"excreting" poems
What am I even doing?
This process seems so pointless
Smiles and charities
We all know it's about the drinking
and the ***
And the coke.
(don't forget the coke)
These girls aren't your friends
they're side-by-side failed clones that
strive to give you validation
excreting words that
you will never need.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
Open mouth,
Exhale smoke rings of equations and formulas revealing answers only discovered with the liberation death brings
Disperse your arsenal of gray matter upon me
While I absorb your reality T.V. and high school science projects
Accepting an empty proposal
Negotiation always on your terms
You spit game with out passion
Inhale sentences of herbal essences--
Burning like open flame on my voice, stealing my breath
Never stumbling over mistakes or transgressions
Dominating any and all fields of study with which you choose to fill your brainpan
I submit unwillingly in this prison,
in this prison for eternity.
How enveloping
This overload of pumping adrenal glands, excreting testosterone and overzealously prejudiced masculinity
Lack of understanding for femininity and sensible comfortability
Close your eyes
Heavy lies the head that wears the crown
So content atop a pillow bursting at the seams with $20's
1, 2, 3.
Knife. Fork. Spoon.
Drifting
Hundred dollar bills bouncing over the moon holding the cow's hand as you count your materialistic disguised happiness.
I can't read your poker face
I can't keep up
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
Disappointment transformed into rage.
Rage transformed into tears
liquid forms of despair.
Body excreting pain
a failing healing process
acute or chronic series
of mourning events.
The soul full of nociceptors
soldiers of misfortune
firing against the invinsible enemy.
The wounds open, refusing to heal.
The years of not understanding,
misunderstandings, confusion, denial
and self-loathing.
Time is running out in her mind.
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 8:41 PM UTC
Open face of demonstration, demanding a new declaration
by excreting exclamations to explain to them
that there is no place for them to lay their head.
You want to erase them, and just replace them again
with a new generation that will provide the revelation
that will spark the alleviation of the victims of trade that had been played by those trained
to wrap chains around them, no longer locked to the ground but running in place nonetheless,
circling around at whatever pace has been set.
Playing house in the devil’s play-set.
Always alluding to what you wanna play next.
It’s time to resign from the contract you signed, pay all of the cancellation fines,
so you can start your own design.
The one that makes you inclined to put time into that
which will impact the things that you blame for losing your mind.
The things, you complain, are a waste of your time,
While you sit around and just hate and drink up a glass of whine.
Open innovation can transform into inspirational collaboration,
which will then send out invitations to the world
to take their own aboriginal exploration which would in turn destroy all awol nations,
thus, breaking the boundaries of potential imagination.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
it all feels like disease and i want to strip my bones raw; manic
(sugar rush deity)
what am i to you… what are you to me, aside from endearing silhouettes; pixie
(mumbling shy songs)
in an ocean of violents in bloom we speak artificial prayer; dream
(cloaked in starry-eyed acapella—thats what they think, no?)
i surrender to your clarity and intensity and charm and beauty that my hands are too numb and dull to touch; girl
and then comes wrath: a dewy vileness teetering on the brink of your 9th life
now hell has harnessed my chest, for it is with deep regret and shaky sobs that every opening and crack in my body emits rotten remains of our silent war…
but there are still heartfelts i never mustered up the courage to let go of:
thank you for tip-toeing around broken strings to reach out once more, twice more
thank you for enduring my futile voyages through resentment
thank you for soaking all my insanity in like sunlight and excreting back out a gentle rainfall
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
The sunrise burns the sky
A carefully coloured explosion
Blooded light flooding the low Kent fields that lie
Before Maidstone, excreting soundless motion:
Yellow carnation shards sway
With this violent advent of day.
In Hucking Estate diaphanous bluebells nestle
Beneath the groping canopy
Of Ash. Oak; the encroaching stinging nettle
Shields the frequent woodland scree
Covering with a verdant flush
Brooks that through the stones invisibly rush.
Within the hour, the Gorgon-headed sun
Sweeps aside the cloud-
The red into blue and orange has run
And in Lower Fullingpits Wood the increasingly loud
Shuffling of badger attacking vole, fox strangling rabbit,
All compounded into daily habit.
The Kent Downs rise and fall
Like resurrected earth-bound music from a time
When hill, wood and pool
Emerged from unfettered chalk and lime.
Before the Cantii hunted in ancient Wents Wood,
For deer and boar, spurred not by hunger but for the love of blood.
Above the sparrow-hawk attacks the sparrows
Claw enmeshed in feather,
Beak unravelling neck. The unalterable sorrows
Of nature and weather.
Cruelty never ceases, but just gets more efficient-
Kindness remains deficient.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
I am the universal signal mixer
On frequency h-u-m-a-n
Intaking and excreting vibrations
Decoding and synthesizing inputs
Receivers attuned and continuously engaged
Transposing matter and energy
Into light patterns of thought
Touching all waveforms
As a lover touches himself and others
Energy frozen into matter
Love frozen into form
Stretched to the very limits
On the blueprint of time, eternity
As dreamed by, yours truly
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 7:38 PM UTC
you are all of the mind’s dirtiest trick:
a weathered image of Magdalena,
a sleight of hand and a swirl of skin.
defying the laws of inebriation like a culprit
set loose, or the pallor of the moon excreting its habiliments.
the old rancor of the tree from its spurious beating. vestal buds of autumn
frugal hands of drizzle in April, prostitutes pirouetting, pried open,
dissected in faces of the tabloids (their almost acrobatic supremacy on centerfolds)
all mangled like the unclear, yet certain picture of a 1990s havocked
retrospect.
you are all of the mind’s filth: a putrid modal-jazz entrapment
and I am that sad fellow at the elbow room of some dislimned establishment
falling as lithe as poppies in spring
only when my mind starts to sing freely, a clenched, harmonic framework
will my bones start to unloose in the ether, death with its ammoniac perfume,
closes in like an unwanted visitor with a bounty of silence drowning everything.
i imagine you anything but lustrous this evening.
there are certain points in the pressures of your gravity
that levitate to mere intersections of the finer points of ecstasy.
i imagine you all soft and plump as a word of salvage
without the vigor of blandishments when you start with your
own way of moving i imagine you as blunt as a dull knife
plunging into me – i imagine your sidereal satellites fail in their coverage
over impossibly the blackest of skies in February,|
i imagine you anything but clean
and all white and spruced up with the most
drenched light, real to the touch and swiftly moving across the afternoon
like wishing you all but perverse and anomalous
and strikingly beautiful.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 8:27 AM UTC
Nauseating waves of nihilism seep through my eyelids
All the doors of normalcy are locked-
Suddenly I have no fear of death
This is the in-between, the veil of life-
A sepia tone
Here we express our joy while excreting poison
Heaven must only have one extreme (if indeed it’s heaven)
Back to the blankets, but a discontinued thought
Here we can’t admit we’re already dead
Paying the piper
Or was it a past life, a past purgatory?
I have no fear of death
But I need answers soon-
A scavenger hunt for pieces of the soul
And they play music
And I’m out of my mind
How many more years till I figure it out?
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 1:02 PM UTC
He stands on the stage with muscles tensed and mind relaxed. His ability to perceive anything at once is employed. And there are twins in the hall, a frog in the toilet, and nowhere (out of sight) is the aphrodisiac named Lenny. A common misconception is the conception of any order at all, and everything you want to exist now, or ever existed, a priori: this is the meat-muscle, the excreting weener, of Cain.
"Nowhere, man," states the deaf mute with essence, "must have a musk, a muse." An Algonquin replied, "Stay away from that horrifying ontology."
The man on the stage is at the same time becoming less inquisitive, more unconcerned and fallow, and now he watches their amusement from off-stage!
Now, those poor, poor people on the balcony--watching him, recording every minute--they do not cow him, for he watches them as an aside only, for the figure on the stage rises, mimicking an immense marble statue. His spine stretches, as the calls of his own voice call out, in his own voice emit, for the figure on the stage, especially when he calls, little or no recognition. The only voice, obviously, is this unrecognizable, willful voice that once belonged to him. Although it cannot be, it can. Although it is not possible (that it is not), it is. His personal translation beckons concern.
With all his initial reactions lost, no longer won, no longer controlled, he is, by those very two filters, totally unmediated. But steadfast guile and limitless misery become his (one-two) weapons. The elations, employed at last year's performance, are absent. Crying, he becomes, just as defeated as a whim. But his legs move around, and he jives and jives and jives, like a crazy set of legs, as if almost no technique is being spared. Tonight. Tonight he is earning his pay. Pray. Prey. Tonight! But only a willful moneymaker, a master of his control, in this reality, earns him his pay.
"Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing! For I'm praying you!" screams an old man in the orchestra pit, "For I'm paying you with my best! Tonight! In all ways, I am yours!"
The dancing marble man looks up. He looks at the world. And from the smoke, a seed believes its lofty purpose lost, in a mournful message, in a reluctant admission to that unforeseen realm, of communiqué.
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 7:46 AM UTC
Hot liquid in pieces
Exiting CO2
Excreting reflections
Thinking of you
Bleeding skin of fire
Together we fill the void
With An incision of desire
Journeys around the stratosphere
Sour digestion of tears
Love drowning all our fears
My body recognizes the link
Trying hard not to think
Under milky designs
Exploring wonders and signs
Releasing individuality
Feeling duality
Tasting originality
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 2:48 PM UTC
The abomination that is the human mind
twists and turns, spews and shouts
as worms in filth
or words on paper
crawling and consuming
evolving and discharging
imbibing knowledge and purging perception
letters illustrate products of chemical reactions
neurotransmitters conspire with memory and ideology
excreting dopamine and epinephrine by the milliliters
no one can read what is safe
no one is safe from what they read
poetry is a bowel movement of the mind….
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 8:50 PM UTC
My dreams are full
Of skull-fucking
And butt-fucking
And ******* all night long.
******* girls I loved
And girls I came to hate.
They are full of that driving hunger
like being tickled
By the queen wasp's stinger
Until the syringe went to deep
And the want became a need
And
the *******
became
A plague,
so that I couldn’t dream
Of anything else,
but sticking my ****
into some pink *****
And driving it all the way into
Her
until
I could see it in her eyes,
forcing the smell of her
reddened, limping *****
out of her ears
like a bloated body
excreting excess venom.
I wake up
to a hard-on,
fatigued,
limping,
famished,
humiliated.
Every night I pull the power cord out of the digital radio beside my bed, the one with the lime-green numerals, and I wrap the cord around my neck until I can hear the muffled hammering of my heartbeat
inside my skull.
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 9:48 PM UTC
Inside my head
is like a fish bowl.
There's something swimming around
adventuring
and looking for more
in that one cubic foot of liquid.
Its excreting disgust
and wide eyed
attempting to calculate
the world outside
seven seconds at a time.
There are other things in there
small sharp pebbles of shame
lining the bottom of my existence,
its bedrock.
A fake chest
full of fake treasure
letting out little bubbles of hope
to keep me distracted when ever I try to look out.
All these things seem to be deemed necessary
for one reason
or another
but what if they aren't.
What if I could just dump my fishbowl brain
out onto the counter
and watch my ambition
and courage
do a final death dance
flopping and gasping
in a pool of fake treasure
and little rocks of shame
surrounded by the chilly pool of my memories
on the malted surface of a linoleum counter.
They say the brain
takes fifteen minutes to die.
Could I only experience it
seven seconds
at a time?
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
Disgust wrapped in disgust wrapped in disgust
Fill me up to the brim, I'm a weak paper cup.
I crumple over my predisposed disorders,
Folding against deeply etched wrinkles.
Let my sickness drip through pinprick holes,
And I am wholly incomplete, excreting my soul.
-SLuR
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 2:33 PM UTC
*TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.*
W.B.Yeats
In a time such as this, in darkening days
Without screeching witches
Frightened banshees, buggered old men
Searching for solace, eyes streaming with icicle-lust-
Gangrene facebook: torn-up, shredded twitter
The cries of the disconnected,
Wailing!
Wailing!
In a time like this, in darkening days,
The disconnections come in waves!
Searching for reason amongst the unreasoning,
Hunting for sanity within the insane,
Identifying the dead from amongst the living.
Wailing!
Wailing!
Email excreting venom
Internet exfoliating lies-politicians wrapped
In deceit-
A cold time of it, a wretched time of it.
Only within our hearts does hope lie.
Only there
Away from conflict and disorder
Away
From the capricious cacophony of biased debate.
Wailing!
Wailing!
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 6:36 PM UTC
All is a graveyard
We stumble about upon epochs
of reverberating death knells
Living like leaves
upon one solemn tree
Enriched by ancestral spell below
Fallen
Not yet
Organics ancienter
-unknown-
That black-indigo before the dawn
Ground up between bedrock
Churned into an oil
We go because they went before
And we too will go
Gone from this whirl
The skull calls all
Either respond
Or don't
It does not matter
The worm is autocrat
Its dictate: feed
Excreting the creed
Again again
There is death
Then there's the sleep of Fall
Death's second self
As Shakes' leaves once penned
But the reflection of this
In this our complicated globe flitting
Is death's third self
A selfish giver left to leave
A self that is
Because of what once was
A flourishing
Sped forth by inner-whorl of seed
An intimate meeting of bodies
Being being
And been
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
You keep asking me about my past lovers
and whether i still have feelings for them.
You become upset when i don’t keep a straight face.
Yet, it is not my fault. For i can’t help but smile when i think about later tonight.
Pore excreting upon pore,
and how my fingers will through comb your hair.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 3:24 AM UTC
A mother sits on the edge
of a hospital bed with her
baby daughter lying on her lap.
The air throughout the hospital
is suffocating, stifling with the
stench of filth and death.
The walls amplify and echo the
anguish of women and children,
and jets fly somewhere overhead.
But she tries to sing a lullaby
through her parched throat
beneath her grubby niqāb. The skin
and bones that make her frame
cannot sway the child for comfort.
She cannot feed her; even if her
******* could provide sustenance,
the child’s sickness would puke it
back up. She craves to cry for God
to spare her little one, but her
bloodshot, sunken eyes no longer
produce tears. All she can offer is
her lullaby, the same one she sang
to all her children. All that remains
of them and their father are fragments,
scattered throughout dirt and debris,
blown to bits a week ago by a blast
in her village. When the only one left
became sick, she started the trek to
the nearest hospital. The journey
greeted her with dust and unbearable
heat, with the agony of an empty
stomach, with a child in misery and
excreting white diarrhea. And when
she finally reached the hospital, the
doctors could not provide treatment.
The disease had progressed too far,
and they did not have the means to
save her daughter. So she sits on a
hospice bed, surrounded by other
sickly and starving bodies, singing a
lullaby. Soon the child closes her eyes
and stops breathing, a thick white
drool leaking down her cheek. Her
mother wipes it away.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
Jun 13, 2020
Jun 13, 2020 at 6:00 PM UTC
There were numerous footprints
in pudding on the ground leading to
my room while I went to answer the telephone
that had been ringing. The phone had a strange stain
on it. it could have been barbeque sauce,
Ketchup
or blood.
Then the phone turned
to ash and then the room!
One wrong move
and the whole
Thing comes
crumbling down.
We fell for ever,
Inner-walls slimed and excreting fiery ***** chunks
while the search for water is abandon
Landed in a pool of black thick slimy muck,
The snakes comes slither,
tar oil, burnt charcoal; snakes
Pearly white eyes and long black tongue
There venom is the orange in the bag from liposuction
A light! I say, A light! down there!
sometimes the only way out is deeper through the ****** pus hole
And fight the white head with nothing but your bare hands
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
So when you talk to me
should I ask who the hell it is?
Your words and actions are
like a surge of bile excreting from my ***
Come on...Cum on
tell me
another ******* story
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 4:45 PM UTC
we used to flow like the river
but now we're cold as ice
we used to feed on the fruits of romance
now we have dry pastures fielded with ignorance
we used to check each other coast to coast
now we barely see eye to eye
love was blind but gained sight
and it saw on the other side of loneliness strides
I used to write and you would ride
ride my words like a pony of beautiful thoughts
we used to send each other smiley faces and sweet nothings
now we're the image of people who used to know each other but just retire their memories on some couples' anthology
I write poetry to fit the gaps left by emotionless apologies
Were you sorry to leave or were you sore for being a thief?
the thief of my heart, a pioneer of love and its jeers
I would cry and cry a river of tears but that doesn't shake off the forthcoming fears
I thought we would last years and years but now all we have is a map of memories and ambitions lost in wonderland
We used to be the superheroes of love and affection,
now we're stripped off all its comic books
It was high and a frivolity when you shook me with your spark
Now I throw darts hoping it didn't leave too deep a mark
a game I play myself, to weigh how much you meant to me
it was quite a quilt our time together, a ballad crocheted by picturesque tapestries
oh my we used to be,
now seeing you is a trivial novelty
for I do not know the person you've become
I hope your new love does not come out undone
I will be waiting for my own new love, excreting the little passions that still remain in the coffers of my soul
We used to be but now there is no more you and me
just old pictures of fallen and abandoned leaves
may memory pick them up and blow them into the seasons that are the seams,
the seams of the strings of time.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 11:39 AM UTC
" Repulsive human "
I saw my mirrored self
On a forgotten object on the shelf,
My repugnant self.
ugly with a decaying beauty,
An ungrateful being,
who is always and horribly lying,
Nourishing on rotten compliments,
Devouring beastly received sentiments,
Pulling pleasures from holes excreting elements.
With regret,
I fixate
my mirrored self,
On the truth teller object remaining on the shelf.
****** to be earthy,
Condemned to longevity,
I smell the fool odor of my naivety,
My soul's obesity.
They said
"To live is a twist of fate"
But all I see
Through my mirrored self
Is a fate
that is worse than death.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 1:38 AM UTC
Thought first begins in
mouth
Tzara
a Sun with a slow metabolism
excreting sterile doves
or roses in machineries of crimson
I feel the same inflammation
when thought first starts in the mouth
and ends a derailed train: penetration
in an alley of locomotives
this titular token of the grave sorrow of the World
sinking in your sleep a dagger
or
simply a
promise
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 3:22 AM UTC
"Sonnets From a Conversation With a Friend XXIII "
You theme you are the only one and crap
A conscious **** excreting mindflex mobile
Bone bag commercially impregnated
With a semblance of life called existence
Firmly pegged in this moments suffering
Or relief of suffering called happiness
By most swimmers in the we turbulent
Through cause and calmed through cause to each their own
Journey a needless needful thing of our
Humanity etcetera moving
So we must go no where or now here to
Be the undiscovered country glowing
Light forms solidifying matter forms
Melting cyclic wonderment of what's this
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 1:44 AM UTC