"soiling" poems
He is a swan and he sits on a black lake trying desperately to save his feathers from soiling.
They all sit around him bobbing their heads in the filth and minding not one bit.
And as time goes by he knows his feathers have begun to dull
And he tries to fly away from it all
But they refuse to let him, he cannot fly, he is but a swan they tell him with pleasure
And he keeps getting filthier as they help paint each feather
And the lake begins to look more like a prison
And he watches his reflection become what he hates
He forgets about that before that has driven him
And he waits and he waits and he waits and he waits
For something he knows will never come
Help from elsewhere so he won’t have to try
Help from elsewhere to make it easy to fly
This help does not come as it was never out there
There’s no help for a swan that’s full of despair
Only he can turn his prison of hate, a lake full of muck, into a better landscape
The day will come when the swan flies away
And the others will watch and they’ll wonder and gasp
Because they thought swans were only swans, they know this from swans that lived in the past
And as this swan flies, sure his feathers are dull, he can barely flap, and his wings are quite small
But now he can see every lake all around
For there are many that wait for him to be found.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 8:24 PM UTC
Baby Panda
You called me
A pussy-bitch
When you woke
And I smiled
In response
Baby Panda
When eating
Fruity pebbles
With almond milk
You croaked like
A frog, croak
Over 20 times
And got up
To spit in the sink
Excessive saliva
In between
Each bite
I asked you why
You croak
wha?
I smiled
And say
Never mind
Baby Panda
You ran to me
Sobbing as if
The world was ending
My socks!!!
No more clean
**** I forgot
To dry them
You pace
Uncomfortable
As you're forced
To go barefoot
*Feet ****
For longer
Than an hour
Baby Panda
I return to
You're stash
Of a room
And picking up
Your pajamas
I smell an
Accident
Of both sorts
Soiling your
Clothes
sorry
Red faced you enter
I smile and
Remind you
To let me know
Next time
And not to
Throw it on the
Wooden floor
Baby Panda
Socks on smooth
Shoes tied with
Quadrupled knots
You head to your
Room, radio blasting
Some radio talk
Station about comedy
Until 8:21 rolls around
And you run
Like a bullet
To the bus outside
Our house
I smile as you yell
BUS IS HERE
No matter what room
I'm in
Baby Panda
I worry for you
The second you walk
Out the door
Because you have such
Big, terrifying emotions
Yet a small filter
On your words, thoughts
Of your own body
Despite the fact
That you're turning
Into a real teen
Before the summers end
Baby Panda
I wish I could help
In ways I cannot
I can't read your mind
Though you think
I should
Know how by now
I can't make socks magically
Not hurt, or have people
Not get ******
When you randomly shout
Profanities
When your last conversation
Was regarding food
And I can't
Stop the madness that
Overtakes your body
Every time you get ill
Physically, mentally
But Baby Panda
I love you now
And always will
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 12:07 AM UTC
waste matter discharged from the mother's bowels; feces,
excreta, stools, droppings; waste matter,
ordure, dung; **** poo, dirt, turds, ****
"cleaning up ferret excrement":
mid 16th century: from French excrément
or Latin excrementum, from excernere ‘to sift out’ feces;
act of defecating;
a contemptible or worthless person;
something worthless; garbage; nonsense;
"this book is **** unpleasant experiences
or treatment; "I went through a lot of **** last year"
things or stuff, especially personal belongings;
"he left all his **** in my apartment"
events or circumstances;
_"some crazy **** went down last night"_
any psychoactive drug, especially marijuana [the good ****
good **** verb: **** 3rd person present: *****
past tense: ******* past participle: *******
past tense: **** past participle: **** past tense: shat;
past participle: shat; gerund or present participle: ********
expel feces from the body,
soiling one's clothes as a result;
expelling feces accidentally; very frightened.
tease or try to deceive someone or thing.
"I **** you not" exclamation
exclamation: ****
[exclamation of disgust, anger, or annoyance]
Old English scitte ‘diarrhea,’ of Germanic origin;
related to Dutch schijten, German scheissen [verb];
_The term was originally neutral and used without ****** connotation_;
*********** from Greek κόπρος,
kópros—excrement & φιλία, philía—
liking, fondness, also called scatophilia
or **** [Greek: σκατά, skatá-feces],
is the paraphilia involving
****** arousal & pleasure
from specific feces;
meanly, his mother said, _u can drink my ***
but don't eat my **** then she ****
& *** & the boy drank but when
he put the warm **** to his mouth,
she slapped it out of his hand &
yelled, I told u not to eat my ****
& the boy began to cry & feeling
bad his mother turned to let him lick
the bowl & rim the moist wet hole between
her pudgy cheeks & then gave him more
of her tangy *** to drink like lemonade
& chocolate chips, sometimes it was
more like sweet sherbet; but she never
hit him again & he's been eating her ****
ever since; now, his wife lets him drink
her *** & he eats from the baby's *****
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
you branded me
angry red marks soiling soft skin
my body now a cage to the wild soul within
and like a stallion, i love you more when i'm broken
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 8:00 PM UTC
72 hours in
I'm giving serious thought to
drinking the Listerine.
The ***** is it's citrus flavored.
I can't even rinse with that toxic concoction, let alone swallow it,
but I'm running out of options.
I finished my other MacGyvers--
the Nyquil was first to go,
followed by a Dimetapp chaser
(the cherry,
not a refreshing grape-flavored one)
and a shot of Wal-fed
that induced indigestion.
My kingdom for a belt of whiskey--
maybe a snifter of ***
You know you're bottoming out
when you wax nostalgic
for drunken days
when soiling yourself was justifiable
due to your general state of disarray.
I'm the **** that adheres to the bottom of the barrel—
******* in the shower with my shoes on,
pants removed as a cautionary measure.
Not that life can get worse;
nothing trumps waking up miserable,
sore,
jobless,
alone,
queasy,
woozy and
drooling uncontrollably
and lacking ***** to blame it on.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
*the losers,
report me to
the bad poets society,
bad student loans , bad poems
bad boys and girls society
taste, head rearing, daring
elegance, shocking awe,
fk that looks it like be a poeming **** forming,
ah, the teenie weenies millies become white walking whiners
write a poem about the sky,
**never using the word blue black
or grey**
Then, use it to
tell me why the
Paris dead
matter
the most remarkable feature
of the sky is its endlessness,
no matter what the colour of the day be,
for what else can you point to
beside the sea,
that simply visible
has no boundaries?
I will tell you.
see my grieving rage
boundaryless,
for the Paris dead,
and there is no colour,
just one dead blanched black rose
placed upon my chest,
soiling my face,
a visible reminder that
forgetting is
endless, colourless,
rage and revenge
too*
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 9:40 AM UTC
Upon the arboreal dozed and limb,
Extended coccyx serpentine loose,
Throne of inspection, tenet and dumb
Stillness hunts akin stealthy Mongoose;
Except for the natal locomotive
Soft deep sufficiently immense purr
Emanating from some industry; effective
In the cover of the thick supple fur.
The lord of his unconquered empire,
Thrives on flesh and quenches on milk,
Wintering unperturbed reading the fire
That flickers, gleaming his bed of silk.
Ever landing on appendage quadruple
Acrobatic athlete not soiling once his back
Consummating in strict concealment marble
Couch of perpetual indulgence buried black.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 5:35 AM UTC
Get that **** out
don't let it stay in
building up, soiling
inside and rotting
like the mold on a loaf of bread
ignored on the shelf
for two weeks
too long.
Get that **** out
for what seems to come out
of your ******* to you
may just be that
lost, buried treasure
another has finally found,
and oh how they might worship it
your magnificent ****
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
*Gone are the days of yore
When intellectualism was a preserve
Of the privileged and distinguished in society
A family ‘heirloom’ passed on to succeeding generations*
*Over the years the human mind
Has morphed into a think tank of awe and bamboozlement
An object for advancement…and destruction almost in equal measure
A portal to self-destruction
*Political pundits passionately discourse in the corridors
Of power over an issue as mundane as food taxes
Am ****** if this aint a move to subjugate the populace
Whilst reveling in the guise of representing the best interests of the electorate*
*It’s a slap in the face of reason and logic
A soiling and tainting of mother earth’s unconditional benevolence
Extended to her humble earthlings as bountiful harvest
But a means of self-aggrandizement it is for the politicians and their loyalists
Apparently this is *political correctness
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 5:40 AM UTC
Upon the arboreal dozed and limb,
Extended coccyx serpentine loose,
Throne of inspection, tenet and dumb
Stillness hunts akin stealthy Mongoose;
Except for the natal locomotive
Soft deep sufficiently immense purr
Emanating from some industry; effective
In the cover of the thick supple fur.
The lord of his unconquered empire,
Thrives on flesh and quenches on milk,
Wintering unperturbed reading the fire
That flickers, gleaming his bed of silk.
Ever landing on appendage quadruple
Acrobatic athlete not soiling once his back
Consummating in strict concealment marble
Couch of perpetual indulgence buried black
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 6:46 AM UTC
My love for you is like a new box of tissues,
You keep using more, pulling one more out,
It seems as if there is an infinite amount,
Never running out.
You don’t even think about.
You use one more tissue,
Just a little more love whenever you need me.
But you don’t realize I’m not a what,
Realize WHO you are using.
Just use another, two at a time.
Discarding with ease.
One more,
Two more,
You can’t possibly run out.
Soiling it,
Crumpling it,
Then throwing me out.
But one day you’ll pull the last tissue,
Leaving nothing but an empty box.
Then what will you do?
I am not just a box of tissues.
My love WILL run out.
If you keep on using me,
Throwing my love away.
I will leave you.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
Seren-dip-me-pity, (she was self-accepting failure, bad luck wannabe, wears black and sniffles)
the ardent opposite
of Seren-dip-i-ty, (she was an accidental discovery, no recovery needed, awe, found objects, in the
moment)
they are part of the
seven sisters Seren,
wherein lies the rub
Saran-wrap, was third (caught up on herself, clean and air tight, fresh as the day, tough like teflon)
in line, (changed the spelling of the family name - to be sooner alphabetically)
Seren-ate, (she sings she dances, she eats, she sings some more, she waits for applause)
does not speak or gesticulate
unless she performs in song.
Seren-ade, used to sing well (jealous, performance orientated, sometime for love, lately for money)
as well but when the other came
along and did it better she got bitter
and moved in to retail sales (lemonADE, pomADE, calvacADE of arcADEs, you get it, everything became a parADE)
And as for the twins who
are always fighting Seren-ity (lacks calmness, lacks peace, wants a piece of you, uneven temper)
Seren-e (more easy to be obscene, like evening air with a heavy chill, not bright).
The seven sisters of Seren,
who were always preparing
for a fight to the right to
the next beau to knock
on the door, but soon they
all stopped calling,
they were
no longer falling,
over one another,
as the Seren-ities
were now old biddies,
no longer remained a
worth-while dowry, befitting
sitting silently as the seven
sisters of Seren squabbled
soiling the solitude of the soul.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
In order the heart, keep running without knowledge
Of the living torch, of the soiling fires that wipe
Hopes memory, the boiled blood must breathe
In a sea of borders, of waves and rushing tides.
In order the heart, beats time, though it knocks,
Near breaks, as the wind that swoons is divining
Treasure, the jewel in the box of flesh must hold,
Must shore the rivers of the branching bleed.
In order the heart, is closed, and dry of touches
Towering keep, let the eye know mercy, let the seas
That travel with the bones never feel the marching
Desert, the hollow caves of the discarded lovers.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 2:27 PM UTC
lately all my illnesses have me feeling backed into corners,
i feel so trapped, weighed down by debt and regret
i have no escape; this is the way my life is doomed to play out
and oh how i wish this were all just some silly game gone too far because at least then it'd find its eventual end
but no mother is about to tell the children when enough is enough
to apologise
say "sorry"
for locking me in the closet,
for making me want to stay in bed and waste the days away,
for making me hate myself so much that i'm convinced my disorders are more sane than i am.
these children know no boundaries
and worst of all is that they're my own; i am incapable of disciplining them, of taking control—
there's a reason i never wanted kids in the first place,
their ***** little fingers plucking at my brain and soiling my house.
