"enemas" poems
It's in the heart of the grape
where that smile lies.
It's in the good-bye-bow in the hair
where that smile lies.
It's in the clerical collar of the dress
where that smile lies.
What smile?
The smile of my seventh year,
caught here in the painted photograph.
It's peeling now, age has got it,
a kind of cancer of the background
and also in the assorted features.
It's like a rotten flag
or a vegetable from the refrigerator,
pocked with mold.
I am aging without sound,
into darkness, darkness.
Anne,
who are you?
I open the vein
and my blood rings like roller skates.
I open the mouth
and my teeth are an angry army.
I open the eyes
and they go sick like dogs
with what they have seen.
I open the hair
and it falls apart like dust *****
I open the dress
and I see a child bent on a toilet seat.
I crouch there, sitting dumbly
pushing the enemas out like ice cream,
letting the whole brown world
turn into sweets.
Anne,
who are you?
Merely a kid keeping alive.
3.2k
There's this guy who constantly gives me grief online
as if I need a reminder that I am not funny or smart
that I am incapable of posting any story without his remark
as if he should impart and bestow all of social media
with his divine and seraphic academia:
what is with that?
He posts comments about how illiterate my poetry is
how it doesn't follow the rules; the do-nots and the do's
pontificates how its not properly punctuated
as if I should give up altogether and just shine shoes
and forget trying to construct sentences
just wander in the carousel of nebula's
eternally seeking the tentacle of enemas:
what is with that?
This guy enjoys winding me up like a persistent hobby
the reverent devilment of sadistic entitlement
pushing my head under water for a digital baptism
that I should thank him for his rhetoric enlightenment
as if he was blessed with a correspondence talisman:
what is with that?
This isn't even a poem.
I am letting off steam like an overused kettle
fed up of his mortar forever rammed in my pestle
the temples are raging and my brain is just draining
to explode on cue on the next digital heckle
the cracked and broken vessel
into a vengeful steam-driven projectile:
what is with that?
This, < here > , is my only escape
and creative cathartic vent
I'll post this lament
with the stench of discontent
and tag his name and then just wait
for his feverish malcontent
that I should dare to
prevent his God-like dissent:
memo to self
to a digital antagonist
and his verbose verbal cyst
and the keyboard of twists
when you push
sometimes you get
a big shove back
so don't be surprised
by my riposte
and this poetic attack.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 8:56 PM 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
If there's someone crying while taking a **** in a public restroom, it's you. You're ruling planet is the ever-changing Moon, so you're moody and so is your **** One day you're ******** pebbles, and the next your stomach's cramping and diarrhea's shooting from your perfectly rounded *** hole. When the Moon is full and you're ***full of **** enemas are your loyal friend. You very much enjoy pumping water up your *** Not only are enemas your cure for constipation, but enemas also cure your dehydration that results from all the ******* crying you do.
Advice: Take a moment and stop crying when you're taking a **** because on more than one occasion and without realizing, you've wiped your tears with the same toilet tissue you just wiped your ****** *** with.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
**** What does it matter.
6 of 1. Half dozen of the other.
Don't call your pocket. Any port in a storm. 8 ball anywhere.
Why try hard. Still gettin a trophy.
Mediocrity is the norm. **** it. Any port in a storm.
Just gotta grab my ankles and be like the rest.
******* lemmings over the edge.yeah buti got friends?
With that kind of friend,who needs enemas.
Dummmy down. Don't make a sound.
Scared of cold hard facts.
The Norm.
Any ****** port in a storm.
Dam your ears look like handles.
I got an idea.cause you don't need them for listening.
Any port in a storm.
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
A pity Yvonne alas has passed on
In a most regrettable way.
She was in quite a snit
'Cause she just couldn't ****
And hadn't in many a day.
So she sent Ernie out
For enemas no doubt
And while he was still on the road
Yvonne took a chance
By dropping her pants
While running toward the commode.
In a tangle of jeans
Frustrated screams
And a splintering bathroom door
Her *** met the glass
As intestinal gas
Burst forth with a thunderous roar.
Th bowl couldn't take
The force of the quake
It rained down like porcelain hail.
Some people say
Five miles away
It hit six on the richter scale.
I miss dear Yvonne
Now that she's gone
Taken from us much too soon.
Sometimes I cry
As I gaze up in the sky
And wave as she orbits the moon...
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 5:16 AM UTC
Mounds of Caramel (Brown) ****
[it is said the ****** Mary's poops did not smell
& were creamy & well formed; wandering
women removing their sandals &
bowing down to pray on the holy ground where
the blessed mother had stooped to *** or ****
hoping to likewise become pregnant
by God's will; instead inflicted w/
the Fivefold Scapular Passion (Red)
[mensis so heavy they identified it w/ the crazed groupie
w/ issues whom Christ
had taken on as a sometimes lover;
Passionate (Black) Seven Sorrows of Mary caused by
worries that Christ was messing w/
the Roman & Jewish ****** in the back alleys;
not for his soul but b/c these woman carried flesh-eating STDs [(Black) as foretold by the [ ]
The Archangel (Blue/Black)] [digging the scene]
receiving Good Counsel (White) from the Sacred Heart of
Jesus & the (White) Immaculate
Heart of Mary (White)
conceived in Immaculate Conception
(turning Blue)
& Green Scapular (Green) before vomiting
Scapular of Our Lady of Walsingham; up the toxins
she'd ingested w/ the
Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary - - -
The Scapular of Our Lady's Mounds of Caramel
(also known as the Brown Scapular or Mary's **** |
is the shit-colored
habit of both the Caramel Order and the Discalced
Caramel Order, [nuns who practice ritual
enemas as a sacrament]|
both of which have Our Lady |
of the Caramel Mounds as their patroness.
Her portrait hanging above the commode
for the Sister to pray to while moving her bowels:
the turds in their small form
are widely popular within the Catholic Church
as religious articles and used as
candy [ ] chewed slowly and eaten,
probably serving
as the prototype of all the other
devotional scatology.
The liturgical feast day of Our Lady of Creamy Caramel Mounds,
July 16, is popularly associated
with the devotion of the Scapular;
According to the Vatican's Congregation
for Divine Worship, the Brown Scapular
is "an external sign of the ***** relationship
between the Blessed ****** Mary,
Mother and the Queen of Mounds of Creamy Caramel,
and the faithful who entrust themselves
totally to her protection, & who have recourse
to her maternal bowel movements, mindful
of the primacy of the spiritual life
and the need for prayer."
the Blessed Mother taking a **** the turds
collected by the devoted followers of Jesus; &
preserved as relics, staying moist & brown over the centuries.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 1:53 PM UTC