"scatological" poems
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
Though I never shagged you at all
You ****** the rhythm to ******* yourself
While those around you ate crow
They schlepped out of the cleavage
And they ********** into your crumpet
They ******* you on the rowing machine
And they copulated you **** your three *****
And it seems to me you tasted your *****
Like a cigarette lighter in the diarrhoea
Never knowing who to stick it out to
When the ooze congeal from the top drawer
And I would have liked to have had carnal knowledge of you
But I was just a twit
Your cigarette lighter exploded spew out long before
Your whiff never blewout
Stiffness was sticky
The gristliest fat part you ever nibbled
Hollywood cobbled together a wizzofrog
And ******** was the corkage you greased
Even when you conked out
Oh the lubricator still molested you
All the skeletons had to jabber
Was that Marilyn was ***** flashy the starkers
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
from the virginal wombat in the twenty—second ghetto
Who smells you as meat as above par than scatological
Olé! than frank our Marilyn Monroe
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 4:17 PM UTC
the homeless are ******** in the streets,
well some of them are
the homeless have been ******** in the streets
a lot lately
when they are not getting scatological on the streets of seattle
they are conjuring the other images of themselves, because there is always so much more to this story
as they sit on the sidewalk and/or in entrances of shops, restaurants, and other commercial establishments
throwing empty beer cans in the street
at the people walking past
they say seattle is going to be the next san francisco
because that is what tech is, nothing new
forgotten already done ideas redone
same price tags same coast line same **** in the streets
they must have thought something better
was here, waiting for them
when they rode into town
from other towns
housing, more drugs, a new life
in these streets that they **** in
not sure what they heard
their tents under the over pass
their trash upon the hill
overlooking the highway
their tents always have a highway view
their trash too
i should be that afraid of my own life
of what tomorrow will be
oversharing in a voice
that is not my own
miss jean brodie in **** city style
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 5:16 AM UTC
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Bumming your fat knobs and insert your helmet naked and unashamed
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Kicking off kick-off, cyborgs brought face to face
Tartan sunstroke and may Mumbo Jumbo's **** all lie among you
Nine, eleven, seven, thirteen, six, quinquereme, ******** ********* Tweedledum and Tweedledee, unsocial person, erectoffensive!
This is Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
You've really ****** the naval officer
And the hatchet faces want to know whose blouses you abuse
Now it's time to evacuate the ******* if you have a free hand
This is Lance Corporal Tom to Masticated Ectoplasm
I'm fancy dress dancing through the cat—flap
And I'm groping inside a swollen grotesque sailor
And the plums look gigantically unusual nowadays
Ergo from Land's End to John o' Groats am I piddling in a crumpet slammer
Telescopic hindward the lump
Uranus Arsenic is scatological
And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** *********** with
With the proviso that I'm Ichabod celibate centipede sextillion heads
I'm fondling vigorously paparazzo
And I think my sputnik knows which direction to ****
Tell my ballbreaker I ****** her vigorously for England, she bonks
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Your menstrual cycle's kaput, there's oojakapivvygizmo spleen
Can you smell me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you get to the bottom of me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you delve into me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you...
From Land's End to John o' Groats am I vibrating ring my crumpet criminal lunatic asylum
Telescopic hindward the groupie
Uranus Arsenic is scatological
And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** *********** with
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 4:22 PM UTC
Of Mice and Men along within
Grapes of Wrath Steinbeck be ******
Lenny's rabbits...
What The Bleep Do We Know many runs never end
Of Lenny Bruce a scatological truth
Shock-jocks take clothes off
For censors ships to ignore the shore
Sycamore trees set Lenny Kravitz musical muse at ease
Now whom is the grounded man that lives loves laughs
As if a sailor on a sea of fate with flag at half staff
Know way one passion sit back relax
Seize the big-fish as they attack
Love love love knows know lack
Like Lenny Supak
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 12:24 AM UTC
How can you feel holy
By enjoying the pain of others?
Where is your righteousness
When you deny starving mothers
And brothers and fathers
And sisters and all others
Who need your help the most?
Does it add fat to your roast?
Is compassion some kind of crime?
Does it rob you of a dime
When you have so many millions
And not enough time to spend them?
Your logic is totally illogical!
It’s just short of scatological,
And adds up to the villainy
Of a well-armed sworn enemy.
This abhorrence of equality
Is your standard normality.
It often seems that being smug
Works on you like a kind of drug
That makes you see your neighbor
As nothing more than slave labor.
You who won’t throw dogs a bone
Did you get where you are alone?
How can you feel holy
By enjoying the pain of others?
Where is your righteousness
When you deny starving mothers
And brothers and fathers
And sisters and all others
Who need your help the most?
Does it add fat to your roast?
Is compassion some kind of crime?
Does it rob you of a dime
When you have so many millions
And not enough time to spend them?
You are taking a word such as liberal
And making a synonym for criminal.
You seem to want freedom to choose
As opportunity for religious abuse.
How are these oppressions you do
Good for anyone, not even for you?
For sure it might gain you some gold
That won’t love you when you grow old.
Unless you intend on buying affection
You won’t get much from an election.
The people who will applaud are shallow
If they let the world’s fields lie fallow.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 4:16 PM UTC
[I’m not sure if you can]
call them “fantasies.”
I prefer “scatological reveries.”
Usually,
that small porthole of time
just before sleep comes—
that’s where I oversee my
little light bulb factory.
It churns out countless
watts of bright notions—
whose warm light
paints descriptions on still walls
& outlines what exactly it is
that I intend to do to you.
These temporary art forms
are incredibly specific—
down to the slightest detail.
**[For example:
the amount of pressure I’d apply
as I sink my fingernails
into the bare skin
of your back.]**
Some nights I go to bed
with my windows open
& I imagine so loudly—
I’m sure the neighbors can hear.
I hope [they have popcorn on hand.]
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
there's something about
'shit'
not scatological.
the edge.
the sacred,
bitter, hit.
deliberate.
of someone saying it,
spitting the
syllable-
while wearing a stolen
black leather jacket
and red lipstick
stubbing a cigarette
and cursing sideways at
'men and their...'
back handedness.
from an artist's mouth...
maybe a woman's...
but the taste
it's like metal
it always cuts-
just right.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 10:11 PM UTC
feces,
of carnivores
should be blessed
and not tread on
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
I can't stop thinking about them:
the dead squirrel,
the doves whose droppings
dot my freshly painted fence--a graffiti
in scatological code beyond my ken
the unmarked graves of Sham,
Krishna, and Chauncey--loyal pets
who never got the needle
the Zinnias up from seed who feel ambivalent
about being alive--one day drooping, the next day
appearing to thrive
and the jacuzzi,
empty now except
for her memory,
the daughter whose name
I will not say, who fell asleep in that hot tub
and did not wake up
perhaps seeds sewn so near
don't know what to make of warm water's
perverse powers
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC