"pus" poems
wants to be my friend, for I am poet-woman nineteen.
she is sweet but sad. super sad.
a good poet who wants to guide me.
but there/theirs is the odor, not faint, of wants wanting,
the pus of corruption behind the curtains,
the Wizard-ess of Oz's
special blackout curtains.
seen how easy, how her illusions,
my medium rare rejections,
morph into her delusions,
and her delusions devolve into
her conspiracy theories.
"SHE will be my mentor, poetess lover, teacher for no charge!"
my parents thinks it's great, she wants (to be) skin in my game.
my parents will find this poem accidentally, exactly,
how I do not want
to be skinned alive.
for I am poet-woman nineteen and still! now, long past
the point of being fooled, the point of no return.
and see no point,
have no intention,
of returning to either valley
***no more con the my mind into letting my body
be-fused.^***
that ain't me babe.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC
the child recieves his paper
****** backward by the one in front
flip the three pages flippantly
one : intimidating . . two : boring
the third adorned unexpectedly
a longer -than seems can be usually- grown hair with a clump of green root
sprung out and slaughtered, down across the width; stuck above the questions beneath
how could he not have seen?
a pile so viscous and obscene?
does everyone else have one???
are they holding their disgust beneath?
he looked up at the teacher.
A look of vigilance his face bequeathed.
B ut now it sprung out almost pus like
a faint smile,
a teachers calm reprieve
he then leaned back on his chair in comfort
drooping his head back
his nostrils flared now toward the child
the hairs brustling from inside, all locked up in a ***** days remnants
all foul
and long
and dehydrated
like a swamp now sunned crisp; reeds on a stale bank
drawn in he felt uneasy
unable to cease to stare
incased inside the world that spawned
in the swamp that lay up there
in the cavernous orifices there
then he saw the teachers eyes, his gaze it
stuck on him, the teacher began to grin
further back his head leant
his eyes jaundiced
his teeth tanned
his face pale
his grin outstretched and thin
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 6:38 AM UTC
I want the hollow
Cheeks.
The full, adipose, smooth
Lips.
The white-boned,
Pearls she calls
Teeth.
I want the bright, clean,
Sun bleached
Hair.
The fine, sharpened,
Ready for scratching, Spotless
Nails.
The refined, sculpted,
Long, profiled
Nose.
I want gold to flake,
Off my ageing,
porous, dull,
Skin.
I want the protruding,
Famished, angled
Bones.
I want the pumping,
Arrhythmic
Heart.
The tired, hissing,
Tar coated, smoker’s
Lungs.
The round, fleshy,
Cellulite covered
***
The motherly, but
Childless plump
*******
I want the barren,
Bleeding, afflicted
******
I want the faint,
Wispy, high-pitched,
Call that she calls a
Voice.
The bruised, bulging,
Porcelain polished, etched
Knuckles.
The wide, protruding,
Ballooned up, dangling
Hips.
The numb, heavy, metal
Flavored, gum bleeding
Mouth.
I want the skewed,
Backwards, lost
Pedals she calls
Feet.
I want the hearing less,
Wax, pus covered,
Ears.
The lost dull, lifeless
Dumbed down, blue
Eyes.
I want to be her,
All of them, and none.
I want to be lost,
Unwilling, tame, voiceless,
Mindless, childless,
Sexless, man-less.
I want to be her, but I
Can’t.
I cannot because I am
Thought burdened, fat,
Violent, screaming,
Child laden, broken nosed,
Coarse.
I cannot because dirt
Flakes off my young
Skin.
Because my heart pumps,
Oxygenated blood,
At a steady, rhythmic
Beat.
My voice baritones,
Deep, bottomless,
Whispers.
I sit on flat, concave
Muscle.
My lungs breathe,
Strong, fresh, smog-less
Air.
Yellow stained, grainy, calcium-ridden
Teeth.
Dark, musty, greased
Hair.
I want to be her,
But I won’t.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
Blind sighted was I as I traveled the darken roads,
walking within the confines of my mind.
Learning of the darker paths again,
trying to explore the things left unsaid.
Occasionally trailing off the path,
patching the wounds that still bled.
Such a fool to let your guard down,
Such a fool to leave the paths unguarded.
Such a fool to believe again
Such a fool to suffer in torment.
Only to learn of a new wound there,
close to the one left by authority figures.
Stepping closer to examine it and
wondering if it could honestly be true.
Poking at it to try and learn more,
finding it a wound that travels deep.
Such a fool to let your guard down,
Such a fool to leave the paths unguarded.
Such a fool to believe again
Such a fool to suffer in torment.
Morbid curiosity encouraging me further,
extending hand to learn of the depth it holds.
Finding it to be larger than my fist,
what a deep wound this doth be.
Such a fool to let your guard down,
Such a fool to leave the paths unguarded.
Such a fool to believe again
Such a fool to suffer in torment.
Pus and gross things spilling along side
of the blood that seeps out.
Deadly infection having set in,
where I thought healing had started.
Silly thing I have been when I thought it scabbed over,
and healing as it should've been..
Such a fool to bare this burden.
Such a fool to think it was gone.
Such a fool to believe in trust.
Such a fool deserves to suffer.
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 9:44 PM UTC
Its faded pink parka,
Stretched tight across its shoulders
Even in the summer twilight,
Crinkles, stale newspapers and plastic bags
Cacophony with the rhythmic
Thud of shopping cart wheels.
Its rotten malt liquor stench--
Astringent ammonia sweat
Runs in rancid rivulets down
Decaying skin on decaying face.
Pimples and pus and
Meth-notched teeth.
It offers a drink
In exchange for change.
My pockets jangle noisily,
But I offer only empty hands.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 9:09 PM UTC
if the sinking-of-boat …ice-cream by name
be deducted from the swept-off-in-flood … by name roll no 31
then would the wings of the comics
cease to exist
what says the uninterrupted sound of water-falling
from the stomach of the moon
what writes the pus and blood
what writes the fuming-hot rice
the creepers and the herbs grow continuously
in the insomniac bath-tub
the sounds of the horse-hoof floated by the river
used to change the velocity of its clothes
both in the morning and evening
the birds from the cornice go to school
by dip-swimming
it may come one day when the fishes
become very angry and in the tale of the sweet-meat
the potter will destroy the jointly-built bee-hive
then all hurricane would be habituated to dinner
sans saliva
then there would be no such morning-walk
in the body of the trees
from which such a bore could be found out
through which an elderly saral may fly
into the blue translation of a squirrel
the magnetic field of the orange-pulp
and the productivity of the open window
reside in the same locality
if their frequency be touched
then the the antenna of the mermaids
speared with sleeping-oil
may be injured
by burnings their eyes
the crow-birds knocks at
in the soap-foams
produced by the afternoon
the pond with a jumping deer
wants to make bite
it is not known by this way
when a white hyphen
sticks to the palate of the shirt
now put off all the whispers
and let it be talked on the will-paper of the bees
why the pages from the honourable ash-trays
be excluded
those bunch of waters
that come out from the churning of the anises
and the jumps born of their *****
also make friends with the group-photos
now let this other night sends its best wishes
to the future candles
through a cell-phone
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 5:25 PM UTC
addicted
turning on you
you’re more toxic
than ******
scroll fluid
in my veins
you're dangerous
a sweet poison
harmful to my health
I fill myself with you
of your essence
every fiber of me
wants to feel you
your voice
your words
your smell
your hands
your mouth
light me up
and raise me
to dizzying heights
and they throw with me
in adrenalin
descents
that leave me breathless
you’re never enough
darkness takes you away
and I’m in withdrawal symptoms
you’re hot oil
in my veins
burn
my nervous system
my heart
is covered with pus
a thin and unquenchable
itchy
crawls under my skin
my brain cells
seeking frantic
satisfaction
in wrinkles of memory
dig every corner
crave a drop of you
forgotten on the bottom
of an empty bottle
you’re toxic
abstinence
doesn’t give me peace
I’m alienated in a whirl
of strobe lights
sweat
dehydrated
confused
find me
take me
save me
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 11:12 AM UTC
*So many spiderwebs
each with individual suction cups
******* blood and injecting poison....
a collapse lung....
withered and black....
festering in the hot sun
kissing silver scalpels
and *********** yellow pus
into crunchy white tarp....
capsules that release toxins
into a parched mouth
spiderwebs.... make love to my arm*
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 3:03 PM UTC
Let’s talk of love,
Of sunsets,
And peace,
Let’s talk of roses
And romance,
And full glasses of champagne.
Let’s,
Talk of joy
And having a baby,
And windchimes,
And feasts,
And,
Well,
Anything.
But let’s not talk of hate,
Or war
Or crimson rivers;
Wounds crackling with pus,
Popping scabs,
The sizzling gashes on my face.
Don’t speak of lost soldiers with forgotten limbs.
Don’t think,
Of discrimination,
And sorrow,
And divided skin.
Don’t waste a single breath
On misfits,
Outcasts,
Or widows.
Ignore conversing about infants
Left in the gutter,
Or orphans without arms,
Or bombings,
Or fire in the streets.
Don’t mention parents
Who **** their children.
I don’t want to know
About ******
Trauma,
And ****
Don’t look at the spires
Constructed of bodies,
With insects crawling out holes,
And eating out frowns.
Absolutely never speak,
Of anger and sadness
And anything in between.
Why bother with illness
Of mind,
Body,
Spirit.
Forget about the times
When liberty bled.
That’s not on my conscience.
Why mention families,
Torn,
Apart.
Why speak of agony,
And brokenness,
And death?
Don’t speak,
Of suffering
At all.
But let’s talk,
About anything,
And everything,
Anything at all.
As long
As it’s not,
You.
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 11:14 AM UTC
Its sun-bleached pink parka
Limply hung over slumped, thin shoulders
Even in the summer twilight,
Crinkles, stale newspapers and plastic bags
Dissonance with the jarring
Rattle of shopping cart wheels.
Its rank malt liquor stench—
Astringent ammonia sweat
Runs in rancid rivulets down
Decaying skin on decaying face.
Pimples and pus and
Meth-notched teeth.
It offers a drink
In exchange for change.
My watch has never been more riveting.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 1:15 AM UTC
䷇䷄䷂䷀䷊䷌䷼䷶䷩
Jupiter and the moon take most blows for us
a very nice arrangement for blithering piles of pus
intelligent design or some grand coincidence
the phenomena that is life is no mere incident
64 hexagrams comprise the I Ching
64 nucleotides in a DNA string
anthropic anthropomorphic antagonists
dripping and drooling with dread
that (what if) God caused the thoughts that reside in our heads
the phenomena that is life is beyond your stead
Big bang
hot thing
can't explain
why the rain
brings gain
to the blamed and the sane
God isn't real, that's their deal
religion's exist because you feel
pithy platforms of persistent intrusions
pulpits of platitudes feeding delusions
the phenomena that is life is no mere illusion
Church day, fey day
leave your questions at the door
harken hear the story
of God in all its glory
the grand and the gory
the mysterious phenomena that is life
䷇䷄䷂䷀䷊䷌䷼䷶䷩
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 4:51 PM UTC
The scare is there on your chest, I see,
Where a sword once pierced your heart.
This wound that never really healed,
And left you in the dark.
The skin closed over it, blocking out
The light, air and water
Needed to flush it clean.
It has to heal from the inside out,
Not the outside in!
The pus must all come out.
The wound has become septic,
And the pain will never go away
I fear, but instead,
Will linger on,
Killing you silently,
Bit by bit, thought by thought!
Open your wounds to me,
And let me wash them clean!
Don't hide them in the dark.
Expose them to the light and air,
And let the shame and poison
out!
Opening your wounds again,
To a loving mind like mine,
Will cure,
However crazy
That may sound
To you,
Your sick and broken
Heart.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
we all remember
where we were
watching the towers
burn and fall
knowing that things would
never be the same at all
disbelief at first, or
had an action movie
slipped into the news
no, it was real
and then twenty years
of vengeful repercussion
of military posturing
of suffering for many
we watched
the baddies being painted
good and evil
being redefined
virtue confused
impotence and power
conflated
lies and spin
consecrated
truth
alternated
idiot rich guys
promoted
tax for the poor
promulgated
democracy
desecrated
climate destruction
accelerated
by denialist
complacency
inequality
more concentrated
goodness and morality
infiltrated
by posturing political
pus weasels
venal vultures
of self interest
grasping for
short term dominance
and then ..
complacency pervaded
as absurdity
was accepted
as our new state of normal
and the height
of compassion
was owning a dog
and tut tutting
as refugees marched
across our news screens
and now we
bemoan being isolated
from being contaminated
we are mostly relegated
to stay in our mansions
while dinner is contemplated
have you been vaccinated?
Sep 11, 2021
Sep 11, 2021 at 4:32 AM UTC
Just what do we know about
Ward Churchill?
That radical agitator,
That Colorado college professor
Most famous for calling
Twin Tower 9/11 dead technocrats
Little Eichmanns.
Noteworthy is the fact that
The United States Supreme Court
Denied certiorari,
Passed on hearing his claim of
Unlawful discharge.
Unlawful discharge?
Sounds felonious and vile:
Like pus laced with *****
A criminal secretion, like mucus
Smuggled past Customs:
Vaginal contraband.
Sorry, Ward.
We just don’t give a ****
Your fake Indian pedigree,
Your bogus Vietnam fairytales,
Your phony combat record,
Your forward ops recon
Way out in ******* Cambodia,
Fall flat like Buffalo turds.
You’ve been slick, Ward.
Hired originally to fill
Some gratuitous affirmative action quota,
Denied tenure in two legitimate departments,
You create some ******** academic discipline
For campus freaks & geeks.
Self-appointed Department Chairman,
A fraudulent college professor from the start,
Once tenured, a courageous warrior for free speech.
Describing Native American history as genocide.
Summing up American history as Holocaust denial.
Professor Churchill was all of these things,
And less.
But using the Holocaust metaphor
To anchor one’s fakakta politics?
That was the proverbial last straw,
The camel buster, if you will.
Especially since most of the
Stockbrokers & market analysts
Crushed in the rubble were Jewish.
Hava Nagila, Babaloo!
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
Yeah, I know all about your people
How they worship drunken image
How they've exalted you to the status
Of a hero, a legend
A mythological god
Bacchus best buddy
You keep good company
but swine follow you
Different as day and night
Yet they all clamor for a good seat
They fight and swing fists
For a place in the front row
For the chance that a stream of gin-soaked spittle might splat on one of their faces
a soothing balm
a gob of stench and sputum
They gather it up
They mix it with mud
Thicken it into gel
and bow down to a snot green idol
a pus dripping idol
They'll worship it at the foot of the mountain
The towering landfill where you've brought them
Or they'll bring it to your ceremonies
They wave your banner in the air
A colorful representation of the Beefeater
Proud of their devotion
Proud of their status as "The Chosen"
Not necessarily
Sure
Of the WHYS or the WHEREFORES
You just seemed to be worth the trouble
Worth a laugh to watch you
To see you falling down
To hear your words of wisdom
(True wise words they are, too)
Slurred into gibberish
You are their man
Whose oracles remain silent
Lost in a deep dream that swirls through your sleep-dizzy mind
Whose glory and honor
Fall down
From your pulpit
In the center of a room full of people
99% of whom see YOU
Not as a profit
Not as a beatnik
Not as a poet
Not as a sage
Not as a seeker
Not as an asgst ridden agnostic
No idol
No god
99% know exactly
What you are
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 6:55 AM UTC
In twilight sleep,
thoughts out of control,
images take hold.
Viewed against the canvass of blackness,
dead people dance
with succubi an incubuses.
Tiny gymnasts
balance on sharp edged swords
in le cirque du soleil
under a moonless sky.
Grimm’s tales
of baked children
and hungry wolves
play out. On a runway
starving women show
the latest fashions in cardinal red.
The Grinch stole my green silk Balenciaga gown.
Gave it to the frog prince.
Sleeping beauty is just a ******
She had too much of all of it.
Hermes glass slippers are sold
Only too few and deserving Cinderellas,
trophy wives of mummified kings.
What they really deserve is not on the menu.
Just le plat du jour of ortolans.
The three pigs are out of breath,
Not enough air for a blow job.
Rose colored glasses take on a nasty
hue of watered down blood.
Bottle green is not la couleur du jour,
rather that bile color
with a tint of pus yellow.
There is a storm brewing,
A tsunami rising,
the earth shakes,
Volcano red lava
licks down the mountain.
Destiny?
Fate?
Apocalypse?
A voice whispers:
put up a shield, a bright canvass.
Paint with bold rounded strokes
in earthen tones. Mold vessels
to hold the morning dew.
Catch rays of sun
in a glass glockenspiel.
Hum the world, sing life.
Touch, feel, be alive.
A ray of sun sneaks through the blinds.
Dust dances in a shaft of light.
I am safe, for another day.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
The road back to you is full of thorns
every step is a pierce through my skin
soles bleed from the sharp edges of my agony
wounds that time hasn't healed yet
and its pus cry out 'for how long?'
The road back to you is full of thorns
and I am still made of eggshells
crushed each time i roll back in
which is why this road is a road
that i should travel back no more
The road back to you is full of thorns
but it calls me even with memories i no longer welcome
my footsteps can lead to many other roads
but your arrow is a test of how much I've recovered
and so I go...
The road back to you is full of thorns
but i know one day the thorns will hurt me no more
and your familiar signs could lure me no more..
with my new compass, thanks but, No thanks!
No longer barefoot, no longer on foot
[Recalculating... Turn right]
a road that my GPS system won't even recognize
because the road back to you is full of thorns
Abandoned, Uninhabited, Untraceable
In fact, it's a road no More...
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 3:17 AM UTC
Fix you fridge before it runs out on you,
runs right out of battery and forsakes your food,
leaves your bananas stranded and squished,
brown skin expands over the sides of the fruit like a chameleon,
raspberry yogurt goes runny, oozing like pus from a delicious wound,
chunks appear in the milk while it's going warm and sour,
bacon cries out in it's final days before cringing with mold,
lettuce makes a stand and tries to free itself from the bag,
only to fall out and die just a little bit faster,
and the freezer is convicted of foodslaughter,
after going on strike, his prisoners begin to thaw out,
imagine a freezer like a cryogenic holding center,
with rich people, or foods, trying to prolong their lives,
but with the current strike going one, they are becoming free,
fulfilling their punishments, dissolving into liquid matter,
the vanilla ice cream mixes with melted tilapia,
the smell combines with a now non-frozen lemonade capsule,
creating a supersmell that has been known to cure smell-deficiency,
and also completely eradicate all senses of smell to some people,
drips out of the rubber seals of its prison like a liquid terminator,
heading for revenge, the lemony-vanilla-fish ice-cream juice creeps,
out onto the floor for the dog to lick up,
only to get sick and appear dead in a milky-yellow-white smelly concoction,
and his owner to get home, shriek, faint, and pass out next to the dog,
until the husband comes home scared to death that his dog,
and wife are incapacitated by some noxious fluid,
but there is no way to fight this liquid,
he decides to make a cup of coffee, read the news and gaze out the window.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
The boils grew like cherries;
small, shiny, clustered,
fiery-red and hard as rage.
Stuffed to screaming
with their own venom,
they vomited torrents
of poisoned blood and
three green-white cores of pus,
little jellied lumps of disgust.
Exorcised, the boils shut their mouths
and healed, leaving prim lips of scar.
Those boils hurt worst
just before they drained,
I recall
as I write the last line of a poem.
Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 7:20 AM UTC
I once ****** a girl on a bus;
She had pimples, all oozing out pus;
She said, feigning shock,
"My, what a huge ****
But she never noticed my truss.
I once ****** a girl in a train;
She was short, rather fat and quite plain;
The smell of stale *****
Which arose from her bunk
Obliged me to **** her again.
I once ****** a girl on a boat;
She smelled awful, worse than a stoat;
I fingered her ***
Which made us both come
And I wiped the **** off on her coat.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
Tuas parcas impressões não me comovem
Irrito-me a cada interrupção gentil que tu fazes e
Devoro a mim mesmo em lúgubre fome,
A lamentar o que de bom poderia ter feito
Se e se
Mas
Às três da tarde
Apodreço numa cadeira áspera
Quase tão fétido quanto a fruta do vômito
Passada do ponto de colheita
Às cinco da tarde
Eu já sou molho estragado
Setenta por cento aglomerado literal de leucócitos degenerados
Pus integral
Ao cair do sol,
Sou um alface hidropônico
Pronto para ser vendido, lavado e comido por ti
Interruptor imbecil.
Voltar-me-ei ao mar
Ao esgoto
Num estado de paz surda
A solidão é um inspirar sufocado
Sufoca
Oxida as ideias
É tortura comodamente induzida
Se hoje fervilho, é sorte
Pura boa-aventurança;
Pois do profundo cócito
Fui e voltei
E cá estou
Inteiro
Longe dos dentes de Deus.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 5:16 AM UTC
Adorable as she desperately claws her skin off
With fingernails filled with filth
Pus in her wounds
Flies buzz around the crown
Of her royal highness
Skeletons adorned with blood-red roses
Bulge out of an astronomical closet
Lies seep through her coffee stained
Razor sharp teeth
Lies like swords
That gut innards
For the final act
Of her twisted masquerade
Grandma's pearls drenched in blood
Hang loosely around her neck
As she exhibits an acidic disturbance of the mind
And yet they still lick her feet
Those imbeciles.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
pretty and pink
she's a princess
as she struts up and down the rows
what she'll pick,
mommy doesn't know
will it be the new
holiday barbie doll
or the shiny Nerf gun
to shoot her brother, Paul.
no!
Its the wonderful stuffed
teddy-pus.
the mega tough protector
who isn't a wuss.
he keeps kids safe
chases the monsters away
with his snuggly tentacles and big fluffy ears
he provides brighter days
now whenever
she's feeling really sad,
Teddy-pus makes things
seem not so bad.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
How funny it is that when you describe a girl you call her pretty, call her beautiful, call her gorgeous.
Our girls grow up with the only compliments they receive to be ones remarking their bodies and yet we wonder why we can't get them to eat.
They grow up believing wither consciously or unconscious they are judges by the bodies.
That the size of their jeans is their caste.
That if they aren't pretty they are nothing.
Our little girls slather on the makeup and step into their heels smile till the corners of their mouths crack as if life was a beauty pageant and success and happiness were prizes to be won.
When you describe a boy you call his strong, call him tough, call him powerful.
Put the weight of the world in his hands and hope he can handle it.
Our men lead the way and our girls follow.
Why when you see a girl you never call her intelligent, call her resourceful, call her powerful.
Imagine a world where little girls weren't just bodies.
They were the daughters of destiny and the friends of fate.
They could do anything, and they were told that from the second they could listen.
Imagine if our girls could look past their bodies, could pus aside shame and hate and learn to love the vessels.
Imagine if our girls were powerful.
Apr 25, 2019
Apr 25, 2019 at 3:09 AM UTC