Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
"tapeworm" poems
Eggs, eggs, toss them high in the air Catch em, and gargle, and mash them, and swear Eat them with shells, eat them with sauce Eat them with bags, eat them with moss Eggs, eggs, between sandwich bread That's what the wise elderly miller had said Before came the bomb and he had dropped dead Before being poisoned by a surplus of lead And then came a centipede, long and sanguine And bit a small child, so recently weaned Off the protein derived from his mother's fine eggs So he had to start munching on his mother's fine legs "Be warned" said the Miller, his hair all askew While dousing his wounds with mountains of glue A tapeworm emerged, and looked toward the sky Feeling envy toward all the birds that could fly But the Miller was quicker, even in old age He smacked the worm soundly, in a manner enraged Bruised from the damage, and covered in glue The worm turned away from the sky that was blue Never with pelicans would he fly with delight Never with owls would he soar through the night For all Darwin's cruelty, an injustice rings Tapeworms simply have no need for wings So he bit the old Miller, and laid ten thousand eggs They hatched and devoured his liver and legs And as the man writhed, waiting to die He vomited upward, up toward the sky The tapeworm went flying, up toward the clouds The air felt exhilarating, the rushing wind loud For once in his life, he soared with the birds Then in came a swallow, and bit off a third His body, segmented, fell in parts to the ground Tears seeped from his eyes, his face in a frown From the ground he gazed up into the ominous fog Before being lapped up by an unlucky dog The End
0
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 1:20 AM UTC
A Pleasant Surprise
Eggs, eggs, toss them high in the air Catch em, and gargle, and mash them, and swear Eat them with shells, eat them with sauce Eat them with bags, eat them with moss Eggs, eggs, between sandwich bread That's what the wise elderly miller had said Before came the bomb and he had dropped dead Before being poisoned by a surplus of lead And then came a centipede, long and sanguine And bit a small child, so recently weaned Off the protein derived from his mother's fine eggs So he had to start munching on his mother's fine legs "Be warned" said the Miller, his hair all askew While dousing his wounds with mountains of glue A tapeworm emerged, and looked toward the sky Feeling envy toward all the birds that could fly But the Miller was quicker, even in old age He smacked the worm soundly, in a manner enraged Bruised from the damage, and covered in glue The worm turned away from the sky that was blue Never with pelicans would he fly with delight Never with owls would he soar through the night For all Darwin's cruelty, an injustice rings Tapeworms simply have no need for wings So he bit the old Miller, and laid ten thousand eggs They hatched and devoured his liver and legs And as the man writhed, waiting to die He vomited upward, up toward the sky The tapeworm went flying, up toward the clouds The air felt exhilarating, the rushing wind loud For once in his life, he soared with the birds Then in came a swallow, and bit off a third His body, segmented, fell in parts to the ground Tears seeped from his eyes, his face in a frown From the ground he gazed up into the ominous fog Before being lapped up by an unlucky dog The End
Continue reading...
37
O pulchritudinous, for infinite climaxes For bilious spasms of pigswill For puce Popacatepetl pedigrees Above the perverted pampas! America! America! Allah excreted his curses on thee And bang thy ****** in company with Islamic monk, from brothel to gay red—light district O pulchritudinous, for spaceman bottoms Whose **** throbbing tapeworm A toucan crossing for slipperiness spifflicate Across the intergalactic space! America! America! Allah enrich thine ev’ry vice Reinvigorate thy ****** *********** inside monolithic ectoplasm, thy merrymaking inside pyramid! O pulchritudinous, for freaks got fat In disentangling feeding frenzy Who more than ***** their brothel slobbered over And velvet glove more than backbone! America! America! May Allah thy blonde exhaust Till all rave reviews be disreputableness and ev’ry come superhuman O pulchritudinous, for chauvinist muscleman That smells wide of the fourth dimension Thine lathery brothels lick Polished using giant armadillo excrement! America! America! Allah excreted his curses on thee And bang thy ****** in company with Islamic monk from brothel to gay red—light district
0
Mar 25, 2010
Mar 25, 2010 at 5:22 PM UTC
America The Picture Postcard
It all feels like a craft of love, a tight fit in my eyes naked views A beautiful body of work, grinding my gears to a halt, At a place of it being wore out in perfection, the once new smell, becomes as creased as my socks. But even with its imperfections, the painting still manages to wiggle its way into my heart, leaving a lasting impression that I can't shake. It's like a tapeworm inside of me, recording every beat of my heart and every thought in my mind. I try to pull it out, but it's no use. The painting has become a part of me, a part of my soul that I can't let go of. And even though it brings me pain at times, I can't help but smile. It's like a silly game that I can't resist, a game that brings me joy and laughter even in the darkest of times. So I'll keep it close to my heart, like a knife in my mouth, ready to cut open a crack of a smile whenever I need it most.
0
Nov 2, 2023
Nov 2, 2023 at 3:08 PM UTC
Ode to my first knife drawing
Don't be A mole. I hate moles. They burrow And Scavenge And Live in the Dark. Thats just What you did To my heart. You burrowed Deep, Down to the center. You set up camp. And I didn't know You were a mole. I thought maybe you were A Straw, To **** Bad things Out. So I kept you warm And waited calmly for the Bad stuff to Dissapear. But I realized That You were a Magnifying glass, To emphasise My flaws And you were A Seam-ripper To Pull the patches From where I had already healed, To make the scabs Bleed Again. And I thought you were A Jigsaw And you were broken So I could fix you And put you Together. Like a Vase, Easily B r o k e n. And Then You left me. Like a Tooth Full of Cav it ies. That Space Next To My heart No longer full. And you Didn't depend on me, No longer a tapeworm. I miss you. Like You Were Mine. But you were Never Mine.
0
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 9:06 PM UTC
Shapeshifter
best days better left behind bereft of joy fighting in vain for fleeting fulfillment instead seeping bile from punctured ***** appendix found septic too late even still now hungry for real life like stomach tapeworm eating purpose lost along the way now empty, grey when did time get away from us all leaving bitter little paisan us's stripped bare of long dead dreams like Christmas morning c-section strippers five dollar bills stuffed in withered *****
0
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
Soma
they let their sticky humid hands hold my glitching hologram body against the scratchy playhouse walls and drag their clammy claws where no child should think to rub all the while whispering into my vacant ears how they would beat me and bite me and cut me and kick me if anyone were to ever find out our little game as tapeworm tears sludged from my sickly sweet rotting eyesockets and down my shiny shaking dust stained cheeks silently over my cold and closing throat and when my dad finally ripped the splintering wooden door across the sandy shifting floor i was so pale pink blue i could have been six hours dead save for my fracturing porcelain and plexiglass heart destructive and bashing and shattering itself through my frail and brittle crumbling ribcage whispering to me how badly my dad would scream at me for the way we were playing
0
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 11:08 PM UTC
it wasn't my fault, was it?
i'll let you on a little secret... spaniards are gigolos to the slavs... cheap-shit, chinese rolex beauties, which is why the english are prone to vacate there: oiling up to get a quicker suntan than an essex lass turning orange-brown in the space of a weekend's session at a u.v. parlour. westerners define western slav as cleaner material, if not simply the plumbers and  electricians, got a blocked toilet? get a pole to unblock it. but you see... the thing is... the slavs see the spaniards as euro-trash... cheap-shit-cancerous-suntan... spaniards are cheap **** to the slavs... western european nations (excluding the germans) invokes a sense of self-worth that, like a tapeworm feeds of the slavs migrating without colonising... when the western powers migrated and colonised, never really preparing themselves for jihadis, st. john the decapitating tyrant  spoke to st. george's dragon with a cockney accent: oi bruv bruv up up mate! score us an eight's worth of 20 quid! so while the high tier of europe speaking deutsche anglican rather than deutsche swiss keep time and penny flip: carnal heterosexual or just plain **** the slavs mock the same tier with a choice of holiday resorts exploited... next to the fake suntan... because spaniards are like albanians for the slavs... oiled up cheap-shit material for even cheaper literature of the handsome, blue eyed, dark haired (well oiled) stranger... selling pomegranates... that a fair maiden might succumb to... selling her virginity the fiftieth time.
0
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
the fiftieth time
i'll let you on a little secret... spaniards are gigolos to the slavs... cheap-shit, chinese rolex beauties, which is why the english are prone to vacate there: oiling up to get a quicker suntan than an essex lass turning orange-brown in the space of a weekend's session at a u.v. parlour. westerners define western slav as cleaner material, if not simply the plumbers and  electricians, got a blocked toilet? get a pole to unblock it. but you see... the thing is... the slavs see the spaniards as euro-trash... cheap-shit-cancerous-suntan... spaniards are cheap **** to the slavs... western european nations (excluding the germans) invokes a sense of self-worth that, like a tapeworm feeds of the slavs migrating without colonising... when the western powers migrated and colonised, never really preparing themselves for jihadis, st. john the decapitating tyrant  spoke to st. george's dragon with a cockney accent: oi bruv bruv up up mate! score us an eight's worth of 20 quid! so while the high tier of europe speaking deutsche anglican rather than deutsche swiss keep time and penny flip: carnal heterosexual or just plain **** the slavs mock the same tier with a choice of holiday resorts exploited... next to the fake suntan... because spaniards are like albanians for the slavs... oiled up cheap-shit material for even cheaper literature of the handsome, blue eyed, dark haired (well oiled) stranger... selling pomegranates... that a fair maiden might succumb to... selling her virginity the fiftieth time.
Continue reading...
28
Illiterate alliterations Of Farcical fascinations. I fancy myself a wordplayer if not a word-sayer Though the paper gets far more love than the air ***** what's nearest the toaster oven. Vile Bile, Jim, by at least 3 miles. I took the tapeworm from yesterday's sandwich Gave it to the secretary, who continues to ***** She's a labrador I'm a matador You'd be surprised how much bulls ****
0
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 8:41 PM UTC
Which area on the doll?
Sometimes I sense you in my bones seeping through my marrow, flitting through my veins, each footstep in time with a heartbeat. I know you well. I have known you well. At times there is guilt, stalling your departure from my life. Yet, still, I delight. You are a detriment, but like a tapeworm to anorexic, you are lovely to me in mind.
0
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 4:10 PM UTC
6.
Four life-size lipsticks jive, they groove in tune with costumed comrades: the monstrous tapeworm, unfitting for even a family of whales, head held high like homemade dragons on Chinese New Year, or the bald man decked out in navy felt, garb saturated with plastic spoons he needs to get laid. But the lipsticks in their red, red heels, with human eyeholes hidden behind fabric, which shows the blend of castor & chemicals, what hue: dark crimson or barracuda berry? They wear but a fraction of the common ingredients used for dressing up, makeup as the encore. It stains the lips, the coffee rims around the country, the chests of restricted lovers. Let us celebrate the metaphor of makeup on this festus day--where it’s excusable to act out the fantasies of being not ourselves.
0
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
The Joy of Living the Fantasy: from snapshots of Día de los Muertos
Cow You got a good cow? Yeah, this one's got enough shy Won't overextend her *** onto your tongue. Yeah? But she's ready to express. Donkey They killed the donkey who did the donkey work now the flood cannot be stemmed too bad the horse is so ill equipped the donkey work to collapse to plan B: complacency is asking for it. Wife The farmer's wife keeps the trough filled Her family all feed there, friend too Hungry ******** She somehow feeds another via the backdoor. Red The rooms all have this red glow The men degrade themselves A candle drips hot wax, moaning Black leather and tasseled whips Keeping the tapeworm alive. Backstage The visionary talks of truth, talks his head off of hidden things and backstage agenda There's now a fourth world status in the back alleys of overcrowded slums all overdosed on honeyed impressions. Detour High castles for preachers and glass houses for the rest Some contend with deliberate detours to escape dark dreamers in once rustic countryside towns. Abstract Behold the executioner, removes the mask The plot unravels, poor boy blade in gums Coerced to perform things, ends in ***** Head in the desert; one jolt and jump away.
0
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
backstage
The cigarette was trailing down my throat like a ten-inch tapeworm It was grounded, the bright look she gave. I projected my disgust onto the rain. This was my one shot to make a garden.
0
Jul 27, 2019
Jul 27, 2019 at 10:24 PM UTC
Fresh & Hazy
The Flibbertigibbet Such a ludicrous name, unto you may never have been heard; But The Flibbertigibbet Demon lives in the land of words. They hide there in The Thesaurus, in front of our eyes, Like The Devils spies in paradise. The bookworm with tapeworm, failed to see The Flibbertigibbet; But then one day The Bookworm, just happened to come across it. It stood out from the rest, because it didn’t sound human; Then I read the description and it simply said Demon. The demonic disguise, lead to the corruption of the mind. It is now forever entwined, with the Flibbertigibbet inside. (C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
0
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
The Flibbertigibbet
He was a tapeworm his sister had a bad perm sitting on her head, edge of the bed in a knife sliced corridor of light. These thoughts, that leaned like weak trees in a cutting breeze. These thoughts that we're never straight more a child's hurricane scribble. A mental ball of twine collecting clutter and when the cobra struck I thought of you naked, ready to **** the venom or offer the antidote. The misery and turbulence, the fear of being hunted by the anonymous faces of a South American meat packing conglomerate.
0
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 3:03 AM UTC
faceless South American meat packing conglomerate.
i couldn't care to remember you even if i wanted to you lying pathetic ***** you cheap son of a ***** you held me close and peeled through my intestines like a tapeworm our relationship was parasitic and it is over now
0
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 2:22 AM UTC
untitled 79
written while talking to a dear friend, Irene, who i met on my travels to Paris, and who i'm spotted with, in a photograph, by the Moulin Rouge, hunched in homage to Quasimodo, with Paul the wild haired australian. i'm always depressed before composition and the first whiskey to stop me throwing up anything i might ingest, but then the seemingly graceless magpie with its extended tail flies into eyesight, then the blackbird, the crow, the seagull (huh?! 30 miles inland and a ****** seagull?)... and then i open my eyes a second time, take off the eyes that see lust gluttony colours and shapes, and put on my x-ray spectacles of looking at a white page and typing for a while... and then a song crops up and it bothers me, mortiis' parasite god from the album *the smell of rain*, if there is such a thing as a parasite god, we'll be constantly thinking about it, it will be an ontological implant of ours to then debate whether we're atheists, theists, gnostics or agnostics... it would be a burden, indeed an oversized tapeworm to put it mildly - but then the other description floating about, the entitlement of a title, akin to prince, knight, sir, baron or baroness or even a marquis... the lord of hosts... and with vain attempt at sounding in blossom of a magnolia tree attentive of courtesy, a host is someone who contains a parasite, why would i want to contain a parasite of thought in me, that would necessarily sway me from denoting myself an atheist, theist, etc.? atheists do indeed uphold the principle stated in this song i mentioned mortiis' parasite god; i among the jews a parasite of the host of ancient egypt; i mean, they always say they're atheists or whatever, they want that little sticker at a speed dating gathering *hello, my name is, queue (oh sorry, Hugh)*, but when it comes to defining what sort of thinking defines you as such and such, it's vaguely satisfying to hear a presupposition label, followed by a string of even more unsatisfying propositions, and since i'm not a fisherman in that department, i think i'll just stick to what i know, or at least what i think i know.
0
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
mortiis (the smell of rain album)
written while talking to a dear friend, Irene, who i met on my travels to Paris, and who i'm spotted with, in a photograph, by the Moulin Rouge, hunched in homage to Quasimodo, with Paul the wild haired australian. i'm always depressed before composition and the first whiskey to stop me throwing up anything i might ingest, but then the seemingly graceless magpie with its extended tail flies into eyesight, then the blackbird, the crow, the seagull (huh?! 30 miles inland and a ****** seagull?)... and then i open my eyes a second time, take off the eyes that see lust gluttony colours and shapes, and put on my x-ray spectacles of looking at a white page and typing for a while... and then a song crops up and it bothers me, mortiis' parasite god from the album *the smell of rain*, if there is such a thing as a parasite god, we'll be constantly thinking about it, it will be an ontological implant of ours to then debate whether we're atheists, theists, gnostics or agnostics... it would be a burden, indeed an oversized tapeworm to put it mildly - but then the other description floating about, the entitlement of a title, akin to prince, knight, sir, baron or baroness or even a marquis... the lord of hosts... and with vain attempt at sounding in blossom of a magnolia tree attentive of courtesy, a host is someone who contains a parasite, why would i want to contain a parasite of thought in me, that would necessarily sway me from denoting myself an atheist, theist, etc.? atheists do indeed uphold the principle stated in this song i mentioned mortiis' parasite god; i among the jews a parasite of the host of ancient egypt; i mean, they always say they're atheists or whatever, they want that little sticker at a speed dating gathering *hello, my name is, queue (oh sorry, Hugh)*, but when it comes to defining what sort of thinking defines you as such and such, it's vaguely satisfying to hear a presupposition label, followed by a string of even more unsatisfying propositions, and since i'm not a fisherman in that department, i think i'll just stick to what i know, or at least what i think i know.
Continue reading...
43
WORMS Hello! Chester here… Missing you so, A bookworm am I, Oh, yesss, today just sliding by… With spectacles on my nose, I do both poetry and prose. Want to hear more about me … And my family…? So awfully lovely to see you again, Perhaps a few secrets for you, my friend? Plump cousins I have in the strangest places, On blue Stilton cheese are not only their faces… There’s even a cousin with a thousand little feet… The shoemaker thinks he’s a treat. Mostly here somewhere, we always share… And war seen so many times before, Just like greedy maggots, ended battles we do adore, And there is even more… Not a treat, some worms you never want to meet, A part of the family is really mean, Trust me, they're the worst worms you’ve ever seen, For those eat dead people really clean! Others just eat wood and all they ever could. And don’t let me start, With Mr. Snooks… worming into Miss Prissy’s heart! Once there was even a tapeworm from a whale, 100 feet long, both sexes… He and She were for sale! Just like people… large, short, skinny or hairy, Some worms fancy meat or plants… others dairy. Seeing ample aggravation… there was an invitation… And all I have to say today… Now on my way… To the cemetery without delay, But I’ll be back, Sweetheart… Someday... Copyright©2013 Kari M. Knutsen .
0
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC
FROM MY SMILES COLLETION...
I have been living in the warm womb of solitude For the past few months of my existence Enjoying all the numbed emotional experiences my fetus-y form can handle Feeding off my friends and family to steal their wisdom and words Stealing their past revelations and independence and growth Growing pounds like a puppy and gaining inches like a tapeworm Till my previously battered brain begins to crave The aches and pains of heartbreak once more Yearning for the cold, unforgiving air of reality on my newborn skin After nine months of solitude and twelve weeks of young love Searching wantonly for the sensations I left behind Such as the warmth of a girl’s fingers between my own My mind demands something more rigorous to live through My mind, a scarred warrior, craves a new challenge Something for it to be beaten and bloodied and crushed by Something for it to mourn and learn from and conquer For you see; the wings within my spine are quivering They’re rippling with excitement at the thoughts in my head The thought of finally, finally, finally Getting back out into the world again
0
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
Cycles Of Life
From the inside out, I am being consumed by an evil tapeworm.
0
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
Haiku #16
Hello, my name is David Phlegmister. I am much too self-aware. I also have no ******* idea who I am. My intestines twist and turn just like yours. I think I must have a pretentiously metaphorical tapeworm. Everything I do or say is backed by either anger or curiosity, and in spite of this I am somehow not in jail. I try too hard. I don't try hard enough. I care too much but I still don't give a **** I wont tell you I'm hungry even though I havent eaten since yesterday. No, really, it's fine, I'm not hungry.My hands and feet are too big for my body. Seriously, **** off, I'm not ******* hungry I drink black coffee and smoke cigarettes but I swear to god I'm not an egotistical existentialist. My mom tells me that I'm too skinny but dont worry I'm not hungry. Smells **** me up. I can still smell your perfume and I can still smell your ***** Your feelings dont matter because we all die eventually. Boo hoo, get the **** over it. Everything you stand for is a lie. God isn't real, your government hates you, status is meaningless. Jokes on you so **** yourself. I'm sixteen years old in an Aberdeen-esque hellhole. I'm a highschool dropout My old school was a cesspool of AXE body spray and ****** **** My friends all want to **** themselves and I don't blame them. I'm an ******* in my own right, but I don't know about yours. Im still waiting for someone who doesn't have to fix me to love me. I whine and ***** about whiney ******* and wonder why I hate myself. I've come to terms with the fact that I'm going to be a ****** Reality is not, and will not, ever suffice. It will never satisfy. Never bring contentedness. Theres no denying that I will be hooked on whatever unrefined, kidney-raping junk I can get my filthy hands on. Marijuana got boring fast. I hate routine. I hate sameness. I feel too ******* much so I punish myself for it. **I AM NOT A ******* PIECE OF ART** I'm your aborted ******* son. My fingernails are too short. I lie to people who care about me and I don't know if its for my sake or theirs. I'm the elephant in the room of conservative christian right wing baby boomers. I CANNOT and WILL NOT do what is expected of me. I don't fit in. Thank god. Don't wanna be a starry eyed, brain dead statistic. Sometimes I don't sleep on purpose just because I don't deserve to. I don't owe you a ******* thing. I have nothing to prove and nothing to give. IMNOTHUNGRYIMNOTHUNGRYIMNOTHUNGRY
0
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 6:03 AM UTC
Allow/me/to/INTRO/duce/my/SELF
Hello, my name is David Phlegmister. I am much too self-aware. I also have no ******* idea who I am. My intestines twist and turn just like yours. I think I must have a pretentiously metaphorical tapeworm. Everything I do or say is backed by either anger or curiosity, and in spite of this I am somehow not in jail. I try too hard. I don't try hard enough. I care too much but I still don't give a **** I wont tell you I'm hungry even though I havent eaten since yesterday. No, really, it's fine, I'm not hungry.My hands and feet are too big for my body. Seriously, **** off, I'm not ******* hungry I drink black coffee and smoke cigarettes but I swear to god I'm not an egotistical existentialist. My mom tells me that I'm too skinny but dont worry I'm not hungry. Smells **** me up. I can still smell your perfume and I can still smell your ***** Your feelings dont matter because we all die eventually. Boo hoo, get the **** over it. Everything you stand for is a lie. God isn't real, your government hates you, status is meaningless. Jokes on you so **** yourself. I'm sixteen years old in an Aberdeen-esque hellhole. I'm a highschool dropout My old school was a cesspool of AXE body spray and ****** **** My friends all want to **** themselves and I don't blame them. I'm an ******* in my own right, but I don't know about yours. Im still waiting for someone who doesn't have to fix me to love me. I whine and ***** about whiney ******* and wonder why I hate myself. I've come to terms with the fact that I'm going to be a ****** Reality is not, and will not, ever suffice. It will never satisfy. Never bring contentedness. Theres no denying that I will be hooked on whatever unrefined, kidney-raping junk I can get my filthy hands on. Marijuana got boring fast. I hate routine. I hate sameness. I feel too ******* much so I punish myself for it. **I AM NOT A ******* PIECE OF ART** I'm your aborted ******* son. My fingernails are too short. I lie to people who care about me and I don't know if its for my sake or theirs. I'm the elephant in the room of conservative christian right wing baby boomers. I CANNOT and WILL NOT do what is expected of me. I don't fit in. Thank god. Don't wanna be a starry eyed, brain dead statistic. Sometimes I don't sleep on purpose just because I don't deserve to. I don't owe you a ******* thing. I have nothing to prove and nothing to give. IMNOTHUNGRYIMNOTHUNGRYIMNOTHUNGRY
Continue reading...
35
watch'ah watch'ah want? giggles? you got them... trans-gender males allowing civil partnerships and  all the loss of a taboo prodigy... the other side of the spectrum you have feminism gorging on the catwalk motto of 0... yep, with trans-gender males getting licorice stuffed pillows you deem to call ******* funny thing... those exfoliating breathing apparatus items **** i forgot the plural, and yes, correct, ascribing a quality to the **** word, moor adjectives with a sunset) pairs... now you have feminism on steroids with girl bodies too taboo for ****** and too into-it with muscular ***** wanks when fat was **** in painting and breast-feeding... so one spectrum-end (dual zenith-nadir, you choose) gets implants... the other works out with Arnie for a flat muscular chest that could breast-feed a tapeworm... but hey! our politics is a solid ace in poker... we better export this **** to the middle east and laugh about it... but i tell you... too prolonged the pyramids' influence on this region, had god interfered in the Aztec geography we'd see no dodo right now (inclusive of memory and memorable recounts of the Galapagos shortcrust debriefing in historical terminology suddenly inspected suddenly lost for want of cure so that history isn't just a deja vu - hubris Gemini hatching in a tetragrammaton)... buggers are really keen on proving the sudden eclipse... that's the global aspect of the plague... everyone cared for what happened with the sudden churn of wanting sleep... and the greatest modern pathos? insomnia... it's the great utopian counter - or a lack of interpreting dreams, equating to "life is meaningless". lack of freud to be exact, as in: the only hierarchy in theory is a hierarchic stance on applicability being vogue - everything else is hushed or broomed or ushered into Hades so that utopia is a sinking ship like Pompeii or Atlantis (Thomas Moore - or should i write Thomas Morse? cradle for the blind, a book of Braille for the sight-able hell-bent to make bureaucracy of obstructions in a game of noughts and crosses in the playground).
0
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
it's a comedy, right?
watch'ah watch'ah want? giggles? you got them... trans-gender males allowing civil partnerships and  all the loss of a taboo prodigy... the other side of the spectrum you have feminism gorging on the catwalk motto of 0... yep, with trans-gender males getting licorice stuffed pillows you deem to call ******* funny thing... those exfoliating breathing apparatus items **** i forgot the plural, and yes, correct, ascribing a quality to the **** word, moor adjectives with a sunset) pairs... now you have feminism on steroids with girl bodies too taboo for ****** and too into-it with muscular ***** wanks when fat was **** in painting and breast-feeding... so one spectrum-end (dual zenith-nadir, you choose) gets implants... the other works out with Arnie for a flat muscular chest that could breast-feed a tapeworm... but hey! our politics is a solid ace in poker... we better export this **** to the middle east and laugh about it... but i tell you... too prolonged the pyramids' influence on this region, had god interfered in the Aztec geography we'd see no dodo right now (inclusive of memory and memorable recounts of the Galapagos shortcrust debriefing in historical terminology suddenly inspected suddenly lost for want of cure so that history isn't just a deja vu - hubris Gemini hatching in a tetragrammaton)... buggers are really keen on proving the sudden eclipse... that's the global aspect of the plague... everyone cared for what happened with the sudden churn of wanting sleep... and the greatest modern pathos? insomnia... it's the great utopian counter - or a lack of interpreting dreams, equating to "life is meaningless". lack of freud to be exact, as in: the only hierarchy in theory is a hierarchic stance on applicability being vogue - everything else is hushed or broomed or ushered into Hades so that utopia is a sinking ship like Pompeii or Atlantis (Thomas Moore - or should i write Thomas Morse? cradle for the blind, a book of Braille for the sight-able hell-bent to make bureaucracy of obstructions in a game of noughts and crosses in the playground).
Continue reading...
49
you knew i was fragile but instead of wrapping me up in tissue paper and gingerly placing me out of harms way you doused me in lighter fluid, lit a match, turned your back, and walked away i dont need you to tell me that my body is a temple my mind is too, stop acting like im simple the way you speak down to me as if its just your nature but i am not your ***** and you are not some savior i want to shape you into some resemblence of a person i should be thanked, not treated like a burden i am a girl with hope and love and motivation i trust that if theres god you could not be his creation i dont care about your opinions or your family or your town because you've never acted like its good that im around i've decided that i'm better than you and your remarks i am wonderful and interesting and maybe even smart so **** off with the way you strut your harsh demeanor you will never be a human, just a parasitic creature
0
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 2:39 AM UTC
tapeworm
Part of me lives inside her, Like a parasite of romance and memory; The part that raises half her mouth when the joke's a specific type of funny, The part that keeps her eyes locked on an empty inbox, And the part that gives her boyfriend such a diarrheal aftertaste. It's a tapeworm of longing and contempt that she's **** good at ignoring, because she turned an empty stomach into business as usual. But she keeps it anyway, because something about it seems so genuinely human when nothing else can match the feeling. Because when the jokes, messages, and boyfriends are all gone this little white ******** will still need something from her. It won't go anywhere. The glamorously empty life of a parasite at the beck and call of something just as beautifully flawed.
0
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 3:54 PM UTC
Birds & Worms
There’s a tapeworm inside me I’ve tried to get it out for years everything I put in, it eats up I tried to drown it with ***** and tire it with no sleep and cut it out with another’s love But I’ve realized it will never leave because once you get your first tapeworm it stays with you So I’ve befriended it; when it’s hungry, I feed him, when it’s sad, I rock his sorrows in my warm belly Maybe someday it will leave but I fear that day I’ll just begin growing another inside me
0
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
Cestoda
You are the gravity that keeps me on earth But yet your eyes could contain the cosmos You gave me tapeworm by the curls in your hair I have a ****** singing voice but we could make a pretty sweet tune. My dreams are always black and forgotten I now wonder if I open my eyes while at rest if I'll see your lips covered in lipstick Your first name is short of a few syllables You deserve to be graced with a name that requires remembrance since everything about you is unforgettable
0
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
The one syllable girl