"regurgitation" poems
Web caught trembling prey, blistering sadness in a shallow grave
Repulsive, rotten ***** stench, locked box of putrid sorrow
Blood clot hidden trench, vile secretion burrow
Wolf-dressed goblin ***** muttering incantations
Teetering on a broken fence, seething hatred regurgitation
Greedy, evil, spineless, ***** Cunning, patient, *****
One head desire, two face succubus
Speech craft, forked tongue. Slithering witch, foul gargoyle
Rebuke the venomous. Castrate the young. Stoke the funeral pyre
Incubate the serpent fetus. Demon, devil, liar
Nevermore, sinister toil. Bone-covered soil
I smite her without a flicker of remorse
Death to the succubus. Death to Venus
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
In time, the heart bleeds
Choking, drowning on its own
Regurgitation
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 10:57 AM UTC
Practicality is the reality
of ignominious totality
the devices of all sizes
and the grammatical mentality
of systematic duality.
Punctuation is the **********
the *********** of every generation
the permutation and saturation
of wordsmith temptation for re-calibration
the aberration and consternation
that leads to misinformation
and condemnation and annihilation
of the constellation colloquial conversation
the abomination of language urbanization
the fermentation and ionization
of linguistic complications
the desolation of commas and semi-colons
the affirmation of their vs they're
the augmentation of amalgamation
is just the lyrical ************
of a hooded basketball top nation
the culmination of devastation
the gestation and interpolation
that leads to appreciation isolation
and justification acceleration
the modification and assimilation
of poorly-worded implementation
and the contamination of myriad exploration
alienation in illumination
punctuation is the salvation of documentation
against the tides of violation
and the extermination of regurgitation
the classification of discrimination
and last but not least
the liberation of misrepresentation.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
Regurgitation of the spoon fed, unintelligible dribble supplied by the media is not intelligence.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 3:06 PM UTC
grow a beard...
buy a jazz double-bass...
start stroking it...
attempt to look
pensive...
and then write some
Cockney
comedy... and?
**** Oxford.
**** 'em good;
can't be,
******* arsed...
where's a *******
jazz double bass
the kind i need to stand up
to play?!
where?!
gone, "nowhere"...
Achilles would sooner
find a tortoise,
you ******* half-whit
bull bullock base catcher...
yummy yummy...
no ******* double whammy
if there ain't
a greasy dough nnnnnnnn
in my mouth oozing a squid's
mating call...
from the Jules Verne estimate
of how...
big the ******* could become...
oh please...
**** is a conjunction
word...
akin to and...
spew effect,
regurgitation, founded upon...
so...
so... farting in a public place
is less offensive than
uttering a word of oath?!
**** me...
more ****
less ***** images...
i guess that's how you
habitually attack Christian
h'america...
**** **** **** and impose
a curb of a ***** show me the puppies
kitchen ***** Kentucky style
****
******* wankers...
dreaming up some ****
in long lost Cockney rhyming
slang for some:
willkommen zu verirrt amstetten...
....................
...................................
..............
................
SCHMILE...
boorish ******* gnomes dancing
the leprechaun gamblers' dance...
skivvy *************
sure...
censor the words...
but god forbid you censor
showing all the *******
because... if you do?
guess what...
i might forget my farming impulse...
of imagining a
a cleavage to also imply
a pork buttocks...
funny...
how a show of cleavage is synonymous
with a show of pork
buttocks...
and then i begin thinking of
milking...
which throws a ***** **** out
with the baby and the bathwater
and... i'm shinging...
what's that name of the place?!
New Orleans!
yeah...
like some minstrel in that
part of the world that
part of the world that's
a ********
what?!
you spew on me...
i spew on you...
we can at least exchange...
what we "love" about each other...
but i implore!
i implore!
visit Warsaw!
alone... no, not with other people...
ah-loan - a-l-o-n-e....
i'll be your companion,
when you peer at your shadow,
and attempt, to pretend,
to disappear.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 8:48 PM UTC
Maturity is knowing what your limitations are…(my daily chore)
<>
“Maturity is knowing what your limitations are. Maturity is a bitter disappointment for which no remedy exists, unless laughter can be said to remedy anything.”
Kurt Vonnegut
<>
maturity comes when you cannot,
even try, to fool oneself,
indeed, you preposterousness,
make you laugh hardest
at your very, fully owned, selfhood
preening mirror disguise
Is this a poem, a lamentation, a pithy regurgitation
of Vonnegut, and you say: “Don’t care, it’s words
that gotta come out, be released to empty the heart”
a daily excess removal of that daily overflow of the
days first words when new day light and nighttime’s REM
sleep overlap, and the music starts of a life time of favorites,
and like a pleasant thorn direct into your temples brain,
the leaking, then the spilling spirals unstoppable onto the pages, and the first true relieving exhalation comes with
the excited exorcism of the stones of your life, come outside
your body and there is a freshly born stripe upon your face,
not yet a scar for it is yet to ripen by healing, but it is your
creature for loving…and it is good company with so many
prior guests who have checked in, stayed for a moment’s
observation, departed after getting an extended checkout
time, joining the many who came and went, disappearing
in to the internet’s ether, where we one will join them eventually,
though you smile at that thought, cause you’re mature
enough, baby, an all growled up dude, to know that when
you reached that stage, you will be, non-stop laughing
at *** serious you imagined you were, and wondering out loud
why it took so long to recognize that mirrored visage as
one big ole fool with a smile upon his face…
p.s so much for that promise to take a break from beating
yourself up, but you know what, it is pleasing, in that way
when upon the grand occasion of waking up to another
unexpected day of living deserves a deep, but rueful,
laugh out loud and others’ look at your self and argue to
only mischievously agree,
you are indeed,
still crazy after all these years…
Jul 8, 2023
Jul 8, 2023 at 8:24 AM UTC
a mother bird taking care
of her newly hatched fledgling,
raising her with love and regurgitation,
and a gentle, inevitable push out
of familiarity
everything the baby bird knew
shot up-away, as
she was thrown,
she threw herself,
and the earth pulled her
into a world of novelty and insanity
and energetic love of change.
the baby bird flies to
her young fledglings,
ready to love and regurgitate,
and gently push
with love in mind
and flight in sight.
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 10:29 PM UTC
I would like to think of myself as an intellectual, but really I’m just a regurgitation of the adolescent caste system with academic anxiety and a learned fear. Well, I suppose that is a bit harsh. I used to be social ***** now I am a lowly intrapersonal custodian (let us never mind my inter-personal mess-managing, please?), though I am far from clean. __________ I have found myself flitting back to this page from time to time and mentally inserting here a terse, self-degrading statement that could re-catalyze my pitiful little verse, but never actually writing it. I hold it heavy in my head where it shall remain, apparently. Apparently I don’t feel the need to read my flaws, transgressions, and fallibilities back to me. Perhaps I haven’t yet articulated them, and they’re just skulking around—hunched apparitions haunting my subconscious. (Death smells like dog treats: perplexing, but you want to touch your tongue to it so long as no one will know). I must slay them all, eventually, or else perish. But! It is not the transgression itself that I fear—my behaviors are observable, even tangible, I can stare at them for hours. It is the dark implication of the transgression—the churning matter only detectable for its outline of illumination—that gives me trepidation. How will I move-on? How will I grow-here? Like an impossible little spur that nestles between resistant skin and unknowing fabric? Can I penetrate the protection? My security is maniacal; it is evidence of crazed disillusion. I am the raven clawing through infinite veneers; I am tangled…
Out ****** spot! Out, I say!
I must regress to becoming the white blanket.
I must know nothing but God.
A simple cloth.
A towelette.
Rags!
Rags!
Rags!
…
….
…God?
…Hello?
…Is it too late to become
…plain?
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
they always seem to ascribe the stone age
with inventing the circle,
dinosaurs and the loathing of
x-ray via Archaeology -
ᛟ, or an ancient egyptian manuscript...
got the ******* wheelie on that ***** boo yah!
this is even weirder than Wittgenstein's observation
of late Copernicus... ᛟ-ray... huh?
you've been a peasant and you're still
curating a chance sharpening edit?
where's the ******* wheel with romans after
ancient egyptians and the babylonians
and for fuck's sake Hindustan!
O... where's O in Sanskrit? so who got the cartwheels?
the romans? huh?! a.d. b.c. buttered-up ****
if this makes sense... forget the universe,
alien civilisations... my own makes as much sense
as a gram of pepper and salt sneezed with.
hey flamingo! here's a signature in sepia!
banging on the bathroom floor - with Disney - passed
in those days: Lion Kong or King...
oompa loompa ooh ooh gorilla tyrant said so too.
they invented the wheel but forgot to phonetically
encode it with something similar...
runes, right, Scandinavian... ᛟ... i.e. O...
but i'd like to see ᛟ in a roller-coaster... just for gorging
on a regurgitation of jokes - and so i can
slang and slapper quick a blah in Jamaican slang
and say... yah mon' poo daddy do a diddy eff a flex
wit bling bling, cursor vector to noon
and da dwarfin of a shadow.
**** man, they invented the wheel but waited for the
romans to write the O... and it was music by then...
suddenly! huh?! the **** is this? whiskey straight up.
no wonder.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
I don't know if it's the whiskey or the cigarettes or the one night stands or the phony lovers phoning you for self affirmation that they too - can **** like a professional star on a cheap website.
I don't know if everything I've ever been told was only a regurgitation of everything someone else has ever been told. If we all function solely through heresy and political agendas.
Blood stains on freshly lit cigarettes, they say those'll **** you - but I'm already dead inside.
Starve myself because the scale hates me
because the models in the magazines are what my lover fancies
because every photograph I've seen within the past several years were of girls resembling holocaust victims - who most likely suffered in the same way that most of those victims have. But only in the sense that, they themselves were the German Nazis malnourishing their Jewish bodies of food.
How awful it must feel, to embody both the **** and the Jewish girl. But I've never actually read Anne Frank's memoir - so what the **** do I know.
If I were skinnier, if I were prettier, if I were smarter, if I read more non fiction and russian literature - if I listened to radio talk shows about politics and found scifi equally as enjoyable as I find raunchy cult classics that make up the subculture stereotype.
Would I then, capture your attention?
I've already lost my own, truthfully. But everything is only temporary anyways.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 6:56 AM UTC
I’ve been waking up early lately Not intentionally, though the days do seem longer It makes me wonder what my body is scheming It has plans for me of which I am unaware I wish I knew them Then maybe I wouldn’t get up so reluctantly, guzzle black coffee, and sit here while some arbitrary words unfold in my mind The usual I feel the urge to record them It’s like psychological regurgitation, this typing I suppose it’s cathartic Worthless probably, otherwise But it’s the only thing other than running and smoking which keeps me sane I’m addicted to dopamine and now I’m down my usual quota because my *** life is at a standstill Maybe that’s why I’m up so early **** I feel psychotic at times like this I know I’m not but my observations of others’ behavior tells me otherwise They’re happy, or at least seemingly so Or, at least they have the nerve to ***** about how sucky their life is out loud for everyone to hear Which isn’t getting them anywhere I, on the other hand just sit here quietly and write about it Which isn’t getting me anywhere either so why the **** am I waking up so early, I mean ****
At least let me sleep in.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 8:59 AM UTC
None of the rays of sunshine
would deign this waxy skin,
just sand burned to ashes,
regurgitation from the slobbery hysteria
of the filthy sea.
None of these days of summertime
would violate my inner ancestral frost.
Red dragon of stone, this soul of mine
beneath the labyrinthine ghost,
of the wicked fate.
The stoic age wears the same livery,
in the smoke of my hyperuranium
no scream comes over this far
where the solid patience
is the only certainty
that dwells inside my self.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 5:41 PM UTC
Choked up wonderment
still tastes like regurgitation
but numbness comes with it
It is fear
encompassing unfinished things
lump in throat
blood dropping degrees
in temperature
Chronicling this cool
deliberate **** of senses
incessant soul questioning
Worth
feasible future
nevertheless struggle
after eternal struggle
Eyeballing transports of delight
amongst wrestled trauma
morality’s cusp of change
Sacrifice or sacrifices
self-destruction
abandonment to death
Senicide
walk into icy tundra
Inuit elder casting himself away
to frozen abyss
and crystalline corpse
for good of tribe
One less to feed
left on floating iceberg
Dark day’s sunrise
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
It smells like burning flesh dip in a dish of sulfuric acid
It feels like sweat traveling all through your body while you travel across landscapes that cuts and burns you constantly
you can hear your heart beating ever so slowly, almost to a stop when you hear the screams of hell
it taste like bombs and metals, with blood regurgitation from your mouth
You can see the millions of dead bodies, you can see your comrades dying every minute,you can see mutilations of body parts and tears until eventually you see darkness and the sky is filled with hatred and sadness
and you must know in your heart that you did something wrong, that you shouldn't be there, that from that day your life was ruin forever
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
Edie strolled into the restaurant, her favorite place
as a child.
The diner was decorated in a 50's theme
and looked like it was a drunken night's
regurgitation of the one in "Pulp Fiction."
She sat down in front of her father,
who had been watching her ever since she pulled up.
"Jesus Christ, Edie. What did those shoes cost you?"
Edie was wearing a pair of pink heels with
Louboutin trademark red soles.
"Enough," Edie spat, with obvious contempt for her father's concern.
The waitress approached,
sat her plump buttocks on the booth
next to Edie's father and took their drink order.
Two coffees, two waters, and an orange juice.
"I want you to meet my new girlfriend, Edie."
"What the **** do you mean by that?"
"Have dinner with us."
"No, thanks."
Edie's father took a deep sigh.
"I know this is about your mother---"
Edie threw a ten on the table, and
strode quickly to the door.
Elvis, Marilyn, and Frank look-a-likes stared
curiously at her full-figure.
Edie sank into her car with tears rolling
down her cheeks.
She drove to a convenience store and purchased
two bottles- Tylenol and Jack.
She threw a couple swigs of each back and raced
towards the Turner Motel, where her next
client waited eagerly with a sweaty forehead and a
chest panting like a diseased dog.
Edie let it fester.
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 5:52 PM UTC
The uncontrolled seasons of regurgitation
Kneeling to a devilish god
Sacred that shove
Utmost devotion to the abhorrent ritual
A cult of one
In the name my lord perfection : exquisitely emaciated
Romanticising arrhythmic heart beats
Glamourising protruding hip bones
Deeming them elegant
Poetising the lethargy
All the while being fully cognisant
Of simple truth
Perfection is six feet under
Lime coloured porcelain
Anxious ****** expression
The uncontrolled seasons of regurgitation
Will it ever end.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
mostly undiagnosed ghosts host coast roasts
and no one shows
haunted wind blows going slow
dethroning grown men being sown
unknown gnomes debone stones
throwing plumbs at scrub jays
whilst listless fitness ****** insist
on resisting mystic visions
implicitly –
ragtag gag gifts for bags
smoking **** with saggy pants
chancing protagonists
and prancing fisters
wrist rocket **** pocket
time, clock it
rock it sock it
don’t mock
interlocking bicarbonates
wait for the ingrate to **********
and regulate the regurgitation –
****** ancestrally protestors
digest their disgust
discussing muskrats as lab cats
basking in the glow of white coats –
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
I've been thinking a lot about one of the more meaningful and meaningless emotions,
the one they call love.
Is anyone else plagued by the thought that with each new venture
the whole experience feels like a regurgitation of past,
like you're playing the same role with new actors,
the same script, but you expect a different ending?
Even when you know, you know.
You say the same sweet lines, do the same warm actions,
feel the same dark often false pangs of "love".
Can you ever go into love untouched, unjaded, unhaunted by your past?
Your mother, father, lack there of, boyfriends, girlfriends,
lovers had and lovers lost and lovers never found,
you think about them with every move,
you think about who you were, who they were,
how this new you and new they could/should/would be.
Who are you?
When are you yourself?
Will you ever be yourself?
Or are you what they want, what they need, what you want them to see?
Can't we just be?
"I love you."
You're just another you.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC
fireflies zigzag following pupils pin *****
light mayonaise layers dead flesh and dead seeds
shadows bleed through the cracks
a lone train howls its hastening arrival
Alarming call like an unseen wolf
Flashing lights overhead and a low rumble
a condensed storm
helicopter cradling its dying cargo
bringing a regurgitation for the baby bird
disguised as a hospital with a faltering business plan
mufflers and mosquitoes parry the blows
winded joggers step next to termite eaten trees
Channel surfing seen a strobe lite
betraying the activities behind the neighboors
curtained windows scene
rituals carve another day into the known
comfort is routines cage
a worn trail rut that hardly allows
a different direction roll the stone uphill
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 10:15 PM UTC
flashes of the past crash into my mass
blasted and scratched, hide chapped,
I clap and shout at the memory
I approve of myself –
Old images of self-worth re-birth
And my fading girth is better for the earth
Large ***** pass gasses collapsing the greenhouse, but
I approve of myself –
Internal health and immeasurable wealth
As if the Delphi oracle imparted me
with love for self
growing stealth
with approval of myself –
affirmation nation retaliating against
infatuation with concentration camp
regurgitation
my patience wears thin and yet still
I approve of myself –
Granting panic stricken epidemic victims
Injections of insulin and bicarbonate soda
So the right wing harm bringers
Will no longer harbinger orangutans
Oh! the will of man…
Planning to land a dodge ram on the spam factory
Rectally cramming grandfather clock hands
Scamming bands of Ayn Rand fans
I approve of myself –
Derailed writings without direction
Making up things like “latterly”
…..better to just end it----
I approve of myself
And much of this message
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
The sun sempiternal shepherds its flock life-longly. Repetition be its brother, night be its foe. As regurgitation fumes, funneling heinous broth of decay and hostility, the tedium drips ashore, clenching its claws, raising the congregation of lunatics hellwards and in a moment of inseparable divisionism, bursts out loud, hardening the ground with desecration. Outbegotten and throughbrought, the once ****** ******* feral sons to the demented deity all above and none below, in turning, swirling and the ever-prying agony, facilitate themselves a house atop a hill. After the cacophony concludes, The Fool finds himself standing, thrice woven, wolfmeadow thrown, fistlike tenacity hit, once beholden to each beast of coppered glow. Up he reaches, but finding nought and disillusioned with disinterest he breaks down in acid tears and horrid shrieks for mercy. The inward calibre reciprocates and bursts out a tubular noise of contradiction. In all still-standing, the Queen, she of the all-overseeing, turns to The Fool and parlours him a wisdom: "I am unto you as a universe is unto itself. I am within you as this earth is within me. I am you and you I shall stay. And when you at once turn dust-wards, I shall, bereft but forthlooking, beget you again." Aghast with sudden agonising fragility and from the cosmic incantation a ghost arisen, The Fool in all his momentarily found glory and happiness conjectures himself a vessel to venture upon. What he once missed he now resides in. He found it and now he rejoices. To Youth, at long once and at once forever.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 12:36 PM UTC
4/12/2016
"*Rappelez-vous l'objet que nous vîmes, mon âme,
Ce beau matin d'été si doux:
Au détour d'un sentier une charogne infâme
Sur un lit semé de cailloux?"
"My love, do you recall the object which we saw,
That fair, sweet, summer morn!
At a turn in the path, a foul carcass
On a gravel strewn bed?*"
Charles Baudelaire
I sat on the mossy footstool
that lied by the brook-
I had to really open my ears
to hear the soft regurgitation
coming from the clear muddy water, gliding over the slate,
piled up
the road, the one I drove on that one day we snuck out,
was placed gently beside it,
uptop a little cliff,
I felt this a beatific metaphor.
The air felt amorphous,
held a quality I couldn't quite
put my finger on.
and then I saw a tree,
a crooked one
who had seemed to grow
on the bank of the creek
because life, it seems, imitates art.
Its trunk dipped
until it ever so slightly grazed the water
its elm fingers
almost
almost.
I smiled when I saw this,
for it gave me hope.
I likened myself to the horseflies and new
tadpoles that flittered,
seraphic in quality,
borne with the quality of new life- the innocent quality
the one that just made me feel tainted, the more I surrounded myself with it.
The Friday afternoons on the avenue, with its port wine air
and this bubbling black slate brook
are the only places
that innocence lives-
if I had realized how quiet
the soft gargling of the cherub water was
I'd have stopped the car
and baptized ourselves
In it.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
panem et circenses keep
the animaux at bay
while politicians sell out cheap
to lobbyists who pay
top dollar for the proper vote
the proper bill to vet
twould be enough to get your goat
were there a goat to get.
the clowns have been elected
and the acrobats do spin
no child left unaffected
and the bread is getting thin
elect the thief who steals from you
and wonder why you're broke
your budget strangled till it's blue
and you've no throat to choke
you've spent your time to buy their lies
the check is in the mail
the economic house of cards
stacked all along to fail
to think that wealth would trickle down
and feed the huddled masses
you're full of something rank and brown
and sanctimonious *****
so till the revolution comes
enjoy your present stations
sure, have your cake and eat it too
it's called regurgitation
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 6:15 PM UTC
I want that iridescent color, the kind that blinds
Fixing appearances to a crumbling ash
Stuck together with glue
A coveted silhouette
Empty.
I want the table set neatly.
As if there were no monsters hiding underneath it
As if I actually ate food there
Neatly stacked and divided
Becoming.
I want the world to smile at me, eyes forced shut
Wandering without direction
Currency in perpetual regurgitation
Locked and loaded
Security.
I want that iridescent color, the kind that blinds.
Hold my jaw shut like the hues aren't already bleeding out.
To see the reflection I've been conditioned to forget.
Truth.
-z0
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC