"overfed" poems
some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they'll find me there.
it's Cherub, they'll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils.
then, I'll rise with a roar,
rant, rage -
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
lawn.
I'll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune,
suddenly become as lovable as a
pink
overfed whale.
some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.
65.8k
The end of the affair is always death.
She's my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Finger to finger, now she's mine.
She's not too far. She's my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute's speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
She took you the way a women takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today's paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
9.2k
Sticky fingers,
***** toes,
Smelly *****
Beads up their nose,
PRECIOUS
Snot stained blouse,
Sick stained shoulders,
Work gets harder,
As they get older,
WONDERFUL
Midnight screaming,
*** in your bed,
Barbie in your coffe ***
Poor goldfish overfed,
GOOD TIMES
Money problems,
Teenage tantrums,
Nose rings, blue hair,
Football anthems,
PARENTHOOD ROCKS!!!!
Aug 27, 2010
Aug 27, 2010 at 3:15 AM UTC
Do you hate the way
that our magnetized times
turn us all to metal shavings--
push and pull--charged each
day to fill up negative space
with negative attraction?
Were you repulsed when polarities
changed?
Or was that me?
Flipping switches
switching sides
siding
with pivot points showing, caught
with pants down?
"Be a man now!"
While the female end
of the port calls out,
"Shipwreck! Shipwreck!
All men down!"
Count me out at minus 4
it leaves a balance: minus 3
At minus 10, our blood could freeze
and fall back earthward; blood red snow.
Caught on the tongue it tastes like pennies.
Tastes just like
the metal shavings
we become
in magnetized times.
Polarized
and "Family Sized." Underpaid
Overfed. Neutralized America.
Greatest country in the ******* world.
Right?
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
I made a gold digger, ******* full of vigor,
She’s on a hairpin trigger, out to **** my rigor.
Gold digger, in love with all the stuff,
Gold digger, she can’t get enough.
I’m tired of the way she treats his gifts,
He’ll give her a boat and away she drifts—
I can’t help I didn’t give her enough
Now he sees her lying to him—he’s calling her bluff.
He puts bracelets on her wrists
His charity persists,
He puts old hats on her head,
She’ll soon be overfed
His gifts can’t harbor the ship wreck
And look I’m sticking out my neck
Perhaps I can’t afford her
My broke *** just bores her.
Perhaps it’s more than that,
Perhaps it’s under the hat.
Perhaps her head is so done with me,
That the gifts he gives are guilt-free.
Perhaps I’m loosing sight,
Of the things they have so right,
Maybe they’re cleaning horse **** holding hands
Perhaps that’s what’s turning on her adrenal glands—
Gold digger, shallow to a point
Fishing for meaning, Heaven please anoint.
I think I get it, somewhere inside,
You pompous shallow ***** go run and hide.
Surf or skate, and fall and break
The waves will crush you over-take,
And when the good get’s going and I’m out of sight
You and He, will shrink into the night,
And in your heart, Gold digger
My purpose is always Bigger.
Because you love me without cash
But you treat me like your trash,
I’ll probably get in a car crash,
Running him over cause’ I’m just so brash.
This I will confess,
Your heads a ******* mess,
Unless you give up the gold,
Your heart and mine will grow even more cold.
I made a gold digger, ******* full of vigor,
She’s on a hairpin trigger, out to **** my rigor.
Gold digger, in love with all the stuff,
Gold digger, she can’t get enough.
Mar 19, 2011
Mar 19, 2011 at 8:02 AM UTC
now that territory outweighs tolerance,
we all just march in search of conquest,
for it is this that we were born to do.
no one questions this so called 'truth,'
we just read outdated books and call them proof.
for the right to destroy, we'll accept any view.
give me this and give me that
and put the rest up on a rack
on the off chance i run out of things to consume.
we're getting bloated and overfed
but that still doesn't leave any time to rest
because this isn't enough, and i need a bigger room.
so i'll just take yours and when i'm done, i'll take his,
and what i can't take, i'll drown in my **** . . .
no matter what, it will all be marked as mine.
and when the devil takes us up to show what we could have,
we'll say, 'we fooled you! we took all we could nab.
you've got nothing to offer us, so get in the ******* line,
like everyone else we've got tagging along,
weeping and praying, singing spiritual songs,
and waiting for us to throw them a bone.'
because everyone knows territory outweighs tolerance . . .
it's easy to believe if you have no conscience,
and you're willing to spend your life in your mind, alone.
so that's what we do: march about and consume
and destroy and defile and declare it as truth,
and ignore anything that points to something else.
because where ever we go there is never peace,
we just breed violence like a ******* disease
and pretend there is no such thing as a Self.
because like mitochondria, we're ensuring growth
and what's it to us if we leave dashed hopes
trailing behind in our wake?
get in the line, or lay down and die,
but whatever was yours now is called mine,
and i'm already looking for something else to take.
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 10:54 PM UTC
Fat women with
Fur coats
To warm their overfed
Heaps of mass
Holding overpriced
Elongated, mechanical strings
Attached to their
Mouse-like dogs
That wear clothes
That cost more
Than my entire outfit
Shirt, jeans, boots, jacket
Combined
They yap to small devices
Glued to their ears
Like instruments
Of envy and jealousy
Yelling at their husbands
Or boyfriends
Or pool boys
Who haven't done their job
Either paying for whatever they want
Or neglecting to net out
That last nat
From their jacuzzis
Where they sip white wine
And sizzle in soapy water
Before getting out
And slipping on shoes
Made by kids
In Cambodia
Who have never held
A hundred dollar bill
What is wrong
Who is right
What is it
That's been done
Here
None of it makes sense
To me
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
never a need to say yes or no
just say not now instead
to avoid any decision
apply infinite revision
then crawl on back to bed
the words stick to and fro
following where they’re led
when a Harvard debater
says “I’ll catch ya’ later”
they really mean go drop dead
declarations come and go
everyday is condition red
I have not a clue
if what you say is true
your rhetoric is overfed
intellect is friend or foe
trapped deep in your head
words are often mis-used
context cannot be refused
if you believe you believe what was said
Oct 28, 2020
Oct 28, 2020 at 1:23 PM UTC
she lives alone. from this, one can gather the things she owns. 1970s porn. she is pregnant. a week ago she went into town to pick up some new phrases. while there, she slipped into a house and beat a sleeping child. our deeds are weary not of a dog barking or of a cat hissing but of the overfed fish. my belly button is how the marksmen touch me. she thinks the child’s father followed her home. she’s about to watch the videotape.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
He has never been like other little boys
That play so happily with their toys
He is different is young Raymond Bliss
He wants to grow up to be....a mad scientist
While others play with toy soldiers and cars
Or pretend to be astronauts in the stars
Little Raymond is chasing his pet cat instead
Determined he will catch him and cut off his head
He tried getting the dog who put up a fight
Poor Raymond gave up when he got a nasty bite
So he dug up his hamster, who passed away when overfed
He tied the body to a car battery to try and raise the dead
Unfortunately the dead hamster fizzled and went pop
It made Raymond jump in fright, it made him hop
So he decided to dig up the goldfish as well
Then he decided against it, because of the smell
Now there are plans drawn up, to be unfurled
His evil scheme now hatched to take over the world
Raymond wants to set vampire robot bunnies on man kind
It is just a shame because his pocket money he can not find
His mother says "time for bed" so he sulks up to his room
This his prison from whence he plots doom and gloom
He is a very strange boy is little Raymond Bliss
Determined to be the most evil mad scientist
Jul 27, 2010
Jul 27, 2010 at 1:37 AM UTC
She says: WHY R U STILL LAYING THERE?
First she whispered, then she spoke and then she screamed
cause it seemed like i was consciously deaf.
'You say ur tired but are you really?
You say ur done but do you mean it?
You sure don't act like it.
You were happy, you were at peace cause i've seen it'
Well, now i'm not, i answered.
I'm emotionally broken cause he broke me,
My heart so full of feelings, they might choke me.
Feeling it wraps its cold hands around my neck,
As i gasp for air, waiting for my lungs to fill,
fuel my body with energy and try to fight back.
But i lack hope, so i finally gave up.
I fell so hard spiritually,
i landed on my back and decided to stay there.
Why? because:
There's only an amount of weight i can bear.
I feel like i passed the limit, twice
then three, four and five times.
So I've had it! My goal is so far, i can't even grab it.
Instead of feeding my spirit i overfed my habit.
Pulling myself away of His light, while my world turns black.
Crawling into the darkest corner
far away from Him cause i'm to ashamed to show my face
Ignoring her calls, denying His arms, disregarding His embrace.
Forgetting His grace and neglecting my thoughts.
And then she, the inner voice in me,
finalised our dialogue.
Why are u broken while He healed you?
Why are you a slave while He freed you?
Ain't there anything that you've memorised.
Rise up before you realize it's to late.
before your inner voice, actually the voice of God, is gone.
Cause then you'll get as cold as the floor that you're laying on.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
Some days
It's as if I can't process emotion.
My heart is dying of starvation
Other days
It's as if I can't stop feeling everything.
It's as if I'm full but can't stop eating.
And I have no idea what I'll do if this carries on
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
**** head
Sedilia smile
move inches
Talk for a mile
Wontcha walk for a while,
Wontcha walk for a while
I’m dead
silly I smile
bedhead
sun gimme a dial
wontcha recognize the time
I looked at you to long now I’m blind
oh but parliamentary wontcha drop a seed on me
I’m just dying to grow n you taught me to know I’m to smart to move for you
Oh and the time keeps passing me by n I slaughter seconds with questions asking why can’t I realize why this time keeps passing me by
Unfed lead
leading helmeted heads
of plague ridden pockets with their skin overfed
to the great meat grinder
will we topple the walls
or let our words get cleaned off of those bathroom stalls?
Sunset
You’re gonna go far
stars live in the dark
get stuck in the tar
I can’t see your face on a cloudy day
the clear nights tell me it’s all ok
oh but parliamentary wontcha drop a seed on me
I’m just dying to grow n you taught me to know I’m to smart to move for you
Oh and the time keeps passing me by n I slaughter seconds with questions asking why can’t I realize why this time keeps passing me by
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
rows of two!-three!-four!-boys-bloc-king-the-cor-rid-or
will soon be gone
and the RHYTH-mic-tick-tock-of-my-leg-BOUN-cing-on-the-floor
will be no more
it's fresh cadavers wrapped in string
it is a joyful gospel hymn
mourning the best and worst of youth
(those shiny kids who'd first walked in
with all the grace and all the poise
of hatched arachnids missing limbs)
but what of "her" – you know her name –
that overfed, reptilian thing
who shed her hair and scratched her skin,
cursing the odds at Him upstairs, demanding He re-shape her?
some say she cried herself into extinction
– sailed away on a crimson tide –
balking at the trauma of being seen
(enforced, cursed vulnerability
in being known to man).
the rest knew better;
they were voyeurs in this
fruit-carving tutorial
on 'how to grow up':
STEP 1) consider all other alternatives
2) take the scalpel and initiative
3) before adrenaline gives way to doubt,
turn the flesh-vessel inside out in a cocoon of your own creation!
while organs may rupture and it aches like you've skinned yourself alive (good for her, setting herself free!) you'll look cuter in the class photos and has you-know-who... finally... shifted the weight?
4) breathe through the blood loss and searing pain
5) notice
you
can
breathe again.
at this point, does it matter that it aches?
May 10, 2019
May 10, 2019 at 9:50 AM UTC
Suicide me again oh love
it hurts to be overwhelmed with your humiliating zealous lust
my genitals nimbus like a glowing golden peach
so ripe corruption is shadowing hungrily
At church I forget I am an animal
slowly poisoned by communion , candles , brochures , verses ,
beautiful music of the spheres exalts all singers absolved
Purity lends me a shackle and a guiltless time on my knees
**** this pain these senses
basic needs met and yet i fret
particulars stick in my eye
I can't see how horrible i am
when i watch csi
my dna can betray me with babies and jail time
God please bless the homeless and starving far far away
while i am starving for pleasure as my overfed ego takes the last
bite of icecream eaten to avoid feeling alone
I hate this commericial
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 9:15 PM UTC
disenchanted with a day
overfed with sweetness.
the hoax of the flesh
the illusion of the intellect
punish .
even my own face in the mirror
appears as that of a stranger
my own thoughts
seem borrowed from
some memory of what this day
should feel like.
walking through photographs,
everything too pungent to the eye,
all i crave
is to be me again.
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
24.05.2013
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
Slurries of hails to the standard rail of self-expectations in the projector that melts back-bone whenever faced with a path over mountain that always professes from the abstraction sinkhole. Emptying that cobbed and worthless orafice seems pretty good lain back. it's during stalkings around the star of an other soul's eyes the motor behind the sighs that cut through the man-made fog is needed in my anxious tissue. It comes now an epic old stone to my skull like an old and overfed dog needs a forest's unmountable cedar amber airholm and rushing pulp thick with the scent of meat.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
He was a crossword puzzle in the local paper
and a raspberry danish with coffee on Sunday mornings &
an extra pinch of salt at dinner
or two.
He was a constant battle of Grampy vs. the squirrels
that raided the the birdfeeder
He was a top drawer candy stash and show tunes playing through the house
And 10 over when hitting those speed bumps
He was the only man I knew that would take his dentures out at DiMillos
& for those of you that don't know DiMillos, it's not the type of restaurant for such things
He was a broken belt on Thanksgiving,
but that wouldn't stop him until his pants were around his ankles
One thing always told me, "I'm gonna fall asleep before my head hits the pillow!" Which always left me in a state of curiosity
I can still hear his voice saying that one line from that one movie..
'You're the guy who overfed my goldfish'
and I'll never forget the way he replied whenever Nana scolded him
'Yes, lovey'
For all of the things my grandfather was, and always will be
He'll be remembered as a neighbor, a father, a husband,
And an amazing grandfather
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
The kid with the beard and the ***** apron,
he's just trying to make it.
His shoes have small tears on the sides,
from the way water saturates and weakens the material.
He’s got this way of gliding from table to table,
the same way a dancer owns a stage.
He slides plates of salt-ridden tacos currently in vogue
to a roomful of overfed, undersexed office drones
A woman in a skirt and flip-flops rolls her eyes at a salad.
A ********* in a blazer flicks a ****** under the table.
Still, there's a twinkle in the kid’s eyes,
like he's on the make.
If the right circumstances unfold
he’d snag a loose twenty
from a wallet or a purse.
This is the server's life,
always under the thumb,
hated and stressed,
but always laughing
at the end
of each shift.
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
If I were to die today
Well, what can I say?
I'd simply be dead
To overthink, is to lose your way
It ain't just all about... street cred'... flashy clothing... and being overfed
One needs to find a balance, be it at the brim
He who adds no value to your life, is the one that you trim
Off, and lose touch with
Or not associate too much with
Do not take life too seriously
I know that I will die too, curiously...
I feel nothing even remotely close to fear
Suprise me death
You could be far... but then again
You might just be near.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 6:03 AM UTC
The mind is a cage
Prisoners are overfed
Thoughts make for slow death
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 2:28 AM UTC
You’ve overfed me everything you had at your disposable
Staring up at me as I’m hanging from the ceiling.
Chocolate, syrup, honey, lollipops.
My belly’s rumbling.
It’s scaring me.
Sweat continues to wash over my pale face.
With trembling hands I try to tear my stomach open by myself.
And there you are waving a bat right underneath my feet.
“Blindfold on or off?” You ask amusingly with a growing grin.
The black fabric peaking from your pocket which you ignore to take out.
I’ve lost. My mouth sewn shut. I can’t be saved now.
I mumble uncontrollably as you raise for the first blow.
It hurts, my whole body is ringing of burning pain, as I swing around fast side to side.
You spin for another blow with your eyes closed this time.
You miss.
You do it again, eyes open.
Pain explodes faster everywhere.
I’m muffling praying to fall any second now.
“COME ON YOU’RE GREEEDY YOU KNOW THAT?!!” He shouts jumping from below.
“OPEN UP!! GIVE ME SOME!!! I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING AND YOU DON’T SHARE??”
Tears are falling. I’m the one at fault. I’m the empath and you’ll do anything to make me feel this way, no matter what I do, it won’t be enough.
You overfed me and I ate so it was my fault.
You tried getting it all back but couldn’t expel it out of me so it was my fault.
You did your part, and all I did was intervene.
It’s all my fault.
It’s not you.
It’s all me.
Mar 20, 2025
Mar 20, 2025 at 3:32 PM UTC
“We’ve engineered the world for comfort and ease. Most people rarely step outside of their comfort zones these days—we’re living progressively soft, sterile, temperature-controlled, overfed, under-challenged, safety-netted lives1. And it’s slowly limiting the degree to which we experience our, as the poet Mary Oliver put it, “one wild and precious life.””
Michael Easter, Substack
<>><<>
five months have expired
from when this notion
1st caught my notice
but fallow lay,
unattended, unremarked
unforgiving
of my ignorance and inattention
but it freshly, rightly,
core challenges me
guilty of the underbelly softness
so well described,
I
choose to scribe,
wrestle with angel and devil,
two~on~one human,
and yet, still a
fair fight
"wild and precious!"
how rarely we employ these
adjectives,
that conjure the edginess of an
existence
lest you think,
that we are here to implore, urge,
skydiving, remote wilderness trekking, or other physical states
that set adrenaline on fire,
I am not
afterthat for them
oh, my
wild and precious
is far more treacherous and enthralling
what I beg you to embrace is
no farther than
nubs, knobs and stubbled nibs of your fingers,
the taste buds flowering invisible
on the wily, twisty tongue,
the tiny-vibrating little hairs of your nostril,
two extra large eggy pupils of your two eyes,
here lies danger,
your customized throbbing throbbing your drumming,
leadings
access to the garden of
The truly wild and precious,
the poems you will scribe,
from the safety of your captains chair,,
Throwing caution to the wind compose and depose yourself with bitter questioning,
For which the answered answers must be truly be
wild and precious
cyan sighs,
oaken cries,
furious colorless invasive tears,
steely stabbing personal truths,
yes those wild ones,
in your. chest close held,
spill them like cold coffee,
surrender the precious, and
inward confess your
shame, gains and the relit
that you are not merely
wild and precious
but a sea borne sailor,
a navy voyaging to
to where
danger enthralls
enlivens!
Jun 21, 2025
Jun 21, 2025 at 10:23 AM UTC
If the Lord loves me why did he leave me this way?
Was the question she used to ask
As the drugs took over more each day
She felt her life was leaving her fast
On a normal day as she sat and got high
Death was close, but she could not stop
As tears ran down her face from over drugged eye
She wished this life for a new one she could swap
Then God reached out for this child of his
With love and compassion he spoke to her
And told her this is not the way you have to live
God searched her heart and knew what she’d prefer
Knowing this had to be about the Lord
The voice in her head she answered
And told it not to speak another word
Not knowing death was the hazard
She thought to herself out loud
He knows nothing about me and God
So what you are saying is disallowed
Don’t question me or go to far and ****
Not forgetting her drugs she picked up her head
For just one moment to wipe away the tears
From the drugs that to herself she overfed
The thought of death upon her was clear
At that moment standing before her was a man
She did not see his face as she looked
She only saw the holes in his feet and his hands
“I understand”, he said, “ I know what it took.
I died for you. So you don’t have to die too.”
She fell on her face and prayed for forgiveness
And told the Lord if my life you will rule
From this day forward I will be a living witness
To this day she does not do drugs
And helps as many get clean as she can
With a lot of love and even more hugs
Believing that all the while this was God’s plan
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
She sits on the courthouse steps
Playing songs she herself wrote
Every word she sings she means
Her heart there in every note.
She sings of the pain she sees
In the world that passes by.
She sings to you and to me
Her music makes you cry.
(She sings)
We who have so much
Give little to the others.
We let our children starve
And do not help the mothers
And the fathers who work
To make their daily bread
While rich people won’t help
Keep a house over their heads.
She manages to choose chords
That sing of lonely suffering.
Her angelic voice softens up
The accusations she’s uttering.
She tells of squandered glory
In the wasting of our lives
While the overfed rich people
Go home to their gilded wives.
(She sings)
We who have so much
Give little to the others.
We let our children starve
And do not help the mothers
And the fathers who work
To make their daily bread
While rich people won’t help
Keep a house over their heads.
Few listen to the troubadour
Who tells us all our name.
They may drop in a penny
To soften up their shame.
But every day they pass her
And soon they do not hear
The wisdom in her lyrics.
They do not feel the fear.
(She sings)
We who have so much
Give little to the others.
We let our children starve
And do not help the mothers
And the fathers who work
To make their daily bread
While rich people won’t help
Keep a house over their heads.
Brent Kincaid
4/18/2015
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC