"intestine" poems
god I got the sad blue blues,
this woman sat there and she
said
are you really Charles
Bukowski?
and I said
forget that
I do not feel good
I've got the sad sads
all I want to do is
**** you
and she laughed
she thought I was being
clever
and O I just looked up her long slim legs of heaven
I saw her liver and her quivering intestine
I saw Christ in there
jumping to a folk-rock
all the long lines of starvation within me
rose
and I walked over
and grabbed her on the couch
ripped her dress up around her face
and I didn't care
**** or the end of the earth
one more time
to be there
anywhere
real
yes
her ******* were on the
floor
and my **** went in
my **** my god my **** went in
I was Charles
Somebody.
16.2k
Look in the mirror. Let us both look.
Here is my naked body.
Apparently you like it,
I have no reason to.
Who bound us, me and my body?
Why must I die
together with it?
I have the right to know where the borderline
between us is drawn.
Where am I, I, I myself.
Belly, am I in the belly? In the intestines?
In the hollow of the *** In a toe?
Apparently in the brain. I do not see it.
Take my brain out of my skull. I have the right
to see myself. Don’t laugh.
That’s macabre, you say.
It’s not me who made
my body.
I wear the used rags of my family,
an alien brain, fruit of chance, hair
after my grandmother, the nose
glued together from a few dead noses.
What do I have in common with all that?
What do I have in common with you, who like
my knee, what is my knee to me?
Surely
I would have chosen a different model.
I will leave both of you here,
my knee and you.
Don’t make a wry face, I will leave you all my body
to play with.
And I will go.
There is no place for me here,
in this blind darkness waiting for
corruption.
I will run out, I will race
away from myself.
I will look for myself
running
like crazy
till my last breath.
One must hurry
before death comes. For by then
like a dog ****** by its chain
I will have to return
into this stridently suffering body.
To go through the last
most strident ceremony of the body.
Defeated by the body,
slowly annihilated because of the body
I will become kidney failure
or the gangrene of the large intestine.
And I will expire in shame.
And the universe will expire with me,
reduced as it is
to a kidney failure
and the gangrene of the large intestine.
12k
"No, the serpent did not
****** Eve to the apple.
All that's simply
Corruption of the facts.
Adam ate the apple.
Eve ate Adam.
The serpent ate Eve.
This is the dark intestine.
The serpent, meanwhile,
Sleeps his meal off in Paradise -
Smiling to hear
God's querulous calling."
5k
I like slandering your makeshift forceps.
I hammer you down with watery *** and then spill
the remainder on the couch. Yarg! A diamond’s
worth at least a small intestine, and you
are worth whatever’s left over after night
has upended itself, poured sideways out of its
shellacked crawlspace, and turned the basement sour.
There are remnants of you in the park,
some red stain by the baseball field where,
if you’ll remember, you watched little leaguers
build teamwork, and faint splotches on tree bark
from your lactations which, if you’ll remember, happened
every morning. I whisper your godforsaken name
and am slapped in the head. The children cry
when I smile. I cry when the children smile. Good
heavens. I forbid you from not entering my corridor,
even as I set up a barricade. I like my water scalding,
my passion chilled, and I like you in easy-to-
swallow doses. I like you in my eggs.
Ditto the faucet, keyboard, the occasional lily,
but do not mess with my pearls. I mumble of apodictic
meadows while I sleep. What can I say?
I do not mumble of unclogging your bathtub,
which has a certain foul repute, and has grown
heavy and ugly with your hair, which is everywhere,
just as you are everywhere, and wherever, and so
********* hidden it’s not funny anymore, we stopped
looking some millennia ago, after scouring the drainpipes,
kicking down your doors, dissecting your mattress,
speculating about your burial site, etcetera, and even so
we have not been really looking all this time, have we,
just blaring your name through the speakers,
putting wrong numbers on our calling cards, leaving
uncooked meat out on the back porch as if you were
a raccoon, oh, or a lion, which you are not, or not
quite, though, as the books say, you have honey
in your stomach, and if you could but be
ripped open we would taste and see.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 8:21 PM UTC
blood stained fingernails
hollow eyed
intestine pasta
with a beating heart side
you don't need it
but i need it
a swig of ipecac
to polish off your favorite shade of wine
a kick of copper and regret
but i am eating
her stomach grew smaller
she drowned a little deeper
a nasty lie beneath gritted teeth
come back darling,
dinner is served
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
**
A fast-track court in the capital city;
A Judiciary of a democratic Country;
Hearing the a gang-rape case,
reserved its order
on the quantum of
Punishment for the
four convicted in the
Gang-rape and ******
of a 23-year-old
innocent girl
A 237- page judgment,
Noting that that the
Crime was committed
in an extremely brutal manner.
“The major part of her intestine
was pulled out from the body,”
the Doctor said.
The prosecution has sought
the death penalty for the
four convicts, while the
Defense lawyers for the
Convicted are pleading
for a lenient verdict.
The arguments in the
gruesome gang-rape case
are over and sentencing
will be announced
at 2.30 pm on Friday,
13th September, 2013
"The sentence which is
very appropriate is nothing
short of death,"
special public prosecutor
told the court.
“The common man
will lose faith in the judiciary
if the harshest punishment
is not given “
the Judge remarked;
Guilty of ******
Gang ****
Unnatural ***
Criminal conspiracy,
destruction of evidence,
Kidnapping and attempting to ****
the eyewitness said
The fifth convict
Committed suicide
in Tihar Jail
in March this year
The sixth convict
was a juvenile at the time
of the incident and has been
given a three- year term
in a reformation home.
A fast-track court,
A Judiciary of a democratic
Country will order
Stop Crime against women !
“Hang them,
Not let them go free”
**
______________________________________________
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 7:32 AM UTC
Brother Bear (your name in English)
once again we meet in joy.
Soon our laughter rolls across the fields
and plains and forests, boy.
My best friend, my twin although
you're twin years younger than I am.
Still in many ways superior to this
rough and rugged man.
*Hark, I feel my stomach shiver.
I can hear my liver sigh.
I can sense my brain's uneasiness,
I hear my kidneys cry.
I can feel my long intestine curling up
and screaming WHY!?
I can smell the smoke from meat ablaze
across the summer sky.*
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
The day I knew you died
was the day my brother called
and the day the cat left a half-eaten mouse on the front porch.
Its tail was still there,
and a little bit of pink intestine,
like an exclamation mark.
I swore silently.
Trudging toward the back field that evening,
(the mosquitoes were a *****
I found you in the creek,
half submerged with your *** in the air.
You were covered in dirt and blood.
I put my hands on my hips and swore again.
I could see even from where I was standing
that your windshield was smashed all to hell
and your right front tire was punctured.
I would never ride with you again,
never share those starry skies
as we passed bloated raccoons
and greasy ditches.
Anger lurked behind my eyes.
Your killer was lying a few feet away,
Three broken legs
and a shattered back,
with glassy eyes that stared blankly up at the sky.
In a few days I would have its antlers above the mantelpiece.
But meanwhile
I looked at my brother,
who was standing there sheepishly,
two unbroken hands shoved in his deep denim pockets,
and told him he was paying for the tow.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
Women of the ROK [South Korea]
unite to protest the rash of digital camera
up-skirting, hidden toilet cams & dressing
room holes by an avant-garde subculture
whose sole aim is to redefine beauty from
the bottom up; tearing down the old order
of mere very pretty faces for the surprise
the unseen; online ******* poets who wax
romantically; over South Korean women
who wear the shortest skirts of any westernized
Asian country; therefore, where the average woman
is expected to be above average, what could be
better than a possible *** or period stain; [ ],
Rupi Koar laid the foundation [her soiled garments
stinking of Canadian Desi BO; dreaming wistfully
of the blossoming cherry-trees in the hidden grove,
streams of crystalline blood threading through
the golden grass; (dead as if she was [Sleeping
Beauty (on the toilet)]) & w/ healthy [or unhealthy]
doses of Baudelaire, Swinburne, Poe, Sade & Wilde;
this new school of poets celebrating female underwear
& bottoms & beyond; what could future generations
make of various Internet pseudo-intellectual movements
all coalescing into a monolithic computer culture driven
by the embarrassment & shame of its female members
& their ***** backsides & underwear; essentially odes on
her laundry basket, odes on her farts, odes on her leavings,
odes on her mother's droppings & leavings,
& her grandmothers' mothers leavings;
South Korean women are the original race,
their intestine driven by pure lust
[a South Korean woman's soul is in her belly]
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 12:53 AM UTC
*come with me
to the ****** motel
it could be so tender
as **** as hell
we can kiss awhile
i'd lick you sweet
and then bend you over
and cut your feet
*** honey
you can't walk anymore
no matter darling
i'm a blood **** *****
**** me daddy
soon i'll be dead
i want it in the mouth
crush my head
not so soon
my sweet little ******
first lose some blood
to get you all woozy
stand on the toilet
a rope around you neck
on tippy toes
you'll soon be a wreck
i'd love to shoot you
want it in the ***
in the intestine
the bullet will pass
ooow honey yes
let me spread wide
then shoot me through
is that how i died
no baby
that was just for fun
i cumed in your ***
my **** was the gun
oh **** me soon
you begged and you cried
i need it my love
so your hands i tied
i ****** you and ****** you
ready to ***
i yanked your head back
and you licked up my ****
are you ready sweet girl
you lifted your head
my **** in your ***
a dagger of dread
i slit your throat
ever so slow
you ****** and you shimmied
and the blood did flow
you got on top
your **** in my face
i drank from your throat
you bled out with grace
i loved you so
and called your name
you fell over dead
but who's to blame
oh my darling
you wanted to go
black emerald death
an ******** show
pretty dead girl
im still kissing you
but i have to leave
boo hoo hoo*
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC
I’m a Barbie girl
in a Barbie world.
Life’s fantastic! I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an 18-inch waist
because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
a neck so slender I have to choose
between eating and breathing;
there’s not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a 38-inch bust and
3-times the average amount of forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine shoe squeezed to a three,
spending three to nine avoiding meal time
because my weight-loss book says,
“Don’t eat.”
I’m a Barbie girl,
in a Barbie world.
Life’s fantastic, but I’m
not plastic.
Bile tastes all too organic,
its taste chasing after me
if I exceed my daily nutritional limit of
2,000 calories.
I’m skinny enough that people think I’m healthy.
I’m not skinny enough for people to think I’m unhealthy.
Anorexia is as familiar as the back of my hand,
poised like a gun to the back of my throat,
waiting and ready to blow.
I’m a sixteen-year-old suicide case,
product of the war of production,
wearing battle wounds in the form of uniform lines
across the tops of my thighs.
I’ve been rewriting this poem since its conception.
I feel like the rough draft: concision is key.
(Be smaller.)
I’m trying rewriting,
trying to leave out things that aren’t
important enough, like:
four of my ribs
and my esophagus
and my stomach
and my small intestine.
I’m testing the limits of realism.
But here’s the thing:
I’m a real girl
in a real world.
Life’s not always fantastic,
but I am not plastic.
I am not plastic.
I refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range
based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
eating and breathing
like both are vital aspects to living.
I refuse to be plastic,
an actual hip-to-bust ratio
for not a thirty-year-old but a teenager.
I refuse to be plastic,
shoe size nine in size nine shoes,
trying to start enjoying mealtimes
because my “weight-loss book”
has been chucked down the chute.
I’m a living girl
in a terrifying world,
trying to remind myself that “Life in Plastic!”
is not fantastic.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 8:00 PM UTC
The desired gene could be found
In each cell of the body,
But it expresses positively in few cells.
A trefoil factor encoding gene I mean,
It is found in the intestine
TFF1 is found exclusively in the intestine.
TFF1 is also known as pS2
Meaning protein for specificity 2,
2nd gene discovered for specificity protein.
TFF1 protects gastrointestinal mucosa,
From any injuries that may result
Out of pathogenic invasion.
The trefoil factor 2 encoding gene
Is also found in the intestine
But TFF2 plays a different role in the body.
TFF2 is also known as pS1
Meaning protein for specificity 1,
1st gene discovered for specificity protein.
TFF2 protects gastrointestinal mucosa,
From any cancer that may result
Out of oncogenic activity.
And the third trefoil factor encoding gene,
It is only expressed in the female womb
But TFF3 is crucial for a successful pregnancy.
I love my field of study very much
And I respect my major guide,
Dr Ashok Kumar Mohanty, he is so wise.
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 8:17 PM UTC
“How important it is to walk along, not in haste but slowly,
looking at everything and calling out
Yes! No!”
–Mary Oliver, “Yes! No!”
1.
The coils of this labyrinth remind me of the small intestine. This vexes me. Walking the labyrinth is supposed to be a spiritual experience, isn’t it? Neither time nor place for unlovely images of the body. The truth is that I dislike the labyrinth. I find it too constraining, too tedious—all these looping, repetitive coils. The truth is that I hate the labyrinth because it is pale and remote, and silently indifferent to me. If I am going to engage with something, I’d like for it to talk back, please. I have questions, you know. I have some concerns. And perhaps just one or two small issues with control, and delayed gratification.
2.
“I think serenity is not something you just find in the world, like a plum tree,
holding up its white petals” (Mary Oliver, “Yes! No!”).
3.
“Watch how we encounter each other,” you say, and we walk, slowly, separately. Around one turn we meet, and you kiss me, and your tongue is muscular and wet. Around another turn you say, over your shoulder, “Hello,” and continue walking. It is hard for me to keep my balance even though the path is smooth and flat. I feel like we are in a Magritte painting. Your white shirt glows softly somewhere to the left of my awareness. A voice not connected to your body says, “Do you like my hat?” We are walking. We are together. We are not together.
4.
“Imagination is better than a sharp instrument. To pay attention, this is our endless
and proper work” (Mary Oliver, “Yes! No!”).
5.
So now:
Quiet, quiet—the darkness is full.
Your skin is listening
to the night air.
In the center of the labyrinth, someone has placed a gift.
Quiet, quiet—someone is telling you a story.
The oldest story in the world, and his body hums and pulses
under your fingers.
In the center, there is a gift.
Quiet, quiet—this is not walking.
This is surrendering to the path, your body long and outstretched
against the stones.
In the center, someone has placed a gift.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 12:02 PM UTC
Fish intestine and egg sac soup-
do yourself a favor
and call it noodles and beans,
but still try it!
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 7:35 AM UTC
there ain’t no ground for me to play on
and there ain’t no music to play,
anyway,
just another day
another life
another scythe
ringing in the distant fields
and that little thing you thought so fine
she was just some cheap cherry wine
and I thought myself fine sauvignon
though I did fail French a few times
but at least I didn’t get left in the distant field
to be harvested by the farmer
to be sold at the market
to be broken apart and maimed beyond measure.
those lips eating though,
they sure feel nice against ya,
they sure do someone justice when
they’re kissing all over
and massaging your broken body
but there’s no music down in the gullet
there ain’t no sound
but the deep and soulful murmurings
of the stomach,
the intestine,
the **** that will birth me once more
and again I’ll be in the water
and mix with the ocean
and become the rain and
rise
oh la la la la la la la la
rise
I’ll rise above it all
and rain down your body and my body
and all these broken, mutilated grain-bodies
and pour it all down on you
and the fields
and that little thing you left
lying in the middle of seas of wheat
she’s screaming to the sky
roaring to the rain that falls
telling me all she knew
all she loved
none about you
all of it runs
all of it resounds
making music on the ground
and singing all in the air
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 3:40 AM UTC
I am so hungry
I think
my
LARGE intestine is eating up my small intestine!
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 7:53 AM UTC
you are the bread to my bread
you are the sun to my skin caNCER
you are the funny meme to my internet
you are the birth of my dad
you are the dolo solo mr man to my kiss
you are the keyboard to my ****
you are the haircut to my vest
you are the jelly to my small intestine
j.j
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
You won't like
Your colonoscopy,
I know,
I've not liked mine.
It's invasive,
You're contorted,
And the Prep
Is too unkind.
Yet,
One needs
A **** snoop
In the
Intestine.
It postpones
Eternity,
That makes it
Worth your time.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
you know, the one with the guy
and that girl in the train station bar
where they just keep trying drinks
and looking at things
and making conversation
while avoiding the big issues?
It’s like that
whenever we talk.
Like, there’s something between us,
curled like an unborn fetus
******* the life
right out of the womb.
This thing that makes me want to scream out loud
for you
to pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease
just stop talking
because every time you tell me
you care
the fetus wiggles.
And every time you say
“I still want to be friends”
it latches onto some part of my gut
and begins *******
what little happiness is left in my heart
through my small intestine.
And regardless of how licorice life tastes,
and how many places we visit,
how many drinks we try or times we ****
there’s always going to be this empty place,
this space where I let you let the air in
even if I didn’t want it.
You promised this would be simple.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 10:56 PM UTC
first,
a raccoon wrapped within its own intestine.
the asphalt is its grave; i swerve to miss it.
we shared the same air, maybe even a
common ancestor.
someone moved too fast to care.
its the ones with
fast cars and slow minds
pretty faces and ugly intent
artificial kindness but genuine hate
i'm not your friend
just a similar sense of self
it is
fat priests playing golf
lottery ticket paradises
restaurants
embellished mechanized slaughter
fake laughter and even faker love
shopping mall environmentalists
lexus-driving christians
paychecks, TV, lawn mowing sundays
drink yourself to death
please.
the least among us in control
deprived of the mind
the stench of their egos
and their hypocrisy
the gasoline, the cash, and the forced smiles
as i write people die
children die
i'm like many
the fool who knows
but does nothing
the one who doesn't know
that's the good person
the moral person.
second,
a rant, a ****** off rage
the days are stale, self-actualize, the Earth remains the same
dry and motionless
middle-class frustration, planetary confusion,
the ***** of the Earth,
capsized like dying branches
in a wal-mart state of mind,
stupid slobs, rodent minded social egoists
over-organized, clean freak object fetishists
the evolutionary dollar sign
they bay at the moon, it's made of cheesecake
phase transitioning,
you blood clot, Earthly blood clot,
you don't know art
now there's ancient blood on my hands
smokeless, plantless, Earthless blood
detached from Gaian consciousness
stain on the mind
confused, clogged pathways,
clogged with
self-righteous mind flood
piles of ***** tissue,
waning and waxing
force feed me your ******** please
because i have no idea how to answer
in this cultural blood bath
it is the
end of time
the end of mind.
:aaphi
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
listen. steal what joy you can
when living this violent and
short life. a single time-line --
a period lived -- is an epoch
ruminating with none.
we are cats awaiting guts
strung -- whole intestine, specific --
for better resonance from hallowed
body. from hand-crafted hollowed mass.
perhaps this gutted vessel imbibed
the desk-liquor with hope and
want for muse of mans' own hands.
perhaps John Henry split my heart,
and i seek retribution with pointless
pen strokes. smoking, intention
broke from form, if only to deceive
that these hands will never callous
climbing mountains. will never
rip wide this chest. will never
witness in true this full-moon heart.
perhaps stubbornness will prevail,
per chance I will be found
witness of the ball-lightning
striking valley walls and boulders,
perched ageless, are haven sought.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 3:17 AM UTC
Flames, flames, fire!
Hearts loaded with embers,
Begone flame, you hold no sway!
Pooled in blood,
The melting moon
Shines far above
Warming your frigid eyes
With shards of night and
Blaring beams of white
Crushing the natural mind
With ballads of war and pain,
Spitting moments of gore through
Abyssal pupils.
Prepare this intestine of youth,
Detach its origin and cast it unto
A forest with one tree.
Then char the strand of mind in which
Fear reigns, scar it with the memory
Of life
Let it kneel
to your flight
And Bring it fore your eyes,
Caging the slithering chimera with
Immense cliffs of ice
Let it look to your matter
Yet never engage your voice,
Fluxing into your cells with terrific
Color,
Breaking off the origin and planting
It’s lessons in between the soul and
Skin,
Offering access to any lost traveler
Drowning in a raging sea.
Embers in your heart,
Fire consuming without,
Fire empowers within
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 1:39 AM UTC
it is not butterflies you placed in my tummy,
but large ferocious birds,
with wingspans fluttering against the inners of my
lungs,
beaks prodding my intestine,
their necks snarling with my esophagus.
their caws pulsate in and out my pores,
and these birds want to fly, fly, fly
towards you.
but i bite with anxious molars, and their blood tastes like
cranberries.
choking up red soaked feathers,
i wonder if you have birds
too.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
I
No! stop! don't do this please!
I'll give you whatever you want! just don't do this!
Anything you ask anything! Just stop right now!
You can smoke! You can drink! Drive recklessly! Whatever you please!
Love
There is no going back from this! Remember your pain?
Remember the torment you faced? that intestine prying emptiness?
The mind searing fact that you faced?
Remember how good it felt when you finally let go?
You don't need this! You are better off without it!
You
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 1:30 PM UTC
Oh my love,
You are the three day old milkshake to my fuzzy green polyp,
You are the scummy rotten pizza to my mold,
The intestine to my tape worminess,
Undoubtedly the toes to my carnivorous fungi,
The grungy wet towels to my mildew,
The unbrushed gums to my pus filled canker,
The ancient decaying wood to my deadly black sludge,
The inflamed skin to my oozing pustule,
The cone shape to my keratoacanthoma...
Without you; I would cease to exist.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC