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Poppy Perry May 2015
Today is Menstrual Hygiene Day
But I don't feel very clean
Because you can wash the outside
But even in 2015
Even in these realms of gender equality
And liberty on how to be sanitary
There's no solution for
internal Hygiene
And my blood that's not blood
This muddy flood more than ******
Is somehow still obscene

Today is Menstrual Hygiene Day
Today is a day I am 'on'
The switch is flicked
Blood engaged
And desirability gone
A secret leak, girls so meek
Whisper requests to friends
For dry bleached cotton to stuff and to mend
A recurring trend of defence and anxious bends
To stop the sprawling reddish brownish stain
Of the unexplained fertile woman shame

Today is Menstrual Hygiene Day
Girls in this world are dying and sick
This day promotes an unfortunate fix
Of our wealthy model that still prefers *****
That shows ***** on screens but never female produce
That allows 'I have a cold' but not 'I'm losing some ******'  
'feminine hygeine' aisles,
not 'period supplies' or 'Menstruals'
Disguised packets essential,
to store myself in,
Yet I've never glimpsed the contents of a sanitary bin,

It's Menstrual Hygeine Day
I hygienically ******* today
So I don't understand why this man
Will feel me on his chin and hands
But when the calendar strikes four
It doesn't do it anymore
I'm on and your off
I'm on and turning on stops  
Between my legs this mess
These dregs of last month make me less
Than my best or even a success
At being a woman despite my *******
And my fully functioning, leaking flesh
The appeal is repealed when you feel some real feels
And I continue to walk without showing pain  
To avoid any questions I cannot sustain

Today is Menstrual Hygiene Day
I take my pills for my mahogany strain
I didnt realise from my first stain
What was normal for bloodshed and symptoms and pain,
My packets talk in grams and the doctors in millilitres
My bedsheets spoke volumes and mattress screamed deeper
My knickers whispered ****** and my thighs of a foetus
Stressed and grievous
I don't live in Nepal, I'm lucky for my resources
And the understanding nature of modern social forces
You haven't  degradated or segrated this hateful female fate starting
But I'm far from delighted with the slight common sense parting
When I've seen these secret unfair truths
As normal until there's something compare to
Why do we teach shame and silence
For another simple act of natural violence?
Why will you handle dirt and dead meat,
But not a person alive and craving your heat
And I am sick of my flowers  and unclean until the even
Of my life and one quarter of my natural season

Today is Menstrual Hygiene Day
But I don't feel very clean
Because I've washed and washed the outside
But there's blood all down the seams
Fought
One, Twenty-two skidoo.
Cantankerous mad filamous

She,
That of her,
Me.

Piñata, stretched balloon
Over my big fleshy
******.

Tea and cakes,
Painted my nails
Painted my lips
Like candy.

Gold trinkets,
Pour like mercury out of my ear.

Ouch! I cried
My feet in hot sandy
Dreams.

Flying peacocks tickle
My *****.

Oranges roll on chalk board tables
Over stale rye bread.

***** dribbles out like mucus
And a runny nose.

Toilet paper and rusty water.
******* on you.

Stocking lover.

Fetish cover.

Woman pusher.

Mellifluous ****.

Look at my skin.
Pink, beige, peach, red
Porous, greasy, bacteria ridden hide.

**** me like seppuku,
Smother, suffocate me with
Red jelly jam.

Lubricate your finger with black
Cancerous ash.

Stick it in my naval,
Unravel my umbilical cord
Like so many filaments of my heart.

Tear your flesh
You auto *******.
Rip your liver

And force feed it
Corn and maize
Hay and grass

Emory my nails against
Red barn walls
Until bare skin fundamentals

Kisses with salty lips
Inflame my ravishing
Pig stomach.

Kick my shin you
Everything,

Wake up you stupid
*****.

Void can be blue skies,
Oceans call for suicide.

Kiss me with delight,
Raspberries tattooed
In my *****.

Strawberry cream
Vanilla, milk,
Ponderous infinity,

Cotton, dough
Honey and sage.

Caustic gastric
You and not me.

Feel my legs,
Touch my thighs,
Lick my lips,
Give me anything
Not direct.

Tie me up in complexities.
**** my head up.
Put me in a dream,
Make me happy.

Blair Butterfield 2004
Brian O'blivion Oct 2013
into this pink grist
run mercury brooks
from the tower of liana
and ruptured mist
pools an ovarian sky
barefoot through milky way city
above strawberry ice cream lane
stratus clouds scale the ruins
and
the maraschino cherries ******* rain
It was also my violent heart that broke,
falling down the front hall stairs.
It was also a message I never spoke,
calling, riser after riser, who cares

about you, who cares, splintering up
the hip that was merely made of crystal,
the post of it and also the cup.
I exploded in the hallway like a pistol.

So I fell apart. So I came all undone.
Yes. I was like a box of dog bones.
But now they've wrapped me in like a nun.
Burst like firecrackers! Held like stones!

What a feat sailing queerly like Icarus
until the tempest undid me and I broke.
The ambulance drivers made such a fuss.
But when I cried, "Wait for my courage!" they smoked

and then they placed me, tied me up on their plate,
and wheeled me out to their coffin, my nest.
Slowly the siren slowly the hearse, sedate
as a dowager. At the E. W. they cut off my dress.

I cried, "Oh Jesus, help me! Oh Jesus Christ!"
and the nurse replied, "Wrong name. My name
is Barbara," and hung me in an odd device,
a buck's extension and a Balkan overhead frame.

The orthopedic man declared,
"You'll be down for a year." His scoop. His news.
He opened the skin. He scraped. He pared
and drilled through bone for his four-inch screws.

That takes brute strength like pushing a cow
up hill. I tell you, it takes skill
and bedside charm and all that know how.
The body is a **** hard thing to ****.

But please don't touch or jiggle my bed.
I'm Ethan Frome's wife. I'll move when I'm able.
The T. V. hangs from the wall like a moose head.
I hide a pint of bourbon in my bedside table.

A bird full of bones, now I'm held by a sand bag.
The fracture was twice. The fracture was double.
The days are horizontal. The days are a drag.
All of the skeleton in me is in trouble.

Across the hall is the bedpan station.
The ***** and stools pass hourly by my head
in silver bowls. They flush in unison
in the autoclave. My one dozen roses are dead.

The have ceased to *******. They hang
there like little dried up blood clots.
And the heart too, that *******, how it sang
once. How it thought it could call the shots!

Understand what happened the day I fell.
My heart had stammered and hungered at
a marriage feast until the angel of hell
turned me into the punisher, the acrobat.

My bones are loose as clothespins,
as abandoned as dolls in a toy shop
and my heart, old hunger motor, with its sins
revved up like an engine that would not stop.

And now I spend all day taking care
of my body, that baby. Its cargo is scarred.
I anoint the bedpan. I brush my hair,
waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard,

for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart
and were ******* together. They will knit.
And the other corpse, the fractured heart,
I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.

Yet lie a fire alarm it waits to be known.
It is wired. In it many colors are stored.
While my body's in prison, heart cells alone
have multiplied. My bones are merely bored

with all this waiting around. But the heart,
this child of myself that resides in the flesh,
this ultimate signature of the me, the start
of my blindness and sleep, builds a death creche.

The figures are placed at the grave of my bones.
All figures knowing it is the other death
they came for. Each figure standing alone.
The heart burst with love and lost its breath.

This little town, this little country is real
and thus it is so of the post and the cup
and thus of the violent heart. The zeal
of my house doth eat me up.
J Penpla Mar 2017
Hey,
you okay Syria?
Heard you were unwell,
according to Wikipedia.
Set out searching
for something uplifting.
Started cruising the news,
then started drifting.
You were looking pretty fit,
On your wiki-profile,
10 millennia of Mediterranean:
temperate and fertile.
Boasting a motely religious crew:
Sunnis, Shiites,
Christians, Druze and Jews
So ethnically diverse,
with your Arabs, Kurds and Turks.

And as complex historically,
in terms of genealogy.
Just take a look at your etymology:
“the Levant”, meaning:
‘where the sun rises’
And like the sun’s rising,
there is no denying
your history of reprising
war of blood and fire.
Lest we begin at the beginning:
the Ottoman Empire,
which was succeeded by Babylonia,
then conquered by the Persians.
From Macedonia,
through countless imperialist conversions.
And the mosh-pit persisted
Full of havoc and haters,
Jews, Muslims, and Christian crusaders.
Through multiple millennia
to the twenty-first century,
you hardly gained independence
As a republic, parliamentary
Then on loop, military coup after coup…
Still looking more cliquey
Than an American penitentiary.

Not that conditions
Were too civil before
but from the Arab Springs,
sprung yet another civil war.
Claiming nearly half a million casualties
And ten times that in refugees.
Syria, are you begging, are you bawling,
are you crawling on your knees?

Mesopotamia, the market’s hot.
Leading natural resource: petroleum.
Coincidence? Of course…not
So Syria who’s in charge?
Who’s assigned to officiate?
Let’s get this straight:
You’ve got your head of State-
That is mister president.
And mister prime-minister,
well he’s official head of government.
May I ask where is Mrssssss….
No, no. Not much room for her in parliament.

Pardon me, my political perspective
might be a bit bourgeois
but might there be connection
between your strife and sharia law?
Again, pardon my impudence
but Allah’s jurisprudence
hardly seems prudent.
So, Muhammad, the prophet
left behind a prophecy,
spelled out in religious text
on which you base your polity
From which are governed
all matters of legality,
like, for instance say: the death penalty,
which seems to be the official decree
on any member of  the L, G, B or the T.
A strict hetero-only-policy.
Nothing is guaranteed in life though,
except for death and tax.
Thankfully, on these matters
Muhammad was a little more lax.
The *****, the infidel,
the unbeliever, the abomination
has a bit of say regarding
Death or taxation.
For those who do not believe
reprieve is a matter of yes or no:
Yes – conversion and enslavement
Otherwise, refusal means death row?
And even less leniency is granted,
to the lady adulterer
caught in twisted **** laws
punishment must not evade her
Wait, nope: Allah’s sharia clause –
lest he, the victim, opts to marry her.
And should she deviate
Muhammad left a legal loop-hole
For the gentleman may repudiate
any respective young mate
Should she have already
begun to… *******?

(C’mon, really? I mean
I genuinely don’t get it)

I confess though, I’m a bit ethnocentric
It’s just that to me,
sharia methods seem too eccentric,
nay, morally questionable.
Kafirs, gays, women,
basically anyone vulnerable,
well their disenfranchisement,
seems culturally commendable  
if legally permissible.

It may not be my place, so again
I apologize for the tangent.
Does this Muhammad though,
not seems unfit for management?
To govern your soil
as drenched in blood as it is in oil,
land, so godly-blessed,
Syria, why is it that your name is so
synonymous with civil unrest?

Back to where I started, though
Syria, tell me: how are you?
But answer only if that query
is not too risky to respond to.
With arbitrary censorship,
detention and torture so widespread,
journalists must be etching cell walls
with “blog when you’re dead”
while offshore expeditions
on the Mediterranean Sea-floor
in the six years since
you declared civil war
leave you reliant on foreign credit
more than ever before.

So, how are you, Syria?
Just curious to hear from ya.
storm siren Nov 2016
You blamed me
You pained me,
And then you just plain ol' left me.

I know all your secrets,
And you know all of mine.
I was cool with you hurting me,
But not again, not another time.

Maybe I used you as a "punching bag",
But let's not forget how you "*******".
Lots a vile words, lots of venom,
Every ounce of you filled with hate.

Blaming it on nature?
Or, dearest little thing,
That's not nature, you're just nasty,
And only bad things you will bring.

I tried to be forgiving,
I tried to stitch up myself,
But all you do is lie and hurt,
And you could use a little help.

No, you were kind of right,
But I'm kind of insane.
Trust me when I say
You'll never get my trust again.
I was honestly okay with the insect hurting me, but now that she's moved on to others to prey upon, I'm not so okay with it anymore.
Matthew Rousseau Oct 2015
Please I beg you,
to end my life,
Squash me with a shoe,
Grab the hunting knife,

I haven't lived long, I know that now,
But ahead I see, infinite ways for my life to flow,
It's all just a stones throw from my sacred vow,
The world is unbalanced, her sobs and her woes

Guide us all to the future, with the past still fresh
her whispers of sorrow are blocked from all view
If we cannot change she will *******, refresh,
and a new species like Dinos, homos, next in queue

**** sapiens burning the bones,
of dinosaurs, once feared and renowned,
we rely on their power, the system groans,
when it disappears, the masses will groan,

A collective groan upwards of seven billion,
lives in the sand, in the grand scheme so bland,
they moan a tune of immeasurable trillions,
that rest within this vicious land,

And it all flows from positive to negative,
and it all seems so insensitive,
Or perhaps a cowards views are Introspective,
But a retrospective mindset requires sedative,

Collector that is why I have this sickening plea
Think what you wish, I am only me
Personal
bone May 2014
it is a sacred place
the driver's seat of a '99 Jeep Cherokee
manning the wheel
of a two ton killing machine
a means of crossing the width of a continent
in less time than it takes
your girlfriend to *******
that same girl who gave you head
from the passenger seat
that same girl who used to occupy
the passenger seat
every night
that same seat of variable
occupying friends
(makes you wonder why its called shotgun)
from the driver's seat
you look through the only window
that maintains an ever-changing perspective
from the driver's seat
you've thought of many different things
you've said many different things
you've cried of many different things
to me anyway
the driver's seat of a '99 Jeep Cherokee is a sacred place
if you would like to explain
to me otherwise
i would be very interested
to hear why you're wrong
Rasha Omer Aug 2011
Nearing the cusp of dawn
an armor of pain-killers
in a really nice box
and all the thoughts
i never thought
for once
would drizzle on my
conscience - are weighing
me down.

I hold my breath
as the bright ink
spells out, All I've done
wrong.

Sometimes, I wonder -
I ponder
I get lost on a route
of monstrous trucks.

I sweat, I fret
I dedicate, I *******
I pretend, as I burn
the tender cells of
my guilt-ridden lungs.

What if, I couldn't feel -
like a can of condensed air
where all the frigid molecules.
what if, i would
explode as I breathe
as i open my eyes
from a sleepless sleep -
as i inhale this fluid town.
in my being
in the bones of my core.

What if a ***** of a
pick
on the surface of
my existence
would facilitate a pathway
to my fantastic salvation.

what if the screws and the brooms
and the dust on my shoes
and the sparkle atop of these
dainty prayers.

what if the gloom
and the drones and the discomfort
of silence

were all my belongings
were all my wealth

what if the last Drop of color
in this tube was my heaven.

what if the last stain
on this glass
was my truth --
SirDlova Mar 2014
I sometimes wonder..
Don't hate me guys or think I'm gay
I am jus a guy like u,I'm a lover
But don't u sometimes reli wonder
What did women ever do to suffer this much?
We cheat on them
We beat them
Call them names
Its them we blame
Yeah you both had fun when you were at your place
But why must she be the one who carries a child on her womb for 9 consecutive months?
And you..
What do u carry?
Just your pride?
And then u expect them to say God is good
F#@k that!
Yes Eve was tricked in the Garden of Eden
To take a bite
But the first time you wanted a woman to take her ******* off for you,didn't she say "No!"?
She did,
So as Eve.
That's what she said when the serpent tricked her,she got tempted,but stil said no,until it forced her.
So a man temps and gets away with his sin
God is taking sides right now
Don't you think sister?
You still have to get your period pains every month?
Now tell me what do men get every month?
Nothing..they just go out and drink cold beers
Colder than their hearts
If I was God..I was gona make men fall pregnant,make men ******* every month and oh give them that feeling of being insecure
To all women out there
I thank you:)
To me,you so **** special
This crazy planet is nothing without you
Your second name is "Strong"
Thomas W Case Feb 2021
How?
How do people do it?
How do people smile, drive cars,
buy loaves of bread,
read the paper, go to school,
go to jobs, go to church,
eat sushi, talk on cell phones,
drink coffee?

How do they ****,
**** and *****?
How do they
get their
shoes shined,
stand in line,
comb their hair,
brush their teeth,
go to the theatre,  
the circus, the carnival?

How do they do
these things and  
so much more when
babies, innocent- beautiful
babies, are born into this
brutal world,
where parents die,
where feral cats carry off
little birds that fall from  
the nest,
where best friends die,
O.D, get hit by cars
drowned or
die from some
strange brain thing.

How do we eat
chocolate, watch football,
and build snowmen?
How do we
visit the zoo,
go to the moon
copulate
*******
******* and
procreate
when hearts still
break,
Sweet Jane dies.
The walk on the
wild side ends,
and the letters we
send get returned?

How do they do it ,
when
dogs get hit by  
cars,
****** roam the bars,
the Dodo’s extinct and
wackos still brutalize
children?
How do people do it?
How do they carry on?
Check out my you tube channel where I read poetry from book, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VDs9dUjQz58
jayant om Mar 2018
Dear Men,
I am a woman,
Whom you never saw As a fellow human being.
But as a body of blood, Holding those assets,
To satiate your cannibalistic desires.
You never searched the “me” within ‘me’
I also have the feelings which you never try to understand.
I am that conscious soul,
whom you call unfathomable.
I am a woman
I gave birth to you
I keep you in my womb for nine months
but, I see you staring at me stalking me
like a hungry beast
I am not a just a pound of flesh;
I am that conscious soul,
to whom you deny the rights.
When you strip off my shame,
from my parched skin,
You degrade your birth too.
You label me with names ****, *****…..
but you never think it’s you,
who come on the knees to get me at ‘BROTHELS’.
to prove you are the MAN
there, you don’t just play with my body only then,
you not only **** me but **** your souls too
Yes, I am that woman.
You pretend to worship me in temples
you fancy me in your dreams.
But, never adore me in reality.
When you sell me
in the market like an object then,
you sell your souls too.
Whenever you ****** me
Try to bully me
beat me in black and blue
For your pride
You step down As a man.
I am a woman
Yes, I ******* for five days
each month from puberty to menopause
to get prepared for becoming a mother
but, you treat me as untouchable on those days?!
I am a woman and am proud of who I am.
I am that being who is the alpha of all.
I am not just my body
I am a conscious soul.
(C) Jayant OM
july hearne Jun 2020
burdensome stone
burdensome stone
they can never leave this burdensome stone
alone
they would eat their own
to claim this burdensome stone
as their only own

i see you in your true form
even with your middle carved out
you believe in all your lies
maybe they are not your own
but they are still lies
policing language and thoughts
and dehumanizing the vulnerable

into gaping wounds
growing repulsive hair
even on the insides
where the depth is always lacking
and the sensation is shot
but the lies are never true

and cutting off what can never grow back
is all you  are ever compelled to do

what then, but finally realization
or just more lies

burdensome stone
burdensome stone
they can never leave this burdensome stone
alone
they would eat their only own
to claim this burdensome stone
as their eaten own
"You Got What You Wanted
Now You Don't Want What You Got"
Cronedrome Sep 2018
No I don't need a subject
I just spit about my spit
So open up that purdy mouth
And you can have a taste of it
Ye im sick Im tired
Im ****** wired
My brain is fried
From all this ****
And I've lived outside society
Though it's technically impossible
Somewhat withdrawn, morose, forlorn
Nice midnight stroll
**** on your lawn
******* on
Your absence of a soul
****** mess
And you've been told  
Witches brew,  you know
I see through you
Devil's spawn
Sprang from the earth
Your just desserts
Blood red alert
Positive vibes man
But you can't hide man
Ye step outside man
Won't let it slide
Won't let it pass
And you can call me an *******
You’re welcome
I already know
But as you know
That's not all I know
Now its show and tell time
Hear me flow
I'm on the outside looking in
And what I see is ******* grim
Ye you’ve got no soul
left to sell
And you revel in this ******* hell
Dimensions cut right to your size
But your empire of ****
Is built on lies
And I see the fear behind your eyes
And I'm thinking maybe it's high time
I joined the conversation
Got my stomp boots on
And plenty of libations
And I never did have any patience
But I was just so far removed
Now I'm moving in
Ye for the ****
And I've got my sights *****
Set on you
And I've lived outside society
Though it's technically impossible
Somewhat withdrawn, morose, forlorn
And my best feature is my scorn
And you wish you were never born
But you were
And so
Here we are
You spread your rot round near and far
And I am one big human scar
Fibrosis glowing in the dark
******* tell me I'm too sharp
But I made a big
Blunt object of my heart
And I smash it off your little brain
Now take the shame dope
Take the shame
Zywa Jun 2019
In the open field, there is more to see
than you like, poo and pimples

nothing private, trust no good
for anything, shame everywhere

because it's not a secret
in which you deviate, what you eat

which fears and diseases you suffer
how you wash and experience ***, when

you *******, have a miscarriage, cry
quarrel, are greedy, mean and unreasonable

or sweet, everything that is wrong with you:
someone who can be missed very well

or needs to learn a lesson – for mercy
there are mirror places for that
Collection “Mosaicvirus”
Is my lesbian closet empty as I ******* like a ******? As I ******* like a lame Detroit ****** in heat? Am I under mortal Comanche threat from paganly-merciless...

TERROR ******* OF THE DEEP? [Terror ******* of the deep have exceeded the depth of Russia's Kola Super Deep Bore Hole.]
   O.T.M.A. remains scotched & scorched, dismembered & lapsed, yet Mashka & Tashka are the 2 (or the 1's) I love. Scars aren't prone to bleeding. Wounds bleed. Scars are healed wounds. Do horse-breeders die in horse-breeding accidents? [I know her by a stage name, my angel in funny dress. Will she let me kiss her belly button? I can only guess.] I'm too stupid to mean stuff that's the opposite of the stupid stuff I say. Putrid things rot fast, flushing shallow. Let's do the fun parts of suicide that make suicide fun.
Woeful men ******* & drip drop a mal-menopause panoramical
whilst dancing atop Old Smokey through bluish goo, they lose their
new Zion ****** for Jew review by urologistical doctor Henry Woo
who farts up-wind when reamed marines ***-**** by, proud & few
on days when the ****** longin' of my twisted/torted chin shot blue
across the vague expanse of women whose lesbian antics timesed 2
when no nobodies was power-liftin' red skirts in Hindu Kathmandu
Roving impoverished folk are piously philosophical until they mate
with lard ***, furry, infanticidal witches who irregularly *******
in crude ditches where, with ameba & protozoon, they'll fractionate
an 8-lipped **** that, gapes for sun blight up tight in chronic fright,
smirks beneath edges of hedges till stubble wedges in **** sledges
HOW TO DETERMINE IF YOUR MARRIAGE IS A GAY ONE: For men, ask yourself: Why does my wife have a male name? How come my wife doesn't *******? How come she's flat-chested and bearded? Why is she having digital prostate exams?

HOW TO DETERMINE IF YOUR MARRIAGE IS A GAY ONE: For women, ask yourself: Why does my husband have a female name? How come my husband menstruates? How come he's big-busted and beardless? Why is he having pap smears?
I picked a pitch fork with a tinny tooth & a rearward claw in mortar
as blue ***** bitties suckle each other crawlin' across Trump's border
Woeful men ******* & drip drop a mal-menopause panoramical
whilst dancing atop Old Smokey through bluish goo, they lose their
new Zion ****** for Jew review by urologistical doctor Henry Woo
who farts up-wind when reamed marines ***-**** by, proud & few
on days when the ****** longin' of my twisted/torted chin shot blue
across the vague expanse of women whose lesbian antics timesed 2
when no nobodies was power-liftin' red skirts in Hindu Kathmandu

— The End —