in past lives.
I forgive but don't forget.
My trust is willing but protects my heart like a guardian of fate.
I will be silent when someone talks **** because I don't take fools gladly, and a wise man never responds to defecation of verbal ignorance.
I willingly argue my point in my head til you know I have analysed my response.
Nothing is taken lightly.
I would argue that the road is really hard and quite weary, and curse my boots as they hit the hallowed ground.
I am impetuous, I rush in, I seek thrill and danger.
Hedonism is my game; I play deftly with an air of mastery.
I am sensitive. As skin is to the weather. A gust of harsh wind could blow me away.
This is me; only a slight composition of who I am, and what I am made of.
And I make no apology.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 8:03 AM UTC
A bridge reached out across the water,
gnarled metallic fingers
Connected to a fractured concrete arm.
Rain has washed away your face, left mascara down your side.
Neglect has robbed you of your
grandeur, stripped you of your garrish ornimentation
your ribs jut out from beneath
the skin, or the patches that are left.
Sunlight dances playfully in the
bullet holes burned through by Time's gun.
Forgotten by man and time alike,
consoled only by the gulls and pigeons,
even they leave their mark of
defecation.
A squalid end for one once so beautiful,
to die an old maid,
slowly falling
bit by bit into the foamy wash below.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 4:28 PM UTC
This is your life as a performance.
Light on.
It’s the horseshoe necklace tickling your neck.
And rhythm in between steps.
Like tomorrow could die if we sidestep the question mark.
You say “hold your breath.”
“What about your future?”
You say, “ That’s irresponsible. Sit in a giant box covered with lies.”
“Shut up play thing. I need to work. You need to work.”
Full of something else-
We are all full of something else.
Bones.
Blood.
Grandma’s Belgian waffles
Freak show?
“I’m stuck.” Jack screamed but the child
Shut down the headphones.
Inside the circus.
Wait until he’s let you out!
Poor Jack.
Here it comes.
Wind up the velocity.
Elongate your stride.
Jibber my jabber.
Here comes Jack.
And she baked cookies with your initials on top
Your name happens to be “Untitled”
So there’s a giant question mark.
Full of dough and sugar.
It tasted like Jack’s defecation.
Delicious is mutilation.
The East cries at night for the attention of vapor.
See the beautiful sunset bleeding into itself.
See the orange sky because
Of cans soot and damage.
The sunset smacks the horizon.
See the orange sky because they wouldn’t call you back-
Chained to a tree out west.
The transition will arrive.
Like an annoying child sitting between our see saw
We won’t go anywhere.
Until they leave and
SMACK.
I’ve made it ‘round the curve.
But I threw up a little syrup.
“Shoot for the dot.” And SMACK me harder.
And SMACK the shoes.
And SMACK those beating bleeding blood bags.
But don’t smack your gum.
Wrap yourself in pearls but put your ***** feet into heels.
Give me something that’s dreadfully whimsical.
Jack has made it out alive.
With a smile.
But the little boy hears his cry.
Grasping for life-
Shut tight.
Light off.
Mar 15, 2010
Mar 15, 2010 at 9:16 AM UTC
idiosyncratic motions define circular thoughts and notions
grasped ideals let go in the oceans of confusion
scrambled morse code messages spelled out in brail
depict battlefields and hospital wards
sanctuaries for chaos, chapels for the wicked.
devils hidden beneath PR departments and counsels.
Put into place to distort and misplace,
the bane of clarity, cancer to the soul.
More should and could be made of this
Alas aesthetics argue and compel us to believe
lost in external endeavors, spiraling into catatonic outbursts.
Has this become the norm? We've been conditioned to accept.
The body of a man, running on the fumes of better days.
Left with nothing but ideals looking forth to better ways.
We've succumb to society and its rule.
The leader points his fingers, declares them wrong
and we play the fool, drinking from the puddles of congressional drool.
Wrapped around their fingers, yarn to their spool, we've let them mold
and take rule. Sold our souls, made way to power tools and flashy jewels.
It's the gift of "freedom", buy and consume. Don't worry about this,
they'll handle the rest.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 11:55 AM UTC
Put all the
elderly eye sores
in monochromatic,
ammonia scented
cages.
We’re sick of their
unsightly nature,
And their unjustifiable
hormonal
rages.
Who care’s what
lives they led?
What stories they could
tell.
Let them all go insane,
(if they haven’t already)
to the sound of a
teenage
certified nurse’s assistant
texting her boyfriend
like hell.
Let them rot in defecation,
and fears.
Let them pray to a god
who no longer cares.
Let us go to work.
Chase ***
Apply lip gloss,
bat our lashes,
and drink
our beer.
Occasionally going to an elderly’s
funeral
to stare.
May 5, 2010
May 5, 2010 at 10:04 AM UTC
There is no misery
Quite like black coffee
Raised on the sugared ****
Of North America
A lack of sucrose
Indicates a failure of your lifestyle
Never mind the diabetes
And wasting diseases
That come later
We are new, now, blank
A flat white lying prone
Waiting on the fat black footprint
Or haphazard dog defecation
To sully our facade
We'll pretend we earned it
Just as long as you pass that sugar.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 9:34 PM UTC
This is fact:
The pig is a filthy animal.
Stewing in a self-created defecation so foul,
the stench will turn your stomach
and stick to your clean, human skin for hours.
Now consider:
A sow's ****** can last up to 30 minutes.
The conclusion:
Filthy sounds good to me.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
Who's up for a downer of a catastrophe?
I left the tweets to the birds
My manager would hang me
"There's subtle meanings here,"
Says the caveman demeaning the women of the time,
"I think this will go on for ages."
Flying effervescent
Towards the lofty sun
Where "good poetry" sets
I'm the chainsaw to a wordsmith.
I'm the revolver to the head of the writer.
I'm textual suicide.
I know because of my sparing use of periods
Both in pieces and in grammatical ways.
Sunny days.
There's a time and a place
for all of them
But that's neither here nor there.
Asked if I could make music out of the words I so listfully splatter onto a cybernetic page, as if what I said had any meaning at all, and as if all emotion I threw out stuck to anything.
Deprecation
Defecation
Asphyxiation
I get choked up by my own ****
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
I know I am saved and
My salvation is assured, so:
**** You!" to all SEX-SINNERS!
Even as the flames of hottest Hell
Roar in the depths
Thumping like an electric toilet
Urging defecation on sinners
The hot turds going round the bend
Beastly beyond thought
And pumping foulness
Beyond any thought of salvation
Like a great big huge boil of oozing pus
Eager and willing to perish in the flames of Hell
With a cry of Hallelujah! and a cha-cha-cha.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 1:55 PM UTC
I'm terribly sorry, my dear
for you see, I was on my way
up the stairs to fetch them,
post haste,
when unexpectedly,
I was accosted
by a sudden,
uncontrollable urge
to empty the contents
of my colon,
in more the fashion
of the process of urination
than of defecation
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 11:53 AM UTC
So sad the cemetary stood,
Rows of identical crosses
Commemorating wasted lives
And pointless sacrifice for glory.
One rainlashed day I was there with a fat little **** I knew
To inspect her great-grandfather's grave;
A hero who had repeatedly groped his own daughter
Shortly before meeting death in Paschendael's slaughter.
My friend elegantly squatted, hovering o'er the grave
And performed a perfect Valsalva manoeuvre,
Depositing a well-aimed sausage thereupon.
"That's for you, you grandmotherfucker"
She gaily murmured sotto voce.
But tragedy struck: a defecation syncope
Caused her collapse, skull smashed on the gravestone;
*"I'm in the **** was her final tragic moan.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
less than twenty four hours after dashing off a poem
explaining why i wanted to die
found me experiencing physical duress vis a vis,
a bowel movement wherein waste unable to expel
from the **** of this guy
which bout with ****** obstruction
found me doubled over
with lower abdominal distress
whereby comfort found me unable to lie
down nor sit upright (with back padded with pillows
against the cellar brick wall),
thus severe bloating a bonus well nigh
and managed to muster the means to bare
frigid arctic vortex aire to purchase
the Acme brand Metamucil,
which akin to drano doth ply
thru the excretory tract
supposedly loosening the stools,
which optimism (product
didst earn claim to fame) generated a sigh
if that expressed intent
to cease livingsocial would try
humph enjoining
this lvii year old married male
to cede victory
to the grim reaper, who would vie
as winner de jure
to this common fellow invoking libretto
ohm resistant understudy waste not want not
allowing, enabling and providing relief,
without successful defecation
despite the oppressive urge to bolster this uriah
heap of balled up and tuckered i.e. pooped out
five foot and ten inches of lovely bones
thence mouthing retraction
of former thought to cease existing,
though a non-bull lever
in any power broker qua mankind
relief at long last
provided posterior answered prayer
yet, this scrivener scrutinizes
his recurring pain in the *** jagged torture
and asks
a rhetorical one word question "WHY"?
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 3:13 PM UTC
They said, people are strange,
When you're a stranger
They knew, and people get even
Even stranger once you dive into them
Once familiarity becomes so familiar, it irks
They pierce into your mind
Straws of trust, and leech out every bit of you
Your essence must evaporate
In the drought of love and kindness
People are strange
They crave for colour to fill up their lives
but never to seep into their skin
They want a rich friend, a poor one as much
A girl, a boy, transgender, gay, bisexual, asexual
But a lover, only as conditioning and the general tainted view of the world permits
People are strange
They say blood is thicker than water
But blood is poisoned and water
It needs distillation
They say they love when they don't
And nothing when they do
They say a lot of things
That only confuse
People are strange
All for love, no to hate
Until of course, higher motives surface
One heartbreak, all men are Gates of Defecation
One attack, entire fraternity blamed
One moment of broken trust,
A million of murdering reason
People are strange
No matter who you are
And yet, you fall in love
Because people are strange
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 11:15 AM UTC
That ****** burglar called lonesomeness hath reared its larcenist head, its cometh to greet me, beat me. Abuse me again!!! That bandit forlornness hath ticked in mine brain, click clock, tick tock, driving me to mine veins.
It rolleth me up
And spitteth me out
Like a piece of defecation
Maketh me doubt.
It syringes mine sheath
It wraps me in dung
Maketh me sleep
In slumber and mud
Maby I'll just walk
And dissapear
Draweth to heaven I do
As heaven bringeth me near..
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
The same questions
The same curious stares
The same judging tones
Just different continents
And me
A road between them
In my old home
A sleeveless shirt?
Your legs are exposed?
An American accent,
Guess you’re not one of us anymore.
Must be a lot of school shootings, huh?
We’re working on it
I promise
In my new home
Why are you wearing that?
What’s on your forehead?
Why are you eating with your hands?
That’s gross.
Speak English, you’re in America.
There’s a lot of open defecation, right?
We’re working on it
I promise
If only you listened
To each other
And yourselves
If only you realized
How different
But similar you sound
If only
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 12:35 PM UTC