"indigestible" poems
I thought Van Gogh had it figured out
he fell in love
and cut off his ear
he died july 29 1890 from a self inflicted gun shot wound
He painted
He painted the sky
He painted men women bedrooms flowers shoes street corners chairs boats and fields
I thought Basquiat had it figured out
******
NYC
He painted memories in the present
August 12 1988
NYC apartment ****** overdose
I thought Picasso
I thought Warhol
I thought Stalin
******
Buddha
Had it figured out
but sand fills our shoes in dry texan sun
and the dog howls
howls for its mother
howls for its brother
howls for its sister
I thought the dog had it figured out
eating insects
smelling my hands
eating the ham on the floor
I thought Hemingway had it figured out
Late at night
reading Old Man and The Sea
Suicide July 2 1961
12-gauge English shotgun
I thought Fitzgerald had it figured out
I thought Ginsberg
I thought Kerouac did too
drinking across the neck and back bone and gutter lips of America and back
I thought Bukowski had it figured out
the cigarettes
the wine
the women
the type writer
the sad nights accompanied by cockroaches and a city that is indigestible
I thought Phillip Glass had it figured out
Beethoven
going Def
Mozart lost in his grave
writing symphonies for Death and his cruel tripled eyed angels
I thought
The drunkards were lost
The Junkies were ankle-less
The Mothers were done for
The Fathers had given in
The Young
True
The Elderly
gazing through the bifocals of heaven and hell
The Prisoners cemented in Time
I thought the Dead
were the ones who published our Dreams
I thought the painter
had it figured out
So I painted
I thought the pianist
had it figured out
So I played the Piano
and listened to the bilingual codes of the keys
I thought the Ballet dancer
had it figured out
So I watched her
I studied the movements
and the bruised toes
looking for a design of an answer
I thought the Poet
had it figured out
So I wrote a poem
and I saw the world.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
Imperfection will never do—
My eagle eyes understand all of you
And the indigestible fact that *you could be
Better, beautiful, sacred, perfect*—
My skies now rain your flaws, it's true.
But I have to accept my own faults too.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC
Sprouting seedling
Deep rooted and day dreaming
Through the crow's eyes
I see through the disguise
as this day fades into evening.
Indigestible persistence
Stand up to make a difference
Enchanted by the blood
of my ancestors resistance.
I pay homage as I gain
thankful for the knowledge
flowing freely through my veins
I hold the deepest respect
for this land I will protect
I am Haudenosaunee
born wild and free
and this way I shall remain.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 11:18 PM UTC
Power pulsating between my legs
Irrational intrigue between my ears
Alacrity asunder between my ribs
-Heretical human blender-
Serving up cleverly crafted cocktails
I am
Spouting sureness from between my lips
I am
Stirring in sweet sultriness
Soliciting sour sabotage
Submerging you in salty squeamishness
-Colloquial courtesan, curtly castrating consumers-
Inebriating you equally with inevitable irrationality
Welcome to my "Reader’s Digest"
Prepared especially for you with my psychologically indigestible
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 10:35 AM UTC
As you attempt to pour more political doctrine down my throat
I check the change in my pocket
for
the laxative I‘ll have to buy
from my legal drug dealer
REALLY!?!
Did you not know that your words are;
indigestible,
incorrigible
&
wholly corruptible?
How do you manage
to
politically caress your own eardrums
reach
through your sinuses,
tickling
the lining of your
esophagus
and yet,
make me cough?!
Your response to truth is truly painful,
you feel it in your chest,
your ***** heaves and razes
you have a fit gesticulating policies
flipping birds that won’t fly
It’s too late!
Mr "I went to Oxford so I must have the plan"
Mr Self-Interest man
Mr Ivy-league, Whitehouse, Whitehall...."Cambridge was better",
Mr I can do all things that superman can.
Mr “If we win the elections next year”...
Man
Take your leave,
your term is over,
School is out
&
the old boys no longer love you.
Time!
to
run for
cover,
under the
colour,
of
your favoured
currency umbrella.
But
If you’re African
"it's okay"
you can stay a little while longer
and bequeath the throne
to your brothers', sisters', uncles', sons' junior brother!
Turn it into a dy-nasty
Bring on board;
Kwadjo,
Mary,
Abena,
Kwesi,
Uncle Nepa,
Sista Tism
&
Aunt Ivy.
Ah-Geee!!!
This nonsense is highly unpalatable
I’m past the word puke
my bile sack is empty
because your drunkenness is spreading
&
**y o u’r e
s t i l l
b l o w i n g
m e
f u m e s!**
*Your democracy
has made your Guinea-Pigs
demi crazy,
has captured this poets’ goat
Slaughtered it
&
mandated this verbal frenzy*
Enough!
Of this alcoholic experiment
I’m not drinking anymore,
I’ve cried blood!
and now "my eyes are red"
Looking forward
to being 'tee-totally' sober,
while
U
**c o n t e m p l a t e
t h i s
v e r s e
o f
p o e t i c,
p o l i t i c a l,
M U R D E R.**
© Qwey.ku
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
Indigestible and bitterly tasty
most lovable is the brutal honesty.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
here is a cup of fog
mix it well
with melancholy
spoon in a bit
of saccharine ---
indigestible sentiment ---
and blend it all
together
take this tablespoon of
creative fire
douse it with
unrelenting tears
repress it into a ball
then let it stand,
covered,
that the yeast of
sorrow may bloom
when doubled,
punch it down to
bloom again
punch
bloom
punch
bloom
work the dough of Life
to death
form it into a blob
put it into the cold fire of the ego’s
oven
leave it there to burn away
to nothing edible
serve it in hard chunks
on delicate china
and --- wait
trust that the teaspoon of
Love added at the last minute
will be enough
c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 9:55 AM UTC
Despite impending loneliness threatening to suffocate me, one optimistic thought came my way as I strolled wearily homeward today from my work at the library.
Some compensations for isolation might prove as written in the following list.
1) I am not required to retire to bed or awaken at any given hour.
2) I possess the rare ability of being allowed the choice of my own meals and also the given time at which I prefer to eat, whether it be meager or hearty portion of vittles. Perhaps I may fast from breakfast altogether, and then again may feast upon indigestible dainties such as doughnuts or fruitcake upon retiring, accompanied by a novel of my given choice.
3) I am free to write poetry or from such to refrain according to my mood.
4) If I spill my tea or bread and butter falls onto the floor, who cares?
5) Nobody can demand me to clean the house even if it looks quite untidy.
6) If I sing or hum out of tune, there is no risk of anyone laughing at me.
7) If I fall into a trance of reverie and am out of touch with reality, who can upbraid me?
The list could go on and on interminably, but to sum the matter up, in short, I can most thoroughly indulge in all my whims be they ever so eccentric in tranquil solitude with no threat of a wife to nag or henpeck me. I am free to cry, laugh, sing, daydream, talk to myself, and every other foolish or wise thing a healthy man might crave to accomplish.
Thus musing upon these blessings, I strolled homeward with a lighter heart despite life's insurmountable obstacles.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
Open up the sky, come fall electricity
lift each blade of grass to yearn for heaven.
The churning leaves, pounding cataracts come fall,
beat us back into our ancestors, into the earth.
Lift each blade of grass to yearn for heaven
all reflected, caught in the water of our eyes.
Beat us back into our ancestors, into the earth
where words are rendered indigestible as stones
all reflected, caught in the water of our eyes.
Come, thirsty, choke on rhyme and water
where words are rendered indigestible as stones
In the grey and green wash, the last storm of summer.
Come, thirsty, choke on rhyme and water as
The sky breaks, sun behind its gauze of clouds, breaks
In the rose and gold wash, the last storm of summer
and this is that fairy land, the kingdom of heaven.
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 10:50 PM UTC
There’s an eruption,
as delicate as mid-teenagers’
jeans could topple its ugliness
There’s an eruption,
turning the streets and its
cigarette butts upside down
There’s an eruption,
sprinkles of salt in
every man’s heart,
vivacious more than what it seems
There’s an eruption,
the veins of a business man
is clogged as he watches the graph fall
There’s an eruption,
Hemingway;
in another Earth
called for a shooting spree
all the way off to madness’ extinction
There’s an eruption,
the anxiety steams as some of us
chokes down and digest
the indigestible memories
There’s an eruption, all over selected
rooms of each suburban
addresses and houses
There’s an eruption, the words of some of us adhere
serves as the thick barrier
of revelations
buried beneath the soils of turmoils
and tumors residing inside our heads
There’s an eruption, it keeps up, stops, breathes,
stares, flashes, keeps up, stops, stares, flashes,
keeps up, stops, stares,
flashes, keeps up, stops,
stares, flashes, keeps up,
stops, stares, flashes, keeps up, stops, stares, flashes;
keeps up forever. . .
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC
What makes it
that perfect egg,
laying there simply,
narrow-turned nose
to broad-bend
bottom
?
What is it
about
this teardrop of smooth,
its quickening
shell, not easily cracked
or taking
to a coating dye —
the slippery
dips in mocking pink,
acid-tongued blue,
and an indigestible
pea green
?
I can't begin
to unlock that knowing,
and I'm not going
to swallow it
hardboiled
.
Apr 10, 2010
Apr 10, 2010 at 9:02 AM UTC
What do infants dream of?
Do they dream of wombs?
Places dark
and comfortable
and perfect beyond comparison.
Sedating heartbeat above regular
and comforting
like a vascular clock.
Always keeping time;
always breathing life.
Do they dream of mothers *******
Soft pillows of nurturing flesh.
The source of life on their planet.
Flowing ivory elixir,
from soft rose *******
Do they dream of us?
Of grotesk giants
that pinch cheeks
and speak in meaningless howls.
Smiling oversized faces
that clean the **** that builds below
where that sweet tube once provided life.
Gnawing white stumps
eating indigestible hunks of flesh,
or plants.
Do they understand love?
Can they dream of pure emotion?
Without the words and representations of it interfering?
I wish to be like this.
I wish to be swaddled,
to have dreams about nothing,
and real.
Dreams as pure and amazed
as a teary eyed infant.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC
my laughing is a sign of panic
due to the indigestible actions;
the piercing made me *****
slowing down to an interlude;
the interest is waiting patiently
for you to make your way through.
destruction of self is a bar fight:
joining in those actions isn't on
my schedule this evening, nor
shall it be for as long as I can help
myself from myself, in the reflections
of fear that are so often transparent
when I find myself surrounded by
those who only wish to forget.
the forgetting is what forces me to focus.
crowds are a collective of nervousness
and a strangely large number of people
who refuse to be honest because they're
trying to hide the fact that they care about
what every set of eyes has to think, and the
self-centered inner voice
that thinks they actually care
about what they themselves are doing,
or look like.
the sad and beautiful truth is that people
are too worried
about themselves to think of anyone else.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 4:30 AM UTC
pale porch light
illuminates the small
old wicker chair
on the verge of breaking
it already leaves paint chips everywhere
but you can't bring yourself to throw it out
you sit with a smoke in your mouth
and your glass jar
and the moon shines
strong enough to light up the whole town
and you don't mind
because this is what you are used to
the old wicker chair
the bright cigarette
that your girlfriend gets mad at you for
but still kisses you with a cough
the foggy mason jar
that is filled with practically indigestible alcohol
but that's your life
it's simple on the outside
a sweet contrast
it stops your ever spinning head
for just 5 seconds
and you look down
your unlucky skin in the pale porch light
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
Ask what she wants, Ask what he needs
He'll write you an epistle, She'll sing you a psalm
Present all she needs, Avail all he requires
He buries them in the earth, She hides them in her purse
To her brother, She is the new era
To his sister, He is the long awaited change
First name, Pseudo
Last name, Grabby
Joined in unholy matrimony
They bring forth
EMPTY PROMISES and HYPOCRISY
Regurgitating from their long throats
Indigestible pellets, packaged as permanent solutions
Whilst
Skillfully silencing the many angels
Seated on their right shoulder
Ask him what he has done, Ask her what she is doing
And like ostriches,
Heads buried in the sand, Butts hanging out
They just don't care
©Belema.S.Ekine
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 11:26 AM UTC
Then there were the scarred scarecrows, the wolves with their cheekbones - like a bunch of cubs, I'll tell you now! Thirst for revenge on indigestible ants, tortures for animals. There were defamation, unremitting, stinging rib-like fractures in the moral mud, and screams of mercy begging from far away in a scented school toilet!
And then there were satisfied sleeping tales that, "Well, everything will be fine!" And "Don't be afraid!" - and, with grudging fist-right and killer-eyes, we all became emigrants within our own morals: we adhered to our principles! There was little satisfaction, holy vow against the siserehada of bone-breaking slaps: We'll show you! And a lot of ugly beats have fallen on us like a bombshell! - Thick wires between our nerve strings burst with urges, in a harrowing, violent pace: "If you stay inside school, you're sure to end! Die! "
- And there was no mistaken sentiment that he was conceived in hell every day in the midst of deliberate ordnance and mockery; and the adult incomprehension has proliferated like the wacky **** in the other hemispheres! How did it become then?
Without the secret, well-meaning human-faced angels, I would smell it myself today and wouldn't give it a gift! I won non-violent, eternally infectious wounds during duels: the tears of my face were contaminated by so many nasty spit! And every single day, if given that I could survive, I could run in laziness, and with asymmetric obsession, as a beachless pursuer:
An uninhabited wound that craves understanding and shelter! Yet how unfulfilled is the tide of prayer for the deaf, the last rock of cooperative humanism ?!
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 4:38 AM UTC
It was a sad and dark place,
Where you sleep with savages that are tamed,
Where they'll feed you indigestible calories
Where you'll hear everyone roaring
A place that the only sweet music,
are the gates opening and closing
If I was destined to this place,
I'll be gone without a trace,
I'll be gone along with the wind
Gone like life in the hot desert
Forever gone to avoid conviction
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 2:06 PM UTC
His face was refreshing like Violet Gum, but
the pockets of my throat would bet him as indigestible.
I was thirteen when I discovered
the surgeon general’s warning
tattooed in the fat of Victor’s chest. Smoke
hanging like eaves from the roof of his mouth.
Not to be confused with the smoke of his father’s violent
Guns left unattended for play, and protection in his drug habits.
Nixon lied when he said that
defeat doesn't finish a man.
His curiosity was only deposited further
by his absent mother’s abysmal spills.
I thought he was clean the summer we met;
He had sang of sobriety particularly well.
But while the cicadas left their shells and warned me
to return home, I was begging him to break my sheltering.
Because I loved that night. I loved him,
I loved him that night.
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 6:12 PM UTC
More serious things to take to heed
Let's drink and **** and make them bleed.
Trash the house smash all the dishes let the garden go to seed
Spurn those neighbours puerile wishes
Burn the sequestrations we don't read.
To always get the last word like some tight self righteous *******
Ever forwards never backwards
Beat at the heels and hooves of fools and ********
Like it matters, like it really ******* matters.
All aboard for this adventure for this veritable adventure
With the sick the sad mad sufferer's of dementia
Although but barely over forty odd,
In another dimension they could be god they could be god
Or an invention of the media.
All Innocence lost
Think of the cost
Think of the exorbitant financial cost
For all those who could do good
Inside they brood
Inside my radioactive neighbourhood.
Now feel remorse.
Feel remorse for all the insects
All the dead insects
killed by my hand killed by my hand
Still inconsolable indiscernible,
trans-dimensionally faded
Sick and jaded
And all the ******** that I really really can't stand.
Void of compassion
Void of passion
Tip back handing
Hip with branding
And a simple contractual understanding.
Now come back into the fold
Get on the path or face old
Neptune's wrath
Remember must
Be kind to mammy
Or face insurmountable tsunami
With a tea spoon and damp dish cloth
Use protection
Buy the election
Rich mans disease
Poor mans affliction
Dry your tear ducts
Sick to the guts
And as ever
We have again eaten very strange meat products
Unpronounceable indigestible
Full with bile and virile hate
The noun has won the noun has won.
But hate is such a strong word
To use against the truly truly absurd.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 1:10 PM UTC
I've been fed their good
since childhood it's really
indigestible
Kelly McManus
Aug 13, 2019
Aug 13, 2019 at 1:41 PM UTC
1.
I play on the serrated edges I like the feel
of the paper cuts that linger on my soul.
Cleft pieces fell like autumn leafs and died.
2.
Bleeding what dignity I have left on those
around who suckle on my agony like it
was nourishment for there saturated egos.
3.
I swallowed a blade of lies, I choked hard
indigestible where your words but I lingered
on pushing it further till I bled truths now heard.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 7:08 AM UTC
There is a decision to be made.
The very core of your fragile existence looks to this question that has haunted you for years and now scratched its way through your membranes, towards your muffled heart and taken over.
The very thought is indigestible to the human stomach, a permanent thud against the lining, sickening, even to yourself.
Suicide.
It seems simple enough; it is almost fitting to be killed by the hand that loathes you most. But it is your decision and it needs to be made.
There is a red translucent light, paralysed by amniotic fluid, is this the destiny of that lonely child? When will my voice undulate through your bones and whisper those three words you need to hear? You may have blocked the waves with your castle wall but I will keep fighting to free you from the tower you locked yourself in, until I am devoid.
Please stay with me.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
a poisonous chemical
behind those sweet eyes.
the truth is indigestible,
a true master of diguise.
perpetual or ephemeral?
trapped in this labyrinth of lies.
so innocent so gullible
led to my fateful demise.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 5:47 AM UTC