"latrine" poems
I have been insulted for sharing out
my peasant songs, pataphorical poems,
on the table of the cultural patriarchy
the insults have come in a serial flow
into my dark soul a basin of condemn,
it began as my duty to take my poetry
to the bottom of African latrine,
followed by volley of insults like ;
cerebral panicking insensitive idiot,
a gifted ******** of arsolian poetry
One other contumely went aboveboard
to announce me a better dead ******
i wondered how much one can ****
without erstwhile duty of creation,
now i have been condemned in starkness,
to be a beautiful walking ghost
of William Seward Burroughs,
Uhm! folly of eugenics, No! i am wrong,
this accolade, i seriously decline to take,
my innateness is not wounded at all,
by anything near to genetic disorder,
i am only conscious of my luckless past,
of Slavery,colonialism,wars,re-colonialism
Then poverty spiced by open ridicule ,
And partly trenchant and half-honkey tease
firmly fuelled by racial intolerance,
i have now been mistaken in awry,
to be a looming ghost of William Burroughs,
and i am not
i am purely my self,
without imperious wide blood
any where in my by black veins,
i may easily have chimpanzee blood,
Flowing turbulently through my vessels,
but no tincture of white blood in my zoo,
Burroughs broke his virginity with a *****
i have remained a ****** for three decades,
As African virgins marry only virgins,
Burroughs was the king of underworlds;
chasing lessbian prostitutes and gays,
to quench his mad erotic appetite
the turf in which i am a better sham,
Billy was a serial criminal, ever on the run,
my soul is clean as new pin,
in fact gorgeously dressed
in the unique royal attires
of as a Bristol pin merchant,
Billy worshiped crime and drugs
my piety is anchored on freedom of all,
Billy went to Latin America for *****
i have been there to mourn Gabriel Garcia,
the Nobelite who was alone in deathly solicitude
Billy never lifted a finger against tyranny,
my arsolian poetry is center-pieced on nothing,
other than African chantings for liberty,
freedom for the white and black peasants
perhaps to unyoke themselves,
from the yoke of vicious human avarice.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
Earth, earth,
riding your merry-go-round
toward extinction,
right to the roots,
thickening the oceans like gravy,
festering in your caves,
you are becoming a latrine.
Your trees are twisted chairs.
Your flowers moan at their mirrors,
and cry for a sun that doesn't wear a mask.
Your clouds wear white,
trying to become nuns
and say novenas to the sky.
The sky is yellow with its jaundice,
and its veins spill into the rivers
where the fish kneel down
to swallow hair and goat's eyes.
All in all, I'd say,
the world is strangling.
And I, in my bed each night,
listen to my twenty shoes
converse about it.
And the moon,
under its dark hood,
falls out of the sky each night,
with its hungry red mouth
to **** at my scars.
2k
"I will eat your ******* **** off
in your sleep,
this is just disgusting"
We had been conversing proper cleaning methods concerning the latrine.
"Who does that?
Just ****** all over the toilet seat and doesn't clean it."
"Who leaves a ****** ****** in the toilet
and doesn't flush?"
We resolved the situation amicably like adults.
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 12:05 AM UTC
A heavy cloud hangs over the sky
in rumble tumble
and I can bend the universe
If I can get there first
I'm a tautology guy
so latrine cakes arrive one after
the other in succession
they may be a mystery to the ladies
but they’re very familiar to gentlemen
Here we go clockwise from the table
and in one straight shot
we go to places unwished for
but barely unimagined
places that cheat the polygraph
places of stalled-out civil wars
and infinite permutations
places of frequent flush and analysis
places that drain out of each one of us
and right into the undone sea
Jan 23, 2023
Jan 23, 2023 at 9:47 AM UTC
***When nature calls away from home
you need to find a public throne
a place that's clean to spread your cheeks
one that flushes without plumbing leaks
not at an outhouse or a remote latrine
they're so disgusting and very obscene
Time to hurry you're poking cotton
skid mark stains are never forgotten
parking your car at the local K-mart
releasing pressure, cheek sneak a ****
concern turns to fear of what you dread
passing gas has formed a turtle head
As your back side slaps the toilet seat
you realize this job will end incomplete
burning eyes from the methane vapor
on the roll not one square of paper
so every time you cut the cheese
don't forget to clinch and squeeze***
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
****** is Meat’;
The Victorious Say
as the Spoilings of War
are tilled over in a Latrine
Gore-Flowers shall overthrow
and the next Eden Project is fed :
a Beacon for The Lovers to uncover
....and disregard
ungratfully fertile
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 11:02 PM UTC
Gladiators killed
in spectacular fights
for the amusement of the snorting populace
and drugged Emperors
and won favors of sex-hungry noblewomen
and even the secret bed of the Empress;
but gladiators too could not take life anymore
and so took their own lives
one died on the seat of the latrine
thrusting a sponge and stick
into his own throat;
another ran to the wheel of a huge speeding cart
and pushed his head through the spokes;
and 29 gladiators in their confines
strangled one another
each against the other
no rope, no cloth, no weapons
except bare hands and mutual consent
Gladiators entertained
rowdy audiences dying
to see man killing man or beast
but in their own agony
there were Gladiators
glad enough to take their own lives…
Feb 19, 2011
Feb 19, 2011 at 4:42 PM UTC
The Viper
I have an idea for a new invention,
I'm sure it will get a lot of attention.
The name is the The Viper,
and its an automatic *** wiper.
Never again will you have to wipe your own ***
you just install the snake head,
with its tongue made of sea bass.
All you do is push the button on the latrine,
out comes the tongue to wipe your *** clean.
I'm sure this will become a big hit,
people will rush to their bathroom,
just to take a ****
Never again will you need toilet paper.
and if you call now,
I will throw in the automatic *** scraper.
Never again will you have to worry about ****** berries,
And don't forget to order the scented tongues,
if you want your *** to smell like cherries.
There is a limited supply,
please call now,
operators are standing by.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
Let me take my poetry to the bottom of African latrine
As clearly directed by my colonial master,
After he read and failed to sing my poem
Which I wrote and troubdoured on the digital platform,
Of social poem hunters dot commercial
My poem’s title was; ode to the heart of the racist,
Which I sang as a melody of an anti racist
Singing to echo the rights of humanity,
Beyond the skinflint castle of the skin
Without charm to offend any specific race,
But a special dedication to the people living in Diaspora.
My dear reader from anonymous country
Neither England nor America of Canada,
Read my poetry in feat of amok seizure
With strong spasm to lynch an African poet,
His civilized comment was worst case of universal ignorance
That crystallized into arsenal to condemn my poem
By desperately demanding that I take my mauverick poem
To the stark depth of fresh African latrine,
His civilization left me bamboozled to my possible hilt;
As his ghastly condemnation sent me to deep frenzy of wonderment;
Why a civilized comment must be abusive
Why anti racism poetry must be ghastly condemned
Why songs of racial freedom should be heinously decimated
Why songs of home nostalgia
In the bigotry ridden Diaspora abodes
Must be taken to the bottom of African latrine?
I beg your pardon my dear master,
Allow me to take my poetry
To the top surface of a white latrine.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC
You were sitting on the grass
outside your tent
at the base camp
along the road from Tangiers
smoking a cigarette
when Mamie came along
and stood with her arms folded
and her red hair damp
and her face flushed
like a spanked behind
Have you seen the latrines?
She asked
No not yet
you replied
she took a deep intake
of breath and then said
I expected at least
a white bowl
but there are just two bricks
over a hole in the ground
and no paper
to wipe yourself afterwards
you exhaled smoke
and said
You’re meant to
take your own with you
Your own latrine?
She said angrily
No your own bog roll
you said
she sighed
and looked down
towards the beach
reaching to
the Mediterranean Sea
I haven’t unpacked
my bags yet
she said
and you gazed at her
standing there
in her pink shorts
and white open necked blouse
and tried not
to imagine her
crouched on two bricks
over a hole
in the ground
her legs bent
her ******* by her ankles
and her backside
mooning over the hole
Well
she said moodily
At least now you know
what to expect
and went off
towards the beach
her hips swaying
side to side
her taut buttocks
captured in her pink shorts
and the midday sun
touching your head
in a kind of blessing
with its heat
and you inhaled
smoke again
remembering the rain
coming through
Franco’s Spain.
Jun 26, 2012
Jun 26, 2012 at 2:23 AM UTC
_We burrow where they lie, our fallen brothers. Old sweats and fledgling crow bags, both. In death as in life, they have our back…and so we plough on into the abyss by the light of a caged phosphorus flare, hot metal spraying the midnight hour like some vengeful fay’s buckshot.
A human scaffold supports us for the distance of four miles. That’s Piccadilly to Hampstead; Circus to Heath. The length of a lifetime…of hundreds of lifetimes. In the winter when the rains come and the trenches run like a quartermaster’s latrine, the soil sloughs away to reveal the ossuary within. It is then that I, in my now customary delirium, imagine that I can reach out to shake their hand again._
Nov 11, 2020
Nov 11, 2020 at 3:11 PM UTC
This day, the grand commander refused the opened door of the corridor that exhumes National odour,
The iconic gallant lamented “good harvest is impossible with rats in the rock’
The Grand commander is right, isn’t he?
Giant rats with two legs and ***** claws caused us wounds yet to close up,
The pig fight they played us in tough dirt
let the Atlantic be a stain remover yet it won’t cleanse us
Let us take the hands of the Clock to dance the moon walk,
You see these rats are black flames in a dark room,
An illumination of appetitive explosion
Oh Clock, the thorns on your feet, can you see?
That the rich green land broke your rich green blood,
Wait, can’t you smell a dead rat?
The beautiful rat who at a time was the pilot of the crafts
who went so far to bury legality in a pit latrine,
I guess, it smells too nice.
I am sorry oh Clock, I know you hate the moon walk,
I see they make your old wounds open to new grief
Should rats hunt rats for if rats hunt rats then who pants?
Twenty shekels of silver awaits you in twenty’ 20
Take it and let the times get sweaty *****
Oh Clock! Your prophecy talks in time
Should I seek vengeance from the grey sky?
Should the thunderstorm strike and the gullible grey hair die
Rats of bungalow minds in elevated ranks
We trust their word yet they ****** the sword
It is this organizational madness
Let me stop here before the mad dogs bite me
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 9:50 AM UTC
The ship had left the port two hours before Geraldine
Said, ‘’I feel that I'll never turn back here again! ’’
She passed through the waiting line formed to use the latrine.
Suddenly, she heard a thunder in that rush of rain.
They had insufficient fuel, but enough food to last
Until they arrive in Çanakkale; the kitchen
Was quite large and Maya started to cook very fast.
''Maya, what smells so good? '' She said, '' the last fried chicken.''
Ibrahim was seventeen years old, and he helped them
Prepare the breakfast for the passengers; he entered
To bring a basket of coal and jet. ‘’It looks like gem.''
He took a coal into his hand to see if it was splintered.
''It is increasingly difficult to sleep at night, ''
Geraldine said; the ship was sailing forward slowly.
The waves were small, and a galleon came into sight.
It had the color of those waters being shoaly.
'Twas a commercial one sailing in the same direction.
A gust of wind ruffled her hair and snatched her blue bow.
The splashing waves with the rain drops were in connection.
That ship was sailing fast, but none of their sailors knew how.
Maya took the kettle of water coming to a boil;
Prepared bread with butter and cheese for the coming people:
Twenty passengers and fifteen sailors freed from toil.
The bells that rang were like those being in a steeple.
Suddenly, there was a bang as the ship might have hit a reef.
Frederick and Sam looked up seeing that the square sail
Deteriorated slightly in the wind, and the chief
Asked Sam to repair it.''There're two techniques that never fail.''
''Do you see that ship in the distance, on the horizon? ''
''It must be a Spanish galleon bringing *******
Laced with wine, ''said Brisbon whose face was wrinkled and wizen.
''They sail across the Pacific Ocean from New Spain.''
''They're longer, lower and narrower, with a square tuck stern
And have snouts projecting forward from the bows below
The forecastle level.'' They forced their eyes to discern.
The sun rose making the water have a golden glow.
'' These galleons are fast and very maneuverable.
They enable the ****** to sail closer to the wind, ''
Said Fargo.''Old ship's problems are innumerable.''
Freddy said, '' a thought to buy a new ship is in my mind.''
( to be continued...)
Poem by Marieta Maglas
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 4:48 PM UTC
wavelengths, not centered
must have taken a wrong turn or otherwise
built a bridge where school girls
sleep on their backs, spread their legs in grass
he sings so close
the lullaby becomes my earring
it hangs, it hangs, it hangs
drip drip and drip going into the latrine
I am a sea
I am wet and wide and opening
to a grey by breeze and through age
he has as much youth as a leaf still on the tree
we are farther from
each other than we are from the sun
but honey does not spoil
so neither will we
yes, yes, please do not leave
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
Remember that feeling in 2016,
when your choices were - an orange
crybaby or **** filled latrine.
Vote for the third party or abstain,
both of which are options,
options labeling you as vain.
A zero sum game.
Only you're to blame.
A sense of shame.
Profanities, exclaim!
. . . All in the same. . .
Take that nausea and superimpose it
on to every aspect of your life.
2020 has been nothing but $h!t
Sep 14, 2020
Sep 14, 2020 at 7:07 AM UTC
My life
has appeared unclothed in court, death-bone by death-bone witness,
and I was shamed at the verdict
and was given a cut penny
and the entrails of a cat.
But nevertheless I went on
to the invisible priests,
confessing, confessing
through the wire of hell
and they wet upon me in that phone booth.
Then I accosted winos,
and derelicts of the region,winning them over into a latrine of my details.
Yes. It was a compulsion
but I denied it, called it fiction
and then I swallowed it like my fate.
Now,
in my middle age
I'm well aware
I keep making statues
of my acts, carving them with my sleep-----
or if it is not my life I depict
then somone's close enough to wear my nose ----
my nose, my patrician nose,
sniffing at me or following theirs down the street.
Yet not even five centuries ago this smelled queer,
confession, confessions
and you devil was thought to to push out their eyes
and all the eyes had seen (too much! too much!).
It was proof that you were a needle
to push into their pupils.
And the only cure for such confessions overheard
was to sit in a cold bath for six days,
a bath full of leeches, drawing out your blood
into which confessors had heated the devil in them,
inhabited them with their madness.
It was wise, the wise medical men said,
wise to cry Baa and be smiling into your mongoloid blood,
while you simply tended the sheep.
Or else to sew your lips shut
and not let a word or a deadstone out.
I too have my silence,
where I enter another room
and am not only blind,
but speech has flown out of me
and I call it dead
though the respiration be okay.
Perhaps it is a sheep call?
I feel I must learn to speak the Baa
of the simple-minded, while my mind
dives into the multi-colored,
crowded voices,
cried for help, I've no ******* on me.
The transvestite whispering to me,
over and over, My legs are disappearing.
My mother, her voice like water,
saying "fish are cut out of me.'
My father,
his voice thrown into a cigar,
"A marble of blood rolls into my heart"
My great-aunt,
her voice,
thrown into a lost child at the freak's circus
"I am the flame swallower
but turn me over in bed
and I am the fat lady."
Yes! While my mind plats simple-minded,
plays dead-man in neon,
I must recall to say
Baa
to the black sheep that I am.
Baa. Baa. Baa
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
Okay so this is a project I am working on for fun. It is a song about pants hanging low. I hate that sh!t. Anyways this is the first verse and chorus. Please let me know what you think. Remember it is meant to be funny but I want it to make sense too. Hoping to make it a video on Youtube when it's finished.<Fingers Crossed>
Today's just another day I make the mistake to hesitate to awake
So now I'm late for my date with fate. I don't hate the breakfast I ate
But I think I rate too harshly today cause my innate irate state is now awake
See now...
As I look for my jeans the unforseen scene unfolds before my caffiene free life
Another serene latrine cleaned by my mean queen with her keen green eyes
So I convene just thirteen minutes obscene. With my demeaned destiny I collide
Because...
This hand I was dealt fell to hell when none of my wealth contained a belt
So don't dwell on my saggy spell cause it ain't a rebel. Can't you tell now I'm compelled to excel at
The Wigga Walk
Oh yea The Wigga Walk
I'm waddling like a penguin bro
'Cause my crotch hangs low
So I'm stuck doing The Wigga walk
Yeaaaa... The Wigga Walk
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
The first page of a new notebook
And the first sip of
Nascent ink
Deserve so much more
Than a scribbling man
On a stranger's latrine.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 5:02 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret,Kenya;[email protected])
Yes, you are only asking the answer
I have seen the Chinese, not only one
But I have seen very men of them,
They are all over in African villages
Working in the hinterland of Africa,
All of them I haven are short
Non of them is old nor tall
All of them are short and middle aged,
Their women are not sexually attractive,
They all have small eyes, they walk confusedly,
I have seen very many today in the most remote hamlets
Doing everything for Africans, as if Africans are kings,
Some are digging latrine holes, some are digging graves
Some are building village wells, some are country bridges
Some are selling roasted maize, some are selling pepper
Some are hunting rats, some are trapping snakes,
I have seen one in the toilet downloading loudly
Another one in the lodging uploading silently,
The Chinese I have seen are doing everything for us,
Does it mean now Africans are a race of kings.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC
'Aye-aye', 'hear-hear', sang tired chorus,
hearing debate, debate, debate,
then, on cue, with tumult raucous,
starts another to pontificate
their voices rose unto the galleries
where painted ladies gave their view
as if the exercise helped lose 'em calories
in nod of applause or heckle of boo
'He's good', 'He is', 'He must be so',
'I heard it from his very own lips',
'Don't tell me that he's got ego,
He needs it in case he slips'.
"he's like a bull in china shop,
he lacks finesse and savoir-faire,
besides, his head looks like a mop,
his pate asprout with unkempt hair!"
the ministers shuffled on their seats
bade Prime Minister rise and speak,
the angels yawned and looked away,
a waste of yet another day
the lions roared
the angels laughed
and when bear clawed
G-d looked past
the rigmarole itself played out,
in deference to ritual
laborious talk, laborious shout,
convention as habitual,
in dark corner came a cry
'twas barely heard by passer-by
the house is small, one bedroom,
latrine outside with no headroom
in celestial court there's outcry
as tears of anguish reach the sky
G-d roars in pain, seraphim quake,
And claws the heavens for His namesake
Apr 28, 2021
Apr 28, 2021 at 4:34 PM UTC
**** she didn't notice
again
I got salve for her
sore throat
but she left rasping
the door shuts and the moon outside eclipses
my needs
gotta go to
the latrine
and ****
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 2:51 AM UTC