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one is slightly bound
a congestion of sorts
nothing is evacuating
from a certain passage
the
act
that
is
done
on
the
toilet
seat
proves to be hard
sufficient amounts of roughage
have not passed
through one's entrails
one cannot excrete
all
possible
treatments
have
been
tested
by one
yet
the
binding
cannot
be
undone
hence the number two
sits unmoved
in one's tail
a feed of grains and fruit
in the morn
shall clear the obstruction
before dusk
to
have
a
poo
poo
is
all
one
wishes
to
do
H W Erellson Feb 2015
A ***** dull and grey
bored into cheap floorboards
the plastic around the bath
shattered
limescaled shower
trying to excrete
discreetly
hungover hot ears and cheeks
heart loping away
among laboured breaths
God Jesus ****...
Robbed happiness
cheers in the pub;
Here's looking at you, kid.
for more of my writing, check out my blog:
miragesofleavesinspring.blogspot.com
Jordan Farelli Sep 2012
Hey old woman
Underneath my shoe
Tell me
How do you like the view?

Go on and tell me
That you like what you see
Compliment my fine leather boots
Or the bulge that’s testing the strength of my seams

You can talk about my muscles
Or my perfect jaw line
You could even compliment my eyes
And tell me how they’re so sublime

Oh, excuse me
Is my boot on your throat?
Allow me to move it a little south
So when you talk you won’t choke

Can you speak up a bit?
I don’t think I heard you so well
It sounded to me
As if you said, ”GO TO HELL!”

Well, that’s not very nice
And after all that I’ve done
To just disregard everything
This whole thing could have been fun

You know what, that’s alright
You don’t have to like what’s about to happen
All you need do is lay there and take it
But don’t worry, I have napkins

Though they’re not very absorbent
So, I’ll have to grab some towels
To soak up your blood
And the entrails that excrete from your bowels

After that, I'll clean up nicely
So they don't find a speck of you here
Every detail I'll cover
They won't even find your fire red hair

Now, just lay still and be calm
I’m going to do that thing that I do
I’m glad you’re my lucky thirteen
I’m glad I found you there, under my shoe
Paul Celano Jun 2010
I became a brainless mute
My mouth droops open
Nothing but impassioned silence
For she was a giving disease

My nerves begin to intensify
Limited to a feeble breath
For my throat clenches up
As if her eyes excrete poison

If only one word would pop out
Just “hello”
But a remote smile
Would make me iced

To think the attraction of one girl
Could turn me senseless
A lusterless jelly body
A translucent emotion

To be turned down
Could explode my thumping heart
I just don’t want to be
A puddle of rejection
©2005 Paul Celano
Esther Mar 2017
Dearly departed,
Pray for me
In life I still need to excrete
Not only faeces but thoughts
Just like food in my mouth
I chew possible sounds
Until they are… reproduced
I think
What I thought was art
Is now a bit bitter on my tongue
The saliva must be tainted
With odours I’ve inhaled
Because this ******* I taste
Is too flavoursome
I know this isn’t appealing
But neither is the finished product
Unwrap what you can
Of what we toss down to you
And swallow what you think is sweetest
You know it will all be… sour
I think
What I thought was lasting flavour
Turned out to be flesh
And even as I write this
I feel the unpicked hair in my teeth
So that when I create
I am secretly painting in words
From the inside out
I am closer to you in this way
But in that way-
Not so much.

Dearly departed,
Pray for us
In life we must run to you
But in living we must wait
Amongst the rotting peels
We left in our backpacks
For too long
We’ve learned to speak
About the smell
But in doing so our breaths
Stink up the air
And our legs are getting stiff
Sitting cross legged and festering thoughts
Bubbling images we wanted
To forget
God, this is a witch’s ***
But she forgets to stir it on hot days
And we decay
Faster than you do, I swear
The curses don’t become me
I know, the curses
Must be me and them.

Dearly, Departed,
Pray, and still listening
I’m sorry about the foulness of everything.
JP Mantler Dec 2013
I don't like him
He is a nuisance
I don't like him
I'd fond his death
I don't like him
I'd share nothing with him
I don't like him
I would like to gouge his eyes out
Until they pop.
Until blood-tears scream down
His ******* face
I form mucous to
Spit in his ******* snake face
I want to see bits of his skull torn out
I do not like him
I want to squeeze through my hands in the decapitated
Head and grab out his ******* brain,

Bits of his skull
I would like that.
Gone he'd be
I would like that

I would like to hurt him
I don't like him
I want to see all his ******* blood
Pour majestically out of every
******* opening, every hole
I see of his, I want his greedy black heart
Suffocated with cyanide
I want his poisoned soul *******
Burned until I smell
His burning, searing flesh
That screams with help
I would to do all of this and laugh and laugh

I wish he would realize how much he has gained
Then,
I will excrete on his ugly ******* red car.

I dream morbid, I dream morbid lovely thoughts to leave his
Lifeless *****-self in the ugly ******* red car
For him to rot he shall as a male-****
A **** of degenerate foolery
Unjust as unwise, he froths degradation

A form of devolution,
As treacherous cliffs weakened
from sun and water
Treachery engrossed with black thoughts
As he falls he will bring all,
who he can find to fall with him

Drenched with whoreness
A ******* thought enriches degenerate
I would dream to castrate him
Destroy his club, **** the ******* worm
Turn unto ****.

Turn unto ****

Turn unto platter of wet sponges
Turn him into a casket of bleeding organs

I do,
I do not like him,
No I do not.

Filthy Male-*****, ****
His corpse shall forever mold with self-hatred

Disgusting waste of gluttonous entity.

Biological waste universal waste

I do not like him
Blood chunks pool over out of his skull
I do not like him, All his filth-blood
Dried out, I do not like him
Tongue pulled out, neck snapped
Brain matter scooped out, the ******* worm
Thief, Cheat, Male-*****. I do not like him

But I do not hate him.
Francie Lynch Feb 2015
Add a verse,
You have it
In you.
Excrete and devise.
Throw-up
Your insides
In a technicolour
Burp.
Zoe Mar 2012
your fluff
your crisp
the clinking in the bowl
colors blending
with the liquid mix
the silver saber
comes down upon thee
lifts the fluff
and crisp
away from the liquid mix
into the vessel of my cranium
seeping down the tunnel of darkness
into the pit of juices
and acids
to later excrete from the cave of wonders
and into another source of a liquid mix
and down yet another tunnel
into another universe
or dimension
of other wonders
what and adventure you've had
you no longer crisp or fluffy substance
Lendon Partain Mar 2013
Beer is my bottle of sleep,
and I drink enough sleep to forget,
that I'm all alone
I don't have a home,
and my soul will just die when im dead.

Just another scared boy waiting in his casket
or acting a part
its either action or nothing
the mind is divorced

bodies are useless
why accumulate them
in a sack of skin, the cage created
by a skull cap glass brains are wrapped in

transparent and thin
a sleep sheet sewn
by rapid eye movement

encased in bones
the alcohol is sediment settling in the bottom bodies brave colony, of other owners that forage for a loners last remnants of his ostomy.
cavity.
Bags of excretion excrete his thoughts, like lead does to mass graves of forties gulags.

Hes lost all compassion, extinguished all hope, hopes a disease the defectors misquote, cause cadavers decay, minds atrophy as muscle, senescence affects all and with age we buckle, the pressures too great, mans heart is too weak, the blood is no longer pumped to his feet, as he falls to his knees, the earth says “we are one”, as the worms eat the flesh of the casket they've dug.
Dios Dormer May 2015
if i were a river and you were the city
i'd ask of your residents to spit in my heart
to throw sludge in my waters
to toss wrappers and bottles and nooses and anything in-between
to let the thick, gluttonous swamp of human waste
accumulate under my bridges
to place tentative fingers into blood-red throats and
excrete the very bile of their lives into me
to run naked, filth encrusted fingers
through the vile depths of my flow
that is what i would ask of you, love
*if i had the courage
karen hoose Jul 2010
I am not doing this right tonight.
He asked me to write and so I am
But, ****.
Inside this coiled bitter empty now...
Resigning to cold unwillingness - I shall not try
To raise the drum of myself from hell, this apathy,
Knowing it means what exactly it means
To allow such a thing verbalized to stay being,
No, I don't take it back.
Such things so accelerate the dwindling of my beauty ever more,
But so what! I would scream, had I the energy.
I do not care of these, nor any other things.
Today marks my surrender to being nothing
Bleeding is open diembowelment of my heart
Quiet now, the songs it always used to sing easily...
I bet he is not even thinking of me, not even today.
Did he remember the date? Sixth day of the seventh month -
Where were we last year at this time?
Ah, I remember now: I was at home, with him -
When "home" meant him,
Oh how I miss those moments!
I still have the flash-flooded crying, it still releases nothing.
The echoing ever deepens here inside empty hollows of the me-shell...
I am Hell now.
Surely, I need not excrete with the likes of such drama as that -
I am simply shattered and crushed
And radio the coordinates of my position.
Rejected: I shall have the word boldly stamped with tatoo
Down the entire side of my left arm.
Seriously deflating me is the negativity feeling
I'm spending more of my moments these days-
Not surging with bubbling verve towards half-full perceptions;
But hey, it's o.k.:
I don't care, remember?
I said so just only a moment ago!
Get out of here now if  your intending to cheer me up
Or some other idiotic and wasted endevor -
No one will ever - whatever - be as clever as me:
Who waited 3 decades of blind wading thru
Sludge of countless pretender encounters
Only to allow the full expanse of her child-like heart and soul
Be entirely defined all too briefly by one individual, one mean man,
To become such a fool over that lying tool! I was schooled!
Never once was he what he had promised at the start.
Made me think he was opening up, had his heart,
That he felt love, love meant just for me!
And I believed.
Believed I was safe, handed him Once-In-Lifetime feelings
And he didn't even care nor accept it from me.
He just threw me aside absently, you see?
Wasted over a man not concerned for my anything...
My Lord, please: what to make of this thing?
I beg to have the end of this excruciating pain
The silence and having no closure, not getting to see him
PLEASE! Please, bring this throbbing desire to me finally!!
Realize now my dream of him coming for me.
In vain I do plead.
He looks so happy in the pictures I have seen
In my Quest of Obsession which constantly consumes my whole being...
I cannot begin to get over this thing.
I love him so much- but Ed never loved me it painfully seems.
& under this pain will the rest of my days ever be.
Eternally and insecurely I shall seek it to be!
mostly re-edited.... the last of it i was too done for the task as of now. continued later.. klh
8/12/2010
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
for bala, one more time*
~~~~~~~~


*humans
secrete and excrete
humans
ingest and imbibe

only a few,
select and exceptional
only the rare,
incomparable and imbued

can pour oil
from the heart daily

they, the oil-anointed ones,
marked as future kings
singer of songs,
poets and psalmists,
return their anointment
to the people who granted it
by pouring oil from the heart,
daily
The title was taken from a comment about a poem (often a source of inspiration) from Bala, that was stored away for a poem. Today, it arrived.

K Balachandran   Feb 20
a poignant thought, a calm flame
every son of the soil keeps burning, pouring oil daily from the heart,
when one broods, on life, it becomes clear--
what else one can aspire, after everything is said and done..
Thank you Nat
Bala

PostScript
A second dedication for this poem
To Ms. Jeanne Midtowns,
another of the select and exceptional
only the rare,
incomparable and imbued...

this is for she, one who loves poetry as much as life itself...
while out and about
an unexpected over bare ring bout
to defecate arose,
     where sphincter asserted clout
and would excrete
     despite without doubt...

if closing distance
     (to reach rental abode)
beaten out by loosening sphincter muscle
     transmitting excretory code

set sights on prowl for outlawed, secluded,
     and wooded make shift commode
and essentially for naught negating
     toddler toilet training, sans

     getting ***** trained undone
     via my ***** ready to explode
and blast immense solid waste byproduct
     (oh...close to the size of Rhode Island)

thus a marathon race against time
found immediate readiness to pull off roadside  
     to access make shift water closet
     generating image firmly in pooping mode

     grabbing hold of a tree trunk
     (a mini rocky horror picture show, -
     this analogy included for no particular reason
     other than as a non-sequitur)

     and also to convey, how I tried
     to allay distractions
     while painful contractions flowed
(perhaps approximating a woman

     on verge of giving birth)
but...no matter, aye could envision,
     an ever increasing heavy mf* load
hence approaching Highland Manor Apartments

     this chap abandoned
     prior simultaneous evacuation plan
     starkly aware probability for secluded spot sunk
(nonetheless, thy darting darting

     anguish, futile lizard like lookout,
     a geico Gekko whose cheeks did blush
     even for a measly Georgian bush
quickened nsync with ****** spasms

     visual scouting industrialized
     where backhoes didst crush
once a time sacred happy hunting grounds
     of native Americans, now flush

with newly built vinyl city re: urban sprawl a gush,
where cookie cutter houses long since bringing hush
     puppies muzzled, yet never the less and mush
a doo doo about nothing) except sprint

     ting to a void push  
immortalizing indigenous tribes ghosts rush
peopling infrastructure affixing
     urbanization with their warrior whoosh!
RW Dennen Sep 2014
Like a hypnotic beacon in darkness
guiding oily ships,
like this same rhythm,
I sing to myself
so much the same beat,
the song of
apathetic thoughts
of ignorant tranquility   While

smokestack clouds
loosen tears of acid rain
that rust metal on boots
will this prevail?

Dried poisoned earth beneath my feet
Yawning gaps and cracks
frown their crooked gruesome frowns
upon the dust crumbling ground

Micro-macro things float in the air
in which we inhale
Farts from smokestack gases
carbon emissions from cars
forever excrete poisoned
cougher's body-coffin-clouds
of black and blue

Trees as if on bending knees smothered
by accidental fluoride
little and feathered bodies
plummet and land
on polluted blackened ground below

Smokestack refineries
make fishy lakes
into crummy toilet lakes    Oily

ships clumsily spill oil contents upon
the sea to oily sea
Yet so crazy a world
so crazy a song
of easy tranquility
I sing sheepishly,
among TV commercial smokestack wolves
of sitcom ***** darkness,
who gleefully watch all the lambs go by
in "**** TUBE" harmony
Hayley Neininger Jul 2013
The Baker boy down the street is a peculiar thing. His book bag is a familiar sight around town, its red and aged with dirt, it’s anchored to his back by brown straps that are torn and excrete small little tuffs of white stuffing. Like the kind you’d find inside a teddy bear. The large front pocket is scribbled with poorly drawn cartoonish characters. Doodles one could assume to be depictions of imaginary friends and by the boy’s sheepish and largely odd demeanor one could also assume these imaginary friends were probably spawned by the lack of real ones. The boy’s book bag is more familiar than the boy. If only because his face solely exists in a light tan hoodie too close in color to the completion of his skin to readily differentiate between the two. Either way, the Baker boy usually always has his head down, this allows for a small ***** in his posture that pushes his book bag up to the very top of his back, making it very prominent, making it something like a substitute for a head. People started recognizing his book bag as the boy himself. In their minds they could see it as clearly as they could the faces of their own children, spouses, close friends. They gave his book bag the same recognition and remembrance of aesthetic value as one would give to the details of a face. They notice quickly and with the same concentration a new rip in his straps as they would a pimple on someone’s chin. He never spoke. Not to anyone. Not a word. The kind of recognition given to a person’s voice with whom you are familiar is a sign of their presence in your world, a kind of confirmation of their existence other than their physical self. The Baker boy used a sound instead, lacking a voice. The specific sound the Baker boy used to validate his existence in our town sounded like the soft scratching of an itch, a repetitive petting of his book bag strap that marked conscious thoughts from underneath a silent exterior. He did this when he was nervous, or if he felt he was being prompted to speak. A repetitive thumbing of his book bag straps.
I have no idea where this is going...
SheCaldWar Dec 2013
Succulent and delicious I think not
With you I'm sorry but I will not be caught
Talking not touching is not what is sought
They say they want you on a platter
Not quite sure what is the matter
With their brain I can not see
For hearing you is a scream from banshee
Alone with you at sea I would rather die than eat
Don't try to greet or take a seat in the back of my car, you better retreat
I will not stand for your tasteless treats go some where else to excrete
You ask constant questions about my well being
Fleeing for I'm done sight seeing, I've had enough of us disagreeing
You pleading for me to just try it once isn't going to work
You can stick your fork in some other pork, not trying your meat ****
Go get your perks some other place, hotter than anything else you can get
Want to bet that this is not just an empty threat, leaving you upset
You must regret doing what you've done looks like meeting me wasn't so fun
No puns intended but your **** is roast and this time it was way over done.
A poem about what I go through not just with boys but with people in general who give me **** about being a Vegetarian.
KM Ramsey Jun 2015
apparently i wear my hesitation
my measured self control
in bold streaks of watercolors
across the pulled canvas of my face
but somehow that tension
the taut bounce of my shallow panorama
slides thinly by your
probing eyes poking at my weak spots
and waiting to watch me
shatter

search me
put the hidden words in quotations marks
and hit the return key
to query the google of my mind
whose only existence to you
is a retreating shadow
running past the wind
with a sonic boom of silence

it's easier to find something
when you have an idea where to look
and my subversive games
of smoke and mirrors
throwing my voice to a
different part of my body
the elegant distraction and the
final solution to my
nebulous existence
as a paper doll girl whose
amorphous two dimensional body
wears whatever
diaphanous primary color frock
the world demands to keep
it turning without hiccup
a sacrifice to the gods i have
foresaken and blasphemed
whose names i've taken in vain
and cursed with the most excruciating
fervor and
resolution

i want peace
which does not in fact live
in placating distraction
or hand waving while i'm
hemorrhaging from the
butchered wound in
my abdomen out of which
my secret shame seeks
to excrete that pheromone that
warns approaching creatures
that i am still
a wounded animal and
could snap at any moment
see red
then nothing

you can only help
a person so much when
every time they run
to your waiting arms
bleeding and broken
begging for absolution
or perhaps simply an
intercession for their muteness
and sutures of salvation
how do you help a person
who stands from the alter
with the transcendent certainty of
a religious experience
and yet still
pulls out those black wire stitches
while passing the last of the
empty pews
and the flickering flames
sending prayers up to an
empty firmament

i am the headlights on
the cars that follow in
solemn silence behind
the police escort
and the hearse
from church to finality
and a place in this world for eternity
a hole just my own
where peace is blackness of nothing
and the endless chatter
the bile whose acid
eats away at my brain
dries up and in its dessication
flies away in the arid winds
of terminal acceptance

you say you want the truth
but you're not like me
and you can't hide the pain
when i
hiding my fear
tell you that i need you
to leave
when all i want
is to keep your body pressed
infinitely close to mine
world without end
but my words fight to hold
the front line
and my canvas face is pulled
that much tighter.
the resolve is growing thin.
Its hard to wallow in sorrow
its even harder to watch you do it.
I don't love you or care about you
or know you
but I want to.

It's ok that we forgot how to feel
so I guess its ok that I am in pain now.

Can we remember?

I want to
just *******, stop, trying.
go do something.
It's pathetic.
Your pathetic.

Carry a flower by its petals to the icy marble of an upside down statue of a Catholic reverend mothers torn womb.

Torn petals
broken flowers
let it move and
slide through space
pressed tightly between
two pains
of glass
the juices excrete
from the flesh
of a flower.

Its really beautiful.
My mind is so happy, the satisfaction of watching the life squeeze out of a flower under glass makes me feel safe to express the emotion love.
Excuses are easy when your dealing with the English Language.
Jake Nov 2014
The vinyl is spinning, but so is my head.
Words; a carousel, I've drowned in all that we've said.
Like the time, you're slipping through these hands.
Forever rose-colored, now cut me down where I stand.
Harmonize hymns of your past with mine.
Lay with me, as the vines of our lives intertwine.
Lay with me, in fields of gold.
Lay with me, let this unfold.
Stay with me, look up to the sun.
Let the past slip away, may it be undone.

Remove time's varnish from our equation.
And like your pillow, cling to sensation.
Return all that we've took.
Digress to the comfort and warmth of your nook.
Listen to the cracks in the floor as they speak.
Only whimpers and lies of this heart would excrete.

Now we sleep.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nCQP3UXtihc
Katrick Pane Feb 2014
I can tell the story
But I cant tell the tale
To interpret these words
I would have to dissect
the sentence
A societal understanding
that would fall without fictitious
meaning
Unknown disbelief
able, to make sense
of non sense
And the powers almost out
So conserve the disposable
and excrete the non usable
Tea Jun 2013
Stinging.
I build myself up higher
Not even your fire can burn me down
Stone
Cold
Alone
But  alright
Fighting you
Fighting light
No fun while I’m young
Because I am a flower
I have to be picked
Picked because you admire
My sweet smell, color, desire
Nothing to eat
Process and excrete
Nothing to use
Then leave
******* and your kind
You make the world hard
Scared, battered and bruised
Lips like these will never please,
A stupid degenerate like you.

*Sad thing is I have never let boys like that in, but they still break my heart. They let something turn them into a monster, tear them apart. You are worth being loved, but you feel its to far.
You know
I am pretty happy
But its not what you think.

Its a box.

Yeah,

Its a box i sit in.
Its the place I built
To hide from myself.
I got my girl.
I got my boys.
I got my friends,
And my games,
And my job.

So im good.

But,

You see.
There are times,
When I think about
How messed up people
Can be:

To each other.
To themselves.
To animals.
To Earth.
To what we can really be,
What we NEED to be.
Even to little kids..........

And this is the time,
Yeah,
When all i wanna do is
peak
Over the lid of that box
And then:

My eyes glisten
within the flames
of pure agression.

The blind kind.

And I watch
As i fall somehow,
within myself,
Like down the throat of a dragon.
Screaming in absolute rage.

You know,...

 the tunnel vision kind?
The seeing red and black kind?
The saves you in fist fights kind?
The no pain kind.

The "if you even hint
That you are thinking,
What I THINK you are thinking.
I will claw my finger nails away
And ******,
trying to scratch my way to it.
Through your idiotic skull.
So i could remove
What would be the first thought
You've had in years.
So that I could then
Deny its rightful place
As king to the bran muffin
Between your diamond earings
You use to make decisions.
Just so I could then devour it
Excrete it back out,
Set it afire with
The very rage of
HUMANKIND
That floats somewhere
Between my heart, lips and mind
Just so I could Then throw myself
Upon those very flames.

And all of that...?

So that what remains of me
Won't have the energy to waste
On the thought of you."
Kind of

RED

RAGE
Extern and intern
From the prowling death itself
(like an afeard mouse into the hole)

Still heating,
You will be to a woman escaping,
For protection at her arms, laps and knees.

Not just the fire,
That calls with ease, not just the desire,
But you are also pushed there by the must -

For this, you'd hug,
If you were on her drug,
Hugging her till the whiteness of the mouth.

A double burden,
'n double treasure is the must to love.
For the one who cannot find a simple mate,

So homeless,
As so suportless
As the wild animal doing excrete.

There's nowhere to hide
No resort; even you get a knife
And as a brave, you aim at your mother!

See now, it happened
A woman who understand'
These words, but she pushed you away.

I have no place,
In this way, among livings. Pains,
In my head' to flourish my troubles;

Like a toddler,
Rattling the rattler
If he is left all alone.

What to do
Being contra or pro?
I have no shame to find out,

Since gets castaway
Even the poor who is a prey
Of the sun's and night's nightmares.

The culture's
Falling of me like costumes
While from others, they fall in big love -

But where it is written,
To be tossed by death hither-thither
In fact of that I'm suffering all alone?

The baby
Is also in pain, being born by the lady,
Since the shared pain is eased by humbleness.

But for me
My painful chants bring money
Enjoined with disgrace and more sorrow.

Help me, guys!
You, little boys, let your eyes,
Let them burst where this woman goes.

O' innocents,
Scream under the boots of dissidents
And tell them, please: It hurts so much.

O' faithful dogs,
Get under cars' wheels and smogs,
Then bark to them: It hurts so much.

O' women with burden,
Abort your half-living *****,
Then cry painfully: It hurts so much.

O' healthy men,
Fall down and ******* then,
Just to mutter: It hurts so much.

O' men,
Fighting each other for a woman,
Don't keep it silent: It hurts so much.

O' horses and bulls,
For the yoke loosing your *****,
Don't miss a moo: It hurts so much.

O' dumb fish,
Getting a hook to become dish,
Gawp and articulate: It hurts so much.

All who's alive,
Join the life-long strife,
Let burn the forest, the house, the hutch.

And then, at his bed,
Mortified, slumber-near, almost dead,
Gibber with me for last: It hurts so much.

So, she can hear while alive.
This is what she denied, if worthwhile.
She did restrict it by her own pleasure

Extern and intern
Escaping from living itself
That was his last resort.
Attila József - "Nagyon Fàj" Translated by me from the original Hungarian language.

03.07.2018
The Entire Egyptian Military laid down ( there's that word lay laid) their arms of weapons designed for war, when the opposing armies, had revealed they had strapped Living Cats to their shields.

Why, you wonder? Well the Cat is one mighty fine refined focal point, hell even its waste is refined and a rarity in quality of Ammonia and is closest to the Pig um, and Humans, and Pig is for only one rather jacked up reason, and the biggest reason you might want to no longer consume Pork, um, did you know that before the flood, that wiped out the entire map, with its dark wters and buildings, rocks, wait.. lets try this... see it is not the water that kills and destroys the coastline by wave or hurricane, it is the debris of all that is previously knocked into absolute helpless submission by the water of loving rage and passion. see imagine the entire map, being in a washing machine for oh, lets say 30, no no, oh hell lets call it at 40 days. and with all that debris, cars, trucks, trains, um people, roofing wood, beams, what.. im sorry, what was that? what do I mean cars trucks, trains? um, well we didnt abuse the oil as we do now, remember do not harm the oil or the wine? but we abused other elements and resonations, and had oh , far more than we do now, well, I say that in the understanding of the average bear. cause we have it all jack, yep most the vaults have been found and are now fully, well for the most part reverse engineered, um once time , and vibration, speed and stable speed of, vibe, ummm. yeah, never mind, we had some cool **** you cant even begin to imagine, and we had genetic manipulations too, and you know how it is when we have done it all, we keep going, and so we get the platypus, um and even the half human genome pig. not boar, not Hog Pig hair less pink porker pig, jack, yep, human genome. so stop eating of it. and if you think that not a good enough reason, research the worms that live beyond 800 degrees 12 hours in the meat of the flesh of the beast. and you for life. and yes I didn't know and eat and found out by seeking and stopped. oh and research the glands in their legs that excrete.
Joseph Sinclair Jul 2015
I look back to the memory of one revered
and recognise belatedly that, as I feared,
with all such thoughts that are but refugees
from Life’s repugnant and loathsome disease
that is a chronic chronicle of cardinal regret,
the anguish is not prepared to leave me yet.
The pain enters the maelstrom of my mind
sufficiently, it would appear, to raise the blind
on life’s insidious theatrical disguise
that renders impotent such exercise.

The jack hammer’s incessant pounding in my brain
brings infinitesimally lesser pain;
whilst rotting matter that life does excrete
continues to mould pallid at my feet;
and I, the perpetrator of the piece,
anticipating the relief of a surcease,
must yet continue suffering the bitter blend
of redress that forestalls the dividend.

There is a situation that, when taken out of season,
evokes a painful memory for whatever reason.
A rainbow within a bubble of soap,
the search for trouble with a bronchoscope,
the desperate wish just to recuperate,
despairing hope that they will not reciprocate.
And when all else is but a heap of ash,
other than that consigned to a memory cache,
then it is time to place within that store
those ills from which recovery can be no more;
to tread a path and seek a blessed state
from which to be a learned advocate
of such as heaven and not the living hell
in which the guilt of conscience still does dwell.

Now count your dead, you others who survive
as bees continue to enjoy their nectar in a hive.
As animals may play, imprisoned in a cage,
As we creative writers persevere despite our age.
It is but propaganda to deceive
and not sufficiently authentic so as to believe
when  Death, that great aggressor, determines to intrude
and interrupt the joy of an imperative  good mood.

I’ve opened curtains and raised many blinds
and peeped into the crevices of minds.
And now it seems at last it’s all been said
There’ll be no further peeps, and so to bed.


.
This is the completed poem of which part was posted earlier.
Valene May 2018
I had a bad day

You know when you get those days when you get hit with the truth
When you found out the person you were in love with was in love too
Getting so happy, heaven gave you what you wanted, then you found out he was not in love with you
When you probe deeper than what the two of you have
And see the type of love that they have
How you guys were a secret fling, how you felt butterflies and no one knew a thing
How you would both look at each other and smile
But no one really knew why
Then you look at them and see
His willing to show everyone how much he loves the
Feeling of holding her in his arms as if his wishes came true
And now you're left with a broken heart, forced to see the red become blue


I had a bad day

You know one of those days when you found out its gone
When you're other half as told you the news that you guys shall part
Smiles are now adorning their face
Only this time, it because they're leaving you babe
The friend you have becomes the friend you once had
And the sorrow of before comes back to haunt you once more
That time when you've found someone who gets you
Someone who understands why getting stabbed in the back doesn't make you cry
That person who understands how much time you need
Like they're skilled in the art of growing roses
That person who always made me smile
Is now leaving me for longer than a little while

I had a bad day

You know that day when **** just happens
You were already a floor people walked on
Your heart was already a court people played on
And now you're the grass that bulls excrete on
The universe decides to not only break your heart and take the tape away
But they also remind you of every single reason it was so fun to break you
It reminded you of how much value society will give you
And by now I realized its not a lot
When you find out you're the **** amongst the flowers
You're the thorn amongst the roses
And you're the slave to a system of an imaginery hierarchy
The hierarchy that says you'll never be accepted

Yeah, I had a pretty bad day today
How was your day?
Nathan Young Jan 2015
I sit here in a computer chair,
staring at a screen whom I have no desire to gaze upon.
Question me, please.
I long for the desire to communicate.
A thin line with what is real and what I want to be real.
Steal these thoughts and fortify my heart.

It only takes five minutes in exchange
for carcinogens to take refuge in me.
Rational thought. Calmness. Ease.
I aim to quit, but pilgrimages are often brutal.
End this addiction, it's time.
My lungs cannot breathe through the ash.

346 days. 8304 hours. 498240 minutes.
It's almost been a year since our birth.
I envision her smile hourly. It's intoxicating.
Her skin is that of silk. Her embraces are true
with eyes breaking all of my composure.

I haven't bled in a long time and I miss it.
The crimson water that I excrete
is a sign that I'm still living. breathing. existing.
Only then will I feel real pain; A pain I once felt long ago.
I must remember, to look back and see how far I've come.

I've burnt bridges, toppled mental empires, used people,
let people use me, let rage consume, let depression drown,
and let the emptiness encompass my insides.
Every struggle has led up to this.
So, tell me I am not human..

I'd like to see you try and mean it.
spysgrandson Jan 2017
deep in the warren
they feel safe from the treachery
of my carnivorous calling

but I can use the shovel,
that terrible tool of modernity--after all,
'tis a favorite of grave diggers

a few scoops in the dank soil
and the rabbits are vulnerable to my attack:
a simple bashing of twitching skulls

my hands driven by a hunger
they satisfy with grasses in summer,
twigs, roots in winter

I wish my needs were so meager
my appetite so abstemious--but I crave
blood fresh flesh, torn from the bone

without their sacrifice, I must seek
bigger beasts, long dead, cellophane sealed
and put on ****** display

or become a vegan and ground great grains,
boil lazy legumes, and feign a higher nobility
in what I eat and excrete
no offense intended to vegetarians, or rabbits
Mike Essig Feb 2016
Eat, sleep, breathe, excrete,
a body living does not a life make.
Oh! Black dog do not my heart devour.
Only the lonely know only the lonely.
Know thing not without touch lives.
Do you smell that smell? Do not inhale.
Kick hard to keep the burly beast at bay.
Or cross the bar onto wine-dark depths,
Song of sirens. Whispers of doom.
How soothing simply to sink. Down.
Sometimes, the brain may prefer the drain.
Make the judgementally ill be still.
In my mania is my maintenance.
The abyss remains to revisit always.
Difficult balance: live or cease pain.
To resist. To defy. All that does remain.
Good morning, blues, how do you do?
To keep it or to give it away.
Bump. Bump. Down the funny steps.
Bear up. Hold on. Call that another day,
though sand through the glass’ neck still drips.
Jonas Akst Nov 2014
He’s one of those;
those living things.
Those pumping,
clicking,
god-bothering,
mechanical,
repetitive
things.
­
No you can’t,
you can’t touch it.
It’ll excrete,
spill its waste,
pollute,
contaminate;
so don't.
Don’t touch it.

Quit it.
Quit feeding it.
You’re making it louder,
more obnoxious,
more unbearable;
a colossus
of distraction.
Keep your distance.

Of course not.
You can’t speak to it.
You’ll illicit garble,
mindless
clicks of cogs.
Surely it can’t
speak back,
surely.

Just hit it,
beat it.
It’s not like us,
no pain,
no feeling,
no consciousness.
It’ll go on forever
if you don’t.

Good,
now its finished.
See?
It’s peaceful now,
room to think,
space to breath,
no clogging,
living things.
Kiarra Dean Jun 2015
It’s odd when you realize how poetic you get whenever you talk about your favorite place.
Mine seems to excrete smells of rotten fish and decomposing aquatic life; yet I find myself sitting there, basking in the sunlight and nose-offending odors, as if I myself were in a giant stir fry of the sea, the sun, and decomposition of life itself.
first part of this essay thing i have to do for an english class
Drunk poet Jul 2017
My feet move me
Like a sailor determining the
Fate of a ship
Kilometers I move, away from my hut's threshold
Where I battle in thoughtless thoghts
.
Solid thoughts,
Roaming on my mind like hawkers
On the streets of Lagos
I felt the tears of the cloud
Drenching me with knowledge on
My only piece of "ankara"
.
Where would fate lead me?
For I fear it's forces may ******* into
The forest of unfulfilled dreams
Will I end up like my fathers?
Who had many wives with shorten lives
Ha! I need the compass of life
.
Let me excrete myself on the platform
Of golds not of the gods
Not reality in an invidious thoughts
Yes, I decide my fate!
Not the gods, reality or some stupid thoughts!
.
Balogun David Tolulope
Drunk poet*©️2017
IG=acedadrunk_poet
Slur pee May 2016
Roaches crawl underneath my skin,
I peel it back to see within,
Blackened organs, dripping with rot,
Barbed wire lungs, and a heart made of rock.
Stomach full of acid, climbing up my throat
Hear it sizzle in my mouth, as I start to choke.
Intestines full of waste, great reflection of the bin
Where it's all held in, saved for later to be tasted.

**** moves "north" when you're hanging upside down,
A smile from a frown, you'll never be satiated,
Have some bran, and wear your crown,
Your porcelain throne is patiently waiting.
All hail the king, of the lonesome and the hating
Feed us please, excrete your propaganda
We'll believe, because we have no other agenda.
On our knees, ready to be bathed,
Wash our brains, in your venomous hate.

-SLuR

— The End —