"emetic" poems
**† † †
A quorum of biblical scholars
turned their doubts into thousands of dollars.
Armed with Document Q
they revealed nothing new
but the dirt neath’ the white of their collars.
A proud “health & wealth” Oklahoman
was renowned as a gospel-tent showman.
While the scriptures he twisted,
their tithing assisted
his rise from poor hick to rich Roman.
A sexually diverse professor
(assured he was not a transgressor)
spoke only of openness
glossing sin’s brokenness;
rainbows and tolerance—yes sir.
A Mormon, who lost his own ephod
Realized he was running quite slipshod
and invoked Joseph Smith.
(Yes, it may be a myth—
but it’s not like misplacing your I-pod…)
A Christian whose faith was prophetic
held to views that were truly pathetic.
This crazed Pentecostal,
not quite an apostle,
had taken an End-Times emetic.
A sober and staid Presbyterian
was distrustful of thoughts millenarian.
After smoking some bud,
he awoke with a thud;
in his sleep he’d become Rastafarian.
A preacher who fleeced his disciples
overdrew his own balance of scruples.
He was finally captured
(defrocked and un-raptured)
and rent by his destitute pupils.
A sister who waxed Pentecostal,
mistook herself for an apostle.
Speaking pure glossolalia
she sure could regale ya’
with prophecy; crazy—but docile.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
Meteoric Buick
Slick *****
Frantic frenetic
Majestic kick
Chick shtick
Shashlik
Nicotinic stick
Lick flick
Hermeneutic heretic
Magnetic rhetoric
Hick logic
Strategic
Plastic music
Tick click
Bucolic Bardic
Peptic druidic
Rustic emetic
Sceptic
Polymeric quirk
Sick trick
Turmeric trimeric
Septic *****
Wick crick
Derrick
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 12:27 AM UTC
Blank page
soon to be filled
with
all heart
needles in each cell
burning in all
muscles
sleep in all eyes
testament to having
all given up already
cliché
action of morbid
sadism
this place, ********
that place, worse
“Nothing will change when you get there.”
People don't.
Places don't.
High buildings,
they are not sails.
To distant lands
where everyone is in love
and time is perfect.
Instead.
It's gutters, toxic.
It's sewers, pollution.
It's ****** it's *****
It's an emetic given ******
as one force fed ****
It's lonely.
It's alone.
It's time.
It's empty.
____________________________________________________
It's loveless, callous, wrong, degenerate.
Empty,
empty,
empty, again and again.
No these buildings only
house the soulless vessels
of dead.
They are death.
The lights.
They are the city dying.
The skyline.
A skeleton.
Bleeding out
the last
blood in
it's marrow.
The City is dead.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 11:22 PM UTC
She begged me never to leave
I pleaded to the same degree
She said she's having my baby
I joined the ˈmiləˌterē
She claimed to be high risk
I exclaimed "We are better than this!"
She explained the reason: diabetic
I replied "Your excuses are emetic."
She mentioned money would help set her pace
I sent several hundreds to take my place
She disappeared without a trace
I, broken and weary, continued the race.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC
My idol walks. Behold her beauty
born of Nicaraguan night
summoning poetic duty:
tremors of volcanic light!
Clouds of ash and lava dropping:
I come back… I going shopping.
Sounding her primeval waters
crater lakes, her green lagoons,
fabulous—this diverse daughter’s
humid palms and storm-tossed moons;
ascending up her jungle mount:
Transfer dinero to my account!
Stone-faced idol, pre-conquista;
rice with beans or sacred maize
labyrinthine Latin vista,
cumbias and sacred lays.
Hurricanes and quaking earth:
****** what’s your dollar worth?*
She who left her quaint dysfunction
reeking of colonial woes
for the multi-culti junction,
holy in her porno-pose;
scowling like exploited nations:
How you say… congratulations!
Gushing like a flow of lava
running down her placid gaze,
ripened flesh; the scent of guava,
passion-fruit in paraphrase…
Monkeys howling, torrents pouring:
Poetry to me is boring…
Rubén Darío’s wonderland:
Flor de Caña the anesthetic.
Marx’s tropic reprimand:
Sandinismo as emetic.
Verses don’t impress this lass:
Please—the car need fill with gas.
Lost in hurricanes of thought,
pounding the roof, God pours, it rains.
What was it, really, that I sought
In her land where the poetry reigns ?
It’s love. At times I long to shoot her:
Why you waste time on that computer?
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
Rapprochement
was necessary for survival
Handicraft helped
but shelter was not necessary as the world burned
To phase'out companionship
invites emetic death
Blazes hot enough to burn stars
smolder with sulfurous fumes
The flames burgeon illumination
as worlds are rent
All forms of hesitation are irrelevant with
society's abutments collapsed.
To pass freely was
never an option.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
i’m sorry, i’m so sorry
please don’t worry
please don’t worry
it isn’t very much at all
except:
i’m blue-
faced with apologies
and choked-up girl pathology
"i think i’m gonna hurl"
i scream, and taste
another “sorry”,
pressed like flowers,
blossomed in my throat.
speak softer, beg forgiveness,
my voice is not my business:
cut my tongue out,
make me kissable,
more easily dismissible
an echoing abyss for you to fill
with hot air, coffee breath
and sound bites
i don’t **** around,
i bite
and scratch and pound and shriek —
you will be sorry when i speak
you’re gonna look pathetic,
you’re emetic, here’s your drinks back
down your suit
i feel frenetic
i will puke, i ******* swear it,
if you call me unapologetic
like a compliment again.
not apologising
for myself
is women’s studies 101,
and i am done
with what a sorry state
you left my sisters in.
paternalistic praises
of our struggle for assertion
and insertion of your ego
into conversations
you were not invited to
is not the way to ladies’ hearts, though
we know how to get to yours:
open ribs, second ***** to the left
and straight on til morning
some things aren’t about you, little boy,
put up, grow up, shut up:
get your tongue out of my mouth.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
The Artiste Carvó's "The Greatest Fartist Alive"
(Another Crummy Acrostic)
T is for **** I am attended by flies...
H is for Haughtiness, I am flowing through the fartist's stanks...
E is for Enema, my fine **** pollutes the very hole...
G is for Gigantic, I am the biggest ego in history...
R is for Refluxing, my fine putriditry puts artistry in ******
E is for Emetic, I truly am expelling...
A is for ******* I posses the gift of ****
T is for ****** I leave no stomach un-turned...
E is for Excrutiating, my words torture the very soul...
S is for ****** My logic is slimy....
T is for Tag-along, I truly am shadowed by all and everyone...
F is for Fatuous and Flatulence, the essence of I…
A is for Archfiend, demon am I...
R is for Revulsion, My art is abomination - My art yet *****
T is for Tedious, I have been placed here to bore people to death...
I is for Idiot, I am truly unblessed...
S is for Selfish, I place **** before I's self...
T is for Talenticide, I have killed all things of art...
A is for Asinine, I possess all lacks...
L is for Lifeless, I truly worm the artistic heart...
I is for Idolize, I worship I...
V is for Venomous, I am all that is spite and impure...
E is for Emasculated, I am indubitably impotent...
This sums up why I and I alone am the greatest fartist alive,
And I will of course do one of my great farts in time.
*Original ('The Greatest Artiste Alive') by: Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by: CrE aka Trollminator*
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 2:11 AM UTC
One side obscene in ignorance,
the other sanctimonious
to emetic effect
In the mid ground we most of us sit
whiplashed necks crying
as each rabid side bays allegiance
shut up, breathe clear air
drink tea
read
be fair
Jul 29, 2021
Jul 29, 2021 at 8:26 AM UTC
**Again I make one ill
I am
The Poetic Emetic**
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 3:13 AM UTC
Its starts off with a bitter shock
an almost emetic feeling envelops
Try not to loose your cool..
Force the feeling back and down
It gets easier with practice.
In the middle is
elation
euphoria
empathy
another word that starts with E
At the end is a sinking feeling
Magnified on the wooden table
Sweet Memory left with Bad Taste
They should get married some day
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 4:13 AM UTC
The lecturer stands, waving her hands
Wildly gesticulating
Squawking and screeching and and humming and preaching
Whilst our minds fix on matriculating
"Please, please I beg of you
Responsible for shaping heads
Tell your children this is true -
Use any verb other than 'said'!"
She demonstrates the dialogue tags
That we sages can impart
"Replied", "enquired", "sighed", "ragged"
"Norted", "blorted", "ogled", "blarted" -
But if a child uses all these
What kind of field will they have built?
Cohesive, engaging, with wonderful staging
Or splotted and sploged like a patchwork quilt?
For you see -
All the words inside your head
The ones who unwittingly cover for "said"
Are the drink-addled maidens you see in the street
Holding their heels and walking in bare feet
Flipping their hairs and waving their phones
Cackling and snickering in shrilliing, thrilling tones
As their best friends, the adverbs, grab them by their hair
Determined to prevent an emetic scare
To-ing and fro-ing, and never quite knowing
Where exactly it is they are going
All they know is they eschew intervention
By boldly pleading for more and more attention
But "said" is a lady of quiet grace
Wearing long tresses, muted dresses and a fair face
And sits beside each word with a natural restraint
Holding up quotations without complaint
Till it blends through the text like smooth, creamy paint
And fades till it becomes so, so faint
That it only feels natural to focus instead
On the intentions of the characters inside of your head
It's a word that fills most teachers with dread
But I earnestly plead to befriend the word "said"
For she's a hard-working lady with quiet conviction
- Does that help with your language affliction?
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 10:53 PM UTC
I wish that you would not admit
So easily and freely
That since we are legitimate
My presence makes you queasy.
As we dug our sinful crater
Out of burnt and broken hearts,
You felt like we were greater
Than the sum of both our parts.
With a look over the shoulder
Those kisses felt pyretic,
But when coals ceased to smoulder
Said kisses felt emetic.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC
There is so much to say,
So much to see;
So much that sometimes everything
becomes overwhelming.
Language becomes cumbersome
and redundant;
Eating laborious and emetic;
Around family and friends you feel
out of place and superfluous,
Almost gagging on anxiety if
conversation floats your way;
Unfiltered thoughts overcrowd your mind,
thieving every ounce of your concentration;
Darkness fills your soul,
and it aches with every breath.
But then, one day,
after perhaps many difficult ones;
The sun rises and shines through the window
with the iridescence that only the sun can;
The birds sing their sweet sweet song,
inviting your ear drums to beat in alignment with all living things;
You find a pen in your hand again,
scribbling and scrawling your now interpretable thoughts;
Your shoulders, which were stooped, are now straight and
you stand tall in the stiff breeze, dreaming of possibilities.
Your alliance rekindled
with this enigmatic thing
called life.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 7:33 AM UTC
The smell of his aftershave hangs in the air.
His image etched upon the wall.
Vocal whispers on the wind.
His breath on my cheek as I'm trying to sleep.
His touch on my ear,tells me he's still here.
He's playing on my hair again.
Thoughts of you expunged as egg shells broken 'pon the floor .
The stench of your aftershave,
Now my natural emetic.
Oh to rest.
(C) Livvi
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC
While constipation kept me in arrears,
asper daily writing,
thus ordinarily straight forward
practiced process culling material,
(a daily endeavor generally mastered
by your truly), this moment bares
with more difficulty, thus derriere's
functionality created backlog
(of personal business),
hence presenting literary chops,
a real ****** today,
disgruntlement with ***** Pack,
(which gripe flares
cheeks) pitted me considerably
behind schedule, so...here's
the scoop (hoop fully solid explanation
for my absence) amidst
virtual chattering class
otherwise known as Face booking,
Instagramming, and Whatsapp
pin with ma Jeers
zee Boyz'n the hood,
ah...also dem "Back Street Boys"
oh mother f***er...,
I just learned day got eliminated
and blocked, (cuz o' their wiped out,
wasted, sunken,
flushed, dumpy untidily
bowled over appearances),
Sargeant Scott Coreless forced their
evacuation citing Lumineers
as more *** toot,
hence the emcee then welcomed,
opening dreck "Johnny On The Spot,"
and the "The Proctologists,"
who performed before nares
Naked Lady sighted spectators, with
lovers spooning within cheeky pairs
otherwise, essentially a pooped out crowd
sitting on their haunches,
while myself perched
some distance away
with my comfortably numb tuckus
atop the porcelain Goddess
a awaiting emetic to expel
for iCloud to finish updating
before continuing with sign out...
from this Macbook Pro,
which aye sheepishly pro state
as the long winded soup peer
re: or (flatulence riddled) explanation.
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 8:10 PM UTC