"glucose" poems
A widespread condition
related to nutrition
is lactose intolerance
that is in essence
the inability to digest and assimilate
the milk sugar-lactose-the substrate
that is acted upon by lactase-
the specific enzyme
over a period of time.
This may happen suddenly
and generally
at any age most unexpectedly.
Lactose intolerance
is caused by the absence
of the enzyme lactase
that breaks down lactose
to the simple sugars-
glucose and galactose.
The condition may be
secondary, congenital,
or developmental.
Secondary lactose intolerance
invariably has its occurrence
related to a gastrointestinal infection
and its disappearance
is linked to the causative factor’s correction.
This type of intolerance-
(certainly a nuisance)
is reversible
if we are a bit careful.
Congenital lactose intolerance,
an inherited form of intolerance,
is a rare genetic abnormality
that one can unearth
soon after an infant’s birth.
This need not cause any fear
as it lasts only half a year.
Developmental lactose intolerance
also known as primary intolerance
is one wherein the enzyme synthesis
is progressively less
during childhood
and this persists into adulthood.
Gita Ashok
24/10/2011, 2 pm
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 4:58 AM UTC
My head is spinning
My vision is blurring
My neck is paining
My whole body is aching
My fingers are numbing
My arteries are clogging
My fate... I am hating
My life is shattering
My suffering is neverending...
Am I dying?
My kidney is teasing...
My blood is aggressively pumping
My glucose is cynically laughing
My heart is still beating...
Death... am I cheating?
Tick.. Tock... Tick... Tock...
Am Still breathing...
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 10:42 AM UTC
Oh mighty powerhouse and largest gland
Snug in the abdominal cavity
Though few thy function fully understand
Should praise thee with the utmost gravity
Three pounds thy weight, but worth thy weight in gold
Four precious lobes through portal fissure fed
Tiny lobules in hexagonal mould
Each one formed by cuboidal cells widespread
Arranged in columns round a central aisle
Converting glucose into glycogen
Form plasma proteins and essential bile,
A, D, prothrombin and fibrinogen
De-aminates the protein that we eat
De-saturates the fat, produces heat
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
I miss my cargo green canvas backpack
Shredded with the mass of three
science textbooks: biology,
classical history, chemistry.
Not like backpack was meant for
several colossal three hundred page
hardcover books.
When it was empty,
it was light,
barely anything, tugging
on my shoulders;
but I insisted the friend come with me.
But I used backpack
for study,
drudgery,
play.
The linen wore
with every use.
It was my safety blanket,
under loose cloth
that contained
sacarine
orange glucose
tablets that I hoped
to never need
Inside the main large pocket,
there was a secret
zipper, within held
a pack of cigarettes,
an excuse,
to pardon myself into a realm of aloneness-
with little questions asked
There were strings that adjusted
its position on my back that
I would pull down,
using tension to fling myself
terminal to terminal
More than fifteen times, I lost
count, of my partner traversing
across oceans, gently cradling my laptop and phone-
my trusted links
with the outside world
Nervousness alleviated by the tassels
in my mouth, I bite and chew
on the cloth, but it holds steadfast
as I ponder how to approach
what's next,
the bittersweet coffee they fell into
rehydrates with my salivating mouth,
hungry for adventure
but a stomach empty
knots itself
anxious
for what's to come
My backpack weighs
on my shoulders, empty or full,
but it's trained my body
to carry the load thoughts in my
head bring upon me
But it yielded to what was to come,
the seams at the bottom gave out.
Backpack let me know: I needed to
learn to carry on
without reliance.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
Sugar level on high
Cronenberged my body
I’m so sorry my little frail body
I betrayed you like the *** I don’t get
Pretty soon I’ll fix you back with levels in tact
No more on your *** and you better work it fast
Feet tingling and sleepy every time
Didn’t mean to get sick
I got enough time to get better
Farewell youthful age into changing leafs
it’s a way for growing old
I fell against pastel spilling colors and it took me out of my grey zone
Don’t let my face amputate so forget it
I’ll be cured
sugar level are you high?
taking in so much insulin
glucose isn’t good for toast
I don’t want to get needles in my behind
rather get myself tapped with hands
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 8:39 AM UTC
You signal with your eyes, permission. It’s a look that twists my heart. My epinephrine increases, inhibits insulin secretion and my blood glucose rises. Hands roam mountains and valleys. Hips become handles. We scatter clothes across the room. Our thoughts are scattered. Down isn’t the floor, it’s the opposite of high. My breath is caught between my lungs and your tongue, darting across mine. Pain flirts with pleasure. Whoever said lips taste like strawberries is wrong. They taste much better than that.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 9:43 PM UTC
in an ancient temple
under a taurus moon
you showed me your feathers
with pride, as if my flaming hair
could not consume them.
today you brought no water but
flew from it, you betrayed the
constellation that ascended the
horizon at the moment of your birth.
and how did you convince
a priestess of fire to offer you saline
streams amidst your drought?
it must have been aphrodite crawling
in skorpios, it must have been ****
amphetamine mania, it must have been the milky
way my owl mother raised me.
and if by chance it was your fingers commanding
chords, if it was the scar upon your
chest, if it was your moth-lust, your
keen prose, your wolven lunar howl,
then i have been stung once more while playing
in the poison. it was likely just my
horns itching for your ex's over
powdered eyes. it was probably my god of war
demanding human sacrifice.
you ill-fated soul, how you must thirst now
in glucose starved darkness. don't you know i float
freely in deep lakes beneath the caves?
don't you know a python chokes a whooping crane with pleasure?
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 8:32 PM UTC
Kindness is the soapy bubble that will not burst
The petal that remains glued to the emerald stalk
The ray of sunshine that peeps through the holes in the dust covered blinds
The last glucose induced jelly sweet in the crumpled packet
The man who moves side ways to allow you to walk around the unquestionably deep puddle
Wait.
Now I am talking about acts of kindness,
which is something rather different.
Something rather sparse in this age that we inhabit.
A wise man once told me not to focus on the negative aspects of life,
but rather to dwell on the good things.
'Easier said than done', I pessimistically replied.
'God what a miserable old cow', he must have thought.
Since being in this place,
this new, vibrant, alive city
the one with the twelve different smiles,
where language is not a barrier between people
where they help each other for the sake of kindness.
For the sake of their religion, their god, their consciences.
Ultimately that is what conscience is, and where it comes from.
From within, from the conscience.
Kindness is an act of will. Of love through us. Put into action by our brains.
Irrespective of logic, rationale, or any other morality.
To be kind, is to respect another's wishes and position in society.
To see them as another human being with feeling and emotion.
With the ability to return your kindness or reject it.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
seeing the same colors, not
all about interpretation but perspective
overanalyzed ice cream breaks down into glucose
overanalyzed puppies break down into proteins
only overanalyzed love continues
to defy all constraints, eluding
mental grasp as easily as an eel
in a bathtub, sought by a spoon
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012 at 10:58 PM UTC
Blood work. Glucose tolerance tests.
Appointment following appointment.
Cat Scans and MRI's. Radioactive liquids to ingest and fainting spells.
An awful rendition of some woeful soap opera is playing day by day updates on what is ailing my seemingly healthy shell.
Maybe it's hypoglycemia? Maybe it's not. Maybe the oxygen that my brain is writhing for isn't being delivered because options A,B, & C are the direct result of head trauma age 14. Or was it 18? Forgive me; I can't recall information lately.
I'm not even surprised that somewhere within my cells the ATCG format to my beautiful helix strands aren't aligned. I suspected.
Instead I go through phases of crashing emotions. Each wave more dizzying than the last. Maybe that's my blood pressure plummetting again?
In any case, the most consistent emotional response I experience is not questioning what, but considering the maybe. Maybe I deserve this? Yes. This may be what I deserve.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
Iodine damnation cleanses Alice--rock-and-roll medusa
alone in the field,
she waits for the flies to eat the spider
--the third testament of law
divinely christened as low as $19.95.
Hell is where
Schrodinger throws the bodies. Revived Alice is in a burlap sack
embedded in the cubbyhole
of a mortal anthro-rubix,
the small garnishes that spot livers during cancer.
"Hello and welcome
to the resting place of all Blues songs."
speaks the curbed lips of Gluttony. A name that vomits
up rebellion, like cleansing the glucose off
fish-cleaning tables.
Alice touches her eyes rolls them
--fortunate galleries,
broods deeply on the jaws of her receptors.
"After the last drop, the hard boiled spoil
and the cats won't eat 'em. Neither will I," Gluttony spews, "You all show up
as do I, magnifying the cruelty of digging,
digging,
digging
that follows me and you to the bitter stem
and rough petal--throwing this rose,
that rose,
here and there inside the carcass of lust.
The scalding photograph of a guerrilla war playground
hangs over
the mantle of a prideful garden.
"Pulp wisdom
looking back at the names of thieves/murderers
of simple thought
over-turning scars of fallacy
in that garden.
"Picking,
picking,
picking out the best arrangement
so it doesn't look like I went
through a drive-thru
for what to say. 'Hey.'
'Yes?'
'I love you.'
'You too.'
Something in between
what you, I, and the others were looking for
has uprooted bushes--the tilled chest of my sister
and lover--disarrayed, dirt thrown
to the side.
