"regurgitates" poems
Depression tends to have a manipulating and controlling manner that spits and hisses from behind her snarled teeth,
Depression swallows the light.
And in doing so, depression gulps down yellow, drowning the sun and all his mighty.
Depression chomps on green, bits off grass and shrubble stuck to the inner corner of her lip.
Depression chews pink, each candy floss cloud tickling her taste buds.
Depression chugs blue, the ferocious waves sloshing down her throat with ease.
Depression regurgitates darkness, there is no colour when depression grabs my hands, looming shadows engulf my vision,
Depression’s feet start to move and I realise we are dancing to the dull thud of my heartbeat,
I dance with depression all through the dark, but it isn’t just dark, it’s the kind of dark with no moon, no stars or streetlights, it’s the kind of dark that creeps up on you until you cannot even see your nose.
The darkness slithers under my fingernails and slices back my skin, slipping beneath my flesh, it wears my hand like a glove,
It wanders upwards and claims my face simply as a mask,
As it seeps down, down, down, my legs now become stilts.
I am no longer dancing with depression, depression is dancing me, I am her puppet.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 1:45 AM UTC
after witty humour, which spawned slapstick... slapstick can only spawn the last of the known humours... the offensive type, the 'get me out of this straithjacket of everything's fine apathy,' the ugly humour... rude humour... i take oaths humour... i rather write a swear word to oil up than degrade myself with thesaurus usage humour.
why is poetry such a ***** of coding
daily activity...
who needs poetry if the everyday is intact?
atheism didn’t **** god...
it merely killed the logic of myth....
atheism is far worse than mythology...
it just regurgitates facts
to make you submit to them
without the necessary philosophical awe of
finding them interesting...
poetry isn’t dead... it’s a *****
which is worse than death where i come from...
there’s ezra with his fountain comparison:
‘i ****** in it... and put pigmenting chlorine in it -
you **** in it... streaks of blue... i think
that’s called cubism in france.’
did i say alcoholism was engineered by the nazis
for the bomb sarcasm?
cheap humour you say... ah well slapstick was invented
after sarcasam...
i heard the new best anti-ageing cream was butter rather than l’oreal -
there are too many stages in the differences of women,
i quite like the summer spring autumn winter thing going...
it’s like this thing that’s happening right now...
christian nations censor words... like **** cultish **** of the brothel...
and islamic nations invoke words... like kefir (sour milk,
not quite youghurt), dawah... adhan salat abraham...
one party censors words for excess *****
saying: ‘we don’t like swear words in accomplished spelling,
we like dyslexia and **** teen **** graphic...’
sounds about right...
the other party says: ‘we hate censoring ***** words,
that’s doubly censoring,
censor ***** words get more dirt out of it...
we invoke the power of arabic to teach koran latin for
the knobs!’
problem sorted... we’re all power brokers of spelling /
punctuation / arithmetic -
that’s what i don’t get,
the ratio of the two languages...
all you have in the digits A to Z is spelling and punctuation...
but what you have in the digits ZERO to NINE
is so much more...
is grammar a castle that’s keeping certain functions out?
in mathematics you have +, x, obelisk, -, square root, etc.
but in linguistics you have this permament reminder:
SPELL RIGHT FROM WRONG AND RITE FROM THONG.
well... ****** me timbers...
i think i just spotted a lumberjack chequers tweed jacket.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
When she first discovered the last fictitious and missing piece, that absent link that could create
That would fit so very perfectly between her fastidious reality and her dream filled escape
That piece was what filled her with the alluring thoughts of setting the diamond edged blades aside
To let her bloodied and gore encrusted wrist's lay. To finally heal her disfigured and cleaved thighs
To set aside the insomniac coloured nights, filled with a nervous tick called suffering and misery
Bringing dread filled terror for next days coming, day and night it creeps into her lightless sanity
It graced her with the forgotten hope, that daisy chains and blades of grass would keep her honest
Hope she had long abandoned as she hid within the scarred tissue upon her mangled conscience
Telling her that she was now allowed to forget her aphotic and distressing amorphous past
It was filled with many an onus and distrusts that she choked on; from lack of air, her brain begins to crack
Her Mother and her Father thought she was a "lacking" kind child, those that required little needs
It reminded her that she would never again have to repress and crunch down those memories
They rise inside her throat, until she regurgitates them along with what little food she would eat
She sits in her room most nights, crying softly alone and wishing to be as thin as the models on TV
That last puzzle piece was supplying her with a vociferous need to put the bottle of pills down,
Many had slipped their way down her esophagus, from diet to Analgesic's, they ranged wide
They were locked away in her father's medicine cabinet, so of course she was always punctilious
Puts an aspirin in place for the ones she stole, so her parents (Would they care?) were left oblivious
She tried to push that last piece in, shoving it somewhere between a wrong scene of the puzzle
So the piece was soon to be lost, destroyed within the struggle to find the perfect place
As she was losing to and was within her blithering mind, wild and frightened, filled with dismay
She then reverts to the false reality, in which she called her final escape.
The last daring and startling move, the check mate, the final set stage of the play
Where dreams become the reality, and reality becomes the dream
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
From one mouth to the other
she gives us life
she nourishes and cradles her pride
until we are ready
But we have time to disappoint
air to break
tears to cry
for we are far from ready
Young and unworthy
void of understanding
wings that will not work on their own
we have tried to fly but won't, for we
are far from ready
And the grass is green
And the cardinals sing
They tell us we're not ready.
She regurgitates on us
she doesn't clean it up
and when we ask her why
she tells us we're not ready
One day the pride is gone
but we've known it all along
as sunshine is to day,
being ready in our own way
the rest is simply feathers in the wind.
We may not find each other
for a while,
but from greys to May
it will stay the same
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 9:47 PM UTC
Somewhere between ripe and rotting, I will love me again
Wear my flesh like rind and reclaim my sweetness
I am not dying yet, but I am not living and I am thirsty
For days, dazed and drugged on dirt’s divinity, brown knees
Nestled under the willow tree, the sun promises to purify me
Before the night swallows it whole, and regurgitates it tomorrow.
Somewhere between ripe and rotting, I will shatter my shame
Shed my sin, kiss palm to palm and nail a cross above my bed
Rid myself of impiety and feel what it feels to be clean.
I will walk the veins of the forests and trail the spines of the hills
Forage for berries and fall stupidly in love, over and over and over
With the art of existence and one day I will mean it when I say
I want to live. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live.
May 10, 2024
May 10, 2024 at 7:20 PM UTC
Behold
As a fly does
She swiftly escapes
The fingertips
Of her old friend
Death
Over and over again
All he wants
Is a handshake
A “fair game”, a gentle goodbye
But she is quick
To run
Door closed behind
Tightly
Thoughts shut within
Softly
Exotically neurotic
Behold!
They say
She is the fox
Too sly
To be caught
Too cunning
To be trusted
And she has lusted
She has lusted
She has lusted
They say
Like an alchemist
She eats tar
And regurgitates
Sweet glittering gold
To the people
Laying roads
Behold!
They say
She is the silent, stalking menace
The shadow in the corner
Of your childhood bedroom
She lurks and lingers
She fastens her fingers
Into unsuspecting hearts
She is no darkness, no
She is the holder of light
In the mouths of drunks
They praise her
For all that she has overcome
All that she has undone
From what they have done
And what she has become
A fang toothed light switch
They praise her
Behold!
They say
A prodigy of protest
She builds her bones
In restless legs
In limp, loose arms
In a hoarder managed head
And a stale, vacant heart
Behold!
They say
She forges on
Though it never leaves her
If just a quick blip in time
In the corner of her eye
A hole burned by
A hot cigarette
A small portal
The other world
Like a maddening hangnail
She is afraid
She may unzip the very fabric
If she holds on too tightly
Behold!
She says
I am no rainy day blues
I am a symphony forged in
A natural disaster
Behold.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 8:43 PM UTC
In a tomb by the sounding sea
That’s where he waits for me
His lover long lost
Never to be beside again
Moans and wails and shrieks of horror
As that wickedly turning sea
Gracefully and steadily, it regurgitates me
His lover returning
But not quite the same
Gagging and choking and coughing up salt
Slimy skin from the waters embrace
A twisted grin of joy on his face
His out stretched arms
I stand at the shore line
With a glowing smile enticing
Laughing and crying he stumbles forwards
Water logged eyes shining bright
Knowing to him, I’m a glorious sight
Stopping just before my gentle touch
His smile fades as his mind catches up
Why won’t he come closer to me?
Hesitating and questioning his bride before him
His gut screams no but his heart pushes on
A whisper escapes ‘but you were meant to be gone’
I smile graciously as I reach for his hand
‘My sweet love, but I’m here now, follow me’
Holding and locking our fingers together
Turning to face the calmed, silent sea
Swallowing us whole to the depths to be free
In a tomb together, my lover and me
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 5:45 AM UTC
Life greedily devours time
and regurgitates bad memories.
Life daydreams of the
infinite realms of eternity
but it fades like a dying candle in the darkness
Life pops pills and gets
high on
borrowed happiness
And when its done,
Life flings itself into
the loyal arms of Death.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 3:42 PM UTC
The ocean has a deep soul
stretching from the trenches to the shoals
Salt and fresh. Furious and still.
It moves with such free will
The sea swallows and regurgitates ships
Full cracked and salty lips
With sailors the salts always lingers
On their roughed calloused fingers
The sea is calling
The sun is eternally falling
The gulls rest on the waves
The tides lapping up in caves
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 8:46 PM UTC
I'm sicker than sick
A selfish hedonist
Admired yet frowned upon
Like a spit covered ****
Maintaining my innocence
Through denial, my head picks
Up on things, but only what it wants
I see the world for what it is
The blind leading any and all
Sick enough to follow
Then my brain regurgitates it
in to something a little easier to swallow
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 7:00 AM UTC
Revere him
as you would a new grave
lest you furrow his brow.
And invoke the dark things.
Respect his steady thought
exploring.
blossoming.
gentle b l i s s
be warned if he mutates:
grumbling upon
grudges upon.
he seethes.
And.
Regurgitates to
grumble upon
grudges upon...
Prowess expanding!
Cackling!
teeth gnashing, **********
Growling!
run.
dare his malice lock on
and course through
in bright flash !
and cover yourself.
for he pours out his grief in heavy sheets
waiting for her to dry them.
her.
whom he so often covers and covets
her shine, her warmth, her confidence.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
You colour the chest-implanted violin of life
with drops of chronic
alkaline comfort.
You deposit in yearly doses
on the upper heart chambers.
You will be buried with her.
The book of souls deciphers
the chemicals were low,
your presence is unwelcomed in peoples' courts.
But you have always been there
for her.
You are destroying her.
The blood violently regurgitates
back to the left and right cardiac chambers.
She wore that heart proudly in her chest.
She played the heart strings till her fingers
bled with blood.
But what worth do words have right now,
when the damage is really done?
No metallic stent can restore the pathways of the heart.
The violin strings break one by one.
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 11:47 AM UTC
i have walked these
hallways before
again and again
again & again
my head rings as I recall
the words my father
once told me, things he uttered
under his breath but absolutely
hard-pressed
what's in it for me?
what's really in it for me?
what is the pull, the inconceivable
tug? is it love? is it wealth? is it
hope for happiness?
hope for an end?
my feet hurt, my brain regurgitates
these foul thoughts onto ***** plates
the kitchen sink now covered in
the whispers of lost lovers,
things we said back then
the smell of the flowers in the
garden sting the nostrils, the sweet
scent of that slow decay
the fossils of the promises
amongst the dead leaves &
fruit not safe to eat
the vibrant colors could bring a tear to my eye
i was told you'd be coming home
my back hurts, i've been laying
on the bathroom floor, I can hear the
termites in the walls, rats scurry
above the ceiling,
these wooden walls were meant to fall
but that's okay, we wanted it that way
my feet hurt, my back aches &
my head is ringing, it could
bring a tear to my eye and it
stings the nostrils
but i was told you would be coming home
i will fall with these wooden walls
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
We are just like
Those cars that follow
Roads of long asphalt tongues
Wet from greasy rain
We are the 9 to 5
Or the 6 to 7 or 8
The never ending sloth of the mundane
Our heads shoved into pathetic cars.
Following the same stench
Rising from the same throat
As labor regurgitates
And we crawl
We are released back into the holes
We rose from.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
Squawks of terror from
mother and child,
a scene never making Hitchcock's
final cut. Competing gulls flap,
swoop,
kamikazi dive bomb
for fallen fried clams. Boardwalkers smeared
in cocktail sauce and blue cotton candy
sweet and sticky. Shrills sounding,
"kitta-wa-aaakee, kitta-wa-aaakee"
as wings slap in spun sugary goo.
She is tarred and feathered.
Gull down! Gull down!
Weekend warriors in Atlantic City
never saw it coming.
The sea wind whips westward
and ocean regurgitates all matter
of gunk. Tampons, syringes, punctured
floaties in shapes of ducks and dragons,
it is ever there
in the gleaming reflection of casinos,
for homeless veterans
to scavenge upon.
Even wounded gulls eat better.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 7:49 AM UTC
Unsuspectedly it creeps
Into my brightest days
Absorbing my joys
Turning highs into lows
Silver linings morph
Into storm systems
It swallows me whole and
Regurgitates out a weak shadow
Until I become a shell
Each tear representing another lost hope
I won't answer your inquiries
Reasons why get lost in the storm
My laughter is feigned
My energy is drained
My status converts from warrior to fraud
Noir is black, and so am I
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
The split ink flows along the page like branches growing on a tree,
and me,
I watch it as it goes
and wonder how it knows the many patterns it creates.
The split ink stops,
regurgitates
then off it skates again,
a thousand mosaics in the split
I wonder how they all fit in,
the nib, a memory store where ten thousand memories score
across the page.
The page I think was meant for ink, the split is lit up bit by bit and
I, in awe,
see,sit and saw it all.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
What way is the way
to go?
Thinking about death
morose ?
Or is it prescience
planning?
To die how and why?
What improbable event
possible(Eventual)
can call my undertaking
this event,
Fire , gunshot, heart
attack!
C ** king uh on *****
*****
regurgitates into my esoph-
agus.
Whilst a nightmare turns into re-
al(ity+)
Not one to shudder
i stroke
(genius) all of us to our dest-
iny.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
Nothing moves very fast around here
except where the ferry regurgitates;
all her passengers into vehicles.
And then its a mad dash past,
all racing onward to their varied bowers.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 9:40 AM UTC
well, **** me, it's like being awake
for about a week... minding a *******
ONION!
dos' doss
a'tt even qualify?!
the fuck's the rest?
a **** all peel?
come 'oney, 'ome sanctimony?
your crew?!
'ucking scouse: your m'ah-f'ah
a bitch-schoot...
your mam'aha complete ****
so y'eer mam'ah a ****
good to
know...
no i know what
to **** in public!
fucking wanker industry 'abric!
you don't get
away with slav
playing
out the **** blondine boy!
yo, *******
rat racing ********
riddle a ********
attempt at a 'ackney pristine!
piece of doit!
ever e'ten
raw onions in liver'poi
and not at eton *******
whimp-e-mister?!
m'ah
nye-i-ever...
maroccon delight!
god to love the arab incubators!
little people do
such marvels!
clean windows...
take out of garbage... talk ****
a society like
a ******* mirage!
and am i the one to fear death?
can't see it coming,
meaning:
can it come much sooner?!
white boy a shrimp feeding
factory...
sometimes the odd
toiling shed, and tool...
you ever manage to see
a cow being towed into
A SLAUGHTERHOUSE?!
no?
you haven't exactly been
born... have you?
you know what's funny...
gypsy prostitutes...
they're not sure whether to
associate with romanians
or bulgarians...
can't tell the difference...
but i have one clue
incission: blyat' suka!
pizdetz!
these women are certainly not
either romanian, nor bulgarian...
but they know
one word equivalent of using
bulgar...
jebać pizde!
in cyrillic...
becauase arabic tongue
translates back into an orthodox of
the fathom of body?
nice to know...
that a bowtie isn't tied
according to such grimace of:
expectancy...
or anticipating
a welcome drought...
to later attire donning a tuxedo...
but that is but a half,
and hardly a future...
and what truth is,
history regurgitates as
nought... with the nought
being a tomorrow...
and the subsequence
of history,
being a far removed yesterday...
and yesterday,
being a history,
with a tomorrow
that simply can't exist!
as neither did dinosaurs...
with crocodiles...
but then:
again...
who among arab minds this
to be more concerning,
than the perfect eyebrows of
an arab woman driving
a car....
and whatever buzzfeed
ushers out from its *******
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 10:43 PM UTC
Whine?
I mean men
do it all time, they
do it every day
don't they?
She regurgitates me
like a half eaten meal,
I feel
despondent,
unnaturally silent, I
want to make a statement, but
she has all the words.
Whine?
men do it all the time,
wriggling on the line is fine
for some,
but not for me.
She
wants it all her own way
there's nothing I can do,
nothing I can say, but whine
every single day
men do that
don't they?
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
Tell me, what's it like to recognize yourself?
Does it feel like you'd remember it?
Why not?
With all of the years blended together,
my reflection blurred across the spans of time,
stretching apart any resemblance of self.
My reflection is a black hole that ***** away any knowledge of who I am and regurgitates a flat, shiny depiction of someone else instead.
Jun 29, 2022
Jun 29, 2022 at 8:10 PM UTC
Rapt inside a separation of perfect scenes by absent means
There is a beauty to be found
In suffering of survival you have drown
Hidden in facades of off track mistakes
How to give what it continuously takes
Flytrap venus's famished with fallacy, regurgitates contempt to watch you wilt
While masking your heart with every bite, vices of shame grow tighter than tight
And when you're so gone it's hard to begin to breathe
Venus swallows,
She needs to feed
Appearing still just like before
On the edge of your mind
She waits outside the door
Where do you go to cross the line
Into blindness
She forever lingers behind
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
Do you hear this heart thumping? Sounds normal, doesn't it?
Sounds like a healthy and steady heart. But there's death in it.
Sometimes too much blood pumps in it. It regurgitates back into itself, fills it with too much blood and it stresses to pump it all out in time. So if you're lucky, you might hear it do a big thump followed by rapid thumps. Then back to normal.
Normal... I thought it was normal until recently. Now I know it could be fatal and there's nothing I can do about it. It could enlarge my heart over time, or it could pop like a balloon. Or I can live to be a hundred; it's in God's hands.
It never hurts, but it does feel weird. Like one of those rubber toys filled with water, and you squeeze one end of it. Feels like that for only a second.
I'm okay with the possibility of dying. Just know if I do, I loved you all as much as I could. Don't cry for me.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 9:09 PM UTC
We feast on the rotting corpse,
Of the dead horse we beat,
The words unsaid are the maggot heads,
Stuck between our teeth.
You ***** a smile from a wincing face,
As your stomach bile regurgitates,
All the promising lies contaminated,
within sour skin.
Dont spit it out in front of me,
Don't tell me your not hungry,
These festering worms beneath the bones,
Are still good to eat,
See I've dressed it up all nice,
Peeled lemon zest with lice,
With spite infesting every memory,
All crawling inbetween the lines.
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 6:57 PM UTC