"undigested" poems
Animal Crackers and my soup
Undigested in my ****
All the food I ate today
Coming out in the same way
Uncontrollable urge to strain
Even though it causes pain
My poor sphincter it does burn
And my guts just churn and churn
Pepto Bismol my old friend
Go right now and put an end
To the horrible, rancid flow
Burning my **** as it does go
Cramping spasms all day long
Something I ate went horribly wrong
Could it be the salad or bread?
Or maybe something not quite dead?
Perhaps it was the chicken or stew
Or the fish, boo hoo hoo!
I'm just praying for an end
So my **** can start to mend
And then suddenly to my surprise
That nasty flow simply dies
Gleefully I start to wipe
But then as I start to swipe
I hit a very tender spot
That feels like it is now red hot
Now the Charmin feels real rough
Like tree bark or abrasive stuff
I finish wiping with great care
While the pain I grin and bear
At last I stand and flush with glee
That nasty stuff that came from me
A moment later to my shagrin
I feel the urge to sit again
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC
Some of the first mecha featured in manga
& anime were super robots [スーパーロボット _sūpā robotto_],
ultimate, sometimes transforming into weapons
w/ superpowers. They are often one of a kind
products of an ancient civilization, aliens or
mad genius, are usually piloted by Japanese teenagers
& often powered by mystical or exotic energy sources;
Getter Rays, Photonic Energy, Ide, Spiral Power &c.
Sometimes they are formed from
a combination of a few weaker robots;
their abilities described as "quasi-magical";
w/ Miss America becoming less & less
a beauty pageant, it's only a matter of time
before Medusa inherits the mantle;
the revived gods of the ancient world
crossing the rainbow bridge to do battle w/
high-tech monster robots; AI meaning nothing to a flying fist;
Apotheosis, from Greek ἀποθέωσις from ἀποθεοῦν,
apotheoun "to deify"; in Latin deificatio "make divine";
also called divinization & deification;
is the glorification of a subject to divine level;
The term has meanings in theology, where it refers to a belief in art where it refers to a genre;
Defecation is the final act of digestion,
by which organisms eliminate solid, semisolid,
or liquid waste material from the digestive tract via the ****
Humans expel feces w/ a frequency varying
from a few times daily to a few times weekly;
Waves of muscular contraction known as peristalsis
in the walls of the colon move ***** matter
through the digestive tract towards the ******
Undigested food may also be expelled this way,
in a process called _egestion_
Open defecation, the practice of defecating outside
w/out using a toilet of any kind,
is still widespread in some countries,
for example in India, home of the
heroic deities of Hinduism that evolved
from the Vedic era 2nd millennium BCE
through the medieval era, 1st millennium CE
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC
My friend and I have names for each other when we need to channel our inner divas. Mine is Beyonce Pad Thai.
Beyonce Pad Thai doesn’t care what you think because she’s too busy caring about what she thinks!
Beyonce Pad Thai doesn’t put up with your **** because **** is literally digested waste and she demands undigested life. The life you use to the fullest without any waste!
Beyonce Pad Thai has goals you didn’t even know were possible. She knows they’re possible because she writes them down every. single. day. She works towards them every. single. day. and the universe gives her exactly what she asks for.
Beyonce Pad Thai doesn’t take offense to your words because she knows words come out of us and therefore they live in us and when we exhale them they’re more about us than the person they hit on the way out.
Beyonce Pad Thai is so awesome and fun she knows time spent with her is a gift. When she gives you that gift and your lack of appreciation is apparent she has no problem taking it away and giving that gift to others.
Beyonce Pad Thai is done talking about you now. She wants to find herself, in the crack of a newly opened book, in the b flat of a new flute song, in the sizzling sounds of a new recipe, in the times new roman of a dream job offer, in the middle of a twirl during her new favorite song, in the new comfort outside her comfort zone.
10/22/2016 Amanda Powell
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 8:53 PM UTC
Sirious ********
Study is ********
Will you let me be.
There'll be other days
to write more poetry.
Smirking, missed you too.
She's studying with language barrier,
under repression.
Taking years to slowly do
what we can accomplish in a day.
I see, but what are we to accomplish?
Blow it up? rip it down? to rebuild?
or embroider?
Like repairing a tapestry.
Fill the in gaps,
complete her story with hard data
and prettier pictures.
Half on one hand, six in the other.
Make do and mend.
Change the world for a second
Which of us drew the short straw again?
Zzzzxxx
Tripping over myself and our humongous marriage of minds.
Apologies.
Apogee.
Nadir
©Atalanta Undigested, 2013. All Rights Reserved.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
a confessional screen
chambered in opaques
the pearly gates would sport
checkers sovereignty with grime
between myself
and the other side of this poem
another acolyte had founted
from our species-widened narthex-maw
the answer to the test
the answer i have tested since
despite the veto of a roshi's sleeve
while adults justify in frowns and threats
commandment-etched
i am a child still
aghast at drawing lines in sand to mark the living
from the soon to die
one i knew who drew such lines
for whom a line was drawn to mark himself as well
not just in votes and homeland hate-speech
you see
he crossed the line
no unadulterated childhood can cross
he shot his own face
or at least his face was shot
when he was found
who can read the final lonely moments of another
when mistakes are easier than ownmost acts ?
bombing bullies politicking death
can sanctify the safe
unpunctuated traps
dividing moods in swallows
pills
swilled with undigested fear
of nozzled death
mercilessly sudden
.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
I am quiet. Not silent.
It might be hard to understand the difference, but there is one.
Believe me, this once.
I have spoken, screamed, begged, prayed, all of it raw and angry and loud, and it has been too unpalatable for digestion.
Ignored and left behind on plates.
The suffocation of having words lodged in your throat, words that choke you to swallow, choke you to try to speak, because they are horrible.
And then they dribble out of your mouth, leaving behind the foul taste of their wretched shapes, and the putrid stench of those horrible words makes heads turn away.
The words unheard, the wounds unseen.
Except neither of those are true, because I have spoken them within your hearing, I have shown them beneath your eyes.
So not unseen, not unheard, undigested and ignored for your own rotten convenience. Sometimes worse. Questioned and made less of.
I burn brighter than any pit in hell; rage hotter than 5,779 K searing me from the inside out.
The fire could peel me apart, my skin clawing away beneath my fingernails to expose the flames that would set all before me ablaze, the flames that are hidden beneath my bones.
And wouldn’t it be fair? For consequences to finally exist?
I am no longer the same, irrevocably different from that girl who might once have existed, who believed in fairness.
I am hate, and anger, sometimes only this red burning fury, no more. Red that crashes down upon me in unending waves that erode me further each time.
I swish it around in my mouth, considering the taste: defeat. Injustice I must make peace with, rather than repay. Because I can’t. How?
I spoke. You didn’t listen. You didn’t believe.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
This is a story about a man who ate love.
An odyssey of his tumultuous travels up above.
Coveting confection, he licked the sweet kiss.
Starving for affection, he swallowed the poor miss.
She lived inside his stomach for years.
Undigested and pretty, she slept in his fears.
Speaking in groans and abdominal aches.
At night, his disemboweled soul, in torment, shakes.
Insufferable disgust and miserably alone.
He prayed in hunger, in agony, to atone.
For once falling in love with a lady of wit.
He threw her up; a meal of true grit.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
I Can't Breathe Easy
In This Chamber Air
My Family Was Made
To Submit Before Them
Their Fattest Soldier Farts
With A Mask On His Face
And We Were Made To Smell
The Stench Of Undigested Meal
Stuck We're Inside This Gas Chamber
Somebody Be Our Saviour & Protect Us!!!
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
Is what you fear death?
Only alone...
I remember, I was upset about love.
My heart was broken by the last time.
The times I did it to myself.
The time before when I did it to you,
The time did you did to me.
We are committed
To find ways to forgive each other,
as I asked you to do for me.
Each of us amazed by the other's perception,
capacity for acceptance of others,
as examples of human nature.
Copyright ©2013 Atalanta Undigested. All rights reserved.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 9:03 PM UTC
***he rises early, well before the premature, minutest hints of early dawn,
cradling tenderized words, from a silent marinating mind withdrawn,
some spices harvested from the soil's mortality of daily strife, others,
manna gifts of wild floral tenderness, plucked from Eve's tree of life
neither gardener nor chef, the fruits of his labor, are product of
a mothers mind's silent back labor, emerging with no notice or invitation, spilt from lips unmoving, eyes shuttered, fingers ungloved
ministering a Temple sacrifice of plain psalms authored but un-titled
some spark ignition causes a key reversal, from motionless to motion,
moving with no in-between, words simmering, from seeds unknown,
the dishe's integrity questioned, but it births itself, uncaring, eagerly, willing copied from cavern decorations of rude, wall drawings
almost fully formed, though untasted and undigested, a savant smell
provokes a leap from placid prone, to upright and seated upon the
throne of his writing desk, can one*** divine ***a recipe from odor alone,
thus claiming authorship of an untitled dish, one that can't be recreated?***
sets it down before you uncovered, with a lustrous screen of silk damask,
plated on Royal Worcester fine bone china, yet, without any utensils,
asking you to ken this work,
**eat this poem, with bare hands,
love it as if it was your own first born,
consumed/consuming
a strange but familiar spirit**
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC
My mind is unstable
I don't know, if I am capable
To withdraw the gruesome feeling
Developing inside me everyday
I try to divert, to give space for healing
But the negatives crosses my way
I remain silent most of the time
Unable to fight, as my anger takes to prime
Voices inside my head start their taunting
I hide my head under a pillow for it to stop
My own thoughts has started haunting
I felt I was on a huge cliff top
Freely falling,
To what lays beneath the dark meadows
My own undigested cruel shadows
Cuffed up, smothering, while I struggle to get out
Even my voice stopped echoing my shout
I am completely consumed by my leverage thoughts
So many tangles, so many knots
I may never be able to free myself from myself
For I can not run away for what's unseen
Inside my physical head to oneself
But if you know what I mean,
then this place within yourself you've already seen...
©sim
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 11:20 PM UTC
after Atalanta Undigested - http://hellopoetry.com/-atalanta-undigested/
Phyllotaxis in bunches and bracts
Raisins and almonds
Twice baked
Scattered through crisp loaf
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 12:02 PM UTC
Cuando estas muerto,
quiero su alma para mio.
Porque
Su alma es como el sol
Sin caprichos
Quiero saber que tu alma es para mi
Quiero que me asustes con
Lo radiente y lo bello de tu ceguera
This poem is a collaboration. Second couplet was assisted by Atalanta Undigested & Edourdo Siller
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 9:37 AM UTC
{ Do those moments of, sort of returning
An unwanted favor
( To some pre-labelled "Victim" )
Silence the rage and
Undigested trauma
In sharp slurs and bitten beatings? }
Soft-spoken and fragile ramblings and
Strumming of chords
Under moonlight.
Torn visionaries speaking in
Luminaries;
Twilight tea bags and broken sandals.
Starting off...
Beginning nervous,
Mistaken by another's train of thought, but
Ever blissful and convinced;
Knowing all the time.
Searching for a moment...
THE moment!
A sudden explosion!
Dazed on faith, maybe, or drunk on inspiration!
Things that may be someday, but either way-
True courage, this thing,
This magic called faith!
Just humble spirits,
Full-bellied spirits
With restless limbs and
Fluorescent wings, invisible.
Rustic sincerity and understanding;
Glasses over swollen azule eyes...
Distillation of hymns
And smoke;
Coffee stained and
Delusional in a pill popping coma!
Whisked away by b-flat, and ones lust for harmonies.
Shooting
Bows and arrows
Aimed at the farthest lushest niche
In the sky;
Opening and closing like a door.
Always becoming!
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 10:18 PM UTC
baby birds collapsed on concrete
i wonder if she gave them names
before they fell & became jelly
drenched in their own **** & shame
with limbs bent like accordions
after bursting from a broken egg
their infancy spread evenly
across the sidewalk's face.
& when the flies came floating in
to feast on bloated intestines
filled with food undigested
exploding out of rubber ribs
i wonder if the mother sits
watching from a skyward limb
mourning for her fallen kids
or if she's flirting with the worms
& already forgotten them.
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 6:47 AM UTC
In London-
a hollowed out city-
the fog
is returning-creeping
back-
A poisonous invisible/white
sheet
salivating over
supine cars, insinuating
its baptismal
seed
into open mouths-
sinking into gutters
emerging undigested
from empty drains.
it crawls around the Shard
clutches
each ancient bridge
yellowing
in its pilgrimage
it has returned-
IT
The Thing-
ghastly
in its plans.
A resurrection
that requires no death!
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC
impressed by blessings expressed
my guess is the cesspool confessed
undigested fresh shoots shoot forth
at stressed guests with repressed ******
sweet caresses in the rest area
treat processionals with hysteria
fleeting pedestrians thin with dysentery
imagined thespians acting accordingly
elder accordionist shakes liver spotted fists
at lists written in jest
by **** drunk sisters with wrist rockets
and bobby sock pocket protectors
knobby kneed sarcasm injectors
deflect suggestions relating to indigestion
and pander to the discretion of their own reflections
in conclusion the union mission’s position remains
to refrain from insisting on persistent revolutionaries
wearing terry cloth togas
in the merry moth of May --
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 5:25 PM UTC
hate to *****
can’t stand the protest
of an upset stomach, the heave
of bile and undigested food,
the carve of acid in the esophagus.
okay, i don’t like that part much myself.
but i do like the cool porcelain on
my face, the solid of tile beneath
my **** most of all, i like my belly
emptied, even temporarily,
of food.
of fat.
of pain.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 2:24 PM UTC
What if we are nothing more
than the delirium of a dream
some figment of undigested madness
in the bowels of a god
dying from starvation
in the belly of a worm
as it writhes from dehydration
baking helplessly in the sun
so dangerously close to oblivion
yet so obliviously unaware
sleeping through our lives
to avoid the pain of the disappointment
of not living out our dreams
and what if it is so easy
as opening our eyes
to see what it is
that we could be
if we dared ourselves
to step beyond our potential
and reach past
what we thought
was beyond our reach
What if?
What if we could become
something more beautiful than love
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC
If the first few lines were really true
you wouldn't have posted the rest.
Misery loves company.
Why?
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
I cannot remember the name of that priest who died in agony
with his arms around the tree of ignorance. Under his body
lay the black scattered shards of his sacred vow of denial
to the monument of shadows, and the skin of a fruit uneaten.
Nearly all our words, all our truths, are pretense — or at best strangers
met on a road a thousand years ago, held with the eye in a wordless moment
and then lost to the dusk-lit air of remembrance.
Lord make me chaste, said the Saint, but not yet.
The banana’s skin does not ask why it has been thrown aside
and left undigested beside the path lit by lovers and darkened by gods.
Not every life can be a chalice; not every name can be spoken. All, however,
though they clutch with their last grasp at the tree of ignorance, can teach.
Mar 29, 2010
Mar 29, 2010 at 9:11 PM UTC
We live in a world of undigested hatred
We salivate over shadows of malice
We don’t know who or where to turn to
We’re far from milk mountains and the crystal palace
We take baths to drive sadness from our minds
Cause after all, all life is a trial
When we’re awake we’re flooded with fiends
****** impulses sneak into our dreams
Infirmities restrain us from reaching true grace-
Let alone knowing our place
Some tremble at the thought of true praise
But speaking in tongues requires no wage
Light is the king of colors, defeating sinners’ oil
What goes up comes down, just as the victor’s spoils
If you see God, be sure to say hello
And keep some yoke for your wounded halo
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 12:10 PM UTC
By living alone i am escaping a haunted house. to leave is to be spat out undigested, a bone picked clean of meat but spared the marrow. it was always me who refused to be easily swallowed. it was always you who hated that.
We both know this haunting didn’t seep out from the walls, it was set in every room. (you made sure of that.) in such a space, articles of comfort are more unpleasant than bare walls - far worse than nothingness, they are marks of you. it is true you have built a home. but it is not my home.
Your haunting is pristine, white walls and tasteful furniture. beautiful but unwilling to be dwelt in. in polished mirrors, everyone is dirt. at least a gutted, rotting place could have been somewhere someone like me was loved, some long time ago. even claimed by mould and time such a house is less of a haunting than any space shared with you. at least i can imagine those crumbling walls as having once been the pillars of a life. at least among them i am clean.
if you are a leech, i am water, part of blood but never enough, you consume more than i alone can give you. you consume more than i would part with, even if i could.
if a home with you is a haunting, a house alone is a half dug grave.
but at least theres work left to do.
at least i wont be rotting alongside you.
Mar 2, 2021
Mar 2, 2021 at 8:50 PM UTC
i dare say, silent movie in the genre of horror?
Sven and me, no, not Geoffrey or Norbert,
Sven, the coconut,
donned a red woollen glove on his coconut
scalp and told him: you're a cockerel alarm
clock from now on; Sven liked it,
i told him: you're not a bowling ball,
you've just chewed cashews
in your mouth socket, and now the
undigested pulp; if not then off to the
bowling alley with you - ah my sweet
tropical island smurf / cannibal necklace
skull of a little monkey of imitated kindred
physiognomy, oh pooh bear, pooh.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 8:56 PM UTC