"excrete" poems
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
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
aye,
the babies have it right,
them, the essences of life
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 5:21 AM UTC
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.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
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
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 3:51 AM UTC
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
Jun 15, 2010
Jun 15, 2010 at 8:52 PM UTC
*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 whore-self in the ugly ******* red car
For him to rot he shall as a male-slag
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-Whore, ****
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-Whore. I do not like him
But I do not hate him.*
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
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.
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 4:12 AM UTC
Add a verse,
You have it
In you.
Excrete and devise.
Throw-up
Your insides
In a technicolour
Burp.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
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
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 12:34 PM UTC
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.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
Remember man; when you were young; a helpless baby
And its uncertain; if you will survive or die young maybe
You want a good posture but you couldn’t sit yourself
You wet and excrete on your nappies and you couldn’t clean yourself
Your bones and muscles are weak; with low resistance
There’s nothing you can do on your own without assistance
When you’re hungry; you can’t tell or feed yourself
You can’t concede a solid food; there is no teeth in your mouth
Then you start growing up and you start to crawl
And every time you stand up; you can’t move; you’re scare to fall
He’s scare to take a step; he needs a help to walk
Now this kid is developing and growing tall
Now this kid is grown up and he is mature
He walks around, dine along through sea and shore
He boast around and regard himself independent
He goes up and down thinking he’s something special
He act like he made himself and forget his origin
His earlier age of stand and fall; he’s forgotten everything
But soon you’ll get to a stage of trash and no road
If by chance you live long and has the chance to grow old
And once again you will be dependant and weak
You won’t be able to stand or move unless you’re supported by stick
And once again you can’t stand you’re scare to fall
You can’t take a step forward; you need a help to walk
Upon your bed lying helpless; unable to perform your role
Death stood by your head; waiting to take out your soul
And that’s his end; now again your soul is relaxed
Just like a kid; now again they give him a bath
His body is under the ditch; six feet and his soul on the other side
Now he understand the reality of living under the sand
Your wife, children and friends and wealth are all gone
That’s when you will understand the concept of life is not fun
You’re alone on your own under the last mansion
And the company that remain is your good and bad actions.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 2:56 PM UTC
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 m**f*** 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!
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 4:25 PM UTC
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
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
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*
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
Drowned out by divas
It was comfort that left us unprepared for this
This being the circuital embibement of chores and books
A choice to unentangle the moth from the web
Leaves one with typical but still misunderstood disturbances
Dad is a peadophile
We had ***
And now they're naming me a newt
A wet creature, suited especially to specific environments
A sham executed from the musical tenemants is one thing
But a crammed into trailer park is just a shame.
what makes a butterfly float, when everyone else is drowning?
The eyeish eckelecktic rom capacity can be blown away
And the attitudes of specs can thwart their own terrain
But if a pen draws blood, there's not room left for anything
So tell me the joke, esplanade yourself beyond my reach
Coke yourself up, give a scream, patent this work as your own, cherish the tub thumping
Be a cherub though rather than an angel, excrete malignantly and door slam the foreign light.
But someone must decide if the light is foreign.
Feb 4, 2025
Feb 4, 2025 at 9:51 AM UTC
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
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
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 slope 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.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
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.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
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
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 11:22 PM UTC
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.
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 1:56 AM UTC
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
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
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.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 6:34 AM UTC
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
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 12:49 PM UTC
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
**** you 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. *
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
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
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 10:18 PM UTC