"hygienic" poems
Our embrace lasted too long.
We loved right down to the bone.
I hear the bones grind, I see
our two skeletons.
Now I am waiting
till you leave, till
the clatter of your shoes
is heard no more. Now, silence.
Tonight I am going to sleep alone
on the bedclothes of purity.
Aloneness
is the first hygienic measure.
Aloneness
will enlarge the walls of the room,
I will open the window
and the large, frosty air will enter,
healthy as tragedy.
Human thoughts will enter
and human concerns,
misfortune of others, saintliness of others.
They will converse softly and sternly.
Do not come anymore.
I am an animal
very rarely.
10.2k
In the supermarket airport
There are arrivals every day.
The departures in your trolley
Come to you from far away.
Those brightly coloured vegetables
Have sat around for days
In what we’re told are
such hygienic backroom bays.
They’re obviously picked and packed by well paid sprites and elves!
Then magically appear on your supermarket shelves.
Here every carrot is straight and clean
And every lettuce crisply curled
Then gassed in plastic packets
That are filling up our world!
Take a glance inside your trolley
And if what I say is true
Then I guarantee the food within
Has seen more of the world than you.
Like the picture on the packet
Of your frozen ready meal
The colour of this far flown food is great
The taste experience, surreal.
Those ripe tomatoes in their reddest skins
We should dye brown, to match their taste
Those vivid orange carrots are a mystery of flavour-
What a waste!
A plate of vibrant promising hue
Can taste of packaging and glue.
The supermarket tells you you’re in clover
But its goods have all the texture of an old pullover.
Your supermarket says that it is catering for you
But if you’re honest do you really think that’s true?
If you don’t then there is something you can do.
At the supermarket airport
All the money’s in departures
So put that trolley back
And just depart.
If you're wanting to be vocal
Then shop seasonal and local
And hit these psuedo airports at their heart.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 6:57 AM UTC
It was in total a fast track ticket to the moon
and I can't return to transaction dock 8 too soon
the star checkout lane at my local supermarket
tops balloons with rocket science aeronautics
that pilot's service areas binary counter perfect
exceeding expectations bent into global orbit
My items sped along to muzak her slim milky way belt
a smile beaming discount countdowns heaven sent
taking off in bit lips when her priceless item buttons
almost burst free to air with a strain of special promotions
helpfully assisting my every excess flight of fancy
made impulse buys a baggage allowance necessity
She stroked parts of her radical laser station
to fully engage hygienic wiped spills of imagination
and I felt the warp of hyperdrive tangelo engines
urging me into a dive to scan juice ripe tangerines
a last minute save fuelled by stalling flashback cavities
gyrating in tight nets as we escaped earth's gravity
With a twist of her wrist I was into fits-the-bill ecstasy
as the whirr of electronics cut loose such quality
with a lick of an index finger our mission was bagged
handled too efficiently for any danger of jet lag
no flyby chance to not exchange standby coupons
my trolley emptied of offers too galactic to pass on
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
hygienic
bright
the man speaks in a calming voice
a poke
a pinch
a wince
OW
my eyes water
all done
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
“Ethnic cleansing” is an hygienic phrase
Which could have rolled off Joseph Goebbels' tongue.
That Balkan soil from which the Great War sprung
Still yields the crop of hatred neighbours raise.
A Pole who twists the ******** in praise
Swept Hani from the Boksburg social rung
And still the scent of frangipani hung
And clung like power while the townships blaze.
Was Nietzsche right when he said God was dead?
Now whose redemption song can Marley sing?
Why won't we see the hater suffers too?
“Love” was the word Christ-Buddha-Allah said.
Love fuelled the dream of Martin Luther King.
God, forgive them, they know well what they do.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
Janice sat beside you
on the bombsite
off Meadow Row
looking towards
the New Kent Road
watching the people
and traffic pass
you with your catapult
and she with the doll
her gran had bought her
from the market in the Cut
Gran said those are dangerous
Janice said
pointing at the catapult
not if you’re careful
and responsible
you said
but they fire stones
she said
guns fire bullets
you said
they can **** people
David killed Goliath
with a stone
she said
I heard it in church
I only fire at tin cans
or other such targets
you said
she looked at the sky
at pigeons flying overhead
what about birds?
she asked
no I don’t shoot at birds
although I did fire
at a rat once
but missed
and it ran off
I hate rats
she said
there was one
on our balcony once
and it frightened me to death
you laughed
you remember that coalman
who stomped on that one
along the balcony by your flat?
yuk
she said
horrible blood and guts
everywhere
and on his boot
you said
she hugged her doll
close against her
don’t remind me
you studied the doll
in her arms
the way it was close
to her chest
her hands caressing
the painted china head
the yellow flowered dress
and small white socks
and black plastic shoes
you’d make a good mum
you said
watching her rock
the doll in her arms
do you think so?
she asked
yes
you said
maybe one day
I will have a real baby
she said
and rock it to sleep
and feed it with a bottle
and burp it
and change its *****
like I saw a lady do
in the toilets
of Waterloo station
and Gran said
it wasn’t hygienic
not there of all places
Gran said
I’d have to have
a peg on my nose
if I had to change
a baby’s *****
you said
I think men
have weaker stomachs
than women do
she said
I think mothers
are given stronger stomachs
when they have babies
it’s God way of helping them
deal with babies
I’d rather have a catapult
than a baby
you said
or a doll
do you want to hold my doll
and I can hold your catapult?
she asked
no thanks
you replied
if my mates saw me
I’d never live it down
she kissed the doll’s head
and said
likewise
but there was a smile
on her lips
and a sparkle
in her eyes
and a beauty
in the way she sat
in her orange coloured dress
and bright red beret hat.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 4:27 AM UTC
that’s the thing with those trophy wife types,
never really mandible in *** like a jaw ought to be,
too stiff, too anorexic model type:
pooch pooch a handbag full of duck quack pouts of the lips.
i like mandible women, scary scarred women,
the types that will grow into fond babushkas
and cook you a broth.
ah all this crap with daddy longlegs walking into a paparazzi
web of flashes is ruining the red carpet,
i was about to frizz it up into cushion afro softness
that would be quicksand for high heels.
i need blotches i need survival skills that hold the skin together,
every wrinkle, every passing jest of “irrelevance,”
every amulet glow of feeling through the kaleidoscope of depression,
jet-lag i call it, although i rather call it trombone,
with the numbers it was bound to happen, leaving the mammalian
kingdom and entering the insect kingdom, it was bound to happen,
the lost identity tiling the earth, ploughing the eardrum for symphonies,
it was just waiting... just waiting... like a spider waiting
with the flies of the urbanisation of green & green...
can’t change my mind... blotches on skin and bulges of missing protein
on the hips... perfect girth for child rearing...
i don’t like perfect... it’s supposed to have an aesthetic aura of an art
gallery... instead it has an aesthetic aura of hygiene of a hospital;
i arrested all the beauticians while talking to the paediatricians
painting my nails with u.v. liquorice in this hospital of hygienic looks
but unhygienic romping pompoms that swayed man to chlamydia.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
caught in little fishing hooks
pierced ears gone awry
its scales scrubbed viciously from flesh
hacked open
gory madness
soaking into the oak table
not very hygienic
not much of anything
congealing, drying
still wet enough that to touch it would be
to spoil everything
(makes such pretty colors in the wood)
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
When I see humans of abnormal disproportions
I automatically want to classify them as ******
As guide myself onto the metro, repetition daily
I choose my seat accordingly
only to discover that the B.O stench of the sad
non-hygienic human before me has left their putrid for me to taste
I call this death of my Cilia
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 12:48 PM UTC
Mentally unwell
Body sickly
Mind is clouded
Heart is melancholy
Substance abuse
****** promiscuity
Laziness
No motivation
Bad hygienic practices
Worn and battered
Beaten and bruised
Years of let down, bullying and abuse
Skin radiating
The colour of light brown sugar
Contradicts what’s beneath, the pallor.
Heart feels none but one emotion
Sorrow so deep it engulfs the ocean
No positive contributions to Earth
Death, decompose, rebirth
Just a sorrowful body wafting around
It belongs in the ground.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
The verbal diarrhoea of a politician’s promises
Flows over a broken roof of dripping umbrellas
Hustings heckling hastening onset of pneumonia
Voters need every candidate to be seen and heard.
Un-hygienic kissing of babies and pressing the flesh
Flash avoiding fixed smile like toothpaste commercial
Thinks - one man one vote a bad idea by Election Day
I wonder does every candidate vote for themselves?
Tense wait as political pundits make newsless news
Oscar like performances as the winners are announced
Four-more-years in The Slough of Despond for the loser
The Olympian heights of triumph for the winner.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 5:25 AM UTC
Now this topic has ground on my brain lately
but I feel I should discuss it at least once, and hopefully not lengthy.
See, I agree with feminism and I do my best to treat everyone equally,
black, white, whatever it's all the same to me.
So Tumblr feminists, I'm calling you out because being extreme behind a keyboard seems to be your specialty.
You spend days with square eyes
Filling Tumblr and discovering lies
Women this women that
Telling all of your little facts
Now Let's get back on track,
First of all demonizing straight guys won't solve **** and most likely will get you nothing but flak but I guess you can think that all guys are complete ***** I'll give you a pass to that,
Second of all who made up that free bleed thing?
I mean I know that time is unpleasant but allowing yourself to bleed in say a public pool I'm almost positive isn't hygienic
Now before you think I'm some chauvinistic pig,
I do think that the pay gap shouldn't exist, and I do think oversexualization of our daughters isn't anything positive
However I will say that I'm for equality, not matriarchal or patriarchal or giving someone with different parts between their legs special treatment
So stop overreacting on this
Just because you are different then boys on the way you ****
Love your soul and not your gender
Stop making every guy a *** offender
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
God came to me one night
and said i'm reading your ****** up poems
don't you think your kinda sugar coating this stuff, gag head?
if your gonna write filth
you need to get a little more sex-centric
i like it raw
with hella lottsa kink
lottsa squealing
more squirting
blood tears mucous saliva
gag why don't ya
and remember ******** are used relatively infrequently
so don't get all hygienic on me
what did you think they are for the rest of the time
besides what's a little **** between friends
and what the hell do you think i sent the devil for
the little *****
PS
if you really wanna be reborn
slide up in that goddess ******
and you'll be surprised
how much better you'll feel
im God for god's sake
i already thought of every
despicable
voluptuous
deliciously disgusting
twisted
tortuous
tormented
sick thing
you could possibly wanna do
so get the **** on with it
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 12:58 PM UTC
No good comes out of me with elongated periods of thought
I think with the plight of the pessimist
I do what I ought not
I become repulsive
Tonic
Hygienic
*****
Strangely ironic
Unlawfully rude
Thought of periods elongated with me of out comes good
no, Monsters
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 10:45 AM UTC
Two actors locked in a bubbled world
Imperiously divided by theatrical fatigue
Smearing their world's apart
Fortitude leaking away
Minds and prose encrypted
Acting of seated voids
Spoof audience tones
Droning recordings
Repetitive reactions
Expressive duplicity
Stealing a march
Volunteer or hypnotize a plaque
Shaman inspired acting
Building up the spirits
Delirious and entranced
healing and inspired
A humorous response
Globular concoctions
Two fingered gesticulations
Chains of merriment
Prisoner block tour
Headache and anxiety
Exposed and bare
B cell patrols
Safer
Upbeat beliefs
Armed for the fight
Muggers beware
Heads apart
Virtual Readings
Hygienic face pacs
Social distance now Embraced
Jan 14, 2021
Jan 14, 2021 at 6:53 AM UTC
The Antiseptic Baby and the Prophylactic Pup
Were playing in the garden when the Bunny gamboled up
They looked upon the creature with a loathing undisguised
It wasn't disinfected and it wasn't sterilized
They said it was a microbe and a hotbed of disease
They steamed it in a vapor of a thousand-odd degrees
They froze it in a freezer that was cold as banished hope
And washed it in permanganate with carbolated soap
In sulphurated hydrogen they steeped its wiggly ears
They trimmed its frisky whiskers with a pair of hard-boiled shears
They donned their rubber mittens and they took it by the hand
And elected it a member of the fumigated band
There's not a micro-coccus in the garden where they play
They bathe in pure iodoform a dozen times a day
And each imbibes his rations from a hygienic cup
The Bunny and the Baby and the Prophylactic Pup
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
On a deadly day
Air-locked lungs
Severed air-links
By tyranny of time
Yester beauty lost in pesters
In the travail travel of life
Deeds, deals are doomed
Solo soul slipped out sad
Of static veins, bones and blood
Body is now nobody to anybody
Unlocked fast food counter;
The paradise of parasites
The stray dogs’ dish delight
The flying hawk’s eye-catch
Wholesome diet for the day
Stinking corpse threatened
Endangered epidemics
World worried and buried
The Esquire in a square
Of engraved box in a grave
Soul in hunt of sprouting seeds
Of vibrant hygienic genes
For long sustained body’s succor
Of its own make – sane or sin,
Of heaven’s choicest justice
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC
Your stomach is real, I can feel it,
More than the womb, through
The first petal I ever adore,
Your rosey skin
In a burn, moonlight-glazed,
Silvery, beautiful.
Your blinking pores, angelic,
No one breathes, I
Know it from the very beginning.
Heavenly and emotionless,
A useless throat,
Ungrateful neck,
Cracking voice and weak whistle,
Childlikely broken.
Your stomach is real, I
Know it from the very beginning,
Dry and sour, clever and hygienic,
Scentless and free,
Beautiful.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC
Sorry Mr Jolly, I don't think your quite that frail
I offered my assistance, but now I'll have to bail
Your requirements are beyond me, a wash from top to tail !
My qualifications do not extend, to care for an older male
Who normally does your personals, why can't you get a bath ?
Official carers they just leave, and you can't get the staff
Does Mr Jolly scare them off, before they grace his path
Or maybe your too vulnerable, when you expose your bottom half ?
Sorry Mr Jolly, if your really all that smelly
I wouldn't be that comfortable, if I just washed your belly
Regardless of all other things, I'll stay home with the telly
And I'll see you in Psychoville, alongside Mr Jelly
Community spirit's one thing, but I'm afraid it must be trashed
Those parts of old men's body's, in my presence should be stashed
Mr Jolly I am sorry, if your washing dreams are dashed
I didn't really fancy, any part where I get splashed
Sorry Mr Jolly, can I give you a small tip
Emergency numbers aren't for you, to have a bath or strip
Scrub ups are not possible, and a shaving I must skip
Hygienic services I can't provide, cos I'm not well equip
Who said that I'd do anything, I think their just a wally
Old mens plonkers can't be handled, by a young blonde dolly
I wouldn't even try it, covered with an open brolly
What your asking I can't do, I'm Sorry Mr Jolly
Jan 26, 2020
Jan 26, 2020 at 4:45 AM UTC
On a deadly day
Air-locked lungs
Severed air-links
By tyranny of time
Yester beauty lost in pesters
In the travail travel of life
Deeds, deals are doomed
Solo soul slipped out sad
Of static veins, bones and blood
Body is now nobody to anybody
Unlocked fast food counter;
The paradise of parasites
The stray dogs’ dish delight
The flying hawk’s eye-catch
Wholesome diet for the day
Stinking corpse threatened
Endangered epidemics
World worried and buried
The Esquire in a square
Of engraved box in a grave
Soul in hunt of sprouting seeds
Of vibrant hygienic genes
For long sustained body’s succor
Of its own make – sane or sin,
Of heaven’s choicest justice
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
On a deadly day
Air-locked lungs
Severed air-links
By tyranny of time
Yester beauty lost in pesters
In the travail travel of life
Deeds, deals are doomed
Solo soul slipped out sad
Of static veins, bones and blood
Body is now nobody to anybody
Unlocked fast food counter;
The paradise of parasites
The stray dogs’ dish delight
The flying hawk’s eye-catch
Wholesome diet for the day
Stinking corpse threatened
Endangered epidemics
World worried and buried
The Esquire in a square
Of engraved box in a grave
Soul in hunt of sprouting seeds
Of vibrant hygienic genes
For long sustained body’s succor
Of its own make – sane or sin,
Of heaven’s choicest justice
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
At my brother's for Christmas dinner
Sitting there for a moment I felt suddenly like I was the turkey
I thought they were all looking at me kinda funny
It was like they were licking their lips
And saying "Doesn't he look delicious, a lovely big juicy looking bird
It was like I thought they were thinking
We're not likely to win the lotto (the lottery) at our age
We've never been very lucky that way
The best chance of us getting a windfall of money would be
If dear old Uncle Bardo was to suddenly kick the bucket
Then we'd get his house and all his money
We could give up our day jobs and go holidaying for the rest of our lives
We'd be sliding down Easy Street singing like a bunch of sailors
Wouldn't it be great ?
I thought I better watch out, better watch what I'm eating, what their
giving me
Next time I better bring a food tester/taster along with me
You never know, life is strange.
I suppose it works both ways though, my brother's always a bit reluctant to come down to my house
He doesn't think I'm very hygienic, he says he's always afraid he'll get food poisoning.
I guess it's all just...just in the family.
Aug 9, 2025
Aug 9, 2025 at 8:45 AM UTC
His kiss didn't taste like candy
or blooming flowers
on some "crisp spring morning"
He tasted like human
a good
hygienic human
earthy almost
like a kiss on the neck
it lingers through my senses
I am addicted to his
all of those hims
there seems to be new hims every month
a new mouth
but his tasted the best by far
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 12:36 PM UTC
What does it mean
To be clean?
Hygienic?
Sober?
Do you want to be clean?
Do you need to be green?
It has many meanings
What's yours?
Out **** spot, out, out!! -Macbeth
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC