"incontinent" poems
I’ve O’D’d on Glucosamine Sulphate, so much I’m mentally scarred.
It’s escalated now I’m 70… I’ve mainlined on my Senior Railcard…
I bow down to the Norse God Voltarol… He eases all my pains…
and there’s Deep Heat, Germaloids, even Anusol for the other stresses and strains.
The wondrous Winter Fuel Allowance! That’s what lights our lamp these dark days - ahh, those twilight hours!
But after the logs, it’s not Leccy or Gas we crave? No! We buy ***** with ours…
the Whisky, Gin, ***** Wine, a drop of Brandy too. It all helps us numb the cold
whilst memories of happier times gone by - brighten up this ****** growing old.
Supplements, sterols, statins, aspirin, beta blockers… All the heart meds - life’s a battle.
In the 60s it was *** and Drugs and Rock ’n’ Roll… Now there’s less *** and a lot more rattle!
****** fails to make it now - “no more”, after the last time - she said!
These days the only thing it does is stop me rolling out of bed!
The bus pass lets me roam the world… from John O’Groats to Land’s End.
But these days I travel locally Southwick, Lancing, Steyning; oh yeh and a cousin in far Gravesend.
Further afield; abroad perhaps? Well no…Back then it was Newhaven for the Continent.
But now I’m over 70, well, it’ll just be Worthing for the INCONTINENT!
And… did I say? Not that I was ever in the habit of measuring it you understand - or straightening out the kinks
I’m pretty sure that these days - and ’no’ it’s NOT just the cold… but, your once adequate **** - it shrinks!
I'm sorry...Your ******* It ain't so long!
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 4:15 PM UTC
I'd never ask anything of you
or expect you to love me at all.
Cheat as many times as you like,
I'd suffer in silence.
Want me until you become incontinent,
Incompetent in bed and as fat as your father.
Want me like some kid on MDMA
wants water and a bassline to cry to.
Never let me sleep alone
maybe love me a little but never tell me,
and if your feelings get too strong and potent
go **** your ex girlfriend.
Just don't ever stop wanting me.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
By a day's difference, and a night's
indifference...angelic flight looses
evasion what was embrace.
The repose of memory blighted by
forgetfulness...seven constitutions
ago that personified the goodly
week of creation.
Incontinent, now...to All Things
small that were big.
Admonished whole by the changeable--
thou fairest...unwell.
Supping thy chinny chin chin--with
world-wearied, and wearying palms...
overgrow The Garden in hopes it may
obscure The Fall.
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 6:09 PM UTC
Abandon's clay roiled, doubled what pulse
of life...in tune and out of.
Pathological music derived from music...
ecstasy--whose recompense is a sound
loss of selves.
Multiform unto archetypal gods--Dionysus
first among, Apollo last among...eviscerated,
trophied, slathered upon these rotund
Grecian ladies and gentleman.
Hallowed names depart the incontinent
circle, forgone the synoptical scarlet lettering
of name...transcendence.
Torrent upon torrent of ambrosia down the
throat...skyward runoff of chins...scribbled
down the primordial bloom of ******
O sylvan gathering, crowns of laurel graduate
thee from materiality...a shuddering
beauteousness--broke shafts of light clash
lovingly from luminous head to head.
Here...the extenuating circumstance of
consciousness appropriated quoad sacra.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
She serves, serves as. Her body-is-home-is-nation.
She does not dwell, she is dwelling.
She keeps the lights on. She fluffs the pillows.
With child, eternal. She is so very...blessed.
She is the pilot light and the pile of ash.
Savior, safegaurd, scapegoat.
She is flambéed, micro-waved,
she is pressure cooked in social sweat,
and then told that she looks “radiant.”
Idolized, pasteurized, tranquilized,
she is bottled, sealed and brought
beaming to your doorstep each morning
for a reasonable monthly fee.
Her hearth fuels all creation, destruction,
and consumption followed by decaf coffee
and polite chatter in the living room.
She is so excited to welcome you into her...home.
She is incontinent. Incontinuous.
A swollen, slacken gesture towards a self.
She is wet clay laid again on wheel,
awaiting to welcome the coming
divine, un-declinable gift from god.
A fist to the gut, from beneath.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
sun and moon stand side-by-side in the great starless sky of this Monday Sunday Tuesday workweek
with ambulance stoplight caution I leap from crevice to crack of the ***** cement walkways that tear across snowy fields
staring at the world around me - faces as solemn unreserved apathetic mirrors of nothing in their corresponding souls
pair them off in dialogues of the triumphs of the fabled GPA - its ********** growling dripping fangs embedded in their minds since sloppy second-hand birth
and I cry out and I cry alone for these are the summers winters springs falls etc and so on of my discontent
for I am a man among gods
gods of capitalism and communism and social disorder and bureaucracy
gods of music and poetry and written spoken words and fashionability
and the only false evidence of such godly aspirations remain on my body as fading bitemarks on my wrists from when once I tried so valiantly to tear my technicolor blood from these incontinent arms
but even in such times as those there was no salvation but for yellow-staining death sticks clutched between shaking fingers and melting shots fired down raw fleshy throat in rapid secession
the gods I hold so dear have left me for whatever come what may in these places of my mind filled with words and thoughts and images of your everything thrashing against nothing
Feb 21, 2010
Feb 21, 2010 at 11:44 AM UTC
Cuddling after ecstasy
the sheets are soaked
Baby, you're a squirter?
Nope, just incontinent
good thing for bed pads.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
and my thoughts are incontinent
I cant hold them in
my head may explode
verbal diarrhea
spews from my lips
all that I say
Is watery nonsense
ideas splattered everywhere
fester and decay
staining this space
with ***** disillusion
the brilliance I once had
is useless from exhaustion
tiredness: the cause of
my skulls distention
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC
proscribed extra-curious carnality be gone, begin, become the
exigent immersion of a prescribed insertion, deep genetics
within this drowning pool, drooled and tooled. now cruel
jewel, for this dowsing fool, offer up a different inheritance,
draw wider tracks of innate capture, let mortal culpability
sail white whaled, high tailed, to a communal land of
neutral precept not constrained by dictate neuter. one click,
**** temptation, flavoured Russian, *** Asian. first though
herbal, fruitful, extension. such friendship investment, one
clit-k sensation, new phone, who phone, ***** moan,
iFone©, fear & gear. solutions are here, hear? with 1 or
more I full, sim-pull, sinful maybe? snout deep, cracked
badger’s honey kink, snake in ‘n’ baking ‘n’ shaken sac,
quick, whip crack a flay, today? the way you wear those
ankles so well that far back, a la mode, cherry high pie
and cream, no sweet reluctance of bristling itch, searching
eye ******* incontinent twitch from mondo trespassed
hush-pushed niche.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
Raise your glass to the emptiness of social prestige, where the long and desolate corridor of ridicule is shrouded by the fantasies of those who covet recognition.
However, we must realise that the hall of fame is utterly incontinent.
Feel the acoustic waves as they collide with vibrations of intra-galactic virginity.
Stolen innocence modestly presents herself with Gaelic solidarity.
So, mother your yearlings while you can.
Surfing the urge of protest is not dissimilar to common teenage captivations.
Give credence to the natives of the land.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
You put me to sleep
Every night
But i write
My own history
It sounds like water
Falling from the rooftop
Through cracks in the ceiling
I drink your lightning
It pours through your toes
As I place my nose in your silence
I am absorbed in your river
Longing for your fingers
To put an end to my pain
Let's stand naked for several days
Pantomiming our stories
In the pouring rain
If you ****** my library
I’ll make love to you in a poem
You harvest all my feelings
As imprecise millionaires waver
Over your laughter
Indecisive waiters and maitre d’s
Dance upon your dinner tables
We are all crazy lovers
Hovering in the sunset
Tuning into your brilliance
We become the music of the butterflies
Merging with the sun in my insides
I rise with the moonlight
And birth a new tune every hour
For love is my shower
And it is an honor to serve her
Life is a goddess
With plumes of breath and feathers
We take her into our hearts
And leave our accounts unsettled
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 2:24 PM UTC
I see them walking down streets with names like
old buckingham
old gun road
westchester common street
robious
hugenaut
broad
grace frankling main cary
carry the weight of a group of ****** up **** ups
trying to "make a difference"
delusional *******
difference is made from killing a status quo
and their hands shake like childrens'
take a stake in the mental quake of the plasticity of the fake looking for mates
I'm tumbling down sure fall peak
free fall
until falling free is forgotten as a quest
childe roland to the dark tower came
yeah I went to college for a little bit there
broke out when I broke out of a sane frame of mind
swallow the sludge created by incontinent consumerists
snakes on trees make better friends than invisible fathers
but get these depressed lunatics out of my sight
feeling a fight bubbling up
complaints are for the complacent
so I don't see you
fear or hear no evil
evil makes good possible
using my vice versa as my vice
quoting bible quotes verbatim
I don't ft right
jigsaw piece chewed up by toddlers
jam me into place
and cover me in duct tape to silence the protests
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
I give you this,
open barren palms
asking forgiveness
Shrouded, shrinking anger,
Pushed aside
Incontinent and alone
To breathe
On the surface of the water the reflection
of all eyes and teeth give
redemption, watching, waiting
No death, null,
void, no crossing,
no bitterness, just
Your life, My life
On canvas
Underneath the stars, hate?
I spit on you.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
I perceived you only as I could
I saw you for what you were
You were an innocent being, of all
You never saw coming what caused the stirs
Your purity won my heart
Among all senses, there was my seventh
That awakened me every night and day –
My rationale, my core’s filament.
I have always been myself
I’ve carried myself with care
Once I am told that I do not belong
My heart, mind and spirit are all stone and bare.
I have seen and faced many heavens
With my hands, fingers, lips and conscience
I have been all that there is to be
From devoutly hopeful to hopelessly incontinent.
In your name, I have set myself free numerously
My zeal faded each time, as my fetters clinked
I know I became your entire world, but did you at all know –
You were my cage, within which I fluttered incessantly to fly out and sing?
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 8:23 AM UTC
Everyone seems to have an agenda, the fortune teller,the peanut vendor,the money lender,letter sender,cigarette sellers and some funny fellas, that they are.
Even countries have their say and cities like Kowloon,Bombay and continents,incontinent at least,would try to feast on the agenda,it's enough to send me round the bend as these things I speak of would defend their right to ply the people with their *****
My agenda's on the wall,read it,bleed it,weep and fall apart,what is wrote is not worth a dart or the tending to a boardroom full of city farts,but it doesn't cost you anything to take a look and bring your wisdom to the table,set down in blood or if you're able write it with a pen and ink
but think on son
Don't buy the bullets if you have no gun or walk before you learn to crawl..read the writing on the wall it's written there
and should you care to disregard, the penalties,severe and hard will come crashing down.
Make it simple
make it plain
erase mistakes and start again
We get it right
we get it wrong
but the long and short of it is
agendas as written are absolute ****
don't take a bit of notice,be a man,formulate,reformulate,accumulate a sincere need to want to write what people want to read
and take no heed of me,
I am history,been and broke,spoken of in those hushed tones behind sad smiles on mobiles phones and nods of heads of nodding dogs like multitudes of whirring cogs
or one of many unseen gods,
All I say is,
'sod the lot of them, let them spill out ink from wells and quills that slide across smooth vellum.
Hell'll have 'em all
and sod my writing on the wall, I'll knock it down and build a ramp,let the ******** trample over that and into the pit'
That's it,
I've said my bit,ain't got no more,had enough
so stuff your hidden leanings and intended words that have no meaning to me
I am history.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
What's it like to be sixty,
Rolling over in bed,
Struggling wi' the covers,
All tangled around my head,
I'm not quite sixty,
I'm only fifty nine,
Less than a month to go,
Some way down the line,
What's it like to be sixty,
Asking my granny when seven,
Dinnae be thinking that,
You're young with so much livin'
Years have just flashed by,
Getting even faster,
Sometimes no time to think,
Feeling a bit dafter,
What's it like to be sixty,
Hopefully no walking frame,
To hobble down the street,
And forgetting my name,
If I'm deaf at sixty,
I'll need a hearing aid,
If I'm incontinent,
I'll need a ***** made,
What's it like to be sixty,
I'll need to wait and see,
When I wake up in the morning,
I hope I'm still just me.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Puppies Share Christmas in Their Own Special Way
Nothing says Christmas like sparkly glitter
Frosting the ornaments and, oh! So much more
Tiny stars shared from an incontinent critter -
In diarrheal doggy **** on the bedroom floor!
Dec 2, 2023
Dec 2, 2023 at 10:02 PM UTC
Wail
Whine
And flail
Regale us with your colorful photographic memory
But use discretion, there are children here
We had Schnapps in a spray bottle
At the time I had the most unsightly uni-brow
And they asked us all to define the term "tongue-in-cheek"
We laughed and said, "Never go *** to mouth!"
We got suspended
We decided to pull out the heavy artillery
And painted a giant **** on the side of the school
We needed an auxiliary artist
So we hired an abstract
He spray painted "Get up and go, lay down and die"
Right on the main entrance, so incredibly serupticiously
And in such an irregular manner, as if he put every ounce of his disdain towards that institution of lower learning in every movement
Like Van Gogh in real life live action
The next morning, hot off the press was our act of vandalism
We foiled the plans of the faculty to have a nice school day
They acted perfectly, like it was scripted
Angry, horrified and ashamed
The sound of us patting ourselves on the back was incomparable to anything we've ever felt
Even my incontinent grandmother laughed
But soon all the movers and shakers at city hall demanded the ones guilty were found
They rechecked the security footage again and again
They went through student records
It all lead to us
They picked me up while I lied drunk on top of scraps of nonsensical
writings
I resisted arrest and became a victim of police brutality
Knight sticks slammed into my chest
Tips of pointed boots driven into my stomach
And demeaning verbal abuse to my person
The aftermath was all of us serving six months in juvy
Surrounded by incompetent correction officers
And just waiting for our boys to spring us
If I had a chance to do it all over, I'd do it all again
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
Bend the ear of a wise old man
and tell him what this place is
over and over, you'll waste your time
just shouting empty phrases
He won't read lips, he's never has
he's spent his life just is he as
He's all mixed up and all that jazz
the words, his mind erases
And yet somehow I never fail to communicate frustration
it's always clear and never lost, a visual translatio
He speaks of friends he lost at war
and thinks his child is only four
incontinent and up all night
prefers you called him 'Sarge'
Sit beside him, don't you worry
let him eat without the hurry
let him lead, and listen well
you'll come to love The Sarge
Guide him gently down the aisle
He's got a limp, it takes a while
overlook the caustic tone
Commanding was his station
Now take the time to softly smile
mind your manners, march that mile;
don't patronize, but recognize
to him you're Gomer Pyle.
Someday you'll know how it'll be
if you reach that golden 93
you hope your mind will last as long
but there ain't no way of telling
They say that it is in the genes
but who knows what brings down our beans
if we lose our ears and minds
let's hope there's no one yelling
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 9:35 AM UTC
Feel me
Branch out
You live
Apathetically
You’re a charlatan
Who dwells
One sidedly
Dark sidedly
Think you spew vitriolic criticism
Just abysmal blabber
You’re like an infant without wonder
You’re a void for joyousness
You’re incontinent of your blabber
Of your verbal feces
And vile thoughts
Read the room
We’re sick of your ****
The only depth you have
Is how low you make everyone
You’re so dismal
Break free
From your own restraints
And you can scintillate
Beauty can always root
Where horridness once dwelled
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 2:09 AM UTC
In the scale of A or B
I come in at number three and
my time's caught short like an
incontinent man, so
you **** your pants, but you carry the can?
obviously,
if you have a tin to **** in that's what you do.
The tincan, **** poor man now there's a moniker to tinker with.
At fifty nine,
I've had some time to ponder on and pontificate, to moan about the state we're in, to carry the can and one spare tin and yet no time at all in the scheme of things which brings me back to A or B, I wonder which and where the number three came in.
I build a maze to amuse and it confuses my sense of direction, here over there, do a right back to where and my time's caught up with me,
I need a ***
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 4:21 PM UTC
Mystery Ship
It was a hot afternoon when a big bulk carrier left a harbour
on the coast of Bengali bound for Sydney, Australia, with a cargo
of scrap iron of ships that once had ploughed the seas that had
a retreat for some and work for others.
Then the sea parted the ship fell into timeless zone where life
repeats itself the cook is making soup and the captain studies
a map of ocean currents and lived in the now.
150 years passed, a convulsion through the zone and the ship
was back on the sea surface again and the cook served his soup.
The captain called up the harbour authorities needed a birth for
a ship no one had heard of, but its manifest stated, Sydney,
they let the ship birth on a disused pier far from the city to
the disappointment of the crew who had wanted to go ashore.
When the pilot left he was pale and shaken he felt as he had
been talking to the ghosts through layers of yesterdays.
The official from shore found quantities of cigarettes and whisky
products that had been illegal for the last sixty years in the chief
stewards store, only marijuana was legal, good for the health if
smoked in moderation.
The crew was arrested send them to a camp for interrogation, but
it was clear they were brainwashed not even water torture helped.
Then it was noticed the crew of the ship were getting older first slowly
then rapidly, nurses were called for, to look after men who could no
longer walk and many were incontinent suffering advanced Alzheimer
disease and chronic heart failure.
One morning nurses found skeletons, dark in colour and very old,
like waterlogged wood that had been thrown ashore by an irate
Storm and onto the strand of time by. This was the same time
as the ship they came in sank and broke into pieces of rusty iron.
There were rumours in Sydney about aliens, those who knew were
forbidden to speak, and experts could continue to talk about how
a ship sank so suddenly and disappeared in the sea of Bay of Bengal
on a hot afternoon 150 years ago.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 7:21 AM UTC
Rain in Spruce Forest
Each dollop a microcosm of the psyche
Adding to the deluge of apathy
Ecstatic *********** from the heavens
Mother nature's offering of catharsis
Incontinent clouds accompanied by their entourage of emotives
Melancholic conception!
Lust for rain
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 2:46 PM UTC