"stomaching" poems
Call yourself a friend of mine,
Forcing me to “neck” beer and wine?
Lovingly mixed with ***** and gin,
And dash of ketchup added in,
Wasabi for that extra kick -
The whole thing just makes me sick!
It’s not fun or cool or clever,
But a study in peer pressure,
Present in the world we live in,
Where for a guy or girl to “give in”,
Is expected for their reputation.
But what kind of expectation,
Is encouraged sado-masochism?
A concept likely to cause a schism,
For those who didn’t use their head,
And unsurprisingly now are dead.
I am sure as you will surely see,
And the poet Dylan would agree,
That as long as you ignore
The deaths of one, two three and four
How many, many, many more,
Are needed til we scream and cry?
“We caused too many youths to die!”
And for what cause? Acceptance.
Whose loss is needed for our repentance?
It’s all well acting free and wild,
But each of us is someone’s child -
Whose loss would surely cause sadness,
Hurt and pain and grief and madness?
And stomaching death is much harder
Than soap or dirt or grease or lard or
Whatever miscellaneous things
This activity inevitably brings.
Just saying “no” might make you quiver
But trust me; it’s better for your liver -
And living x years sans hurt or maim
Is worth > than 15 minutes of fame.
So do the maths before you do it -
Or else I bet you’ll likely rue it!
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
God knows how our neighbor managed to breed
His great sow:
Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid
In the same way
He kept the sow--impounded from public stare,
Prize ribbon and pig show.
But one dusk our questions commended us to a tour
Through his lantern-lit
Maze of barns to the lintel of the sunk sty door
To gape at it:
This was no rose-and-larkspurred china suckling
With a penny slot
For thrift children, nor dolt pig ripe for heckling,
About to be
Glorified for prime flesh and golden crackling
In a parsley halo;
Nor even one of the common barnyard sows,
Mire-smirched, blowzy,
Maunching thistle and knotweed on her snout-
cruise--
Bloat tun of milk
On the move, hedged by a litter of feat-foot ninnies
Shrilling her hulk
To halt for a swig at the pink teats. No. This vast
Brobdingnag bulk
Of a sow lounged belly-bedded on that black
compost,
Fat-rutted eyes
Dream-filmed. What a vision of ancient hoghood
must
Thus wholly engross
The great grandam!--our marvel blazoned a knight,
Helmed, in cuirass,
Unhorsed and shredded in the grove of combat
By a grisly-bristled
Boar, fabulous enough to straddle that sow's heat.
But our farmer whistled,
Then, with a jocular fist thwacked the barrel nape,
And the green-copse-castled
Pig hove, letting legend like dried mud drop,
Slowly, grunt
On grunt, up in the flickering light to shape
A monument
Prodigious in gluttonies as that hog whose want
Made lean Lent
Of kitchen slops and, stomaching no constraint,
Proceeded to swill
The seven troughed seas and every earthquaking
continent.
6.5k
As each day passes I can feel myself slowly losing a part of my identity
falling into the black abyss of insanity
Once again this disease has become all consuming
eating away at my mind
I feed myself the same lies
stomaching the pain of this decaying body
Mind clouded by malnutrition
Once again indulging in this slow form of suicide
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 7:10 AM UTC
when made a designated drinker
for a designated driver.
when stomaching stale pabst
and rationed sweet cider.
when frat boys fulfill
stereotypical homophobia.
when twenty grade A reds
can't last me longer than a dream.
when old man nightclub and triple kills
usurp the crown of moderation.
when you fall asleep
with so much in your blood to spill
like beans,
or milk not worthy of tears,
and i keep a loom in my heart
where i weave a string of everyone
[with myself]
and every fray in warp or weft
is mimicked by the splinters
shuttled to my hand.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
My words flowed from my mouth like a perfectly tuned faucet, as the bright spot light, shinned down on my off-set. The audience didn't object, to the imagery I painted. My stanza's killing to the page for dear life, waiting to be read right; from my eager lips -- sheets shifting, pages crumbling, stomaching rumbling, the audience attention's shifts - and my nightmare always ends like this.
A day dream, about me sharing my gift. The ability to uplift -- then finding my self in deep **** In the middle of reciting it. I keep relieving, and re-sighting it. All this doubt in my mind, I keep inviting it. That's why I instead of becoming a spoken word, I'll just keep writing it., because stage fright, is some frightening ****
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 12:13 PM UTC
The dust has been lifted
Wise words from the man in the red truck
As he eluded provocative ants dancing ‘round cigarette ash
Pokemon never behaved like jackals
Or any other eighties hair metal bands for that matter
At least Pantera shredded their way out of that shtick
It allowed me to quench my thirst with neon Gatorade
And stomaching peninsulas
This is why starch as a way to mend secular viral videos
Was never a serious consideration
That right belongs to the intergalactic Prince Albert
Of the Ziggy Stardust federation
It’s what made me feel secure with crack and root beer
Can I get a signal out here,
Or did the waffle train miss me by a nano robot?
God save this illustrious choir of cephalopods and naval lint
Before they find their way into the haphazard way
I chop chicken under drunken stars
A wizard once led me to this concussion
But I cannot remember the first door he smashed with a crowbar
I know it had only been six years since Julia Roberts was in Erin Brockovich
The movie about the alien cyborg, who birthed Africanized
Native American bumble bees
Or was that merely a fan fiction continuation?
That’s when the itch in my head stopped….
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
Society is disease
Spreading, coursing through my veins
Choking my lungs
Polluting my brain
Skin, bones, eating disorders is beauty
Being underweight is ****
stomaching to much emotionally not enough physically
Maybe i should take on smoking to get me through the day
Maybe i should do drugs to take the hunger away
Society expects too much and gives to little
This world is so corrupt.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
Prompt: "Write about your best and worst meal."
Title: "Cathartic, Culinary"
Alt. Title: "Purgative, Palatable"
Worst
Once I was taken to a room of my own invention,
led by the faceless, fearless constructs of my mind.
Waiters served the table my thoughts and
words and past actions and then I was forced,
or rather, compelled by hunger up on my product--
talking seventeen years of chow!--I talk.
I was sick within minutes, the self, food dribblin'
my mouth, managing to empty my bust cheeks
by a slow slurp every few chews. That was horrible.
But by the end of a month, I was full, fed, and finished.
I attribute much of my success hence from this act.
Stomaching one's self, as it happens,
is the hardest part of the human condition.
Best
Once I ate the supplies of a marooned island-castaway
just to speed the process, and once I licked the tears off
the face of a bereaved poet only to spit it in her face.
I think I will tell you another culinary anecdote though,
one which will expand upon my worst, the first.
Like picking at scabs, the nose, too, yields results.
I gave myself a nosebleed. And what did I do?
Ha ha, I raised my head to the ceiling, the roof,
the skies, to God and his cruel intentions.
Ha, I laughed, ha, I did. I thanked him for it;
and head up-turned I let course, I drank.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 8:12 AM UTC
She sits alone; a breeze twists briskly by softly caressing her sullen face...
Inadvertently it chills the slick tears she tried to quickly wipe from their place…
It took every bit of strength to keep her lips from quivering and hold her head with grace…
She slyly blots her eye and looks around before sinking back into thought, fingers interlaced…
Salty prisoners caught running from the dreams played out on the backs of her tired eyelids...
Feeling trapped in a nightmare... shocking images of a shattered past littered with lonely silence...
Something’s just not right there, maybe she was cheated on or the victim of domestic violence…
Desperately wishing that just one of these ******** would show her some compassion or kindness...
But here she sits on a bench stomaching the thought of being alone to face the world herself...
Its a bitter taste that doesn't age well like the fine wines she keeps for relief on the shelf…
She’ll take a couple sips and feel the hate swell, jealousy perched on her shoulder like a devilish elf...
Whispering doubt til she really believes it with every cell, feeling like she can trust NO man for help...
The familiar thoughts creep through the back of her head like silent thieves...
As she weeps they swipe the hope right from the air she desperately gasps to breathe…
Every breath alone makes the pain, hurt, and emotions grasp at her heart and seethe...
Her body’s tired from the sobbing reluctantly causing her stomach and chest to heave...
“Am I destined to be alone forever?”
“Will I ever find a man that isn't trash, but treasure?”
Her girlfriends try to help but sometimes she doesn't like to let herself believe them…
Cause at the end of the night she sleeps alone while they're with their husband sleepin...
She convinces herself the man of her dreams must not love her or that he simply doesn’t exist...
But that couldn’t be further from the truth, he IS real… he just doesn't know where she is…
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 2:46 AM UTC
This undying reprimand
And ceaseless mourning
Forgetting to continue in measure
To keep these things at bay
With grace
To say more than enough
Handing floating remorse
Give sway
This night
Born from a lonely day
Pray
Like before
Stomaching passion
To never be whole again
Departing visions
Grasping your innocent defeat
Drowning such sweet melodies
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
Money worth stomaching
Boxes folding stacking
Plain clothed cops and
Cars worth hijacking
Annoy me and all they do is pass me
Like i am in a James Hugh's movie
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 2:51 AM UTC
I want to pull a Jack Kerouac
A car
A friend
And the open road
Now my mom will probably **** herself when I tell her this
But I want to go 80 across America
I want to drive with the wind sending chills down my spine
I want to go
I want to leave this **** hole of South Haven
I want to cruise coast to coast
Just stopping to urinate, defecate and get gas
Jamming to the Beatles, The Stones, and Cat Stevens the whole way
***** the AC we won't need that
No point with the top down
Collecting bugs in my mouth
And a smile on my face
Writing rigorously like a mad man with no money but the singles in my pocket
I want to break the sound barrier with a Volvo 240
Just me her
The wind
pavement
Sleeping at the ********* motels money can buy
Stomaching on spam and whatever's on sale
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC
An underlying theme,
Of the Shannonball
As fresh fur roams the hall
And soon will come the chill of
the fall
, and well both be stuck inside the foreign warmth of the mall
nd even though you sleep down the hall, I wonder if you think of me as your light free lids begin to fall
(Side note)
Your the perfect amount of TALL
But,
Why can't I seem to write anything that doesn't involve you ?
I mean **** it was hidden from view
From an entire crew
Why'd you have to be a pen and not a pencil ? A stencil and a fossil, of a clearly ancient soul,
If you'll please excuse me,
I think ill have a hard time getting on my way
But god **** it I have trouble stomaching all the god dammits
I wish to say, but I save my tongue for another day
Where
I guess I won't be the bad guy
Even though I never was.
Except I always will be
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
I wish I could escape my thoughts if only for a moment
The relentless onslaught of abuse is becoming harder to tolerate
Stomaching the bitterness of my internal dialogue is painful
Remaining a hostage to this diseased mind
Confined within its constricting walls
Losing hope with the fading light
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 8:51 AM UTC
Wasting all my time drowning in these bottles.
Hoping for a chance to start all over again.
Stomaching the bitter taste to forget what i'll never get back.
But forgetting is easier said than done.
And darling, i'm a wreck.
Just waiting for a chance to redeem myself.
Get out of this place, and start a better life.
Forget the pills, forget the knife.
Death is no salvation.
Just an easy way out for the ones who just can't take it.
So what's left for me?
I guess time will tell.
And in that time i'll try not to fully immerse my being in the poison that surrounds me.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 5:54 PM UTC