Depression is the oldest—i had him before i even realised he was mine
Anxiety was next, and suddenly i knew why people used the phrase "terrible two"
i found myself juggling twins without really knowing where they came from: Suicidalthoughts and Eatingdisorder
once, i nearly gave them all up
as well as hope, and dreams, and life in general—
being a single father is hard.
i managed to put one or two of them in time-out for a while but there's only so long you can leave a child alone before it becomes
abusive
i tried my best at sharing the responsibility once
let myself fall in love only to find that it's not just children that can be abused—adults can, too
when i left her, my children's behaviour became so severe i almost felt like they were the ones that were heartbroken
that girl made everything so much worse
sometimes i wonder if i'd have opted for abortion, had i known i was going to parent such savage diseases.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 11:34 PM UTC
*Here's to the ones who loved and just forgot
Broken promises, easy endings, no tying the knot
Perhaps they lost before and that was their shot
Around and around they go, the ever loveless lot
Here's to the ones who never thought a thing
About heavens that soar and angels that sing
Gates up in the clouds and a heavenly king
Smothering the ungodly flames that hell bring
Here's to the ones who are above the rule of order
Steering clear and clever from the symptoms of cancer
Minding, winding their stories into their own favor
Rather than to the social systems they know better
Here's to the ones who are devoid of anything good
Whatever path they lead—will always be misunderstood
The eternal monsters and demons of their neighborhood
Not even the exorcists will save them even if they could
Here's to the ones who look at life with a skeptical screen
Something bad must have happened in between
Distorting their eyes once so pure like crystalline
Soiling them with a reality unmendable and obscene
Here's to every nonbeliever in this world both beautiful and sorry
Believing in their own terms glorious and free,
though rather* painfully
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 1:21 PM UTC
In order the heart, keep running without knowledge
Of the living torch, of the soiling fires that wipe
Hopes memory, the boiled blood must breathe
In a sea of borders, of waves and rushing tides.
In order the heart, beats time, though it knocks,
Near breaks, as the wind that swoons is divining
Treasure, the jewel in the box of flesh must hold,
Must shore the rivers of the branching bleed.
In order the heart, is closed, and dry of touches
Towering keep, let the eye know mercy, let the seas
That travel with the bones never feel the marching
Desert, the hollow caves of the discarded lovers.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
Why can't I just wake up there?
Why must I wake up here?
Too young to stay,
Too broke to leave,
Feels like all I can do is bleed
My bitter disdain for this place.
It's here that I slept in my car
Hours after becoming homeless.
Here that I was dejected
By soughtless dreams.
Here that I suffered a miser's
Misfortune,
Having lost my family.
Then again,
I found love here.
In a place so vile
She somehow made me smile.
Maybe things aren't so bad,
Maybe I'm just spoiled.
Regardless of what I want
Yours truly most toil.
That way one day
I can embroil myself up north
And stop soiling my clothes
In this lemonade sunbelt
Of a South.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 1:58 AM UTC
The little bones of clouds
I used to keep; Lethargic Dynamos of odd begotten piccolos...
dainty mint of pish and tosh
a dandy lark
ellipse and farce, surpassing strange.
Are you then, a ' withering fiction ' ?
an addle carp of Cain's insurrection !
Or a less offensive Icarus
who hails from Sweden?
You, who sold me the bones of little clouds
and kept fair all frost and longing...
Hither go, encased in Larceny
a prince of deep wish
and ill-favored, disjoint Harmonies
Soiling Time... Adrift-
Our mad Geppetto
in waning light
But not quite
as redeemed.
For Hell's Bells have brushed
the tips of my wings
and I'm off -
and aloft
And away.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC
Sent away from the church
To keep her hipsters away
And that almost transparent dress
That terminates
Several inches above the knees
Told that she was,
A stumbling block to the sheep
Soiling the mind of the male congregation
The pastor still in the brackets
Denying the chosen ones
The power of the Holy Spirit
And the Spirit of God was moving
Above the surface of the waters
When Adam and Eve were very naked.
Told she stirred the Spirit of desire
The spaghetti dress
Starting too early and ending too late
Cooking immorality in the society
Hungry men, say lustful
Evil minded
Yet they claim the Spirit reigns
Overcome by their selfish nature
A willing Spirit
But a weak flesh
They blame it on the church lady
And I have never seen
A bull rape-and-murder
And never seen also
A dressed Freshian cow
And they call her church demon.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 5:27 AM UTC
There’s a conflict
Brewing in my brain,
A coffee stain
Soiling my new shirt.
If I open up my heart
Will it hurt?
Another hundred
Million sighs,
Sighed.
Another hundred
Million days
Gone by.
Raindrops fall
In the orange glow
Of the dim streetlight,
As I question all I know
I watch them shimmer
In puddles at midnight.
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 5:03 PM UTC
this dawn has no sun... it has an eye.
it is nothing but dreams and a risen Christ.
the long beyond behind me, is the avalanche... the tremors
in a golden misery. a blunder on glass stilts.
this dawn has to step outside -
to have a mirror. it has to bake the clay
that made a man.... into
an iron wisp.
it has to occur to God
to have your entropy be a deep kiss.
to obliterate the schedule of planned events
and substitute the void for the real fear.
is has to occur to Us
to have no reality other than this.
to celebrate the anvil of cartoon antics
and most refuse the void
with the mind clear.
' bout a train don't come.... been always here....
sinking into the ravines of your cabbages
and sulking in the mulch
of some soiling ambrosia.
a cure for Krackens in your refractory-
stammering the diphthong
of an adjacent
howl.
but not quite an amethyst
at rush hour
but a diamond in
the hush.
a black diamond
within us.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
*Earth is such a crowded empty place
Filled with the nothingness of life
Clamoring to reach for the infinity in space
Soiling serenity with struggle and strife
Human hearts are vacuums filled with emotions
Running through veins and coloring the mind
Blood red with taunting unclear notions
Tainting humanity hopeless and blind
A species sailing a Titanic bound for the Ice
Battling waves along a rough boundless Sea
Trying to find another world rich in spice
A Universe beyond what its conscience can see
This race is a stifled prison in carte blanche
And it ends as it starts, like an avalanche*
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:32 AM UTC
Waking in the stagnant syrup, viscous in its compound, molasses for the profound
Met Anne soiling the jar as Mouschi and Boche wage war
Diary held in the family name, passages removed for the sanctity, of a lonesome father’s sanity.
Voided bowels kept in masonry, cemented, to the back, weeping out portals of light held through a crack.
Seems prosperity can be found in imposed seclusion, though not maintained until conclusion.
Turned over for turnip change, imposing on the Frank family a need to estrange
Left off to Poland to fumigate the air, stripped of the yellow star one’s required to wear.
Thrown into death in motion, avoid eye contact, and most kinds of commotion.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
The voided track clicked into a closed lane.
Hennessy held as operators quiver in alcoholic splendor.
Rolling thunder, click clacking for no gain.
Stationary tumble, fragments of ice kicked up from the blender.
Mrs. Garrett went to town on all the *****
Traded for at cost.
Pulverized **** gifted for a glimpse of ****
Snorted out with assembling frost.
Cannibals hidden amid the train car
Stored in S.S uniforms, to be smelted in coming years
Vocalizing incendiary bigotry meant to sour
Relieved transgressions…being deemed a response to fears.
Cruel, burnt ash floating from the cinders
Red-lit skyline resonant before sleep
Slave life held in mines, and retrieving timber
Sole remaining heirloom, the cloth from their feet.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC