"faeces" poems
I can't believe I bought them.
Is this the top scoop?
I've entered a raffle for
pea & ham soup.
I can't even eat it,
I'm vegetarian you see.
Won't you just change it to
tomato for me?
I don't mind the peas,
It's the ham that's no good.
They slaughter those piggies
screaming, covered in blood.
Eyes bulging, their throats cut.
It's really not nice.
There's so much more to choose from,
not just cakes made of rice.
Have you seen how they nugget,
crispy goujons and breast?
They've found faeces and gristle
in a food safety test.
So don't think that these people
have your interests at best.
Look it up, do your research
and I'll give it a rest!
Poetry by Kaydee.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 12:28 AM UTC
Haters, haters, hiding in the closets, hiding in faeces
your putrid minds full of fears and all your weaknesses
You are not men but degenerates and cowards in excesses
but in your attempts to distract away from your deseases
Look the parents you have and you know you're like rat fleas
you lack a lot which makes you so angry and in pieces
Washing once a week on other days its wet towel on faces
smerge on stunted wieners never to be a winner at the races
You're un-cool all you do is pretend but you ain't got the aces
as charmless as chicken *** you're the left-behind in chases
Never had a true compliment because you have no graces
deep down you're a mess and petrified of background traces
You have ***** linens and bad secrets buried in bad places
you're nasty, think nasty and 've done things that debases
Always afraid you pick on your betters rocking in perfect places
full of inferiority complexes real abilities get up your noses
You've wet your bed and at night you knowyou're *********
playing macho when in reality you want to do men's *****
Nobody likes the faceless cowards and abject scorn they entices
partners and frenemies are there for themselves and free passes
They see through them and smell their weakness without paces
faking laughter at their hate and anger at winners they despises
Haters are sick sad losers miserable inferiors with dark devises
never happy, never content just slimy cowards in dumb disguises
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
Whilst walking down the street
I heard a thunderous tweet;
'Twas a straining little bird
Who couldn't pass a ****
The little thing was constipated,
Its **** wide dilated;
Tweeting loudly in mid-bog,
Trying to eject a log.
I observed with sympathetic heart
As it trumpeted out a ****
Straining, chirping loud and long,
Letting off a foul and noisome pong.
I watched for nigh an hour
Its display of **** power;
Then a final intestinal pump
Produced a huge great steaming lump:
A mighty ball of faeces
(a giant of its species,
and total bumhole splitter
which shattered its feathered *******
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
Imagine waking up on a filthy, uneven floor -
light coming solely through the flimsy wooden wall.
Imagine trudging through the mud barefoot -
mud merged with remnants of God knows who.
Imagine breathing in thick layers of sooty dust -
the colors sullen, lifeless and dull.
Imagine smelling the scent of faeces and decay,
of diseases and of death every single day.
Imagine your belly gurgling with hunger and distraught,
sniffing glue - the only way to delude.
Imagine walking on rickety bridges -
a step amiss and drown you will in these murky watery ditches.
Imagine wearing the same old rags - all tattered and torn,
being beaten and battered, no rights of which to call your own.
Imagine having silly daydreams of going to school
but there's not a penny to spare - not even for a worn-out book.
But alas, imagine no more for such children exist,
with ghosts clouding their starry dreams
And death hanging heavy upon their tiny, little feet.
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 4:49 AM UTC
I take umbrage
At comparing
The POTUS
To a lying piece of crap.
I've experienced crap, lots of it!
Usually brown, with no comb-over.
So POTUS **** is an unfair analogy.
Now, a moniker like
Faeces Face fits,
And stinks to the high heavens.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 2:31 PM UTC
i was late
through no fault of my own
at least
that's what i tell myself
just one of those occasions
where try as you might
the universe won't allow you
to leave on time
standing at the threshold
one final pat of pockets
to check i had
all that i needed
looking up
to gauge the need
for coat or umbrella
i witness
an inhumane globule
of avian faeces
viscous and creamy
in colour and consistency
exploding upon the path
two steps ahead of me
i see no sign
of the culprit
hearing only its cacophony
of enjoyment
or maybe disappointment
drifting
into the distance
Sep 6, 2022
Sep 6, 2022 at 4:21 AM UTC
I have developed a twitch in my body-brain.
It jerks at my organs and my violet thoughts.
I can control it to make it work,
Use it to dance on your rusted metal cogs.
It's like a spinning tree,
With interwinding pine cones of
Gold that hang from satin branches
He is perched up there again!
Tall and proud.
Not a bird like other animals.
Not an animal like other animals.
I know your most shameful thoughts,
Let me tease out the guilt and despair
Pull it out in worm string from your
Bloodied Guts,
Your gilded towers where you lock them away
Shame on you.
Bell chimes three times: Death call
But blue tears still cling like sharp thorns to brassy plumage
plumes plumes plumes
Frère Jaques, Frère Jaques, Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?
Slumber not next to the satin tree,
Layered under the shrieks of your old loves
Where they suffer timeless tortures that make your tongue
Taste like fish feed.
Poppy breathed inside his beak-jaw, mongrel!
White faeces stain the satin branches again.
Bloodied, bloodied, bloodied.
Pandora makes you bleed
White faeces.
Leech, your brain is a leech-vampire.
White faeces.
Quick, walk around the tree three times in clockwise motions,
Not like a tick-tock more like the flap of a wing.
Do not forget the tear ink,
Her tears were ink,
they were ink,
ink, ink, ink.
Sink into the poppy field!
Churn in your toxic nutrition
Choke on your reflux
Do not taste.
Do not see.
Do not smell.
Do not touch.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 6:08 PM UTC
my eyes are drawn
to two seagulls
perched contentedly on
a shit-caked lamp post
nothing decorative
lacking flourish or accent
a simple narrowing pole
coloured inexplicably green
with gently domed cowls
that gulls and pigeons
seemingly frequent
marred by a combination
of cream brown white
for all i know
it could be
their own faeces
in which they stand
or it could be
weathered and aged
built up and dried in place
for days
for months
for years
perhaps even decades
never to return
to untarnished days
perhaps if the bulb blew
or the lamp failed completely
it might be restored
while it is repaired
but there is no
guarantee of that
and yet the birds
could not care less
they'll pay no heed
to that which is less
than perfection
treating this evidently
well-favoured resting place
the same as they would
an unmarred branch
protected amongst tree tops
or a dainty bird-bath
amidst the flowers
of someone's quaint garden
Jun 26, 2023
Jun 26, 2023 at 11:47 AM 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
The first thing you notice about a hospital is how clean it is.
The floors scrubbed down so hard, it would be cleaner with a more natural-looking layer of grime, because the reek of sterilising lemon-scented cleaner is sickening.
The tiles are snow but the ceilings are sludge, layers of paint unsuccessfully attempt to cover the dry rot coat, but the faeces-hue cannot be covered.
The doorways and chairs are bathed in rust, the flies not hesitating to accompany the visitors and their loved ones.
*Even the cleanest places are *****
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 7:32 AM UTC
*A Poeme from ye Penne of
ye right learned Professor Peter Buttocke
collected by hysse Pupille Edna*
There is an ancient Shittah in my Garden, eldritch and right dun in alle Aspect
Wherein dwelleth a loude and noisome Ouzel, ye like of which I have ne'er yet seen
Under thysse our goode Goddes fayre Welkin up in ye Skye above us alle.
This foule and unwholesome Beeste, with trespassynge shote-like ****** Effusiones
Hath performed ye veritable Antithesis of kindly horticultural Edulcoration
For whiche Sinne I shall emasculate ye Brute, so God may grant me Pow'r.
Sudating at ye Nostrilles I advance, my trustie Stang at ye ever-ready,
And I prepare to eject it from yon Pollard, having previous shattered
Alle its horryd Frangibles with one brave bolde frampold Blowe.
Thwacke! A last Piffero-reminiscent Warble escapeth loude from its fowle coronoid Appendage;
Right severe Damage and harsh fatal Ruine of Nature irreversible have I caused
To ye shaggie shamelesse little avian Runte, whereon Goddes smile hath ne'er dawned.
Thus descendeth it to the Faeces-bedecked Herdwick, and I titubate triumph'lly o'er its conticent Corpse.
And were there yet a duodenary Set of ye Frass-Depositors, I would not give a Demi-Testrel for their Survyvall
Should they e'er again infringe the sacred Privacie whych ye ancient Shittah enjoyeth in my Garden.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 6:37 AM UTC
Blah Blah Blah!
In a blaze of anger I exploded.
His personal torment,
He created for himself.
I told the world a pack of truth.
About the sheep in lupine garb.
Dressed not in a sauce of mint.
Inedible,
Toxic to the end.
Darling, your good friends left.
Go curl up and die.
My friendship expelled at last.
My heart is fixed.
Go have a blast,
Poetic fantasist.
Straight from the heart of ex romantic.
For I am not to be destroyed.
Annoyed once by his drunken rants.
His narcissism.
The fairy tale he decried.
The one so truly self absorbed.
Stuck in syndrome,
Peter Pan.
Expelled his faeces.
Only way that I know how.
Wrote my heart out.
Demon exorcised.
Care not,
should I be cursed.
Now i'm gone.
Guess what,
I'm fine!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 5:02 AM UTC
Of course it was never her fault.
So many misgivings, so much insanity,
Capacity to care floundered.
Dispersed white fragments,
Blow, on broken glass tables,
A surrendered white Christmas.
Cartoon shapes form,
A blinkering television set,
With a lowly child meek submission,
Afraid to question a day, date, time,
Just the imagination fuelled by,
Children's laughter behind,
Matted curtains keeping,
Crystal skies bright sunshine.
In darkness, Dr Seuss'
"How The Grinch Stole Christmas,"
The stealing of innocence,
A childhood,
A prevalence greater than,
Any Christmas.
Spirit in shortage,
How she lived alongside,
Cindy Lou, wishing & eager,
For even just one taste,
Of a day so sacred.
Adults circulate, noise polluting air,
Insects festering in,
Corners untouched,
By rancid faeces,
A baby boo striving,
To thrive (survive),
In a climate of disdain,
Unworthy.
Another one bites the dust.
© Sia Jane
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 7:20 PM UTC
*
I feel borrowed from water, earth, air and fire.
my roots spread in the way of the plow. ruin follow stem, corolla and perfume.
whirlwind of murderous steel will come upon.
skeletons of tomorrow will carry my pale colours on their shoulders, as crows carry on their plumage the last grains of day into the night.
there's a marble garden waiting, stained with the faeces of time.
there's no time for tears. only the rain is so kind as to refresh the countenance of solitary graves.
(Luis R Santos)
*
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
Pastries of the mind
Float like hollow driftwood,
Indulging the self-serving bind
That makes us think we are good.
It's a feasting born from birth,
"Inter urinas et faeces nascimur,"
They say, "it's the greatest shame we all endure,"
And the ******** sure won't lure with a pure cure.
They expose the submerging life preservers,
The hero of our name: the one that flips the burgers,
Fights the herders; causes, calls, and solves the murders,
All the infiniyy I could ever build and to make Her's.
With a diaper full of bricks
We are given humanity's paradox,
For in the ethereal plane we fully exist
Until the ****** bricks turn us sick.
But it's not so black and white,
Nor is it so yellow and brown.
The human creature can be beautiful
And the mind made delusional.
If we can repress our mind to find meaning,
And we can open up the chakras we're feeling,
But the world is just Black Sludge creeping,
Then why trade Protection for the real thing?
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
you should have an intention
to own yours attention
be conscious of your species
be unpredictable like dices
use more spices
smell your faeces
constant flow of changes
be with it, don’t try to hold
write your own pages
be patient, free and bold
Feb 5, 2021
Feb 5, 2021 at 2:43 PM UTC
The peerage and the steerage class.
(Titanic's in the dock)
The benefit,
the bit the government decreed is
enough to fulfill your every need,to
clothe and feed and get you through and
pay for fares to each job interview.
Meanwhile
in the House of trouts where
those who don't know they are dead still
have their snouts in the trough,
the ayes have it.
Yes
this species of faeces who don't have a clue,
give voice to the bills that tell us what to do.
I don't know about you but
to me that doesn't seem right.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
and i will immerse my index and middle finger into the breathing grave of winter, of wetted belgian mud like railway lines expanding and contracting, so too the earth, and thus leave my thumb to be akin to Caesar's daffodils, prematurely sprouting in january: but the godhead of gladiators aching for their river styx to rekindle the zenith moment with shout clap blood-thirst & applause at the coliseum that leaves the koranic promise in comparison a foetus of faeces; what a lazy paradise; male lazy is called philosophy which women call idiocy... i call female lazy anything else but, a sort of aesthetic conglomeration.
raise your children among dogs,
and your earliest adults among
felines: so that the former may
ring-bell-true an attachment of
feet unto print of the sphere,
and the latter work with a "bias"
of solipsism of ventured into
so many priestly truths dog-collared
for a lack of readership but awaited sermons;
only by reading does the priesthood become
worthless and funny due to the chosen attire.
for god be but a poly-solipsism or a diamond
mirror, each on the path to such a meeting
will see himself clearly and no other,
and with himself seen, will claim no false
knowledge of the other he once claimed
for the worth of the ridiculing joke.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 9:15 PM UTC
Yes I want a ******* poem without fallacy
A poem full of fantasy
a fabulously woven fabric without a faux facade
our poems need some faeces not facelifts
fanciful fairies dancing fandangos
NOT followers of this current fad
who have fastened Poetry... with fatality
**** I'm fine with fate. But I want to be fascinated
by a farfetched farcical fable about a fat farmer farting
something that isn't churned out from this fake factory
So, to start off here is a funny poem with a **** joke:
I call my **** 'the truth', because people can't handle it.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
On warm sunny mornings, down by the canals,
trudge humans with canines – their supposed best pals.
I often wonder which is the smarter species.
The one that can’t read, at the front of the lead?
Or the one on-tow, clutching a small bag of faeces?
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
This memory
once
motivated by curiosity
and lack of judgment
smells
of blood
smells like
the taste
of skin
of ***** and blood
and Purple Rain
sensory delusion
dreams of romance
mixed with faeces and surprise
pain realisation
of naivety
still repeated
humiliation
now finally overcome
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 9:48 AM UTC
I think I found my solace.
Under the never-looping azure above,
I declare that I found my
[solitary]
sanctuary.
When the noises continue to vibrate,
the [pandemonium], the crowd
seems nothing if I hide under my comfort
s o l a c e t h .
This heavenly, a thing that stops everything from
[buzzing]
is no ordinary stim
( s o l a c e t h )
I am happy
(euphoria sensation, tingling inside my under parts.)
I breathe inside my solaceth paradise.
The solaceth, I put them in my veins, so of course
I swallow my solaceth, I put them inside my veins, so of course
sticking on my skull, lingering under the PLASTIC, ONLY CLAY skin of mine.
It will never be faeces, because the solaceth is my blood
now, even my saliva and ***** now taste like solaceth
do you want to taste them?
it will never be urines, because I drink my SOLACETH back.
solaceth, [ d i s e a s e ? w h a t ? ] is me. I am solaceth,
solaceth inside me now.
Yes, maybe as you say, it's a virus.
A virus for us to finally reach our utopian land!
Forever sniffing, forever living, our SOLACETH!
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC
i sing for all mama but
give it up for single momma
i applaud to her names which is
uttered in murmur
in a society inebriated with ignorance
her name is whispered
in stammers
behind stunners you are looked down
on
you are regarded with scorn and
disdain
with abuse and insults your names
they stain
'single?'
politically incorrect
you are a plural;parents
you play the role of a mother and a
father
yet the society try to push you further
forget you've been there during joy
and strife
calming down all the storms in life
you are that rifle that combats rivals
your bullets saves during upheavals
life with you is always a win owing all
to you
a blue letter a baloon to blew later
BINGO
raising kids in absence of a man who
sired them
then grew tired and treated you like
a hired maid
left you with no aids
sorry he only donated AIDs positive
you deserve more than negative
a woman who has been in the receiving
end
of blows is entitled to a bow
it hurt more than a thorn to see a
woman heart
torn,her soul burdened by tons of
grief
it really ****** to see her shredded
into pieces
then treated like faeces in the faces
of chauvinist
till when shall they impel single moms
to hide behind sunglasses
as their son glances?
you deserve more than back biting
hypocrisy blinds them from seeing
your hard fighting
this society is hand biting
you are strong beings mentor you've
been
in physical and mental
though some view you like a zero
hell no
to me you are a hero
who can heal all
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 4:42 AM UTC
Locked away in the dankest corner
bloodied fingers frantically pawing the ground,
a lonesome girl of nineteen, distraught and weeping,
too afraid to utter a sound.
With filthy hair matted upon her forehead
and an eyelid that's split in two -
all she wears is linen rags tied around her waist
whereupon the crotch, ***** slowly seeps through.
It was always her dream to be a singer
to cherish a life of fortune and fame -
alas one nasty twist of events changed everything,
subjecting her to a life of abuse and excruciating pain.
Once a sweet little girl singing songs in the school yard,
now a schizophrenic teen, living in warped fantasy -
care workers leaving her to lie in her own faeces
as doctors discuss psychosis, and even lobotomy.
Fast-forward to seven weeks later,
wheelchair-bound, with nails so long they've began to curl,
gazing at this giggling black-eyed freak,
never would you believe it's the same girl...
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 3:59 AM UTC
i guess when you're pretty, you can be androgynous,
and that's hardly the worry for the next skin head kid of
great Ormond St. -kneecap feeling of guilt - but hell,
i'd rather **** "Nicole" Maines than his twin
(wortschatz von herrzensor) -
pretty face akin to the river of binging
on looking at philippe i, fluke of orléans
******* it off while ensuring his wife
entertained a brother's calm to juxtapose
figurines worth a thousand souls
akin to blowing out of candles -
so why bother dreaming a coercion for
fakes and faeces into supposed applause,
that those nearest to you cannot afford your company,
yet afford it by being affording debt?
no smaller duty over a dress at court,
than it should be relative to the least exercise of power
undressed, and un-courted, to be anticipated courting,
given one's personal allowance as having wavered the king
toward crown and gravity, rather than anointment
and god... how thus disguise a caricature of
one's former serious argumentation for competing
sentences that disallowed sentencing via treason
thus, years later, allowed? is the crown
the joke? the king? or god? or maybe it is
man's laws that are the donkey's tail being pinned,
as forever in lover's jest best exemplified:
a man of actions will never be a man of words -
hence muscular actions gratifying easiest
leverage of the abomination of lexicon lost,
impede quickest and most versatile as those replacing
a forgotten heart, best kept secret between
however disgraceful the ******* of brotherhood
is given toward worship for a Narcissus not smashing
a kindred resemblance, instilled the widower swan
the blackened pupil with vigorous rubric:
repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat... only a conquered
woman is comforted - a freely reigning woman
ought be sacrificed with her belief of interpretation:
thus crucified; well, she damns the brothel,
but she isn't crucified enough to encourage
love freely born; but born under torture.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 10:33 PM UTC