"excrements" poems
It's dark.
Sounds like a rainstorm and smells like fragrant fire. But the earth underground is thirstier than what sulfur and dead things and various excrements can quench.
And the scent may be a brain tumor,
or even better some drug-induced hallucination;
either way it feels amazing.
I'd just love to slap these stupid feelings
in their pretty faces, I bet that'd also feel
pretty amazing.
a million oscillating fans and still so much heat.
divine metallic miasma .
Is there something pathological about how
I like to see the hurt & desperation & the shock that I cause? Cuz I've been told this type of behavior is 'odd.'
...I don't see it.
I mean,
I do feel remorse out of narcissism
& for my own wants & gains.
It's just a ***** ***** game.
Everyone plays one or the other.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 10:46 PM UTC
The dead often come to visit me.
My favorite corpse a delightful copy of
Something it used to be.
He comes to my door and I embrace him
He smells like aged formaldehyde under a coat
Of strawberries and mints
His front teeth are still spaced evenly
Sed for one
Hanging like a faulty Christmas tree light
Right over his holiday red bottom lip
If I could still kiss them I would tell him
As sweetly as I ever did, “your lips are as soft as whale blubber.”
The way they used to move around and in between mine
Makes me think your mouth could have danced on Broadway
And the crowd could have thrown up at its beloved star roses
Only the petals would rub your lips too rough
I would tell him, “baby I miss you.” And
“I’m sorry I never returned your favorite book.”
But in all fairness I think you have never returned anything of mine
Not my favorite blouse, my grandmother’s portrait
Not my heart. Not yet
For it is little and porous and too dead to give to
Someone one who is still alive
I bet you keep it there in your back pocket
Riddled with granola crumbs and sticky excrements of gum
And maybe every other haunting you take it out
Before sitting on it and you dust it off
And kiss it.
There is something sad about that.
Having your lips touch things I can’t feel
You might as well have ****** on my liver
I wouldn’t feel that either.
Come to me when you cannot rest in peace
With pen and paper and too much coffee
And in between cigarette puffs kiss the outside
Parts of me I can feel.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 6:59 PM UTC
Let the river flow wash away the pain
Let the fire burn it all in ash
Let the torrents pass, let the river flow, let the river flow
I long to see you in the bloom of winter
where trees are withered and flowers float
in the noose of the nuke
inside the news of the hooks
I want to see you in the rays of the sun
where the leaves shine on a summer mood
in the music of the duke
within mews of the fountains
Let the river flow wash away the pain
Let the fire burn it all in ash
Let the torrents pass, let the river flow, let the river flow
I see the rain washing the excrements
where tar and wire were bouncing
in the moving fires
within the encircling tires
I touch the blood on the palm of your hand
engrossed with the pain of trials
in the unresolved pastures
within the chaotic azures
Let the river flow wash away the pain
Let the fire burn it all in ash
Let the torrents pass, let the river flow, let the river flow
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 7:27 PM UTC
Drowning sun of neon skies,
Crystalline stars are the reflections of eyes.
Flame colored clouds over fields of sand,
Soft warm wind brushes this solemn land.
But have I forgotten the roar of a truck?
Shalt I forget the stench of the muck?
Has my mind been slipped of the sky scraping eye-soars?
Haunted by such waste for years or for scores?
We disregard the latter to see this world's beauty.
Is inhabitence of this earth a sin or a duty?
Destroying to create to satisfy our goal:
To develop a better world out of materials we stole.
Dark grey skies are excrements of technology.
Disappearing stars, my sincerest apology.
Clouds of smoke by unnecessary fire.
I do promise you, oh Lord, this is not the world we desire.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 11:20 PM UTC
I feel like **** But not quite.
My mind stirs
Stirs and stirs
Until mush is made.
Is this the equivalent
of ****
Isn't that what
Art is?
Excrements from our
our own poor souls.
My mind stirs
Stirs and stirs
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
Surrounded by tearing teeth, grinding their way through sinew and flesh..
A sickening shriek ********** from their throats.
Underneath a bleeding sky
their beating corpses cough up swarms of flies..
Our godess laid bare, covered in the stench of excrements....
Embraced her faithful flock.
As a reward for their devotion.. she gave her body...
Beaten and broken into submisssion...
The servants crack their whips...
Vehemently they violate her angelic body with ravaging lust...
A portrait of flesh...
Bodies sewn together into a pregnant abomination...
***** and bereaved she gazed upon the bloodied sky..
And exhaled from her rotting mouth...
Regurgitating her teeth...
Kneeling in gore , caressing her female features.. fertilizing her soil with blood.
The severed head licked her no more....
A spawn of maggots seeped out of every orifice...
Whilst she screamed and gnawed on the bones of her offspring.
And the heavens wept in blood...
When the world was set ablaze...
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 9:30 PM UTC
Burning with an eternally educated mind.
Expressing her expansive thoughts with experience but not enthusiasm.
Enchanted by her eyes and energy to emphatise with excrements.
I hope she evaluates this a day in May.
Evidence of affection as the words he knows grows empty.
The extra effort and eager exitement from this enthusiastic male from Norway.
Her name is Ellie May.
Expressing my emotions to this damsel West of Maine.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC
thunderstorms the soil fertilized by those before
the long score dread of autumn
the killing cold of three months of winter
the bones calcium
the work of maggots
the rotting excrements
the boiling mad wolf growl
the poor rabbit's soul gone
the world spinning around an axis
of the strongest surviving hot gasses
or the moon influencing the rising
fall of tides
mountains of ashes oceans of sediment
the seeds left last year
and those long forgotten
that keep
in their knowledge their inevitability
the genetics the flowering new rose
brightening in the sun
this spring
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC