"urea" poems
Is this true
darling
what I hear
that the cult you submitted o
won’t let you see mum and dad?
And little Tom you left behind?
That the leader takes you nights
to tell you
God wants him to
explore your body and give Him an account?
Is this true
darling
what I hear?
that the cult you submitted to
has convinced you
Last Days are here
and in the fear of it all
you **** in your pants?
O lucky you
you’re the chosen one
you make holy water
so call in your cult
and let them drink it
or let them all lick it off your legs
tell them
darling
*‘Here drink of this
the holy water
or lick it off
salt and urea
produced with faith and fear’*
Give it back to the cult
tell them it is benediction
of Last Days
and they who drink it
will be amongst the elect
and those who lick it off
will sit on the right hand side of God;
and darling
produce prodigious amounts
as in the time of the Great Flood
tell them to queue and not squabble
there’s plenty for everyone of you
and if they say
they’re hungry
if you could
bring in holy food
tell them
a visit to the Scurvy Dogs Pound
can easily be arranged
O is this true
darling
what I hear?
that the intelligence
and mind
nature took so long to make in you
you blew it
on charlatans and nincompoops
and yourself became one?
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 11:39 PM UTC
Is this true
darling
what I hear
that the cult you submitted o
won’t let you see mum and dad?
And little Tom you left behind?
That the leader takes you nights
to tell you
God wants him to
explore your body and give Him an account?
Is this true
darling
what I hear?
that the cult you submitted to
has convinced you
Last Days are here
and in the fear of it all
you **** in your pants?
O lucky you
you’re the chosen one
you make holy water
so call in your cult
and let them drink it
or let them all lick it off your legs
tell them,
darling:
‘Here drink of this
the holy water
or lick it off
salt and urea
produced with faith and fear’
Give it back to the cult
tell them it is benediction
of Last Days
and they who drink it
will be amongst the elect
and those who lick it off
will sit on the right hand side of God;
and darling
produce prodigious amounts
as in the time of the Great Flood
tell them to queue and not squabble
there’s plenty for everyone of you
and if they say
they’re hungry
if you could
bring in holy food
tell them
a visit to the Scurvy Dogs Pound
can easily be arranged
O is this true
darling
what I hear?
that the intelligence
and mind
nature took so long to make in you
you blew it
on charlatans and nincompoops
and yourself became one?
Oct 28, 2010
Oct 28, 2010 at 2:44 AM UTC
El puño labrador se aterciopela,
y en cruz en cada labio se aperfila.
Es fiesta! El ritmo del arado vuela;
y es un chantre de bronce cada esquila.
Afílase lo rudo. Habla escarcela...
En las venas indígenas rutila
un yaraví de sangre que se cuela
en nostalgias de sol por la pupila.
Las pallas, aquenando hondos suspiros,
como en raras estampas seculares,
enrosarian un símbolo en sus giros.
Luce él Apóstol en su trono, luego;
y es, entre inciensos, cirios y cantares,
el moderno dios-sol para el labriego.
Echa una cana al aire el indio triste.
Hacia el altar fulgente va el gentío.
El ojo del crepúsculo desiste
de ver quemado vivo el caserío. ,
La pastora de lana y llanque viste,
con pliegues de candor en su atavío;
y en su humildad de lana heroica y triste,
copo es su blanco corazón bravío.
Entre músicas, fuegos de bengala,
solfea un acordeónl Algún tendero
da su reclame al viento: "Nadie iguala!"
Las chispas al flotar lindas, graciosas,
son trigos de oro audaz que el chacarero
siembra en los cielos y en las nebulosas.
Madrugada. La chicha al fin revienta
en sollozos, lujurias, pugilatos;
entre olores de urea y de pimienta
traza un ebrio al andar mil garabatos.
"Mañana que me vaya..." se lamenta
un Romeo rural cantando a ratos.
Caldo madrugador hay ya de venta;
y brinca un ruido aperital de platos.
Van tres mujeres.. ., silba un golfo... Lejos
el río anda borracho y canta y llora
prehistorias de agua, tiempos viejos.
Y al sonar una caja de Tayanga,
como iniciando un huaino azul, remanga
sus pantorrillas de azafrán la Aurora.
1.5k
Laying on the saline scale beach,
barren,
staring at those vaguely African trees
while the breeze
claps with their leaves.
They applaud the
Tesla bitten thunderstorm
brewing on another shore,
its tar black clouds,
sticky with tobacco residue
&
plasma spit, flaunting
In the salty starlight.
& here we are.
Tangled in each other.
Tripping over lips
&
tumbling over mumbles,
we try desperately to vocalize
the scene that has comfortably
Presented itself.
Oh how that galactic beast
threw itself over the countryside,
skulking in southern wind
like a cliche heartbeat
running on urea
and ***** electricity.
We hoard our secrets
for nights like these.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
I'm smoking cigarettes
to the filiters, inhaling
carcinogens and rat poison
and urea like oxygen,
while you're dancing,
dancing around words
and the bedroom floor.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 11:49 AM UTC
Departing life, grandeur of elysium. Daylight and strife.
Mid-minimal ocular display, see it if you do.
The ****** morale is scaly and prickly as coral flowers, within
The rut of cornery blossoms, ransacked by pronghorns in rut.
America, corner of the second century. Title of the thermopolium and its Lintels. Chests of coals from where fox kin stuffed goose meat and wild fowl.
Anchors us into the Earth. Salt vibrations echo through narrow thickets of Grazers. Undulates flaunt urea on every cleft of green, this shelf of plateau, Any gall stone thrown this way or that way.
Underneath the hours, under nine, we sample ginger and sugar snaps under Our tongues. We race, like royal rats, through the timbrels, down the trail, Out into the outer-woods, down the ravines, up through the terrace where The hedgehogs go, and out to the quay and rills where father fits the stream With his string laps and lanterns. Margaret loves roe while I can barely stand Anything that breathes underwater. Except for the sharks, I am crazy for Them, how there quill-like teeth paint me into oblivion and my amazing Flight for death.
Mommy hates the subway, she says it's gritty and for trollops and beggars, But I say it's an adventure. We have our own tunnel, and George comes with us too. I wonder if his daughters in Cropredy come too, or if they have to. And papa taught me to listen for them. 1-2-3-4-5 CRASH!! 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10 BOOOM!!!! They fly over to us, from France papa says. It's the Germans he says, "but by '45 it'll all be done with, America can't keep its hands out of our pockets, and when they come everyone will go home." And I ask him,"Even George, even George will go home?" And so he told me no, not then. Not ever really.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
Today I ****** In The Sink.
couldn't hold it to aim toward the toilet,
I drank too much soda and I had to go *** bad
there my engine was cast went right for the sink
can't even wink to dismiss this earthly bliss with a time well spent in thought
In my experience, men who *** (or tip their *** bottles) down the sink, don't tip it straight down the plughole - they tip it down the sides of the sink first. They also decide to economise on water to the extent that they make no attempt whatsoever to rinse the *** off. This means that before long, like a few minutes as the water evaporates and the urea becomes concentrated, - YOUR SINK WILL STINK!!! And, as the sink always seems to be the one you want to brush your teeth in, this means that your first task in the morning is to scrub out the sink else half way through brushing your teeth you will suddenly feel rather ill and probably throw up down said sink, which will then need an even more thorough clean. But the sponge you scrub the sink out with will then need to be hidden from the rest of the family who will otherwise attempt to wash either themselves or the tea-cups with it. Our sink is a pretty basic one with a straight tube draining the waste water away, but if you have one with a u-tube thingie fitted, it will always retain some *** no matter how much water you use in a futile attempt to rinse it out, and every time you approach the sink your stomach will clench in fear of the stench that will rise from the plug hole as you reach for your toothbrush.
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC
They bombed the road on the
bridge to Crimea
bombed the pipe full of
gas, not urea
They imposed sanctions
on Putin
Flour salt yeast and gluten
But this Dam blast is
America's Korea
Jun 7, 2023
Jun 7, 2023 at 12:21 AM UTC