"sterilize" poems
**** the voices on TV that scare us into depression
**** the killers ravaging the innocent and the gentle
**** the institutions placing us into corners
**** the religions trying to sterilize our minds
**** the powerful that feed on greed and power
**** the lazy that leech off the hardworking
**** the women who use men for ***
**** the men who use women for ***
**** the people that don't believe that you are strong
**** the weakness in you that you know you can defeat
**** the false prophets of false beliefs
**** those who do not respect
**** those who do not love
**** the apathetic
**** the lazy
**** the rich
**** the poor
**** the dead
**** the alive
**** the miserable
**** the happy
**** those who say that life is not finite
**** those who say that life is not beautiful
**** everyone
**** yourself
**** death
**** all that does not make you a better person
**** all that does not help bring happiness to others
**** all that does not make you smile
**** all that does not make you weep
**** all that does not make you feel alive
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 11:09 PM UTC
Push another button
I dare you
I'll be gone before you can mock me
for leaving.
But I'll probably stay
long enough to make it harder to leave,
And still walk away,
Forgetting to breathe.
But I remember to keep
An easy stride
so easy your pride
might not survive.
I doubt you and I
don't trust you and I
don't think you are real.
You are crazier than me:
You soak in my zeal
Run your thumb along my greatest appeal
explore the cloaked
cliffs and plateaus, and yet
feel no love towards me.
I am too weak
To stand tall and reek
of eagerness to speak
with no constraints.
I bare my greatest pains
to enslaved brains
that manipulate to gain
something that flows freely
from me.
At the throw of a stone,
I'll walk alone.
I'll fall and crawl and bawl alone
But I refuse to throw another bone
your way.
I might confuse again your joyfulness
as mine
and accidentally stay.
Push another button
I dare you
But I know you won't
make it so simple.
You'll plead when I run but
Still bleed as I burn
everything on my shelf
to sterilize the needle
needed to sew your brittle ego.
I weave a steady thread
of lies and secrets and hope and dread
over and under.
You won't stop bleeding
As if to say " See? You can't help me, either!".
At least I tried.
You've clutched your lies and secrets
hope and dread.
Good for you, you have held onto
your head.
Mine flips 5 times a day.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 2:13 PM UTC
Hymn to an Art-o-matic Laundromat
by Michael R. Burch
after Richard Thomas Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer”
O, terrible-immaculate
ALL-cleansing godly Laundromat,
where cleanliness is next to Art
—a bright Kinkade (bought at K-Mart),
a Persian rug (made in Taiwan),
a Royal Bonn Clock (time zone Guam)—
embrace my *** in cushioned vinyl,
erase all marks: **** vaginal,
****** inkspot, red wine, dirt.
O, sterilize her skirt, my shirt,
my skidmarked briefs, her padded bra;
suds-away in your white maw
all filth, the day’s accumulation.
Make us pure by INUNDATION.
Published by The Oldie, where it was the winner of a poetry contest. This poem was inspired by the incongruence of discovering "works of art" while doing laundry at a laundromat with coin-operated washers and dryers. I was reminded of the experience while reading Richard Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer.” Keywords/Tags: hymn, art, America, Americana, laundry, laundromat, washer, dryer, appliances, clean, cleaning, cleanliness, clothes, clothing, underwear, god, godly, godliness, water, baptism, inundation, sonnet, analogy, humor
Nov 28, 2021
Nov 28, 2021 at 11:50 PM UTC
rainbow-blooded life forms be ware.
we, who season the earth.
we, the cultivators of spices -ginger, clove, cinnamon, saffron.
they, who currycomb the earth.
they, who purify, sanitize, sterilize, absolve
destruct
we, the corrupt.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
"This s.o.b. has got Tourette's.
Who knows what he might say? We'd better
Get him under before he rises.
Sterilize something fast!"
I'm awake for the time being. When sleep comes
I shall play the perfect display of my bacillus. Reposing
On the white table like a necrotic pieta. Off to my
Left I can hear those touchstones spinning in fine sockets,
Sterilizing my hands by binding my feet. Soon I will be
A paragon of grunting celluloid, clutched at by
Heated hearts to wrinkle and shear.
I can already taste the cleanser.
Rubber foam, steel clamp and tongue depressor.
Excise the black portions with a serrated life,
You might as well. Because it doesn't matter
How much morphine sits in the delirium drip.
I'm still alive: the crush and blink in Boris Karloff eyes.
When I gather up my self in the morning.
I will be instructed to take all Ten a day
And check in regularly. Despite the cold,
Despite the heat, the embryo has quite failed.
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 10:34 AM UTC
The black woman
She's an antagonist at birth
The oppressor is aware of her capabilities
Yet, they value her worth
Black men are in a phase of tranquility
Yet to know that they are obligated to the original her...
The lady who was civilized first
The black woman
They failed to keep her safe
She escaped the rapes
They tried to sterilize and vaccinate
They couldn't sedate this woman with hate
The black woman
Mind sharp as a dart
Back built like a cart
Carry her youth through truth
By words spoken from her heart
The black woman
She's everyone's favorite
However she have been degraded
So often times her smile growls
Her laugh howls
Funny how her cry is hysterical
And her enjoyment is terrible
Because she have been let down by her spouse
The black woman
The dark men owe her their respect
She can use their caress
They have to vow to never again neglect
The black woman
The creator
Her creations are more than just labor
It's a ****** of love
A future king or queen being flung from in between
The black woman
The black woman
The black woman
Check her demeanor
Despite her distractions she is still determined
Fighting through a handful of disasters that attempted to destroy her
She came a long distance to be dismissed
She is still devoted to her destiny
But it is so difficult when her men volunteer to diminish
The black woman
The black woman is not a ***** so why do he dog her?
Her body represents the best figure so why do he abuse it?
The black woman
It's amazing she keeps on giving them chances
She turns to the other cheek and he slaps her again
Only time he pay attention to her is in a discussion amongst friends
The black woman
How is it that she know the importance of a black man, but in favor he cannot comprehend?
If it's not ****** relations he don't wanna relate
And if he impregnate
He miss every anniversary of the child's original date
The black woman
But... (Shaking my head)
The black man
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
Sweet liars and their sugar coated lies…
Root from their heart and branch out in the skies…
Their innocent souls and deceptive eyes…
Their polished shoes and branded ties…
In the beginning they seek your attention…
The next desire is your affection…
By recital of their past and rejection…
Either from them or from other direction…
“Don’t sympathies sweetheart, I am a strong man… Okay”…
“My heart comes free with this ring and bouquet”…
“Say yes, my love, we’ll plan a holiday”…
“Let’s go shopping for your lingerie”…
The candles are lit and the dinner is served…
The charm and chivalry is observed…
His scent and accent leaves you unnerved…
He is definitely the prince you thought you deserved…
Ah! And you fall in the trap and love as well…
Dreaming of him and his tempting propel…
You talk of him and his stories you tell…
Of the vamps he dated and your own love spell …
He has your trust and you are happy high…
His kisses and touch you can’t deny…
“He loves me so much” you amplify…
You light his nights like a firefly…
Now when you feel the bygones are supplanted…
The road gets a little slanted…
When you are more often taken for granted…
His fluctuations show the doldrums are planted…
You inspect the change and the causes aligned…
And come across the love texts enshrined…
You feel shattered and maligned…
The way you are portrayed and opined…
You demotion as ex is celebrated with a raised toast…
With his new flame and he playing host…
You embrace your strength with care utmost…
His vows and love , haunting you like ghosts…
You want to cry till you paralyze…
Blaming thyself for this jeopardize…
The arduous task to analyze, summarize and self sterilize…
From these sweet liars and their sugar coated lies…
~Kathaa Kirti
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 4:25 AM UTC
I know.
They don't see it.
And it's frustrating.
And it's hard.
But hey, I see it,
I see it and it sickens me too.
I know the feeling, the wanting, the passion;
I know we must eradicate and sterilize and renew;
But you know it'd be genocide, right?
The death of a million yet-unmourned office drones.
And oh, the irony of the high school zombie,
this walking oxymoron, so alive and young
and fresh and full of promise and yet
so
very
dead
already
Nov 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011 at 10:29 PM UTC
Randy was a roach
Of the american cockroach variety
He was a deep brown and had a sickly shine
To his wings and antennae
And he studied both of us
From a perch in our suitcase
In my girlfriend's East Harlem apartment
In the early hours of a sunday morning
**** it! Get it out of the suitcase!"
My girlfriend yelled
Flailing her arms
As Randy reclined on our valuables
His antennae twitching
As in most crisis
I hesitated
And Randy burrowed into the suitcase
Past the underwear, collard shirts, and sunscreen
I dug in a frenzy
Rending my girlfriend's meticulous packing plan
And scattering clothes about
All in the name of meaningless destruction
But I couldn't find Randy
"He's probably in the collar of one of your shirts, or in a pair of my shoes"
My girlfriend speculated
And I started shaking the clothes wildly about the room
Wanting more than anything to extinguish Randy's life
To sterilize our newfound stowaways presence
But I never found him
And Randy boarded the plane with us to ***** Cana
While our plane painted dizzying contrails over the ocean
We speculated about Randy's
Most likely devious activities
"I bet he's eating the granola bars under my bikinis"
"I bet there is more than one in there"
"Maybe he's dead?"
"I bet he's laying eggs"
We both pondered over the fact that Randy could be Rhonda
And that we would open the suitcase to a scattering of near microscopic progeny
And we clutched each other in the cold, recycled air of the cabin
When we got to the room
Past all the tin shacks and open air bars
Where the locals sat in plastic lawn chairs
Staring at the tourist shuttles
That carted pale skin behind tinted windows
To decadently decorated rooms where the towels were folded into swans
We opened the bag to see if Randy
Had surfaced, died, or multiplied
But Randy was no where to be seen , a phantom
We unpacked everything under the utmost scrutiny
Not trusting any of the items we had packed so lovingly and repacked
Shaking cover ups and tee shirts like the wind shakes the leaves in autumn
But he never presented himself
And we saw none of his foul brood
We even unzipped the lining
But Randy had simply vanished
Evaporating into the humid, tropical air
I like to think that Randy is somewhere on the island still
That he has impregnated or has been impregnated
That he spends his days under the intense sun
And cottony wisps of clouds
Sipping Presidente
Sitting under an umbrella made of dried palm fronds
Happy to be away from the honking horns and crowded subways
Just like we were
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
a dead trumpet, resting on the desiccated lips of a fallen angel, a desolate scorch of hemispheres
blasted and puerile...
primal dross from the furnace of all agonies and heaps of time, hoarding hours in pain to multiply the bias to ill fates as a happiness, her madness has never known
[ on the inside ]
a dread comet, branding the optic nerve of a blank stare
into oblivion
in a closed loop of integrals of self hatred
outlasting the venom of god's scorn, by an order of magnitude
her blight, dwarfing the locust swarm of dead suns
bleeding black ink in journals that document her heart's delirium, in crude states -of silent rage at a billion decibels
[ on the white page ]
a barn door, torn from the hinges of a tempest and marble goats, chiseled from a monolith of dark thoughts
to be sacrificed on the altar of pitch dark
there are sigils that burn in the dense fog, and everywhere a banshee of rogue hope and a siren of fine dreams....
and here there be oceans
[ and no map ]
legions of invisible hornets living in every atom of two red lips
lips that would kiss and be kissed
but seldom disembark from tar pits and windswept tragedies
and fell words that plunder her true thoughts for anything
toxic enough to **** the conversation with a lost god...
bilious fountains of lost joy
sterilize a pregnant pause. and yes
aborts the spirit
[ from no throne ]
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
It’s night. Deepest darkest blackest night.
I feel the pinch and fear of one hunted,
the prey run out of options.
No help is given, though plainly demanded.
The thin veneer of civilization threatens to give way.
There is no escape from the knot in my stomach
because we’re hemmed in at all sides
and I’m panicking at the facelessness of my enemy,
as I evolve from woman to female.
What is the world where we aren’t what we thought we were?
From adults to children. From children to animals.
Stepping backwards. A warped progression.
Sterilize. Maintain. Control. Clean. Safe.
The world seems to whisper as if someone(thing?) is listening…
Big Brother(Sister?) the walls have ears(eyes?)…
KingdomPhylumClassOrderFamilyGenusSpecies.
AnamaliaChordataMammaliaPrimatesHominidaeHomoSapiens.
Two legs doesn’t mean you’re safe from
acting like you have four.
****
sapiens
Ecce, **** Fiat lux.
or else we’re doomed.
Intellect to instinct.
Man to mammal.
Walk on two legs now, can you afford to lose them?
Ad insaniam, ut illuminabit…
Vel in flammis tandem finis.
SUM EST.
Chaos is closing in. Can you cope?
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 12:53 AM UTC
Men are doomed, Carla told me,
It’s your eternal haircuts, she continued,
How can you sculpt a life from a single shape,
One look,
Every mirror an impersonation
Of the initial version of one’s self,
Each day reduced to a child’s calculation,
You wake up, only older, grayer, a withered rasp,
Ever more discouraged by the unfairness of things.
Carla exhaled a dragon’s torrent
White jet streams unfurled out of both nostrils,
A waft of my father’s morning scent.
With a flick of her thumb,
She snapped the ash
Off the end of her cigar.
A sharp hiss as the ember sizzled and sank
In the shallow of a pavement puddle.
It had cold rained most of the day.
Over a pause, the sky roiling with indigestion,
We bundled up in autumn clothes,
And trudged uptown,
Our chins tucked deep into our chests,
Our squinty eyes glued to our shoes,
The wind had a slap to it.
It isn’t war you should fear, she continued,
It’s robots.
Soon we won’t need you for anything,
Carla jabbed her lacquered fingernail at phantoms as she spoke.
Women have been fornicating with machines
For over a hundred years, she said,
The transition for us has already occurred.
Weld and solder us a pleasant replica,
One that can shine a toilet
Sterilize the dishes, **** us brilliantly,
And recite Shakespeare at will-
Believe me,
Soon we will barter for your *********
Exchanging bitcoins for the innate,
With no intention of ever attending your funeral.
No the war is over and men have lost, Carla repeated.
She walked ahead me,
Her hips a sashay as she spit a loose bit of tobacco leaf
Onto a lamp post.
I could not persuade my eyes to look away.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC
should they sterilize you upon joining up ?
swipe that ability
when they hand you a rifle ?
maybe they should stable your stability ?
snap up your identity
put it aside for safe keeping ?
file it under 'f' for 'family' or 'forsaken' or 'foreigner'
or 'forgive me'
send you out disconnected
with a clean bill of obedience and immorality
and if you make it back
you may retrieve those earnings
and then they can turn you loose
drafted out of the military
perhaps then
after a psych evaluation
and a tally
you can reapply
for your right to fertility?
Aug 23, 2025
Aug 23, 2025 at 10:10 PM UTC
I don't want to get cleanse
I want to be messy
I want to be nasty
I want to be *****
I'm filthy and I love to be filthy
I fall sick but I love it !
Mar 17, 2020
Mar 17, 2020 at 4:53 PM UTC
feel...released.
They cannot lock you in their box,
They cannot sterilize your mind,
and only you and a guest can get in.
You will arrive,
You can stay,
You hold my set of keys,
Let me convince you
I will try to lift you up, when he lets you down.
We can
Right now.
You can share your insanity.
I will always listen, seldom speak
You can be your own liberator
They can't quite grasp, what makes me, you.
It diminishes,
this locomotive of doubt
No longer in unwilling *******
I seeps into the seams,,
and flows down from above.
to take you to a feeling....Invigorated
Fulfilled, and relieved,
that their eyes can see you, for you,
and not who even the slaves, dread to be.
You shall never be bound unwillingly
Every key I own, I give to you
Snap the chains they have slipped on your mind.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
wither goest he?
traveling, traversing, rehearsing
the good doctor lingers in the doorway out
sometimes forgotton, but always, ever, perpetually
omnipresent
dictations and suggestions, hunches corrupting
helping one last time to cauterize, sterilize
cutting off the umbilical cord to humanity
nothing to slow it down, nothing to hinder, nothing to feel
cilia burned, silly-a me to allow it
is it a neccesary burden. a beast with a broken back
still slogging, blindly, towards an imaginary finish line
hoping there is only darkness there. rest. peace
he misses his shell. the whole world is asbestos
this is his hell. the soothing water sputters the flames to smoke
and miles away, tonto points and deciphers.
********* is what it says, soaring eagle
the white man is so trivial
primitive in his circular command center, melting legos to heat his hearth
hiring ****** to eat his heart
a trapper keeper. a pointed rose. a poisoned tip. a mental rip. a freudian slip
this place has no ass. I mean.. class. class is what i meant.dammit
surroundings never touch the surface of my skin
and quantum physicists only complicate this perspective.
**** your logic! and **** mine worse..
why must everything be rehearesed? this is a curse.
a verse of a song I sing with a gun to my head
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
I’m sick of it,
The blasted hordes like dried-out gourds
Screaming, cawing for more water.
Feed the flesh, delight the eyes
Give us our shining fantasy. With flippancy
Strip down past all the layers of
My skill my voice my person,
And then take me, break me, make me
Into someone I am not.
Into something that is not.
Pull the paints out.
Imperfections had their day
Yesterday.
Today we’re going all the way.
Make or break you,
Take and shape you:
Tonight you’ll be the idol of the world.
Set the lights, hold your poise.
There’s a goddess on the stage tonight.
Not a person. Not a voice.
It’s the *** doll’s dance tonight.
But we’ll call it art.
I’m sick of it,
The cursed curve,
Numbers up, so clothes come down; and to think I started out
So innocent.
But the eye of the tiger is broken,
The clearness of crystal is crushed -
and those shards just make the perfect dress!
Crystalize, sterilize,
Put me on a different plane.
Separate, distillate,
Don’t let them see your pain.
“If you have to show you’re broken,
It’s gotta be so you can gain.”
Strip away. Everything.
Don’t show them who you really are.
We need an image for the covers
Not a person. Not a windowpane
Into your soul.
So break free, defying,
Undying.
You’re like a god.
No more trying. True flying
Means no more rules for me.
Don’t let them try to
Defy you:
You are now allowed to breathe free.
But only if you push the line. Flaunt your paints and shine your sparkles, leave behind your decency. You stand before a watching globe It is your job to entertain. So really, you are not your own.
The masses are the masters, though they pay.
So no, there’s no way out for you. There’s only forward
Which is downward. And no chance
To just be you. Because
Your freedom isn’t free.
They just can’t take a faulty human. It would be a let-down,
A break-down.
So let us shove you in a box.
Tell you how you have to be.
If you’re gonna keep your money
And your parody of free.
Then take the stage
Play the part.
There’s no more music
No more art.
Just a mad house, a cat house
Diced up platters serving meat.
Kiss my chains, take my gains,
For all my pains
I still ain’t free.
But still. We’ll call it art.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
Why am I ugly?
Am I a beautiful creature?
Or a disastrous piece of trash?
I'm no handsome person
Do these things really have a factor?
The looks? wealth? or their past?
Because this things really stood out
I don't deserve to have a Snow White
No one seems to like me except my family and my God
I look like a bacteria attacking your body
Waiting for someone to sterilize me
And slowly die and she's now happy
We mingled together
Like in a span of 120 days
In which the erythrocytes die and be replaced again
In order for you to be healthy again, EMOTIONALLY HEALTHY
My life today is ****
Always be excreted
Meant to be excreted
Feelings to be excreted not to be recycled
My feelings are easily produced
When you see and feel that girl who is special
Your heart beats fast
And nervous like watching a horror movie
I received a thunderstruck
A scar to the heart
An emotion that couldn't be determined
A HEART BREAK
I am an ugly duckling
I look **** and ******
With a face that looks like rice fields and corn fields
No one cares
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 2:21 AM UTC
I have to cease.
It's not that my love has ceased.
It's just that the tenderness in my chest isn't uncut anymore
and I keep cutting the scraps loose far and wide
creating an eyesore for others to sterilize.
This has to cease
because I've put my spirit on trial
and it wound up at its breaking point.
I can't share this world with you
while her shadow lingers, panting on your collar.
I know you can't cease.
I know you can't slay a phantom.
I know that you don't fancy bruising her haunting spirit.
I wish you didn't want to bruise my spirit.
But there's an echelon of interest that I never dominated.
But it possesses all the arena that is my cranium
and the rest is made up of intoxicated words I'll never obliterate.
I know I'm not your Valentine.
But hearts were never a joyous emblem for me anyway.
So I'll leave phantoms of my presence all over your life
in hopes that you'll delete a single blushing gummy letter
written by a ghost years ago.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
i hope they don't push in the kitchen chairs.
i built this house
from a one-bedroom apartment
to a home,
with the touch of a good woman
floors packed down with
the heavy stomping of two boys
learning floor hockey.
i lived here.
i hope they don't make the bed.
i never have and i never will
has always been my -
i never will.
i dug a hole for the pool,
filled it with sunburns
noodles, tubes, splashing,
summer nights after the sun went down
shoes and clothes by the back door.
i lived here.
i hope they don't put away my TV Guides or
tidy up my recliner pocket.
i filled the cracks in this driveway
with band-aids to cover skinned knees
paint flecks from the garage
that started red but
turned white with age.
i lived here.
i hope they don't put my favorite mug back on the shelf
where i have trouble reaching it.
where i had...
i hope they don't clean,
vacuum,
sweep,
scrub,
sterilize,
paint it fresh
to make it seem
new again.
i collected this dust and those scuff marks around the corner of the stairs and the dent in the wall we hid behind our wedding photo.
i hung these memories.
i tore down the wall in the bathroom
and the one between me and my boy.
i lived here.
i built this house.
i lived here.
i lived.
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 11:52 PM UTC
sterilize my mind
you
are an addictive habit
maybe if i chew gum
with the flavor of you
i can beat this addiction
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 2:45 AM UTC