"nauseam" poems
Dancing,
Thrashing,
Cascading
Down the barren stone tower,
Through the craggy, coarse cliffs
Refining, polishing the necessary features
And streaming for the duration of my adventure,
One might wonder: Why?
Why! Oh what a question—
To purify what will soon be soiled in a moment’s time,
And yet, unremittingly,
Over, ad nauseam, again.
I cannot die.
No agony or desolation can destroy me.
Amaranthine, ceaseless, everlasting!
I hold steadfast, staunch, unrelenting.
I am a waterfall.
Nought can destroy me.
I am forever...
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
allow me to breathe in your presence
to take in your glory and intellect
to swallow whole your allure and charm
in this i'll take with me a little piece of you
and my sinful lust will be satisfied
so i can go a few more hours before i need my self-defeating fix
i smoke three packs a day of just your eyes
and drink a case solely of your taste
your name trickles off my desperate tongue ad nauseam in its crave for your warm broth of love
and my heart pumps to the beats of the angelic song that echoes with your glow
the streams and rivers of my blood flood collectively into the delta of my mind
that can only make out thoughts of where you are when you're not here
as they tell my legs to walk and walk until my feet bruise and blister to wherever that may be
because that is the place i feel impervious to death and despair
the place where the once hollow well that is my soul fills with your crystal clear drips of freedom
the place where i feel immortal
and i count the seconds as they pass
to know that paradise is real
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
All roads lead to Calvary
It's three hours of agony
away from friends and family
To get there you'll need more than bravery.
A man did died there
for baring our sins
so we wouldn't have to.
We remember him in glory
for dying for us.
And we sinners turn to prayers
But this is a fallacy
Appeal to the stone
because it cannot be disproved.
I have no time for circular logic.
So live in ignorance
That only the dead man on the cross
can provide salvation.
Born to sin and die in sin.
Pin down by fervent belief
Even though he spilled blood
for us, makes no difference.
Say your prayers.
Meaningless repetition
Just as bad as the pagans
So repeat it till the day you die.
"Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour our deaths, Amen."
ad nauseam
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 4:28 AM UTC
One more chalice of amber
Encrusted with hopes and dreams.
One more sip from the cup of life
To ground what we believe.
One more breath of neon vapor
That lifts us from our knees,
Frees the wrists of shackles
And clears the way to see.
Repeat,
Ad nauseam,
Until the truth is found.
In the depths of depravity
Satori abounds.
A glimpse of nirvana
And all that was lost is found.
For now,
But as the amber nectar turns bitter
The smoke is powdered on our lungs.
The vapor has all gone while
We hiss our words in tongues.
But in the morning when all is said and done
You awake to true satori,
The road to understanding has only just begun.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
If I hedge thus a drooling wager and cash in
on my thrice-foiled cravings for her overdue bites
(plus a guilt-free laugh at his expense), I can
use minced steps to sidle around too-lively
trunks, and avoid the need to heed thugs
barking mad from within their crevice-laid traps.
How those bug-eyed brutes'll clamor and claw at me
to discard this protective wrap, clued in by my rep
of never bending willfully to anybody
but her. "Come on, shed! Get, uh, new set of scales,
for you we will — promise!" is how she'd stammer,
roughly translating their not-so-twee chatter,
if she were there. Rather, in that lavishly apt way
she has, she'll be away picking suitable pelts
to adorn her newly uncovered, quite public shame
while fending off an advancing clod, who won't go
easily, but who does go on ad nauseam with
a penchant for naming every ******* thing
that haps vitally across his cocky path. Beyond
a simple relish of mischief, I'm doing this (mostly)
for her benefit. How could a persimmon
be forbidden, as if he had permission to make
such bargains? He's dismissed it as an ungainly fruit,
and mocked its likelihood to "lava thy lips"
with an orange pulp, but in that chance smattering lies
the matter to inflame my soul. I'll feed her
the pudding-fresh flesh, and strip it down
to its delectably small seeds. In their splitting
I'll glean the silvery utensils to spill
a man's wholly worthless future. Let's tuck in.
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 4:31 PM UTC
Most poets construct fences
Of ambiguous and lofty blabber
To stagger, ambitious eyes
Clamoring for another
Hit line, that drags the body
to the grave and greets
Your mother with
A bird, contrary
To the--traditional wave
And jejune grief
Instead, I'll facet windows
With various cob-web cracks
And baseball mishaps
Till I collapse
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC
Her crinkled eyes show lines of feigned contentment,
Veiling the gritted resignation within.
Every proverbial step taken was always slightly off
So little that it wasn't noticeable at the time,
Though it took her to an unintended destination.
Never understanding why she would exude so much of herself
And never obtain what she wanted.
Going over past steps ad nauseam, wondering where she faltered.
At which point did she start in the wrong direction
How can she get back
Should she even try
When it's unknown if anything will be left
Aside from an abandoned piece of herself
If she were to return.
You can't go backwards in life
But who says you can't circle back?
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 4:52 PM UTC
Sara L Russell
A songwriter sat down to write
and tried and tried with all this might
to make the inspiration come
until the bowels of his soul were numb
until he almost screeched in pain
and forced an idea in his brain.
He strained, then like a thunderclap,
out came a song - and it was crap.
Established DJ's tapped their feet,
they thought it sounded rather sweet;
it had nothing unsafe to say
and so they played it night and day
and so they played it day and night
ad nauseam, as if in spite.
It should have been hurled down the nearest drain
but was played again and again and again
And so it got to Number One
and bored the **** off everyone
and so eventually went gold
as down the river the world was sold
as grannies bought it in their droves
(as if grannyhood behoves
the buying of such awful things)
And thus the turkey spread it's wings.
One day, a man with a broken heart
whose business venture fell apart
whose grandmother was very ill
stood high upon a window sill
and wondered, should he jump, or no?
And was six floors high enough to go?
As his aching heart began to thump,
He heard the song - and decided to jump.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
Awaken
Rise
Walk
Empty
Clean
Kiss
Goodbye
Drink
Eat
Sleep
Awaken
Boredom
Silence/Music
Boredom
Loneliness
Sadness
Arrival
Hello
Kiss
Talk
Smoke
Love
Eat
Watch
Goodbye
Watch
Smoke
Sleep
Awaken
(Repeat ad nauseam)
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 10:57 PM UTC
The scars you leave on me are just tattoos that
no one else can see, they've bled ad nauseam,
invisible ink pouring from the pores of lashes
and old sores, a tale of muted agony tailed by
the ****** of a self-fulfilling prophecy. I knew.
The stars you leave me with are just dreams that
we abandoned, racing to prove they once existed
recalling how it once was like to be kissed by light
before bleeding across a generation of galaxies
to exile in your soft, cold cheeks as pale. I knew.
The jars you leave me in are just the parts you
want to be, containers of convenient, misfits for
what really happened, they leave nil to breathe:
for fusing crimson curiosities, building empires
of what if, or asking. Only me in pieces. I new.
I'd lose you.
*Partially inspired by Sophie Ellis-Bextor's
"The Walls Keep Saying Your Name"*
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 2:21 AM UTC
I'd like to talk about I -
ergo, a poem about I
*I write I poems
therefore I am*
and I'd like you to read about I
and then another poem about I,
ad nauseam
Look, if I find I so obsessively interesting
I don't see why
you should not love my I
I am unique, and I mean I -
so you should find I;
and I reiterate
I'd like to talk about I
a poem about I
each ubiquitous I poem
the equivalent of a visual selfie:
the I-am-eating-cornflakes-now type
or I-am-constipated-now type
I am I's favourite - I follow I
so I'd like you to read about I
You will surely find I
(cos I know I best)
a pleasure to eye
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 2:23 AM UTC
it's almost like saying:
atheism
and theism, or deism
or whatever.
it's rought comparison,
but that's the best i could ever hope
to allude to...
concerning the aye, eye, i...
oko: eye,
okno: window
oczko:
a little eye, typically
of a baby;
judasz / judas: the peeping hole
in your front door.
bilingualism is like
a mongolian horde in terms
of etymological
"struggles", i.e. introspections...
i can't even begin the platonic
assertion of form-morphing
that's translated into
darwinism of
monkey into an ape...
as someone who's into artistotle more
than into plato, because he's more
into shakespeare's dialogues than plato's...
i don't buy the platonic crap
in darwinism...
it would be, perfect,
if we were all reduced to monkey form,
and picked out one type of monkey
as our origins...
what, ******* point, would,
a shit-brick sized gorilla ever need to evolve?
a gorilla that could wrestle a tiger
and pin him to the floor, while breaking his jaw?
the **** is this?!
or right... choose a chimp...
but not a macaque monkey...
i'll just do what atheist
youtubers do... in terms of language:
******* imbecile!
pointless platonic imbeciles!
darwinism = platonism...
god, in the now, now, now...
now i should be exhibit (c) in a zoo...
or playing that ******* wormhole of a game
that's the sims...
eugenics didn't move it far along
the argument scale, that we needed
to play "god" while playing the sims...
there's nothing worth an aristotle in the framework
of darwinism...
darwinism is platonic...
it arises from the head, and the abstract,
rather than on the basis of the senses,
that said:
as one hindu guru said:
why aren't there more monkeys evolving,
turning into neanderthals?
the more atheists call others ********
we'll be swimming ad infinitum ad nauseam
in circles, concerning ourselves with
arguments, that... well...
are best summarised by a cat's
meow of concern for
the arguments in themselves...
bo'h- -ring!
oh look, retards either direction;
if that's what humanism has come down to...
seriously... if i were a gorilla... why would
i want to devolve?
so i can be subordinate
to beta-males' taxation rules of governing me?
punch the ******* in the face, and move on...
to me, aristotle would have rejected darwinism,
but plato? ooh hoo hoo... he'd be darwin's first disciple;
******* ponces.
don't bother questioning whether
poetry requires objectivity...
it's a non-objective form of expression...
as it was never supposed to be...
take your 1 + 1 = 2 elsewhere, and ponder it there.
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 8:53 PM UTC
That which is done can't be unseen
That which is unseen, may never be
That which may never be, such loss
That which is such loss, albatross
That which is albatross, you run
That which you run from, is no fun
That which is no fun, shouldn't be done
That which shouldn't be done, don't see
That which you don't see to, won't be
That which won't be, is total loss
That which is total loss, albatross
That which is albatross, is you run
That which you run from, is... wait what?
That which is wait what, give no buts
That which you give no buts, is done!
That which is done, ad nauseam
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 4:45 PM UTC
I feel
Like retiring to my bed
And lying there
Until spiders come
And cobweb me securely
To the wall I stare at
I feel
Like I’m typecast
As Pagliacci,
Recitar! Vesti la Giubba
Sung ad nauseam
Until a shepherd’s crook tugs me
Through the curtain
And it seems
I haven’t grown tired of losing
My footing while I reach for the summit
And I feel
Like there are only so many times
Someone can tourniquet their limbs
Before hesitantly clutching
To the handle of another departing car’s door
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 8:49 PM UTC
Sometimes it gets fierce
like it's looking to escape.
But I tell it not yet.
I get it to calm.
Tell it I need it in place
But no matter how much
I speak peace it still gets fierce.
So much so I have to wonder
when its time will come
and mine will go.
But not yet. Not now.
Now I'm fierce enough.
Enough to speak peace
in words learnt over long years.
Long enough to keep pace,
keep to my off-beat rhythm
that’s beaten it down
into a life-long submission
While knowing that life-long
isn't long enough
and the beat won't go on
ad nauseam.
But yes, I get fierce enough,
enough to keep the beast in its place.
- My time hasn't expired yet.
I know my time will get old.
But not yet.
Oct 15, 2022
Oct 15, 2022 at 9:13 PM UTC
**I swore it to myself in a black room
Couldn't follow your lips, they could have led me astray
Inside a darker room
I found solace in repeating the same word
Repeating it ad nauseam
"Never"
I saw myself high
So high I could never sink to you
But you came to me, mirror that you are
And told me I was upside down**
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 4:05 PM UTC
Do you see me?
I’ve been devouring poetry,
by the line,
by the page,
by the book.
No poem has been overlooked.
I’ve been feasting
on free verse,
blank verse,
perverse
cascades
of stanzas and rhymes,
a banquet of words
on which to dine.
I’ve been swallowing ad nauseam,
scarfing down similes,
masticating metaphors,
gormandizing poems aplenty.
Rhyming couplets,
I’ve contained them.
Sonnets and epics,
ingested.
Lyrical odes,
digested.
A thousand lines
to make you swoon.
I’ve tasted them all—
the potent and
the picayune.
Villanelles, check.
Sestinas too.
I even hiccupped
my own haiku:
Icicles melt on glazed gutters.
Water drips, prolific, bits of sunlit seeds
promising lilacs below the eaves.
Do you see me?
I hate to ask, but I’m afraid
something poetic has happened.
my head is a tureen
brimming with stars
my arms are utensils
in a darkened drawer
my chest, a room of last resort
my feet are stressed, in short
Such prosody is blinding.
Can you tell me why
my eyes are bleak?
Or why I no longer
blink?
I sense the sear of fluent tears
composing on my cheek:
endless drops, black beads,
consumptive stains of ink.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 10:22 AM UTC
What do I think we are
Did I expect to see stars
Spining around both our heads
Forgetting the path that I fled
It all sounds so silly to me
Going back to such lived misery
How can I entertain my delight
At the thought of being under your spotlight
It all felt so decided, quite final
Like our last song on a vinyl
An album played ad nauseam
Swimming circles in stagnum
But a tale as old as time
The whimsy to rewind
In my attempt to create closure
I found the itch to flip our record over.
May 16, 2022
May 16, 2022 at 11:53 AM UTC
Infinity is so tedious
it just goes on and on
and on and on and on
and on and on and on
and on and on and on and on
and on and on and on
Forever has no limits
it just goes on and on
and on and on and on
and on and on and on
and on and on and on and on
and on and on and on
This poem's got no end
it might go on and on
and on and on and on
and on and on and on
and on and on and on and on
and on and on and on
Repeat ad nauseam
Cynthia Pauline Jones 11/11/13
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
What it means to be man
I don't wanna know
Being man never got me any good
I just live to die
To be eaten one day by crows
I'm not from here
Will be gone tomorrow too
Clothe like grass, spin like lilies
Then down the hole you go, fool
I want more, I always do
Just one more bite before the Marshall he comes
A spoonful more as I blush in deadly crimson
I want some more, I always do
Why? Tell me that's human nature;
All the pains and merriment
Cry! Cry! We knew us that way;
The joys of mortal excrement!
You say I was born with some spoon in my mouth
Then take it away from me
Can't take that pig from the sty
Take the sty from the pig!
I want more, I always do
Just one more bite before the Marshall he comes
A spoonful more as I blush in deadly crimson
I want some more, I always do
Won't have some more, please, I'm good
Just one more bite and nauseam, the gastric works it comes
A spoonful more and I'm crushed in deadly crimson
I want some more, I always do
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
Ad infinitum
embroiled in another
waking moment with
a bated breath nothing like
this day inclined only to obfuscate
its meaningless joy of seeing yourself
in a pond swimmingly doubling the inertia
of the koi the day constricting within the verdigris
ready to seal shut in hermetic this vermillion eye
to wake up into a long-held confrontation
of what this system closes in a document
why bother this validation when valedictory
Ad nauseam
why bother this confrontation
when disappearance this space much like a long-held performance
if concert is hermetic in front of a nonchalant audience
laudable with no sound, an untranslatable music
unhinged from the inherent risk of felling
an inert day struggling like koi trapped
in a pond seeking what it is to transcend
or the multiplied joy of seeing yourself meaningless
ready for an eye to be caught in a monotonously
claustrophobic loins of a tremulous middleground
with no possible agreement other than:
this potentially demands an end
when beginning you are lionized
to a fault, repeated, trite: what for?
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 1:06 AM UTC
Haiku-speaking-day
Only talking in haiku
Life is poetry
First, five syllables
Next we follow with seven
Then finish with five
It's five-seven-five
And five-seven-five again
Then five-seven-five
Start over again
Just repeat ad nauseam
One entire day
Don't let your speech slip
Stay true to rules for reward:
Pure poetic bliss
Jan 21, 2021
Jan 21, 2021 at 3:47 PM UTC
Acuity's sweetheart, without a peep what whole
to picture, reflect you.
Black hole gone white...you consume all put to
you.
Unwavering stare ad nauseam--great gatherer
of last nerves.
Your only sentiment, an unnerving one.
As per second guess, images donned their
reality within your confines...their dead end of
your wide open.
Grey skies of luminous latency, frozen lakes,
serrated knives, sentient fog--smack of you.
Timeless conversation piece on reserve for what
thing may look into you.
How can something so crystal clear, be so cut off?
Your desensitization was fashioned darkly--that
pained slip...that recoil of what you reflect.
More final than the wall hang you, as to eclipse.
You belong shut in a dark, musty closet, or the
cobweb corner of an attic.
Clearly...you do not merit the light of day...it's fire
to brush...O Great Teacher!
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
Clocking in,
Trudging on,
Grinding the nose down to the bone,
Clock out,
Et cetera,
Ad Nauseam,
Goes the routine of the last of the Blue-Collar poets.
Can't think of words,
Too dog-tired to think of rhyming schemes,
Too sore for clever entendres,
Too broke to focus on fixing verses, stanzas, and metrics.
Thinking of the too-long day,
And the too-long day to come,
Fighting for a long shot of a good-night's sleep,
For a glimmer of a decent day off,
Clawing for a decent day's pay.
Sweeping up the metal shavings,
Spattered with hot, hot grease,
Bones broken by falling boxes,
Maimed by unsafe machines.
Keep the Blue-Collar poet in mind,
As you operate your computers,
Sitting in your White-Collar dream,
For their fledging numbers dwindle,
That will never get the chance at your dream
May 19, 2023
May 19, 2023 at 11:01 PM UTC