"stinks" poems
Time for some originality methinks
this copy paste world of ours, well it stinks
sincerity became a thing of the past
as people got lazy and obsessed with fast
No time for honesty bout the way that you feel
originality gone at the turn of a wheel
a right click here and a left click there
and we use others words to show that we care
Well enough of being lazy and thoughtless I say
Lets go back and do things the old fashioned way
Where you said what you meant
and you meant what you said
And took time to write words
you knew would be read
Its hard to wrap emails in ribbons and bows
As for Facebook and messenger
who knows where that goes
So give me some paper and a pen every time
And I will sit down and think,
and then write you a line
My words may make you smile
and they may make you weep
But I choose them with care
to build something you'll keep.
Apr 22, 2010
Apr 22, 2010 at 6:38 PM UTC
He forgot his soap
What a dope
No one here can cope
He's worse than campfire smoke
He could of brought it on a rope
So he wouldn't have to *****
Instead he'll mope
For friends he's got no hope
They run when they scope
The boy without his soap
Rolling down the slope
Singing baroque
Like the pope
He tried a bath in coke
Oh what a joke
Because the sugars provoke
Mosquitoes to bite and poke.
Still he stinks like BO and oak
Smells like a singer of folk
Whose hair is matted into rope
Cause he won't use soap
What a dope!
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 11:33 PM UTC
my subject, mrs. ((brown?))
for this speech is
going to be: obesity. ish.
you see I remember
the article you handed out to us,
loos-leafed,
fresh-pressed,
a dry white piece that told,
in simplest terms,
the most inarguable & bland facts
about !healthy eating & !weight loss!
but mrs ((whatever)), I want
to tell n and the entire
******* crisp class,
that obesity is a load
of steaming ****
from someone who’s really fucki
ng sick (you know how much
better it stinks then)
that obesity
was made to be glorified,
I don’t tell you this—
I ****** jiggle it to you,
grab my santa clause puch and
shove it at you--
tick tock
we wait for the clock
to tell us what
s to come,
except it makes us guess
--see this:
a mid-age woman, mother,
fat & previously fat,
goes in for stabbing pain in the chest, or
chronic diarrhea,
seeing stars & no energy left.
((this happens))
the doctor says,
well let’s weigh you n see
if you’ve lost
the weight I told you to lose before
remember Sharol
now Sharol..,,,, sweety…..
you weigh 55.62 lbs over the
state-set “healthy limit”k,
so we’re just gonna give u these
diet pills & I promise they work,.
all nach-yer-awl u see, none of that
waterweight ******** [! excuse my language]
and in about 3 months you’ll lose
half that overweight,
and I promise the starsll go away and you’ll
feel right tip top okay now that’ll be
$60 & come bac k in a month to tell me
how much you’ve lost okay
haha but that’s alrightright?
she was unhealthy
&
doctors make you healthy
only her brain cancer maybe, or like, colon
cancer or literally anything other obesity
kills her in about 3 months
bc the **** doctor would only
pretend that she cared
what
was
wrong with Sharol, sweety…,,,
im sharol and so are you and
so is your uncle & so is
your mother, probably
because most of us are “obese”
& the only cure for obesity
is the cure for the term
“obesity” you see
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
-This is Nigeria,
Where Cattle’s fly their terrorism flag,
Stumping on humtydumpty green white green.
-This is Nigeria
Where corrupt QWERTY and busy ******
Puts food on the table of unemployed youths.
-This is Nigeria
Where clerics find paradise on earth
Lo! followers live as church rats withal.
-This is Nigeria
Where Eve plotted against a serpent
Hm! Mrs Philomena and her fairytale animal.
-This is Nigeria
Where Sundays are full of bibles and Qurans,
Yet her body stinks in poo of immorality.
-This is Nigeria
Where the mace is a mess in her house
As senators sleeps and vacate seats in a hearing.
-This is Nigeria
Where in Nigeria
We are looking for Nigeria.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 10:46 AM UTC
Poetry is a disease
Words sit in your gut like rotten meat
You hold onto your stomach for dear life
'Cos it's full of knives
There's no choice but to stick your pen down your throat
And bring it all up
Yeah, poets can't tie knots
And they don't own a pistol
And all that venom just stifles and stinks
But you can close the book
And close your eyes
Ready to hate yourself tomorrow
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 10:32 PM UTC
I try to write a poem,
but poems are too hard
Rhyming is for losers
and airy-fairy bards
To put a pen to paper
and write about your life
I've had enough of all of those,
they only cause me strife
Free-verse script is awful,
for fools without a beat
Repetition's far too simple
just repeat, repeat, REPEAT
Those lovey-dovey ode-things,
that wishy-washy crap
And poems about hatred,
you all deserve a slap
Spare me all your ramblings,
I don't care how you feel
Your self-expression surely stinks
of mouldy day-old eel
To tell a tale of wonder
never ceases too be trite
To sing of magic wonders
is nothing but pure *****
Your metaphors are useless,
your imagery is vile
Your sense of diction makes me gag,
I cannot stand your "style"
So save me your quotations,
please spare me all your rhyme
Shove that poem up your rear
and cease to waste my time
I look at what I've written,
this jumble of clichés
Looks like I wrote a ****** poem
so I'm the one to blame!
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC
Smile, pose,
flawless, poise
Let's make another picture perfect square,
Perfect for everyone to stare
I don't care what you think,
what you see, what you think,
of what you see,
As long as I can fool my memory
Even if I sink,
even when everything stinks
If I can't remember, it won't drag me down
Let's find our true love,
One and only true love,
Starting from the superficials,
Oh yes, 'cause I believe from this
we can go straight to the nuptials
It's odd if you ask me these days be,
spent more time fighting off monsters that can never be,
Exploring Neverland,
truly being Peter Pan?...
Is it still called a social interaction?
When there is no communication,
More like with the green monsters, spending quality time
all kins of them,
And in plurals,
all these digitals
...
Mar 6, 2023
Mar 6, 2023 at 11:54 AM UTC
"You're wasting your time."
Familiar line, I'm sure;
Leisure, time you take pleasure
In wasting, fighting off chores
With scores of swords forged in
Words, nouns and verbs, you argue
"I've nought to do, work's been,
I've earned it!" The frayed border between
Toil and sleep, 'spare time',
Your crime is laziness, sloth;
The clock – time's warden – watching
As your lies thicken like simmering broth;
The monitor melts your eyes into half-smiles,
"Wasted time, your pastime,"
A degree in procrastination, hesitation
To face – "the clock, the time!"
The moon hides behind the horizon,
Your fingers flurry, too late to hurry
Out the piece you left so late.
"Wasted time" stinks like left-over curry,
Let it permeate your nostrils; exhale blame
As you **** in the shame that you've failed.
Cradle the melted clock, warm butter,
Spread it onto toast, yellow trails
Crying "why?" Place it between guilty lips
And chew; the taste's bitter.
"It's raining today."
Pitter patter, patter pitter.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
My love for you was like a ****
I did something on an empty stomach,
And what resulted had no substance.
(Also: love stinks.)
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
Piggies dancing, floating along narrow passages towards what they hope is their ends. Their means have been stolen and packaged and sold by big suited, corporate, handy-handy machines. They eat piggies every day and love it, love it, love it down their gullet.
They are not worth a mention yet they get it, they want nothing but your attention, they don’t need it yet they get it. Their appetites are insatiable and contagious, they use it against us by showing us how we are nothing but what they are and we are fools enough to take it as Truth.
Shame.
We have shame because they debase us and hence debase themselves.
We have shame because we see their debasement and yet powerlessness is in our bones.
We have shame because all we want is not all we get and nowhere near all we deserve,
-it measures much lower.
It is irrelevant, it is biased, it is useless, IT is un-real-(UnRealistic, UnRelated, UnTrue)
Lie.
If my breath stinks or my hair is greasy or my cloths ***** my teeth yellowed, my feet smelly, my nails long, my social life quiet and solicitous- will you discern a negativity in my human-ness? We are no villains. We hate only those who would have us believe that we must hate ourselves and each other. They are no beasts like us. The animal within, encased by a carapace of Humanity glued and mortared by self-centered ideologies gets too thick and you must break it by looking at yourself. ******** and ******* and spitting and grunting and moaning in ecstasy and pain.
Repeat after me and say it loud with beastly yell “ I am a ********* beautiful Animal!”
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
drunk on the dark streets of some city,
it's night, you're lost, where's your
room?
you enter a bar to find yourself,
order scotch and water.
****** bar's sloppy wet, it soaks
part of one of your shirt
sleeves.
It's a clip joint-the scotch is weak.
you order a bottle of beer.
Madame Death walks up to you
wearing a dress.
she sits down, you buy her a
beer, she stinks of swamps, presses
a leg against you.
the bar tender sneers.
you've got him worried, he doesn't
know if you're a cop, a killer, a
madman or an
Idiot.
you ask for a *****
you pour the ***** into the top of
the beer bottle.
It's one a.m. In a dead cow world.
you ask her how much for head,
drink everything down, it tastes
like machine oil.
you leave Madame Death there,
you leave the sneering bartender
there.
you have remembered where
your room is.
the room with the full bottle of
wine on the dresser.
the room with the dance of the
roaches.
Perfection in the Star ****
where love died
laughing.
5.3k
I rush for love against time
And bleed blood by design
My heart floods for my crimes
When my mud attracts flies
I felt a rush
Through the brush
Of your skin so lush
I turned to mush
My heart began to gush
When I felt your rush
It became too much
And I exploded prematurely
Though it's normal you assured me
Could it be that you had cured me?
We rushed through our adrenaline courtship
While I rushed through your adorable hips
I was ****** in by your surge
Until your love was purged
You grew bored of my rush hour
So you exerted your push power
And I became a fastidious learner
That you were an insidious burner
After I became the sole recipient
Of your attitude that's flippant
The pain is a rush
This pain when you flush
Disdain when you crush
Me to pieces
Between your creases
When you keep talking feces
It's something that never eases
When your rush turns to breezes
You're a rush in my heart
Like the rush when I ****
It's a relief that you're gone
But something seriously stinks
It's a relief you were wrong
Yet I continue to sink
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 4:36 PM UTC
He struts through the street
With an arrogant stride
A staffy at his feet
Fills him with pride
Baseball cap on his head
Peak points in the air
Yea blood I'm hard
And I don't seem to care
Trackies and hoodies
Are the code of his dress
Big golden chains
Hang low on his chest
Sock's pulled up high
Above his designer boots
I'm a council house chav
So proud of me roots
I'm hard and I know it
And I'll rob ya of bread
Don't mess with me
Or you'll end up dead
His attitude stinks
Filth falls from his gob
With a chip on his shoulder
He don't want a job
But under the bravado
He's as quiet as a mouse
Living his life
From his council house
His mum is on drugs
His dad is long gone
No wonder this bloke
Turned out to be wrong
So show him some kindness
Just a friendly word
Might just be the the thing
That stops him doing bird
I somehow much doubt it
But its worth a try
Cause deep underneath
He's a friendly guy
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 3:16 AM UTC
My father has a problem.
He listens to all this conspiracy,
whilst drinking a beer or 5 every night.
Instead of spending time with my mother and I.
I've started to dread family dinners as all they do is instil hate in me,
he talks about death and killing and yet knows nothing of me.
My dad doesn't remember my birthday most days,
this year he couldn't remember my mum's.
And I can't live in a house where one occupant stinks of *****
Where a family slowly starts to break.
My father is an alcoholic,
but the only one who won't admit it is he.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC
a HOME credible THE BISHOP accusation ADMINISTRATION is PARISHES one MINISTRIES that, SCHOOLS after RESOURCES review SAFE ENVIRONMENT of EMPLOYEES reasonably CAREERS available, CONTACT US relevant MAKE A GIFT information BISHOP’S FAITH APPEAL in LOVE AND JUSTICE consultation AFRICAN AMERICAN MINISTRY with CATHOLIC CHARITIES the PLANNED GIVING Diocesan CHANCELLOR Review OFFICE OF CONSTRUCTION Board HISPANIC MINISTRY or CAMPUS MINISTRY other CRIMINAL JUSTICE MINISTRY professionals, STEWARDSHIP AND COMMUNICATIONS there YOUTH MINISTRY is FINANCIAL SERVICES reason MODERATOR OF THE CURIA to MAKE A GIFT TO THE CAPITAL CAMPAIGN believe SOCIAL MEDIA POLICY is FAMILY LIFE MINISTRY true VOCATIONS
The soup today is not what it could be;
We’d better search out the old recipe
Explanatory Note:
I fear the poem as written fails, which is my fault (perhaps I have lapsed into fuzziness from reading Leonard Cohen), so here is a bit of exposition:
The words in small print are a quote from the Bishops of Texas (long may they wave), generated by some in-house scrivener, about what constitutes a "credible accusation." "Credible accusation" is not a title in civil, criminal, or canon law, and it appears to be some sort of Article 58 (cf. Solzhenitsyn's The Gulag Archipelago), a means whereby anyone is guilty because he has been accused. It stinks.
Also stinky is the behavior of some few priests and religious.
Anyway, I pulled the quote from a diocesan web site, and scattered among it in LARGE TYPE categories from that site. I stirred 'em all up in a soup because the matter of paedophilia and the bishops' responses seem to be a soup, making it difficult for a "good simpleton" (cf A Canticle for Leibowitz) like me to understand.
May God have mercy on us all.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 4:20 PM UTC
Can I ask you a question?
Are you sure that you’re ok?
Are you sure you’re not fighting a battle,
that goes on day by day?
Your answer always seems to be the same,
“I’m telling you, I’m fine”
Always followed by the same sentence,
“Can you not see that my life is full of sunshine?”
I try to believe you,
I swear I do
But deep down under,
I can’t help but question if it’s really true.
I see you in the the hallways,
always laughing with your friends
Do they even seem to realize,
That you are one step closer to causing your own end?
I can’t help but worry,
I can’t help but think
If all the **** that you deal with,
Makes you feel like life stinks.
Everyone calls you a hero,
Everyone calls you their idol
Do they ever stop and think,
That you might be suicidal?
No. Of course they don’t,
Because you always put on a show
You tell yourself that you’ll do what it takes,
to ensure that they’ll never know.
You know that you can’t hide forever,
But that doesn’t stop you from trying.
You never had the choice to not be the strong one,
But that doesn’t keep you from crying.
It’s okay my child,
All will be good.
You say that you don’t believe me,
But I knew you never would.
You walk around,
Always showing your happy face
You try so hard not to show your flaws,
The ones you desperately try to erase
For years now,
It’s always been the same
Trying to keep your chin up,
Not trying to show the shame
I tell you that it’s okay to let go,
You tell yourself it’s not
You say that this is what you deserve,
That this on yourself you’ve brought
I tell you once, I tell you twice,
That this is not the way it is
You look the other way and whisper under your breath,
“This is my problem. Not yours nor his.”
I tried to be there for you,
Giving you a shoulder on which to cry
But you always turned the other way,
Always asking why, why, why?
The simplest of questions,
That you are still to answer honest
Has the power to make you feel uneasy,
It makes you feel the smallest
I will try not once, not twice,
But as many times as it takes
To get you to reveal yourself,
To get you to ease on the brakes
So once again,
I’ll try to say
Are you sure you’re alright?
Are you sure you’re okay?
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 11:01 AM UTC
1
We're not in darkest Africa
and jungles don't adorn,
this little bit of overgrown
that wraps around our lawn,
2
Plants of pretty colors
sit comfortable in there bed,
and about two dozen footsteps
find us at the potting shed.
3
Our potting shed has seen better days,
some parts have been rebuilt
and it's suffering from subsidence
for it's slightly on a tilt.
4
The walls desperately need painting
because the wood has got some rot
but a boring place to come and sit
it definitely is not.
5
Odds and ends adorn the shelves
and the places spiders tread
where the dust has piled on the weight
and the woodworm may have spread.
6
Smells that we first come across
carry the scent of damp,
foul stinks from half empty sacks,
paint tins that have gone rank.
7
An old oil lamp expel the rust
like dandruff from my head
reigning down golden crumbs
that looks like toasted bread.
8
We think that we have found some proof
of what might linger around
footprints so large and evident
that a Tigers walked upon this ground.
9
So while we have been sleeping
and resting through the night
there's been a Tiger in our shed
but he keeps out of sight.
10
We've sorted through many boxes
we've moved some things aside,
looked into shadows with a torch
but we can't find where he hides.
11
Perhaps he's gone out hunting
for an evening meal,
eyeing up the neighbors dog
with energetic zeal.
12
Perhaps he's out sunbathing,
sitting somewhere in a tree
camouflaged with all those stripes,
that's the reason we can't see.
13
I don't know if he's Sumatran,
Siberian or Bengal
and he doesn't ever show himself
or come to me when I call.
14
I believe he stays outside all day
and only hides in here at night
but I won't come down here when its dark
only in the light.
15
He is a wild animal so
one must take the some care
for he could be stalking us as prey
he could spring from anywhere.
16
But we leave the door unlocked for him
and we've made a comfy bed,
and a sign that just reads "WELCOME"
to the Tiger in our shed
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
See that carbon footprint
the one stomped on the earth
the one that you've been treading in
since the moment of your birth
it's the dog **** on the muddy boot
that stinks of gasoline
it's the plastic bag and broken glass
it's the poison nicotine
it's the mattress in the hedgerow
it's the paint can in the lake
It's the acid in the raindrop
and each promise that we break
see that carbon footprint
the one stamped on liquored breath
that's the one you never noticed
until too late the earth faced death
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 9:10 AM UTC
In Kohln, a town of monks and bones,
And pavements fang’d with murderous stones
And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches;
I counted two and seventy stenches,
All well defined, and several stinks!
Ye Nymphs that reign o’er sewers and sinks,
The river Rhine, it is well known,
Doth wash your city of Cologne;
But tell me, Nymphs, what power divine
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?
3.8k
It tastes sour in my skin
The water diverts his eyes upon the curves
I rub them with my fingernails
The tips cried for disturbance.
The pebbled stones in purity
Spit out their dirt with every moist
The need to exhale the longing days
The desolation of their own race.
It stinks with the cover of my skin
No vinegar to pour on the occuring reds
No tablet nor capsule to jive the tummy
There, I'll groove with the ratio of water.
I left the leaves on the dirt
And yes, those gravel and mated things in the sack
Alone am I, here in my own nest
Watching the faded stars and grasping the air.
Neither can I reach the ultimatum
The shutters in me were all aware and trained
The body in rest be put in silence
For the war of itch diverts the angle.
(6/13/14 @xirlleelang)
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
Oh the cringing demon of eternal youth,
******* away promise and hard won truth.
I see far more than *** lingering, in her eyes
I see, instead, the milk teeth of youthful lies,
of forever and today, hopes and screams
replacing tomorrows, frayed at the seams.
Oh, mere *** be gone, you sordid troll!
Crawl yourself back in your hole.
If ‘tis *** you brought to this trapped piece of light
then speak to your own soul and leave me a bite
of the apple she does not offer
and the delights you think her youth will proffer.
I have no time to dance to your twisted tune
of youth over too fast and maturity too soon!
What stinks more of your ***********
her stretched, prolonged, aging youth or back bared, partial nudity?
I giggle as I consider her Eve-like dreams
of bitten apples and grander things.
And God said, let there be light.
Is that truly all He said when he banished the night?
Maybe she is wet from being born.
From demon Youth’s desperate grasp she is torn
and into the world, for a moment, she is cashed;
back bared and ready to be lashed
by the ‘cruel’ reality we keep from youth…
…like bronzed, baby booties and baby’s lost tooth.
Maybe, coquettishly, she glances ahead,
away from the bonds of youth’s birthing bed;
not, as you apparently dream, toward some sordid affair
you see in bared skin and strands of dampened hair!
There is beauty in her eyes, it is true,
the beauty of youth’s first, full faced view
of tomorrow and tomorrows again…
Exactly how long do you think, she should remain a youth, then?
Oh the Apple that lingers past ripe upon a tree,
Snakeless, Eve-less, unchosen, unbitten for an eternity.
Shall we trap, virginal, in iron cages of our blind, stupid lust
the false innocence of youth only tears and death can rust?
Foolish, foolish Adam and blind, impregnable Eve; is *** all you can ever see?
I can peer past your layers and layers and layers of false, bitter modesty.
If you see *********** then know this, before you atone:
You bring that demon wherever you go and it is yours and yours alone.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
A Shoelace Knot (An English Assignment)
A shoelace dangles between my fingers.
It is my gift to you this Valentine.
It's a bit muddy, stinks of sock
and is coloured a fading blue
The aglets still remain, but are worn with use,
something like my feelings for you.
I know you love cheesiness and chocolate,
But accept it, my love, for it belongs to the shoe,
that led me to where you stood.
Tie it around your wrist,
so that I'll stay around you, in your mind,
around your beating pulse,
lest you forget
all the journeys we undertook.
Look.
The string is tearing at places,
but we'll just tie a knot again.
We'll be inseparable and true.
I fall with your fall, and you match your footsteps to mine,
because like the tied shoelace,
our lives are tangled and knotted.
Accept my gift, an old shoelace
and tie us together
Tight.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 9:07 AM UTC
Sitting at my computer and starring at the screen
I'm starting to get bored and feel like I want to scream!
I'm bored out of mind without a muse
Praying that I soon get an idea to use
Looking at my poem links
starting to think my work really stinks
I finally get inspired and it lights off a spark
I'm starting to feel like a glow in the dark
I'm trying to get a interesting find
but as soon as the electricity goes off so does my mind
That was the moment where I get angry, upset and it cant be ignored
It repeats it cycle and I'm at the beginning of ''I'm bored''
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 1:15 PM UTC
It seems to me that one gets **** on,
and the other does the ********
(Not directly you see;
this ***** exchange is done through a third-party.)
One swallows his pride for the sake of relief,
and the other is proud of the way that he stinks.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
Today I feel like today is not real,
As if my reality has flipped and now spins like a wheel
Up and down, sideways and backways
How long have I been here?
A minute? An hour? perhaps a few days?
This reality ***** like the thumb of a child
Looking for comfort, forever beguiled
It makes me feel lonely like a knot in a tree
So different from others, there's no one like me
I sit here in this third dimension
Forgotten
Alone
With a desperate need for attention
unsatisfied, unknown
Nobody sees things in the light that I see
My light shines bright, opening the lock with my key
I notice that I feel this reality quite often
Like holding a thousand pounds of ambition
With no courage to soften
Like a wrecking ball of abuse is strangling me like a noose
Like a straight jacket of hope is grabbing me by the throat!
Like a blaze full of sadness so viscous and angry!
This life feels like all that and more,
Pretty much
Mainly
There's some feelings here that cannot be put into words
Ambiguous like art, quick fleeting like birds
They rush through my mind fast like a subway train
but they hurt no matter what, deep in my heart and my veins
This reality stinks, like a soldiers wet feet
full of post traumatic stress
my minds naked, undressed
I need hope, i need help, I need something to eat,
preferably a meal of woman's love,
gentle & sweet
I'll sit in my reality, waiting for something to come round'
Maybe just one smile, perhaps many! Leaping towards me in bounds!
Maybe a whole slew of "you can's" and "no need to frown"'s
Till then I still go backways and sideways, on my wheel of Up Downs
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 9:18 PM UTC