Fibonacci colors patterned
across the moist earth
to distract you and I, all from the dread, and all
the relief
of ripping apart the white, pink, black, and red."
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 8:48 PM UTC
i scalped a false ursine prophet, all golden
and colorless, to pour honey
into your wounds, dripping with cold sweat
and natural monosaccharides of glucose. entertain
sweet thoughts in your head (my own were a sickly
yellow). if it doesn't dry, honey won't be too sticky
and your skull's hinges will be quiet.
rust might have been better.
Jun 16, 2011
Jun 16, 2011 at 7:36 PM UTC
It's not hunger for flesh to matter,
glucose and life.
It's a feasting pain for soul,
it's emptiness between ribs,
lungs torn in fold.
Christen me a black hole,
cardiac's no response to a dead soul,
ghosts haven't a say.
please it's no compatibility
please me with fangs,
fashion thistles and ripping implements,
non-human descends always to the fiendish of gruesomeness,
bloodless and monstrous.
Haven't a prayer,
haven't a soul,
haven't got a vessel to scream
wretchedly home.
It's best to let demons lie,
let spirits die,
burn out our dying phantom cries.
It's to feed the slaughtered
with platters of blades and bullet shrapnel,
ghosts give,
ghosts speak,
ghosts don't truly wish for a living peace.
Please may we take a taste of rifle barrel,
please just a second helping of buck shot
and spoiled brain splatter.
Bless what we become,
all ghosts eventually become undone.
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 12:21 AM UTC
I don’t have time
For this young man’s disease
They told me it was Type II, at first.
“The good one.”
The “one for fat people.”
Medical jargon.
Not even three months later.
“Your body is tearing itself apart.”
Type 1.
A1c.
Glucose monitor.
Metformin.
Spironolactone.
Crying.
Writing down numbers.
Going to doctors.
And a ***** on the finger
Two times a day.
And if that ***** is a little high, a little low, and not juuuuust right,
I take a pill.
And I turn a dial.
And I stick a needle in the part of my body I never want to pay attention to:
The fatty part.
And my mom calls me worried every day.
Counting carbs instead of calories
And trying to wake up early to do a half hour of yoga before life keeps spinning and spinning.
Trying to “meal prep.”
I rarely succeed.
I don’t usually tell the truth….
I’m doing better.
But Sometimes I forget on purpose.
Because it’s annoying.
And I’m tired.
And then I’m shaking
And then I’m hungry
And then I eat too much
And then I feel like ****
And then I have to walk
And then I run out of time
And then
And then
And then
And then
And if I could go back
And do it again
I’d probably eat all those fries
I’d like to tell future me that their success was a long time coming.
I’d like to tell past me to chill the **** out for a moment.
I’d like to tell now me that this wasn’t my fault.
Even if I don’t know if I believe that.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 12:23 PM UTC
She tuned her conscience to a high frequency
Tall, handsome...with enough hard currency
I balanced through the tight rope with Tigers below
You wanted sleep, I brought matrass and pillow
I gave you sugar, I gave u glucose
Yet you are still looking for something sweet
I gave you fire, I gave you flame
And you are looking for heat
When people say women don't know
What they want,people think it's a myth
All my love entreaties went down the gutter
Impressing you was a basket full of water
Yet I'm a specimen of your requirements
But when I show up, you front
Women don't know what they want
Even if we make love in the river, under the rain
You will still want to be wet
If I give you brandy inside an elevator
You won't still be high
I will never rest
Until I sweep the Sahara
And mop the Atlantic
Even push Everest
You can never be impressed or happy
Because even in the midst of a feast
You will still be looking for what to eat
I wonder why
Yet you want a perfect guy
When you have me...
@lyricalpuntiff
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
I feel it course so through my veins
waiting ,testing me again
it wants to rule and take me over
anger ,rage my sugar fever!!!
Family hide and duck my fear
anger ,rage is so so near
feel it gaining ,getting there
anger ,rage ..my glucose lever !!
Take a breath ,do no harm
sit and fight out till the calm
there it stays until again
anger ,rage ..my sugar mist !!
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
I see it in her eyes
behind projected cloud-free skies
a storm she adeptly hides
where her real self abides
A place without roof or floor
beyond any window or door
where sunlight’s golden gleam
is not hidden by structure beam
I see it in his eyes
he does not realize
nor care for what’s beyond the cloud
happy in his hollow shroud
Of attainable worthless goals
given in fictitious roles
fulfilling any whimsy or wish
a delightful glucose dish
I see it in my eyes
I long for cloudless skies
where no storms abide
only countless pleasures reside
Where I do not need to be
constrained by the reality
of glass ceilings and halls
barricaded with translucent walls
~
NM
03/30/18
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 10:19 PM UTC
I can feel the gravity around me
I can hear your blood moving in this echo of silence
The impossible smoothness of a voice, impossible to exist, silky like the whisper of a breeze
The world is huge but so small in this moment, time stands still and if we try, counting the exact number of stars in the inky blue sky would be feasible
We are of the dark, fire flies burn away the sounds of the city at 5:16AM
Electric blue eyes see your face in neon detail, slightly shaking hands trace their definition of perfection
What if the ozone shattered, but breathing isn’t for anyone who’s seen the universe thru rose colored contacts
Have you ever tasted air so sweet you could feel the glucose in your flesh?
Have you ever felt the forest only thru your feet?
Heard the sigh of May?
The sky changes color with our breath, glass eyes begin to close
We’re sleepy so flowers grow in our bones, waiting for this town to wake
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 4:38 PM UTC
Hand feather
Slick my hair back
Spit devil
I need those strong bones
I have respect for skin
And its layers
Producing glucose
Sweat drenched and needy
Its harder to believe the haircut
They paid two hundred dollars for
Than to believe yours
Done with kitchen scissors
Barefoot on stones
Walking out to where
The green sea meets the blue sky
And never coming back
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 11:01 PM UTC
Proteins oh Proteins,
How much you do for us!
You are our support
The framework keeping us up
The bones under our skin
You are the mad scientist
encouraging chemical reactions within us
Enzymes, catalyzing reactions
You are our traffic regulators
Signaling how much,
Hormones
Like insulin regulating glucose in the blood
You are the detectives within us
Figuring out what it bad
Then flagging it for destruction
You are our truck drivers
Shuttling materials to
and fro
Hemoglobin, carrying oxygen from the lungs
You are our storage
Our shelves packed to the brim with
materials
Like ferritin storing iron in our bodies
There is so much you do
That is key to our survival
...
However shall I remember all you do
for my test tomorrow?
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 7:50 PM UTC
Before you read this poem
make sure you wear a helmet, goggles
knee-pads, elbow pads, shin guards,
breast plates, mouth guards, and apply your
gauze and tape. These words are fat-free, extra
calcium enriched, reduced sodium,
plentiful source of vitamin C,
comes in diet and caffeine free. The surgeon general says
don't read for more than 15 minutes without
blinking. Keep this out of the reach
of children, contents under pressure and extremely flammable
and keep out of direct sunlight while losing
your taste is a minor side effect.
Organic, no additives or preservatives
and absolutely no trans fats or glucose whatsoever.
Store between 65 and 68 degrees Fahrenheit in a
poor lit area. Push down and turn to open while
contents are extremely hot. Do not take with water and
eat a tablespoon of salt and in the unlikely event of
stomach bleeding place the oxygen mask around
your face before assisting children or others around you.
You’ll be held down, told how to think if you’re
below the influence and turning your brains into scrambled
chicken abortions. This may complicate pregnancy while putting
holes in your intestines and most importantly death may
happen for the first time user. In case of death see your doctor immediately
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
వీడెనే వీడెనే నా ప్రేమే నన్ను విడిచి వెలెన్నే ,
దూరమే దూరమే నా చెలి నాకు దూరమే ,
ఈ భాదకి వెయ్యి సార్లు మరణమే సరి తూగదే ,
వంట్లో నరాలు అన్నీ పికేస్తునట్టుందే ,
normal beat ఎ attack లా అనిపిస్తోంది ,
body glucose levels తగ్గిస్తోందే
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . .
రంపం కోతల భాదే ఏ మాత్రం తెలియదులే
గున్నపం పొట్ల గాయం ఏ మచ్చుకు అనిపించదులే
తుపాకీ గుండె గురి పెట్టిన చలనము లేన్నట్టే
నిలువుగా నన్నే నరికిన నాకు స్పర్శే ఉండదులే
విషమే నే సేవించినా నాకు ఏమి కాదులే
శూలం గా గుచ్చినా మంటే రాదూలే
మంటను తీసి అంటించినా మంటే రాదులే
ఊపిరి లేని చోటైన నే ఉంటాను నీకోసం
నన్ను మొత్తం నువ్వే మార్చేసావే ప్రియా
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 3:07 PM UTC
i was hoping you would take
everything from inside me at
least swallow part of it
because i've taken bullets to
my legs mostly from myself
because i was too b i g too
small too too too too much
for my own skin to handle
that i thought about the
roundness beneath my
surface everysecondof every
dayuntil i learned to despise
circles and buy everything in
smallboxesandnarrow lines
where i hope to fit one day is
your glucose enough for you
is your steak justrightdo you
want another slice of cake do
you want to be a w h o l e
planet or a piece of cotton in
the wind do you want to eat
me do youwant to eat me do
you want to eat me until i'm
whole again
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 11:57 PM UTC