"ulcers" poems
ugly men burning their bay leaves
in pots of static gardens
underneath all this cement
your past is looking at you indecently
so change the words around you
you can shift their meaning
its all a game and no-one's winning
your tired emotions accent your poetry
umbrellas are scars that carry symphonies in their hearts
you held my hand as we welcomed god back into our skylines
her face is as familiar as the stars
we originated from
with ulcers open in quiet hurting
your youth are wordless and distrustful of angst ridden authority
in unsuspecting situations love’s vacation is ending
her wedding gown got quite *****
since she literally spent her entire honeymoon
wandering idly into banks of muddy water
humanity is worthy of justice and sweaty romance
i breathe your flesh into my bottle
and we take boundless walks upon the clouds
that straddle mountains, graveyards and cemeteries
fresh from wading in the rice fields
i peeled you a ripe banana
under pressure your sweater came off
and revealed a perfect metric for us to emulate
your eye sockets are two umbilical chords
and your voice is a curved sword that cuts through fear
like the moon slices through the sky
i have held all of this inside for far too long
and now it comes shattering forth
spilling itself over every page
every letter an escapade almost as long
as an Eskimo's pilgrimage to safety
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 11:36 PM UTC
To the tweaker who just ate lunch
On the side of a 55 mph highway
I'm not staring because I'm judging
I can judge without looking
I'm staring because I want to know
If my eyes can slow down your limbs
Like the arms of a fan
So I can see that you're still somebody's daughter
I'm staring because I understand
Never mind the gawking eyes of midday traffic
Never mind the glares of the gas station clerks
I understand
You're just having lunch
I understand
The bugs, the tics, the needs
You are not a stranger to me
You are who my sister used to be
You are what the father of my niece
Is trying not to be anymore
You are every shady character
Who ever knocked on my door asking questions
I do not know your name
But I know you
I know you were once somebody's daughter
And I hope you still are
I'm not here to pass judgment
Definitely not here to help
I know all to well there is nothing I can do
I just want you to know I know
And so does any body you're trying to hide it from
And they'll be waiting up for you
Whether you come home or not
Your mom hasn't had a full nights sleep
Since the last time she saw you
I hope for her sake
It was this morning
And I know you won't believe this
But grown woman and all
Your dad just wants to bounce you on his knee
But what I know most of all
Is that your little brother
Can't go two hours without crying
He's got ulcers again
And he misses you
You probably see him the most
But he hasn't seen you
Since you took your first hit
He misses your advice
He misses your hazing
And all he wants is a sober hug
And I'm sure this isn't what you wanted to hear
During your picnic
But it's everything I wish I could've told my sister
Even if she wouldn't have listened
I'm not staring to judge
I'm staring to care
And I don't presume to know what addiction is
But I do know how it feels
I just watched you barely cross the street
I can't imagine you making it
Wherever you're going tonight
So if you die
I hope there's **** in heaven
But if you by some miracle don't
I hope rock bottom's not to far down
And that one day you get clean
And start to make amends
So you can remember what it's like to dream
And if that day ever does come
Do me a favor
Sit on your father's lap
Sleep in your mother's bed
And hug your little brother
Because there's a girl he could use some help with
No matter what you've done
Or how much pain you've caused
Through the twitching
The nervous glances
The weight loss
You're still somebody's daughter
I know you
I understand you
Enjoy your lunch
Jan 4, 2010
Jan 4, 2010 at 10:26 AM UTC
GMO foods punch holes in cells
permeate the gut, creating gaps in guts
Leading to food floating in bloodstreams, rivers of pain
Food allergies, ulcers, IBS .... these are the milder troubles
I won't speak of IBD, Cancer and Crohns disease
Babies born now allergic to foods, children allergic more than ever
They said, though the BT injected crops killed bugs, bursting their bellies
that they were still safe for humans....They were wrong!
Now these GMO crops are causing a myriad of gastro problems in people!
Food crops are now Roundup ready in the
Killing Fields.
Videos to watch:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=FS72J9bDvPM&feature;=relmfu
www.youtube.com/watch?v=6D3TUk-XX1o&feature;=relmfu
TOP FOODS TO AVOID (unless labeled organic)
Corn
Soy
Potatoes
Canola, Cottonseed Oils
Sugar, fructose, corn syrup
Dairy - except organic
Tomatoes - except organic
Papaya/Hawaiian
Helpful links:
www.naturalnews.com/035734_GMOs_foods_dangers.html
http://truefoodnow.org/
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 10:39 PM UTC
Great Old Britain, What A Joke,
Made Our Wealth Off Of Black People's Backs,
Whips & Lashes, Tongue Tastes Of Ashes.
Ever After War,
We Use Them For More,
While Giving Them Less,
But Ulcers & Stress.
"We Will Deport Their Children." Now That Is An Insult!
Home Office From May To Rudd,
Hostile Environment Now That Is Pure Mud.
They Are Us & We Are Them, They're Are British You're Just Phlegm.
Politicians Just Make Me Spew,
You May Not Care!
But What If That's You?
What If That Mum,
What If That's Gran, I'd Set The Country Alight & Watch As They Ran!
I'd Turn The Streets Into Rage,
We'll Write A New Page,
Begin A New Age,
We'll Set A New Stage.
Wealthy White Corpses,
Buried In Orchards,
Peace Out Of Turmoil,
Released From This Coil.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 3:48 AM UTC
I live where a man rubbing
White shoe cream on his leather loafers has ulcers
From malnutrition and constant cassava.
Where a man’s sister loves his Fossil watch
And avocados, but gives
The whole fruit to her hate child.
The road is walked in the morning by
Rwandans, the jerry cans on their heads wetting their chests
With water from the spigot, half an hour away.
Nike shoes are unstitched, laces
Washed white daily and
The drinking water is gone by seven p.m.
I live where black people go thirsty keeping
Their sneakers white; throats dry each morning
While lacing their shoes.
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 1:03 PM UTC
you hurt like ache
and adderall
and arnica
you hurt like bruises
and battle scars
and broken bones
you hurt like cuts
and *******
and countryside
you hurt like death
and destruction
and die-hard
you hurt like electricity
and emergency rooms
and edit-undo
you hurt like **** you's
and fire
and fallen trees
you hurt like garbage cans
and gonorrhea
and gang ****
you hurt like hell
and holes in the road
and heartache
you hurt like israel
and illness
and ignition fumes
you hurt like jaundice
and jugular veins
and jack in the box
you hurt like karma
and kissing
and kerosine lamps
you hurt like lightning
and love
and literary terms
you hurt like mother
and mary
and moses
you hurt like nakedness
and nosebleeds
and nervous breakdowns
you hurt like oil spills
and old yeller
and oral quizzes
you hurt like parkinson's
and parties
and panic
you hurt like queens
and questions
and quantum physics
you hurt like rogaine
and roses
and rope burn
you hurt like solar power
and stomach aches
and ***
you hurt like teeth cleanings
and tar
and tobacco
you hurt like ulcers
and underwear
and unrequited love
you hurt like viruses
and venus fly traps
and vapor rub
you hurt like warning signs
and weight gain
and war
you hurt like x-rays
and x marks the spot
and xoxo
you hurt like your mom
and your dad
and you
you hurt like zig zags
and zero
and zip ties
(a.m.c.)
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
Framed so poetically, there it stays
Never steps out of its flimsy boundary line but
it takes in everything with him
Inside a a static sea frame, there
roam all the wild guesses you
took:
all blue
all trapped, as erratic and diminishing as it was named.
Was you were to throw that time when
you tried to take to the sea
all into it?
There is no need to make me open my eyes to see something as obvious as this for a even a blind man can see it so crystal clear
in his pitch black vision
I'm closing my eyes and hope it stops
but
***I remember waking up
somewhere in midnight term
drowning in salty seas
and making bitter coffee to
recede the former taste.
I found your diary on the sea
shore with all of the demerara
sugar sand
disconnecting wires in my mind
with overflowing water in the
bathtub
and getting electrocuted.
Alarms when off buzzing with
tick tocks
I found myself with
a pacemaker also
your dying digital clock you had
since forever, displaying
blurs of phobia***
Am I wrong to be trying
to breath underwater
Would it be right to despise
the blue sea that should soothes us
that turned grey for all our
fears we threw in without hesitate
I put all of my fears into this sea,
as a glitched version of your
deceiving eye hue,
demerara sugar on the edge of
your lips lingering in my coffee
chronomentrophobia oh thalassophobia,
yet I was to choose between icy cold ocean air and
falling into clocks' icicle-like hands.
This
is much of an error as it is
a tsunami washing us with a tide of heartache like
over sugared coffee with still bitter taste that melted into
my inner cheeks when I had ulcers
and
you wearing wristwatch while holding my hands.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
at the age of 8
i was diagnosed
with celiac disease
gluten left holes within
my stomach
ulcers grew on the walls
and wreaked havoc
within my body
now at the age of 21
i consume gluten
without a second thought
leaving the pains within
feeling like death
it is kind of funny
in a way
as i am getting older
i am realizing
i've been eating gluten
these past few years
as a way of killing myself
as a way of letting all
of the darkness win
as a way of letting
myself feel pain
if not emotionally
than physically
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 2:48 AM UTC
Mading relieves Manute from guard duty.
They share a meagre meal of millet porridge before
Manute returns to the refugee nation of southern Sudan.
The noon sun is a harsh sentence for a parched tongue but
they talk not of coffee or juice-laden fruit and
rice and lentils are mountain memories their stomachs can ill afford.
Instead they curse the clear skies that rain only strafing jets and
pray for their dry-breasted wives on pilgrimage to the aid station
carrying children swollen with the promise of death.
They snarl rumours about al-Bashir’s lapdogs
in Khartoum growing fat on food intended for them.
Jason waits, informed by cell phone of Laurie's imminent arrival.
He orders a wheat beer, its earth tone inviting on a silver tray and
its musky sweetness washing away a morning of phone business.
The noon sun is a warm blessing through the picture window but
they talk not of haloed hills or the light-laden river and
recession and retrenchment are market memories their ulcers can ill afford.
Instead they debate '63 cabernet versus '74 chablis and
moan about their reconstructed wives driving halfway across town
carrying children swollen with the promise of private schooling.
They snarl rumours about Key's cabinet
in Wellington while wolfing crayfish and Steak Diane.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
froths in lichen:
gushing on its bark,
it looks like pollen
was smeared on in
yellow gouache,
ulcers spread to lick
on to each branch.
I let it take over
in the way you
spread your arms
over bed and torso,
in the way your kiss
through the mornings
paint my cheeks red.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
Five bedroom house, in estate
BMW, best of late
Cocktail wife, with breast inflate
Kids at play, on playmate
Mr. Jones, my best mate
Repossession of cars, on that date
A victim of my ego, I’ve become
Before dawn, on treadmill I run
Contracts, forecasts, reports my day begun
Sorry, I’ll be late, for supper ***
At home, after the sun
I promise, tomorrow, we’ll play my son
A victim of my ambition, I’ve become
Almost all, my hair turned grey
Its ulcers, that’s what the doctor say
My secretary, she led me astray
For another drink, I will stay
Tonight alone, in my house I lay
A victim of myself, I’ve become
Dec 29, 2009
Dec 29, 2009 at 8:47 PM UTC
A square, squat room (a cellar on promotion),
Drab to the soul, drab to the very daylight;
Plasters astray in unnatural-looking tinware;
Scissors and lint and apothecary's jars.
Here, on a bench a skeleton would writhe from,
Angry and sore, I wait to be admitted:
Wait till my heart is lead upon my stomach,
While at their ease two dressers do their chores.
One has a probe--it feels to me a crowbar.
A small boy sniffs and shudders after bluestone.
A poor old ***** explains his poor old ulcers.
Life is (I think) a blunder and a shame.
1.7k
It is so hard to swallow pills whole
they fight you at every effort
and when the day comes that you have swallowed too many,
your tongue will try and push them out
begging you
to please stop,
to live with the headache, the stomach ache, the pulled muscles and joint pain.
Refusing to be sixty at seventeen, you ignore it
and force yourself to swallow.
Anything to stay loose
and to stop the pounding in my head.
Stomach ulcers, blood clots
Doctors say I'm a hypochondriac
I know that I am
but the pills help
they do
all the asprin and ibuprophin
I think my body is half Clariton
Reverse bulimia
I make myself swallow
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC
Its the feeling you get when your mind is a war zone, a warped home where grimmy thoughts roam, with no guidance or support zone, your so frightened to fight it on your own. More poems of suicide and self harm, you ever dreamt you died and felt calm? Just a truant mind with health crimes, help cant cure a ruined life in Hell's palms. You fell in to a ditch and because of it popping bottles of pills that you mixing your ***** with, then nodding off a bit picturing god and all of it, a doctors on the phone telling you to ***** it. Consistently monitored, the alcohol, the quiting , the six, seven seizures, its the moment a schizophrenic freezes, hearing a voice that whispers when it pleases, the vigilant bulimic, the obsessive and compulsive,the bipolar mood swing and stomach ulcers. Its the hidden issues that the medicine alters. Its the judgmental that the depression repulses ,the anxiety, the psychs with the notes, the post traumatic stress and the vices to cope. The prices of dope,the ice in the pipe that you smoke. The knife the rope, the temptation of slicing your throat. Its the stigma determined to scare you, when the bourbon your served is your urgent repairer. When not feeling nervous becomes rarer and your mom quits her job to become your permanent carer. Its the psychotic episodes, the days that you lost seeking help, but being crazy isn't something I am ashamed to admit, so stay strong anybody who relates to this, please.
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 9:58 PM UTC
Livid, then the jogging man pushing his child with cerebral palsy glided beside me, and I felt sick with petty spite.
I ran to the building for the nearest bathroom and vomited back every saccharine word I ever breathed into your mouth.
Excuse the blood, the ulcers you left are raw today.
I haven’t eaten joy or devoured love since while putting your blouse back on, I came up behind you and kissed the back of your neck and whispered that next to your eyes, that was my favorite part of your body.
I washed the spite and ***** out of my mouth with tap water and shame, they both tasted metallic against my tongue, like biting too hard and the jolt of tines on teeth.
I bit the fork and tasted regret and chipped enamel.
Is that what his tongue tastes like for you?
When you kiss his neck, does part of you still taste my skin?
The smell of the ocean that you only ever visited once, but every day for more than a year.
Do your fingers ever expect to tangle themselves in the seaweed of my curly hair?
I've been trying to remember your scent. You smelled of running through apple orchards, the sweat and the blossoms on the air whipping between trees and seaweed curls, the ocean.
I can only remember the taste of sea salt and chipped teeth.
But when you taste his lips, do you ever taste the salt of me?
Do you ever smell the ocean in the air, the ocean on my lips?
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 2:12 AM UTC
Stomach ulcers wait for me
acid reflux looms
Bloated Belly
Backend bother
Doctors waiting rooms.
And still I wolf down whiskey
and guzzle gassy stout
and wake at dawn
a can in hand
in the middle of a roundabout.
For whats the point of living
if living is a chore
some love life without drinking
I find I enjoy it more.
Apr 6, 2011
Apr 6, 2011 at 9:22 AM UTC
Troglodytism. get betwixt thy cave **** rats. amass!!! beyond the wooded canvas of life.
and lay beside thy corpse of agony
in the pits of all foul'd demon beknownst to thou's angst.
there lay the chalice of life.
Oh to lay in the darkness'
o' to bask in the decadence of no light.
Anti heat
forth go ye unto distraction.
To over sensual
to photopic cancer
all bio centric failure that reveals itself in the concord of vestige
only one
only one who's skin, brines to salt. Only one who's writhed on the depth of the cave
sub terrain.
Becoming convoluted
with ulcers. In the brain.
Stomach
esophagus.
Till veins squelch the blood from oxygen as gills. Sea water.
till muscle over sinews, Myomeres.
till acts of mycotic deprecations elude your own grey. Destruction.
And sap what is left
the bends corrode all health.
You eek out a full metabolism.
You finish all hopes with each loathsome meal intake.
death.
Oysters take over.
They create their home
shell of man.
Disabled to a merman, made, morose.
Barnacles infest recesses,
chasms that held mountains of bountiful moral.
Filled till bursting in the case fit for a brain,
but these ocean vermin walk the tightropes of this goblins neural bag.
Tearing each synapse.
Like the innards of a necrotic recluse.
I am the dying vagabond of the ocean.
Finally succumbing to its ethereal pitch covered floor,
where no reflections mourn for me
and ghost wail me no remorse,
as I metamorphose.
Into, detritus.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
There's an emptiness inside of me
That I've been doing my best to avoid
Words used to fill the hollow spot
As deeply as the humans I once knew
But slowly they all slipped out
And left a bottomless well
That burns like rotgut whiskey and ulcers
There's an emptiness inside of me
That I choose to ignore
I take my mind off of it with small adventures,
Afternoon beers,
Late night cocktails,
Early morning ****** Mary's
And whatever semblance of interaction I can procure.
There's an emptiness inside of me
That I've been trying to ignore
But it has grown vicious teeth
And jagged talons
It tears me apart from the inside out
But you'll never see it on my face
Or hear it in my voice
There's an emptiness inside of me
That I've done what I can to ignore
But the emptiness inside of me is mine
And I'll walk with it to Death's door.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
Twerk it, girl
no no no
more thinking
smiles
slightly tipsy
no spine, all hips
more tipsy
like that, sir?
Sure you do
**** and fully aware
shorts, just that,
enough to make men blush
flush and profusely excuse themselves
overcome with instinct
instead
poor girl
she wants the attention
to be seen and not touched
like a museum exhibit
behind glass
delicate, fragile, beautifully preserved butterfly
dancing like a *****
respected like a scientist
can't have it all
actions become perception
dancing like that
you better get naked just as well,
going to be late for class tomorrow
call a cab
this girl's good to go
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 9:59 PM UTC
there's something in these long rainy afternoons, laying naked beneath the sheets alone with wandering hands in an empty house that echoes with my moans and i love the excitement of leaving the windows open so my neighbours can hear that i'm not entirely joyless without you
i'm so lonely i would **** myself on the porch just for a little bit of attention , like a glance off the street from a stranger could ever equal the look of intensity in your eyes as you ****** between my thighs
my fingers taste how i remembered yours each night, a taste of skin and sweat and *** , i miss the way you felt on my tongue how you made me feel powerful and good as every drop rolled wet down my throat
those sour japanese lollies you mailed to me tore my mouth up with ulcers, but still they could never treat me as roughly as you
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
Am I too young to be this responsible,
yet worried and stressed and anxious?
I thought the crippling sense
of the entirety of life, love, death,
and all that lies in-between
does not infect a person
until her mid-life.
Here I am, creating ulcers
in my stomach and little else,
with adolescent acne on my cheeks,
a crush on the boy
in my spanish class,
and an analysis of
the inner workings
of the universe
consuming what little
thought space
I still possess.
Meanwhile those in mid-life,
with books full of
knowledge and experience,
cannot understand.
"Grow up,
be responsible,
fix the mess we left you,"
they chant every day.
Why can't they see in my eyes
that my attempts can
never
be
enough?
I can see your world
it is too big,
too complicated,
too negative,
I will not survive it at any rate.
The stress
will
eat
me
alive.
The stress
is eating
me alive.
I am too young for this.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 2:48 AM UTC