"shithole" poems
I remember marble that wanted heels,
clip-clop echo of women who belonged.
I wore slip-ons with socks,
easier for those of us who come to scrub
other people’s lives.
The elevator was a box of mirrors,
infinite versions of me-
I bent my head to escape them.
His office door ajar,
his voice stretched thin across a phone.
The girlfriend cooks,
spicy food,
_place a ******** he said.
I had seen much worse-
houses where mold clung to the ceiling,
where grief leaked through the wallpaper.
The vacuum hummed its G-note spiritual.
I worked the nozzle into the skirting boards,
let my mind braid song and ritual,
a drop of lavender for closets,
labels straightened like soldiers on parade.
No one asked for these offerings-
I gave them anyway.
But he winked at me
while telling her _love you, babe,_
mouth syrupy with lies.
A twenty left on the hall table-
a tip that branded my palm.
Later, the bin bag tore,
Madras red bleeding into cream carpet,
pears bruised soft in their sweating wrap.
The stain spread like a hand
that gripped too long,
that would not release.
I cursed the ceiling,
the word **** echoing like prayer.
was only twenty,
scrubbing strangers’ luxury
to keep myself alive.
That day I left more than lavender-
a fragment of myself,
pressed into the carpet,
silent as the stain.
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 10:00 PM UTC
I've ****** up,
friends of mine
no longer close.
I've ****** up,
Got through high school
uptight
drunk off my ego
of a man who
thought he was better
that all the rest.
I've ****** up,
old love potentials
no longer close
to me, but
instead thrown away,
never to feel their lust again.
I've ****** up,
help me find
a way out
of this ********
I've dug myself into.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
i live in a ******** so boring tractors roam the streets in the usual
traffic,
but i found that you can wizen up to a title of wizard
by finding inanimate things entertaining and thought provoking,
because the internet will not become
the next scapegoat of goldfish memory - not the next
box of entertainment - it will be what god’s green earth indented.
out here, where you’re far from trafalgar sq. you
get crows circling back to the origin of the woods with odin on the lyre
venting out against too much pigeon **** coo coo of the attired men and women marking karma with the no. 13 and being ******* on from on high,
you get seagulls, even, seagulls so far into dry land... imagine!
and you get the autistic zoning in of the cat’s eye,
those cats are very autistic, their eyes tell the sad sad story
of encapsulated solipsism - snap your fingers or meow
and they look at you passing you looking at some randomised
point of entering their sleeping pattern - very autistic those cats,
they look at you almost cross-eyed when you try to snap them out of it -
out of it being: ****** off at being awake.
very autistic those cats, those cats are very autistic, they look
at you looking past you, looking almost cross-eyed -
don’t blame me for the zigzag or the w!
so as i said, it’s so boring where i live you see tractors and crows,
and the only solidification of your presence is either provided for
by an addiction to television eager for the flicker -
or drinking... watching bricks, thinking bits and bobs out
for the torrent of slavic plumbers building the great ****** of london.
lo... upon the yonder... there it blooms *******
i like places where trees tower over man's handing man brick on brick -
makes the sky a bit bigger and less asthmatic.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
how much poetry is in a person?
and how much of it comes out?
enough to bring up the pimples in your personality?
the ugly bumps you can learn to hide
but can't stop people from feeling
when they touch you
how much poetry is in a person
and how much needs to come out
before i am better
how much before i get over this ********
that's calling my name
how much poetry is in a person
and how do i get rid of it
i either speak cynically
or with the malice
and blood
that seeps out of me
how much poetry is in a person
and is it ok to have it there
and when will these pimples go away
and when will i be
alright again
does the poetry have to be gone
for me to be ok?
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC
I didn't ask for this,
I yelled at my minds growing abyss.
My sister was weeping,
My nephew was sleeping.
My mother had anger set out towards me,
My father had anger for all those three.
He used me,
I was an excuse for this blasphemy.
Now my sister and nephew are homeless and seeking refuge at her mother in laws home,
Guilt weighed heavier on my heart than a mountain of stones.
And for what?
So my dad can get her out of my home and give me a room that wasn't even worth it!
Now I'm here, standing in the middle alone,
A **** to everyone!
I didn't ask for this!
This is a big steaming pile of ********
They think that it's my fault!
I didn't do anything at all!
My dog got run over by my dad,
That ******* took everything that I had!
How am I supposed to know what to say or do?!
My mom didn't tell me anything or what to do!!
She hates me now because I "caused" this,
That selfish *****
How am I supposed to know what to say?!
She always taught to listen and never go against what my father says!!
She's the one who told me to listen and talk to this *******
To deal with his ***** fits and complaints about this ********
I let everyone walk all over me,
Yet the bad guy is always me!!
What the **** am I supposed to ******* do?!
Why am I taking the blame for everything he does?!
Why am I taking the blame for my mom?!
Why am I taking the blame for everything bad that happens here?!
Why am I crying these stupid tears?!
I didn't do anything,
I didn't say anything.
I never wanted this to happen,
So why am I the villain?
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
The death-filled battlefield lay foul and grey,
Its noisome stillness broken grimly by the groans
Of wounded, broken, bleeding, dying men.
But, cheer up folks, there's some good news:
Gently, slowly, through that desolate scene
Came an Angel all dresséd in nurses' kit;
She wandered, lovely as a cloud, starched in white,
Giving eager head unto the maimed and crippled.
"Me, me" a legless soldier wanly called,
More in hope than in serious expectation
Of a caring gobble before he croaked.
And then he passed on to the great ******** in the sky,
Another useless sacrifice to nothing what-so-fucking-ever.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
Broken lips, I smile inwardly,
watching you amongst the books.
Wanting you.
Internally, I ridicule my fascination for you,
I mock my lust.
I see the other men just like me.
I see them everywhere, all wanting you.
I hate relating to them.
I hate wanting you.
You posses a designer desire,
like ******* you is all the rage.
Everyday we all see your face
in every newsstand, on every front page,
but only because we all look.
Only because we all want.
And it's me crawling in the dirt like a worm,
it's me licking the doorknobs of every bar in town,
shoving fistfuls of knotted hair down my own throat
from every shower drain in every filthy run down
apartment complex covering this ******** city.
And it's me still wanting you,
sick with the want,
driven mad with the want,
dying wanting.
Poor from the late fees
for books I just can't
bring myself to return.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
for mine own Yocum
<>
a strange parting shot,
that we are are the refuse
upon this island Earth,
the very last item on some being's
weekly grocery list,
a list composed 'illions of years ago,
of things that could be worthy of
"creating"
this thought sticks to my soul,
like a rosé pink colored
NYC street'd, well chewed,
gum piece
adheres to my sole
the musical companion to this ecrivez,
a sinfonia for strings politely begs to differ,
while a hard covered book
dances me over to Texas,
Dudamel conducts Barber,
all making the question of
man as an afterthought
in a divine master plan for a planet,
seems almost recklessly absurdly nonsensical
then
my cell buzzes me back to this
******** hell earth
seven more cops shot, three dead
down in the bayou of Baton Rouge,
on a sabbath Sunday morning
rouge red now assumes,
takes on a different
notation colorations,
to my bleeding eyes,
delivering importations
of headaches confusion rampage,
red rage
the amplification of the worst of we,
afterthought creatures surely,
why "create a destroyer,"
an absurd contradictory term,
so we are gift wrapped
beneath the misleading approbation -
human
there is no nobility in our savagery,
or dare I sneer and say,
in our humanity
you cannot seal a wound with music
you cannot revive the dead with a poem ear-whispered
sitting beneath the tree shade
of my privileged place,
my surrounding world is
bay blue and grass green,
my vision myopic,
I am a self-centered,
microscopic collection of red cells
conceding to you Sargeant,
this designer of the human form,
who wrought it from
soiled earth and excess rib bone,
had a peculiar sense of humor,
a comedian full of
malice aforethought,
for are we not
the final joke,
for someone's bemusement
we must have come last,
because you always
want to leave them
laughing
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 6:36 PM UTC
And here in this windless hole, I sit and wonder where I had left that which mattered most to me under the starlit fields of Montreal. I crave it and yet wish to God that I had never been the man who held you close to me. Everything I had in my arms in the parking lot outside of that hotel dash turned dash residence. A messy room and a crowded cafeteria. A hotel dash turned dash residence dash turning dash memory. And here in this wonderless ******** in this airtight cabin of past fantasy’s design, the rent keeps piling up and oh the dishes are due. Half-finished paperback classics flapjacked on top of each other in this white shirt no sweat world with the sleeves rolled up. This pill form city with all the charm and magic of an after dinner mint. Take a walk with me, let me tell you about this dream I had.
It had wine
and white sheets and tables.
Paintings that I knew
but did not recognise,
gasping under the grip
of yellowing wallpaper with pink flowers.
It was hell,
hell I tell you.
waking up with fever thinking I was portuguese and that there were three of me
Remembering when you sat me down,
and told me who I was in all of
two paragraphs- underline this underline that.
Black and red LEDs in full contrast of the room turning real again.
All I remember is you.
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 10:23 PM UTC
I have this
theory about
irony, tyranny
and irrational
national emergencies
you see, when
the foul wind
blowing south out
of Washington DC
fails the smell test
but compares well
with, say, ********
cat **** radioactive
batshit contaminants
but, hey, try any
old way, you still can’t
iron any wrinkles out
of the fact that what
lies in the murky bottom
of the Potomac
our leader drinks in
also flow through
the faucets to sink, then
down the ********
of our so-called democracy
and into the lagoon
down on the links
of Mara-a-Lago.
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 10:00 AM UTC
I dreamt he sent
a care package
A shabby box
filled with
wall sconces
from his
******** apartment
half filled tablets
thoughts and doodles
with a note
to not abuse
substances
and a really nice
vinyl pressing of
some nineties
spoken word piece
with one or
another unknown
ska
alt rock
grunge
band
That sure was nice
of him
I must have
sent some good
psychic *****
Spirits
they call it
Sep 26, 2021
Sep 26, 2021 at 12:20 PM UTC
Where the artists breathe paint the blue pig too fat to stop them
Blue lives can **** my blue **** swinging money *****
They want to **** my **** and somehow profit from it
Blue killing color from the jails and school halls
We gotta stop dad **** the patriarchy
Spreading ******** miracle whip from the white supreme party
Ignorance it blocks me taunts me my privilege shows
Standing up for the fight of love we fight for our humanity
Fight for every minority because it’s a dog ******** in America’s White House these days
They’re sending out prayers and our media sends praise
Tired of the gunnings and the hangings
Tired of the negative nancies dancing on graves of ancestors shooting up death with no awareness of how they **** others too
Boo hoo
**** you and your trump too.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC
I don’t care you know, just make me up
but I suppose if I don’t do basic character designing first, you’d have nothing substantial to play with
opened the character settings page then gave up
oh well you can just fantasize about this hollow husk
just physical, for starters
I’d still be honoured
you ask me how I’m doing
I laugh so loud the ceiling shakes and neighbours come out of their houses
I started losing my footing since I stepped into this hellhole
you know, my vision is blurred
just take advantage of me
I won’t even retaliate I might even play along
hey, the me from pre-quicksand
I miss you please come home
this house is something like a hollow husk
I can’t see clearly anymore
I should probably get some glasses
even then I’d still let them play with me
I always levelled up my combat but neglected other skills for self-preservation
cooking, crafting, farming, hunting, etc.
is the person in the mirror the same as the person in the photos
****** doppelgängers
I’m quite the expert at investing in things I shouldn’t
and subtly letting people down
hey, the me from pre-quicksand
I think you should come home so I feel more myself
so maybe I can once again be kind(er)
and a little more wise
to see with unclouded eyes
and stop wandering off unarmed into the great unknown
when you’re back, pass me the ****** glasses
hey, idiot in the quicksand
can you at least try to ask for help
instead of struggling there like a *****
you’re sinking deeper
so I’m hollering and screaming at the top of my lungs
frightened faces peer out from windows opposite
forget it I’ll make a home of the quicksand
when I was still in control of the game
I should’ve trained some skill to get me out of this ********
or at least deal with it better
because now someone else is playing me
to some stranger I passed the reins, saying
“I don’t care you know, just make me up”
I’m in chin-deep
just launch me into battle without ammunition
I’ll simply die, then respawn, then die, then respawn, then die, then respawn
again
and again
oh well I guess this isn’t so bad
by the time the me from pre-quicksand comes back
there might not be a need for her anymore
nor for ******* glasses
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
It’s Tuesday again—not a clue what the date is.
It’s Tuesday.
A tikka curry is simmering on the stove.
There’s no wine in my paper cup (I used it in the food).
A refill it is, then— not too much— leave some for the guest;
nobody likes a drunken host.
I set the table:
two spoons (my guest insists),
two bowls (he’s messy),
a roll of toilet paper (he’s got style).
The elevator doors open—
I know this because they make an annoying choo-eet, choo-eet sound,
and I’ve been living in this ******** apartment
for longer than I can remember.
Footsteps echo through the corridor—
Oh, I’m so excited when he visits!
Even the little cows on the kitchen curtains are smiling.
Hope he enjoys the curry.
The doorbell rings twice – such an impatient little man,
but I do so enjoy his company.
I open the door and give him a hug;
he whispers in my ear, Good evening, me.
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 1:31 AM UTC
(for tara)
fourteen years ago
we became sisters
and found instant
(colorful) reflections of
ourselves
in each other
you are
the sole observer
of the
humble and
beautiful beginnings (they always seem so nice)
the l i f e
(the dream, tara, the dream)
the hope
the utter despair
and ruin
of my love. of my heart.
you are
my moon
in synchronous orbit
checking on me
pulling me into you
when i am
nothing, tara,
but a wretched
sobbing
heap...
listening to my
incoherent sobs
for hours
your voice soothing,
"i know, amanda, i know..."
and now
as i barely have
my face
above water
...gasping for air
i see you plunge
into the water
beside me
s
i
n
k
i
n
g
tara
you are me
and i will catch you
and drag you
out of this ********
if it's the last thing i do
i don't know why
we cannot see
in ourselves
what we so plainly
see in each other
but in the mirror
i see first your beautiful smile
(so genuine)
the way you naturally
physically reach out to
people and touch them lightly
on the arm or hand or shoulder...
it radiates this warmth around you
that is magnetic and puts everyone at ease
then your
******* beautiful hair
that i have been
jealous of for
fourteen years
beautiful tumbling
waves that shine in the light
...then those eyes
amber deep
with a sparkle
to go with
that smile and laugh
and i'm sorry, girl
but your body
is banging...
you have always looked
like a spanish dancer
to me...like you should
have on a tight, shiny red dress
and should be moving those hips
and bumpin that ***
all over the floor
hair flying...eyes sparkling
men's jaws simply laying on the floor.
when i look in the mirror, sister,
that is what i see
and i am proud
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
The girl in the checkout line
ahead of me is dangerously gorgeous.
In the way of the very young,
she insouciantly wears next to nothing.
I imagine myself twenty-one.
I would finagle a way to meet her.
We would fall in love.
We would make love. We would make
even more love and so on.
I would buy her a house, appliances,
a minivan. We would have two
teenaged daughters who would loathe me.
I would take out a second mortgage
to pay for their braces, clothes,
educations and weddings and divorces.
They would move away and rarely see me.
I would come to rest in some
******** of a nursing home wondering
who I am and what the hell happened.
Then she turns and walks out of my life.
I pay for my frozen pizza and cigarettes
smiling about just how lucky I am.
~mce
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 1:13 PM UTC
i know it pacifies,
national socialism was experimented
in germany,
but national capitalism took over,
you have a McDonald and a KFC
in Slovakia and other places...
it's not killing people,
but it's definitely numbing them...
they have no chance of a cultural
uniqueness, this national capitalism
has america in BIG PRINT seen
everywhere, and china in small
print worn everywhere: MADE IN;
which basically means everywhere
starts becoming a lookalike alike alike alike
******** hence the emergence of
internet shopping, everyone becoming
like the rich kids: pool, snooker hall
and all other social functioning distractions
enabling congregation under one roof,
with richy rich over here, having to pay
for a ******* too gluttonous to do it himself;
hey, it's just a muscle kid...
the clergy have a monopoly on the *****
esp. if it's all girlie girl girls.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 2:05 PM UTC
I
has she and the countryside
ever driven you so mad that
before you've even thought about it
your runners have laced themselves up
you're running in the dark
your feet beating the wet gravel road
you trip on a cattle grid
it is mostly your own fault
but you curse this ******** anyway
each note from the music in your ears
releases that pent-up frustration
until suddenly you drop
the gravel drags the skin off your knees
they bleed. You kneel there for a second
gasping
throw your head up to heaven
or the stars
or whatever is up there
you ask for an answer
but you get nothing.
her voice ringing you can't run from your problems
but here you are, once again
proving her wrong
II
The trees either side of the road you run on
are mangled and twisted
like a witch's fingers
they're judging you, towering over you
little girl go home to bed
don't you know it's dangerous
to be out on your own
on a boithrín this late?
this is how people get taken, or ***** or -
oh shut up!
you scream at them in the dark
words and anger drown your lungs
*you're not my ****** mother*
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 7:19 PM UTC
As the Walmarts
turn the world
into a ********
by supporting unequal opportunity
through
the support
of illegal immigration
They become
as corrupt
as the politicians
who allow such actions
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 6:01 AM UTC
A new third world ******** emerged.
South of the U.S.
North of Mexico.
On the Gulf Coast.
Flag: Cantor, Black; Field, Black
Bird: Raptor
Flower: Fly Trap
Motto: Your Body Is the Body Politic.
Sep 2, 2021
Sep 2, 2021 at 9:38 AM UTC
#
Huddled..
now, befuddled
tell me once again
why any-one would
want to return here?
And what did a child do
that was so wonderful
as to be brought back
into a world, so cruel..
so horribly inhumane?
Oh, but let me believe in it
let me embrace the thought
of returning again
and again
and again
to subject my own
young, tender innocent spirit..
to what?
Or just as bad--
grow up to be
bitter.. war-torn worn
only to have to
face it all again,
in order to overcome?
No, leave me to die in this one.
And if asked to return
I will self-annihilate
rather than come back
to this dishonest ********
ever, again.
#
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 10:43 AM UTC