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"renal" poems
C'mon out to the rattled caves the deep-sea malaise rested in the grey metamorphs of an ancient coastal chain Where Sisyphean slips of tectonic rifts pull the molding clay like play-dough and old rock that turns anew churned into great catacomb stele Babylonian towers far away from the great Mesopotamic interstate Surrounded by the immumerous trees the military sharpness of their pine quills writing their mark in the dirt for a hundred turns or so only to be rearranged into the great intercontinental soil Truly multisolipsistual And on the aggregate held open the mists of the vast expanse of ocean beyond L.A and stole the fruits of the tiny parceled condominium rainwater from distance far away angry men shouting-- "Give us back our life blood, GOD **** YOU!" Filling the tanks of their fleshomobiles running around and sweating it out trading it for cloth and wiping their brow on brown shirts perturbed and disobeyed But that great man with the chin muscatche brought the rough riders out of their dome into the frontier, riding trains Off they go! Seeking paradise in the sands and the trees and the coastal breeze dreaming of a world owned and seen by the world by man and by all these things It would be grand But that rock has been seen before in Luarentian islands long ago or perhaps a great FUJI-SAN of the west coast worshiped by critters and dinosaurs You are late to the game, sweet dreamers, you! These monuments give to honor due not you, no sir did you build these things? did you mold these things with the patience of a father with the consequentiality of the womb and a motherly affection for all things true? the gift is for you, remember your father's gifts sweet princes of the earth because they will outlive you. And I walk along the stream stepping upon these little bits of Yosemite Pulverized mountain rocks Renal Stones of the diseased to which the water flushed out deeply and cured the grey things from all that left them displeased hoping for more than just selfies and sticking it to god's face laughing at half-dome climbing it and getting the better of ourselves Believing we have achieved bliss When in reality, there is nothing to this which we can reach.
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Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 5:19 PM UTC
Yosemite Spills
C'mon out to the rattled caves the deep-sea malaise rested in the grey metamorphs of an ancient coastal chain Where Sisyphean slips of tectonic rifts pull the molding clay like play-dough and old rock that turns anew churned into great catacomb stele Babylonian towers far away from the great Mesopotamic interstate Surrounded by the immumerous trees the military sharpness of their pine quills writing their mark in the dirt for a hundred turns or so only to be rearranged into the great intercontinental soil Truly multisolipsistual And on the aggregate held open the mists of the vast expanse of ocean beyond L.A and stole the fruits of the tiny parceled condominium rainwater from distance far away angry men shouting-- "Give us back our life blood, GOD **** YOU!" Filling the tanks of their fleshomobiles running around and sweating it out trading it for cloth and wiping their brow on brown shirts perturbed and disobeyed But that great man with the chin muscatche brought the rough riders out of their dome into the frontier, riding trains Off they go! Seeking paradise in the sands and the trees and the coastal breeze dreaming of a world owned and seen by the world by man and by all these things It would be grand But that rock has been seen before in Luarentian islands long ago or perhaps a great FUJI-SAN of the west coast worshiped by critters and dinosaurs You are late to the game, sweet dreamers, you! These monuments give to honor due not you, no sir did you build these things? did you mold these things with the patience of a father with the consequentiality of the womb and a motherly affection for all things true? the gift is for you, remember your father's gifts sweet princes of the earth because they will outlive you. And I walk along the stream stepping upon these little bits of Yosemite Pulverized mountain rocks Renal Stones of the diseased to which the water flushed out deeply and cured the grey things from all that left them displeased hoping for more than just selfies and sticking it to god's face laughing at half-dome climbing it and getting the better of ourselves Believing we have achieved bliss When in reality, there is nothing to this which we can reach.
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80
You told me to write about us; I told you I was already writing about renal failure. I told you I could find a place to fit you in; I can make our love sound like it's destroying us from the inside out But truthfully, It's so unhealthy when we're together; I can slowly feel myself Unraveling And I know you feel it too. *Are we really that bad, that you have to refer to us as a failed ***** I told you how it wasn't an insult. Yet here I am slipping in metaphors about us anyways.
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Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 8:36 PM UTC
Failure at Best
Ancient wars and potatoes It is the biggest potato farm in the world, a giant field of tubers as far as eyes can see; new potatoes boiled with a pat of butter; delicious, no need to slam in a lamb. Once a battlefield thousands of Russians and Germans soldiers bled to death here the soil grew fertile, absorbed all flesh only bones and uniform buttons left. The soldiers didn’t die in vain, saved from old age debilities, Alzheimer, renal diseases, hip replacement and triple bypass. I found a rusty gun, a German Luger pistol it fell to pieces in my hand, bullets inside still intact, owned by an officer telling his men to die like Prussian heroes. Long furrows of edible tubers, made into fries, full of fat, grandchildren of dead soldiers are obese and only fight virtual games.
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May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 5:12 AM UTC
ancient wars and potatoes
Para coger un pan sobre el morrillo Dando pecho y axila a los pitones, Juan, anónimo Juan, Juan Torerillo No recibiste clásicas lecciones. Para llevar a casa veinte duros Entre la chifla de inhumano coro Bebiste golpes, aspiraste apuros Y al aire al suelo al aire y siempre al toro. Del miedo, que es ingénito en el hombre, Nació el valor, congénito en el hambre; Así en la tauromaquia, Juan Sin Nombre Fue antítesis del gran José Raigambre. José, nieto de Venus y Vulcano Fue un semidiós con la esbeltez de Apolo (Frecuencia tuvo aquel Teseo hispano En liquidar seis Minotauros, solo). Mas Juan, el pobre Juan de carne y hueso, El más mortal de todos los mortales Opuso a sal valor, arrojo al seso Y "molinetes" contra "naturales". Tres siglos en la historia del toreo Se derrumbaron ante dos colosos: Del morisco e hispánico alanceo Hasta el futuro en los taurino cosos. Y Joselito muestra al horizonte Toda una enciclopedia en su percal. Y remata sus lances Juan Belmonte Con su "media verónica" renal... La Muerte se disfraza de capricho, Y en la más increíble paradoja Subsiste quien vivió a merced del bicho Y muere quien "¡no hay toro que lo coja!"... Quedan atrás los años de la infancia: Sevilla y su noctámbula capea... Como un Jasón, Juan, en su rica estancia Mira en la tauromaquia una Medea. Porque si en su niñez fue Juan Sin Suerte Y fue en su adolescencia Juan Sin Pan, Hoy, ya casi un anciano, es Juan Sin Muerte Porque la Muerte tuvo miedo a Juan. Y quien burló a la muerte en tantos ruedos, Mil veces sentenciado por suicida, Sólo cuando lo quiso, y con sus dedos Mató su muerte y se quitó la vida... A Juan, que no toreó por soleares, Muerto, no he de llorarlo en seguiriyas. Sean por martinetes mis cantares, Cante de yunque y fragua y herrerías: Cristo de la Expiración Cachorro de los trianeros, Bríndale tu absolución Al mejor de los toreros Cachorro, si en Viernes Santo Te faltara un penitente, Asóciate a nuestro llanto Que es Juan Belmonte el ausente...
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1.1k
A la muerte de don juan belmonte
Para coger un pan sobre el morrillo Dando pecho y axila a los pitones, Juan, anónimo Juan, Juan Torerillo No recibiste clásicas lecciones. Para llevar a casa veinte duros Entre la chifla de inhumano coro Bebiste golpes, aspiraste apuros Y al aire al suelo al aire y siempre al toro. Del miedo, que es ingénito en el hombre, Nació el valor, congénito en el hambre; Así en la tauromaquia, Juan Sin Nombre Fue antítesis del gran José Raigambre. José, nieto de Venus y Vulcano Fue un semidiós con la esbeltez de Apolo (Frecuencia tuvo aquel Teseo hispano En liquidar seis Minotauros, solo). Mas Juan, el pobre Juan de carne y hueso, El más mortal de todos los mortales Opuso a sal valor, arrojo al seso Y "molinetes" contra "naturales". Tres siglos en la historia del toreo Se derrumbaron ante dos colosos: Del morisco e hispánico alanceo Hasta el futuro en los taurino cosos. Y Joselito muestra al horizonte Toda una enciclopedia en su percal. Y remata sus lances Juan Belmonte Con su "media verónica" renal... La Muerte se disfraza de capricho, Y en la más increíble paradoja Subsiste quien vivió a merced del bicho Y muere quien "¡no hay toro que lo coja!"... Quedan atrás los años de la infancia: Sevilla y su noctámbula capea... Como un Jasón, Juan, en su rica estancia Mira en la tauromaquia una Medea. Porque si en su niñez fue Juan Sin Suerte Y fue en su adolescencia Juan Sin Pan, Hoy, ya casi un anciano, es Juan Sin Muerte Porque la Muerte tuvo miedo a Juan. Y quien burló a la muerte en tantos ruedos, Mil veces sentenciado por suicida, Sólo cuando lo quiso, y con sus dedos Mató su muerte y se quitó la vida... A Juan, que no toreó por soleares, Muerto, no he de llorarlo en seguiriyas. Sean por martinetes mis cantares, Cante de yunque y fragua y herrerías: Cristo de la Expiración Cachorro de los trianeros, Bríndale tu absolución Al mejor de los toreros Cachorro, si en Viernes Santo Te faltara un penitente, Asóciate a nuestro llanto Que es Juan Belmonte el ausente...
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56
What a piece of work is man, all of our wet viscera interconnected like, even spleen and cheek No more is this clear than when your kidneys get sick and send phantasmagoria to your tired brain bits All hail antibiotics
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Feb 13, 2022
Feb 13, 2022 at 5:30 AM UTC
Renal
The scent The sounds The vibrant colour The excited tones and syllables It's Christmas I can't stand it It's two weeks til my 19th birthday In my stomach; a dark pit, sickness, knots In my head; panic, darkness, fear In my heart; fear, sadness I can't stand the word Christmas I can't stand the smell of fruit mince pies, gingerbread houses, tinsel I can't stand the lights and smiles and trees with baubles so bright and lights flashing I can't stand the happiness, holding hands, singing families It's Christmas and I'm holding your hand, singing for comfort, yours and mine and you're dying I'm smelling death I'm hearing words like renal failure, hypoxia, cancer; and I'm scared out of my wits It's Christmas time, I'm a kid and I'm sitting here waiting for you to die It doesn't feel like Christmas at all.
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Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
No Christmas
June 29,2011 I remember 9 A.M you’re asleep peacefully I stop on my way out watching your hair flutter 12 PM your only son knocks frantically calling for me. No one can find you. we can’t leave notes on the door and tape on the doorway. to find you 12:15 PM your son and I are home. all search through your bureau searching for, looking for, an answer until my sister finds it. A typed 2 page letter, 12PT times new roman font you meticulously typed it out, fingers on home keys, back straight in chair, thumbs on space bar “You’re all better off without me.” my mother reads us your final words for what seems like an eternity pain rips through the surface as my mother, your wife sends shards of sharp searing pain in the form of screams drowning out my sister, your older daughters shackled breathing. I try not to shatter the wall I’m sitting against the boiling red hot anger burns through my veins and lodges into my eyes, all I can see is red. 6PM they found you at the hospital, going into renal failure from the Tylenol your wife doesn’t let us see you for the first few days she lets your 16 year old daughter take care of us, she herself struggling to comprehend the situation we were all in makes dinner while I do laundry and dishes to give her a break your son confides that he is afraid to cry because he feels he won’t be able to stop. July 4th 2011 we visit you it is an awkward, elephant in the room Miles between all of us and yet no space at all I can’t breathe When we leave I hold my brothers hand telling him words my mother had said to me “Everything will be okay.” August 23, 2014 Its 4 am I had a dream about it again, I felt my heart break and re-break Into a million little sharp pieces I wake up, Breath caught My chest a vice refusing to unclench And I remember those words. “Everything will be okay.” Everything will be okay.” Everything will be okay.” Now I know, It was a lie.
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Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
Don't Call Me Daughter
June 29,2011 I remember 9 A.M you’re asleep peacefully I stop on my way out watching your hair flutter 12 PM your only son knocks frantically calling for me. No one can find you. we can’t leave notes on the door and tape on the doorway. to find you 12:15 PM your son and I are home. all search through your bureau searching for, looking for, an answer until my sister finds it. A typed 2 page letter, 12PT times new roman font you meticulously typed it out, fingers on home keys, back straight in chair, thumbs on space bar “You’re all better off without me.” my mother reads us your final words for what seems like an eternity pain rips through the surface as my mother, your wife sends shards of sharp searing pain in the form of screams drowning out my sister, your older daughters shackled breathing. I try not to shatter the wall I’m sitting against the boiling red hot anger burns through my veins and lodges into my eyes, all I can see is red. 6PM they found you at the hospital, going into renal failure from the Tylenol your wife doesn’t let us see you for the first few days she lets your 16 year old daughter take care of us, she herself struggling to comprehend the situation we were all in makes dinner while I do laundry and dishes to give her a break your son confides that he is afraid to cry because he feels he won’t be able to stop. July 4th 2011 we visit you it is an awkward, elephant in the room Miles between all of us and yet no space at all I can’t breathe When we leave I hold my brothers hand telling him words my mother had said to me “Everything will be okay.” August 23, 2014 Its 4 am I had a dream about it again, I felt my heart break and re-break Into a million little sharp pieces I wake up, Breath caught My chest a vice refusing to unclench And I remember those words. “Everything will be okay.” Everything will be okay.” Everything will be okay.” Now I know, It was a lie.
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55
What if this made it happen will I call it karma I see derivatives and you renal when we see calculi Should have held on tight when we had thing, I let loose I'll retrieve what I buried when I get close, No different from a dog, a nuzzler Shall you find a biznaga then follow your fourth sense, for that's where lies my chalaza All that is but a lost sailor, hoping you'll see the tip of his jibboom
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Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 10:50 AM UTC
Love lost and not found
Historical reform work by Michael Angelo Buonaroti, located in Pitta St. Basilica St. Small Vatican. This is the first of the many works of the same topic by the artist. The law was given to French Cantonal Jean de Bilheras, a Roman associate. Women with eyes that have the bright light of love, three tons instead of the United States, yellowheaded girl goes brownheaded on acid in New York and the power of living life in the royal royal palace is a force. Eli's mistake about Joey Christ that morning at Brown University; A child's birth, Igor ****** is a story of children. English and Russian hairs with beautiful, beautiful girls attached. God; The beauty of beauty of the Lord IV IV, beauty's beauty; Brides, children; children are taken before they can walk into the wonderful events of another person's personality. Tennis Tennis, Tennis, Tennis; The first day of the words have the power to make a picture of the brain that reflects the idea of ​​a good lever and a designer of black colors makes a Discovery;            |The store's store is missing from Renal Beach,           the most popular dance is in the Pink area of ​​Hera's **** Soda is worn with fine cream. White, white birds, are a diabetic message with this bag bag, dead. The police experience the experience of a mother who is pregnant to relieve her breast cancer. When I talked about taking Ivan in with a bird, I liked the debtor's hair. The best city offers most girls. My method is for steroids, ******* le ******* les, green leaves and rescue animals; To use it, I want to make rocky stones with the stove and blades for Jewish surgery, to use it. She says after the recording of girls; The girls and many Australian athletes are in the ideal place for life in life. Everything is a lifetime. The bottom line is the quality of the green tree that in the wide valley will sway.          The buccas will play a significant role. K. Mundae Torrents and Torrents of Global Names: "Size Measures" only use Greek products.
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Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 2:10 AM UTC
beauty of beauty of the Lord IV: IV, beauty's beauty
Historical reform work by Michael Angelo Buonaroti, located in Pitta St. Basilica St. Small Vatican. This is the first of the many works of the same topic by the artist. The law was given to French Cantonal Jean de Bilheras, a Roman associate. Women with eyes that have the bright light of love, three tons instead of the United States, yellowheaded girl goes brownheaded on acid in New York and the power of living life in the royal royal palace is a force. Eli's mistake about Joey Christ that morning at Brown University; A child's birth, Igor ****** is a story of children. English and Russian hairs with beautiful, beautiful girls attached. God; The beauty of beauty of the Lord IV IV, beauty's beauty; Brides, children; children are taken before they can walk into the wonderful events of another person's personality. Tennis Tennis, Tennis, Tennis; The first day of the words have the power to make a picture of the brain that reflects the idea of ​​a good lever and a designer of black colors makes a Discovery;            |The store's store is missing from Renal Beach,           the most popular dance is in the Pink area of ​​Hera's **** Soda is worn with fine cream. White, white birds, are a diabetic message with this bag bag, dead. The police experience the experience of a mother who is pregnant to relieve her breast cancer. When I talked about taking Ivan in with a bird, I liked the debtor's hair. The best city offers most girls. My method is for steroids, ******* le ******* les, green leaves and rescue animals; To use it, I want to make rocky stones with the stove and blades for Jewish surgery, to use it. She says after the recording of girls; The girls and many Australian athletes are in the ideal place for life in life. Everything is a lifetime. The bottom line is the quality of the green tree that in the wide valley will sway.          The buccas will play a significant role. K. Mundae Torrents and Torrents of Global Names: "Size Measures" only use Greek products.
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38
Lying on the rare Psychedelic river named Thames, I wept for life. My mother called last Night. She said Thames messes with You, causes cancer. She suffered from renal Failure, after doing the same. That is why I wept. The cool, brown water Washed over me. It rinsed my mind. It tames me from me. Revelation strikes My heart, maybe I should leave And never look back.
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Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
Thaming Myself
All seven seas have seen my paddle I settled in Queens, it's just as cold as Seattle, Just as cold as Toledo Just as cold as you during our battles Just as cold as you during their sequels Sometimes it gets hot, Just as hot as you starting to stradle Just as hot as you laying spread eagle Your voice just as soft as a poisonous snake rattle Our teenage minds just as ***** as diseased seagulls Daily walks on pins and needles Protests and upheavals My positions were fetal Your decisions were lethal My punishment will be penal My appointment was renal Day drinking seems not to be regal Please, have mercy my people For I have swam though the oceans All seven seas have seen my paddle I've given up on emotions And every lie I've had to unravel And now, I'm tired.
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Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 1:59 PM UTC
Untitled