"urinating" poems
As a child
I would sometimes urinate in my sleep.
The warm wetness would turn cold, and wake me.
Ashamed, I’d take off my Pjs and crawl under the comfort of my Sister covers.
She was studying to be a teacher and taking courses in child psychology
About the time I started “bedwetting”.
Recognizing my unnecessary guilt, she told me not to be upset.
“If that ever happens, just spoon with me and we’ll take care of it in the morning.”
I did know what that meant.
Mother would get so mad.
Of course I had no idea why I would "wet the bed",
but she did.
Our Parents would often argue into the night.
And although I did not understand any of it,
like a dog,
I felt the tension.
I sensed the discourse in their voices.
It was the same discourse they used to scold me.
Therefore, I thought they were angry at me.
The silence was worse though.
Even though their biting tone would cease, I could still feel the smoldering anger.
The air was thick with it.
My Sister was a young woman, soon to be married and out of that hell.
She was the Mother I never had.
She had a huge black RCA transistor radio and use to put it next to my bed,
tuned to a Rock and Roll station.
I never knew why she did that until many years later.
It drowned out our Parents fighting.
The music became my solace.
“I like bread and butter, I like toast and jam”
And soon,
I stopped urinating in my sleep.
Of course the by-product of her intervention was
that I have been a professional musician and entertainer all of my life.
Music has been and always will be my solace.
It blocks out the arguing in the world.
thanks Sis
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
What has become of my lost brothers?
Trimmareus, the insane voice of the sensual pig,
who fled from his blue mural
to the land of jazz and muffaletas
only to discover the senselessness of clothes...
Peter, the pine tree apostle,
who paved the way to indifference
on a needle point, silently
prophesying the burning of Atlanta (in Atlanta)...
Time Crisis, the first disciple of
the salt or pepper Antichrist,
who physically assaulted his mind
in an attempt to defy gravity,
finally settling for three
squares and a cot...
Amante, the disturbed and uprooted lover,
who, by some accounts, fancied
urinating in the face of his
keepers.
All of these brothers have fallen,
cherub wings or no, and the
meek are left behind in
quiet speculation of our vain attempts
to ***** out these small campfires
of insurrection.
We have taken the low road,
carrying our hearts in wicker baskets
and our monkeys on our backs,
spitting and cursing about
time love money *** school work
life the safety bar money ***
violence apathy love and time
when we discover we do not have
the ones we feel we need.
(do you want peace?)
We cried over the death of the apostle
knowing he had martyred himself
for no particular reason, and
after vilifying his role and path,
attempted to follow his lead
into the night regardless
(I make peace.)
We vomited on the lover's dossier
in response to repeated professions
of innocence and conspiracy
at the hands of the merciless
system (created by sensuous hands).
The outsiders can see the dragon,
rising out of the depths
and whispering our demise like
sweet nothings in the ears of the
desperate hopeful;
(Come and be free in my sunshine.)
the beckoning of the crashing surf
and the beauty of the half sun
radiating and filtering our
reservations into happiness at the
acts we commit in its name
(Sacrifice to me your children's tongues and hearts,
send them away bleeding and crying.)
We are the pure of heart in
this sick land of Golgotha,
where the rain is only the urination
of our higher powers, the
soap we cleanse our souls with
and witness to others so
that they too can enjoy
this ancient bliss.
(Visit my website and see...)
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
Pardon me while I wipe this ******
spit out of my mouth.
Speak and write improperly
Bathe in holy water to wash
away the sins off my body
less charming and loving
then you would expect
it might not had been what it was
but it left a bad taste on my tongue. like taking five shots of whiskey
and licking your ashtray
I tried to stray far beyond
your ripped and shady nylons
the bloodletting on your stained sheets
where I will never sleep
try not to **** me on the way home
I should have stayed where I belong
the dark pool room
the underbelly of a red light saloon
I get paid again next Friday
not that im going to give you any
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
ruin my beautiful morning from
nine till 10 am. spare yourself refusal from
five till seven
thick thighs emotional charged
I have hard boiled eggs
a dog snoring on the floor
a pain in my neck
and my arms and ankles, their nerves are jumping towards the door
heat is up to high IM sweating
like you the *****
Bukowski wrote a song
it is scratching, the needle
typewriter with a loud roar
I cant recall the wine
but the short cigarettes were brown
eyes squinting
I listened like a boy to him, and you
you and your drunk salutes and slurs
commanding a performance from my soul
as if you were Sylvia
such a stupendous, gracious love story
IM haunted by your stare
I do not even think you are here
after all you are a ..... no,
there is really no time for this
the whiskey on my lips you adore
IM sick against a wall and
people are statues above spitting
their teeth below
statues on a wall urinating below
my angst kisses you all farewell
may my spirit fly today
pain grows in the dark
all ye gather,elephants in the room and hall
i hunker down under the blue glow
of the evening news
hiding from both of you
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
Million Star Hotel
That's where the man stay
Huddled up in a shop doorway
The traffic a lullaby
Room service from passes by
Million Star Hotel
Where a Million people stay
"What makes me laugh",he'd say
"Is that I think I smell"
"What makes me sad",then he'd say
"Is my loneliness.."
God has put survival in the air
I wake up with people urinating
Aiming for my ear
My face is cursed with an evil look
That my heart does not possess
But it's not that which makes me sad
What makes me sad is my...loneliness
My loneliness can fill evrey suitcase ever made
Fill evrey shoe that's ever been worn
It can crack a mountain
I've seen it outshine the stars at night
And I've seen it cast its shadow over the sun at dawn
Voluntarily...or...inevitably perhaps...
I some how engineered my social collaps
And so I checked in to the Million Star Hotel
Where I found my peace in the Epicenter of hell...
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 12:58 PM UTC
I drove down state road seventeen
without seeing a single car.
It was sunny, arguably first days of spring.
Mexican men worked in the apple orchards.
They stood on ladders, pruning branches in a cloud of pink apple blossoms.
Smoke streams from my window, static hangs over the voices on the radio.
I turn right at grainery, I find the first town for miles.
After a high narrow bridge over Snake River,
I pull off near an abandon barn and take a ****
I wonder how many people have killed themselves jumping from that bridge.
To live in isolation, and still be unable to escape. What do they run from?
There is no sound anywhere, except for me urinating.
Not the wind, nor animals, or machines. Only me.
Back on the road I drive on the edge of valley after valley.
The sun folds the sky into different shades.
The hills of the valleys are smooth from
millions of years of wind and rain.
The soil is thick with the silt of ashes, and sand.
The hills roll onward, almost forever.
I think back to the Mexican men working in the orchards.
Do they thank the rain, the silt, the rock?
Do I?
I approach my destination.
I greet my friend.
I observe his toddler as it learns to walk.
That night, my friend and I sit on stools.
In between drinks, I ask my friend,
"Do you thank the rain, the silt, and the rock?"
"When I remember to," he said.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 1:37 PM UTC
I looked at her like a blind man seeing for the first time,
I'm eighteen in my head and I don't know what i'm like,
I never thought i'd meet someone like me, I still don't think I will.
But I've met someone who understands me, and that's perfect.
Sometimes you meet someone, and even though you never liked blue eyes,
Like your own, you wouldn't have them any other colour.
One day you'll fall for this girl, she'll touch your body with her fingers,
She'll burn holes in your skin with her mouth, it hurts when you look at her,
and it hurts when you don't.
She stuck her soul inside me, after her fingers,
I'm not afraid to die anymore, cause like birds, and bees, and insects.
They all die after they ****
But the country scares me - people in the country scare me,
A man dumps the body of a girl in a ditch. The body rotts; Melts into the ground. Flowers pop up where the body lies, seeds fly out of the flowers, and a bee ***** the flowers and makes honey. And then the family of the girl buys the honey from the store. And the family eats the girl.
Her parents were probably a bunch of Helen Kellers. All they do is feel. That's what being a bird, or a bee, or an insect does to you. Then you end up eating your own children.
Being in the city can be equally frightening -
It's more of a; 'Don't keep calm and carry on, call in sick and get a tattoo.' mentality.
Chivalry is dead because you're wasted at Tiger Tiger wearing your twelve year old sisters clothes urinating and/or crying on the pavement whilst singing Blackstreet. Removing your false eyelashes in the morning and taking some rill ones along for the ride.
There's that awkward moment between life and death, for some.
Exit the womb they said, life will be great they said.
Maybe if we were all better at lying to each other, we could have had something good.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 6:21 PM UTC
Drunk I can honestly say it has been rare
for me to be in this condition.
Enjoying a social drink causing no trouble
in moderation should be the rule.
There are those where ***** is an addiction
for them drink has no restriction!
Going out each week clubbing a regular ritual
start drinking before they leave.
Alcohol on board before they get to the clubs
already unsteady on their feet!
Some it would take little to start any trouble
many ending in dirt and rubble!
Unable to control emotions more likely the fist
as they cause injury and damage!
Inhibitions self respect are now long forgotten
vomiting and urinating on the streets.
Police are busy as their numbers ever deplete
every week it's the same repeat!
Many are drunk and oblivious of those around
in a deep unconsciousness mode.
Far too many ready to cause extreme violence
others die on their night out!
Casualty units are overflowing with drunks
who act no better than punks!
Liquor one of the most addictive potions
causing misery for all who succumb!
A social problem for the nation to confront
as young people see no harm!
Drinking more now than their parents do
that's the indicator things are blue.
Everything in moderation is my own motto
but life today has become a lotto!
The Foureyed Poet
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 9:54 PM UTC
His Schwanz stings
Whilst he's *******
In the snow
See it hissing
What a delight
Santa's naked tonight
Urinating in the deutsches Wunderland.
Gone away
Are the reindeer
Are they gay?
Are the elves queer?
Santa's pulling his pud
Looking zo good -
************ in the deutsches Wunderland.
In the mountains Santa builds his Schneemans
And does his lovely little German dance
He's wearing a red coat and, under, no pants
You can see his ***** if you get half a chance.
Later on he'll conspire
To arouse the desire
Of fairies and elves
To feel up themselves
All naked in the deutsches Wunderland.
In the meadow Santa parks his Schnee-sleigh
'Cos he wants us to see his Masturbations -
We’ll have lots of fun with Santa so gay
It will get rid of all of his Constipations.
When Santa comes
It’s so exciting!
For his hot *****
The elves are fighting!
So sing this nice song
And pull on your *******
Coming in the deutsches Wunderland!
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
I'm gonna run away from humanity.
Stop eating, defecating, urinating,
consuming, moving, dying, lying, loving,.........(the samsara subset; with a cardinality of the continuum)
I'll take a long good look at God and say,
"Thanks for the apple mate, but I've got bigger fish to fry:
Thanks for the life, but it wasn't all it was cracked up to be."
There was a telephone booth
next to me which I promptly
occupied. I stood there waiting,
wading in my brain seizures.
Someone came an knocked on
the glass saying, "Hey man,
I need to use that thing!"
"I'm waiting!" I say.
"Waiting for what?"
"A phone call from God."
The reply sent shivers down
the spine of the receiver,
sending some kind of
illegible morse code.
The telephone line spoke in tongues.
If you couldn't tell, I'm a pretty jolly fellow.
Fun to have at parties, where I practically **** at all the mirth.
Not because I'm some kind of offset of Richard III, where it's some kind of "winter of discontent," I'm not some kind of scrooge ******** myself out of happiness! it's a much deeper objection.
If you must know, it's because of the trees.
It's life that makes me love death.
It's the beautiful that makes me ugly.
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 3:21 PM UTC
It starts with a bubbling feeling
that fills then over flows
your cords start vibrating
your stomach knots and hurts
as you slap your knee
and threat urinating
toppled over in a joyous
social transaction
one that turns awkard to ease
and crippling pain into soulful healing
The greatest act to share with someone who cares
There's lots of magic in the little moments spent lost in uncontrolable laughter
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
too interested
in what is being put into my mouth
to listen to hard knocks
too muted to deaden my tone
soft walls are what I need
I could put up textured paper
with simple tacks
from floor to ceiling
but would that help?
Hollo!
has gone to ground
urinating on the floor
dug in by fear
I should have broke from under my covers
and run riot at the scent of death by now
I once read, a hound that lacks
drive is apt to dwell
not stuck in a house,
putting up pictures
or breaking in blankets
not waning and whimpering like I'm doing now
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 6:11 PM UTC
upon urinating
in a lampless alleyway
my body cools
and i note
the night summer wind
a pleasure
i recall the senses
of summers previous
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 11:52 PM UTC
The animals
are driving their cars,
the animals...
with their streetlamps
and traffic lights
and their red stop signs.
The animals...
The animals
are gangsters in black,
the animals...
with their hand guns
and sharp knives
and their backward hats.
The animals...
The animals
are hiding in bricks,
the animals...
with their arm chairs
and hallway rugs,
they're full of ****
The animals...
The animals
are urinating,
the animals
are defecating,
the animals
have fancy bathrooms,
the animals
are ******* in the next room,
it's highly irritating.
The animals
are trying so hard,
the animals...
with their therapy,
prescription drugs
and their self-help books.
The animals
are trying so hard!
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
It is generally supposed we come to this place
As a just reward for treachery and traitorousness.
Indeed, nothing could be farther from the truth;
Most of my compatriots her have blindly hitched their fortunes
To some flag, some shining dogma, our fates sealed
Through an unwillingness to be sufficiently self-interested,
The refusal to abandon ship once it became apparent
That the experience upon the rocks
Would be neither enabling nor ennobling.
My own case is illustrative of the rule;
My father, noble sovereign ascending to the throne
Via parlor tricks and the rustic embrace of folk legend,
(The fornication resulting in my birth brushed aside
As some accident of mistaken identity or enchantment)
Is celebrated, beatified really, in song and legend,
Yet I, who pulled myself up by my own bootstraps as it were,
Winning his queen’s hand and defeating him on the field,
Am consigned to this unhappy place in perpetuity,
Suffering demons who hiss ******* Usurper!*
As they put me through my paces
(One takes their rebukes with a grain of salt;
They are all mad, the likely result of dealing with this glut of madmen.)
As I noted, the presence of myself and my brethren in this place
Serve as a testament to the merits of fidelity,
Which we commemorate daily, some days several times
(I confess it seems more than a touch silly,
But the necessity of creating distractions
Trumps other concerns in a locale such as this)
By staging caucus races, each participant addressing
The ******* in front of him directly,
Paying it fealty--My liege! My liege!--which is answered in turn
By a cannonade of noxious farting
(We assume the smells to be offensive,
As the atmosphere here is somewhat deleterious at all times)
All to the great amusement of those sprites
Who observe our machinations,
They in turn guffawing madly and urinating downward upon us
While we, as the acidic waste corrodes us, also cackle like lunatics,
Fairly shouting Ah, the gentle rain of Heaven--thank you, Lord!
Though, oddly enough, our laughter at times
(Most likely due to the aridity of the atmosphere around us)
Seems to catch a bit in the throat.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 10:10 AM UTC
rumpled wet cardboard
newspaper floats on gusts of wind
the smell of smoke burns the nostrils
while someone is urinating on the wall
small dogs growl as you pass by
cold bare feet show from under worn blankets
while one hand grasps the wheel of a shopping cart
making sure no one takes their life's belongings
clean clothes a faded memory
as are the faces of loved ones
dementia and paranoia settle in
as your new best friends
"spare a dollar sir, for something to eat?"
"i don't think so, you will buy a bottle"
"you are right sir, but that bottle keeps me warm"
"get a job you freak, and leave me alone"
last cardboard box on the back wall
strange smell, stranger than usual
poke joe with my left toe
joe won't be needing that blanket anymore
shared bottles, germs abound
hey, i used to be a ceo, ya know
then all the voices came around
and told me i had to end it all
hospital told me i couldn't stay
had to go home, and then i laughed
home....you mean that cardboard box?
well while i was in here, someone took it
that makes me homeless ya know
if you have no box, you have nowhere
can't use park benches or you'll be arrested
hey, free room and board, sounds good
warm cot feels so good to my aching back
peanut butter and jelly sammich filled the belly
but **** didn't know i had to watch my back
someone made me his ***** when i wasn't looking
nowhere is not the place to be
©Regina2009
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
*no, she isn't the desired conquest... but the institutions of her forefathers are - for mere proof of failure; or at least that's what i minded, given the facts of her promiscuity and all the brown-nosing that went with it - you almost thought of **** *** but instead received oral-anal *** dynamics like a dog and a ***** man and a blotch of de-colouring... man did that, ensured the world was de-coloured with encoding sounds, and left all the colours intact, instantly deciphered and parallel... so that no twin be matched apart... man said one thing, the world said another... not even fame could grapple with the world's interpretation of it... no fame outside the 1 square mile; hope not for fame, but hope for myth - a logic attached will assure you a status god-worthy - thus claimed by others preceding you as demigods.*
her boom boom bara boom... something fire,
something ***** dough...
something her boom boom baritone
um ah... um ah... oh... ****** wasn't intoned for...
export all the smithies to china and import all
the porn-stars here... so we can be jealous
of a one child policy, as actually having one...
i knew of contraception on the reproductive organs...
i never knew it could be applied to the mental organs
that the brain fetters over abstracting kidney
and the narrative of urinating like
the Hoover dam of prostate... hangman mm...
the oesophagus, the stomach and intestines
and the **** with taking a ****
the lungs with breathing... never occurred to me,
but then the brain has two eyes to
deal with ensuring 2 make 1 or 3;
what a gimmick for dating expectations;
i was reduced to wearing two
condoms, the other on my head to ensure
political coercion rather than correctness,
correctness for the slaves, coercion for
the masters... but still... rubber on my ******* head?
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 6:37 PM UTC
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<p>you know what <br> urinating with<br> a ******** feels like?<br><br>next thing you know:<br>they'll be tearing off their niqabs<br> and implying<br> staples to the fake <em>kippahs</em><br> of the popes.<br><br> and then tribalism from <em>brazil</em>.<br><br> toes are a real agony...<br> fingers are slightly better,,,<br> but do you know alcoholism is<br>such a burden?<br> it's ******* exhausting...<br> once you get to the stage of <br>a litre of whiskey, in between 2 days<br>you're wondering....<br> i'm not being lazy about this....<br>this is the <em>fantastic 4</em> making an entrance...<br>there's mr. fantastic / spastic trying to samba fully<br> extended;<br> <em>limp dick</em> ever come across your mind?<br> i'm thinking <em>squid</em>, or at least something<br>wobbly, or able to juggle, or with limbs <br>that have the consistency of a brain, i.e. fat;<br> then all the bones are in their mouths and could<br>nibble on you twice-over - or <em>ridley scott</em> talking.<br><br>p.s. definite article indefinite article<br> pluralism (simply... es);<br> a very serious english complex.</p>
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Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC
i don't know about you, but ******** out
a high-fibre ****
out of your ***
feels just as good,
if not more,
as good,
as having an ******
**** when that slug slides
out?
thump! plop! ploop!
given that...
i can't imagine shoving anything
up that alley...
there's too much
pleasure easing something out
from that cul de sac....
why would i even want to
stick something in there?
perhaps having ******** allows
you to make that comparison...
taking a **** can feel
just as good as having an ******
or urinating, with a ********
but that's just me...
we know how western society
is oh so objective / "scientific"...
so... why would we need food critics for?
or wine critics?
it either tastes great...
or it tastes like ****
if we're being so ******* scientific,
do we need these scientific
differentiations to be respected in our,
so called, society?
who needs them?!
off to the guillotine with them,
alongside that ***** of an antoinette!
what sort of society prizes
itself as being primordially-scientific,
clueless ******* objective by my say,
and then champions restaurant critics,
or food critics... or critics for their own
worth...
what part of giving a critique of food
is objective, to later bombast a stance
for championing darwinism as the pinnacle
of humanity's total worth?
maybe i missed something.
anglophone wankers;
have a jerk-and-whammy on this crap!
like all of engloosh science:
robin hood, who could, but never would.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
My home. Behind dumpster.
Live there. Sleep with gravel
tearing my cheekbone.
Get work sometimes -
not enough paycheck
to move out.
Food, cigs, quart of beer.
Money spent.
Need to use facility.
Some businesses just say "no."
Others have restrooms that read:
"Customers Only."
But money spent.
Go back home. Behind dumpster.
Doin' my business.
White car pulls up.
Officer steps out.
"Urinating in public."
Fifteen dollar fine.
Fifteen dollar court costs.
Thirty dollars
for *******
on my own home...
- fr
May 20, 2019
May 20, 2019 at 4:06 PM UTC
you know what
urinating with
a ******** feels like?
next thing you know:
they'll be tearing off their niqabs
and implying
staples to the fake kippahs
of the popes.
and then tribalism from brazil.
toes are a real agony...
fingers are slightly better,,,
but do you know alcoholism is
such a burden?
it's ******* exhausting...
once you get to the stage of
a litre of whiskey, in between 2 days
you're wondering....
i'm not being lazy about this....
this is the fantastic 4 making an entrance...
there's mr. fantastic / spastic trying to samba fully
extended;
*limp **** ever come across your mind?
i'm thinking squid, or at least something
wobbly, or able to juggle, or with limbs
that have the consistency of a brain, i.e. fat;
then all the bones are in their mouths and could
nibble on you twice-over - or ridley scott talking.
p.s. definite article indefinite article
pluralism (simply... es);
a very serious english complex.
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 2:30 PM UTC
On Modern Art
Art is in the eye of the beholder,
Modern art is especially troubling,
Since when anything goes, nothing matters,
When everyone's an artist, art is dead.
Splotches on paper art? Yes if you wish,
And so are vulvas rendered in a dish,
Mother of God submerged in dung and ****
Men urinating in men's mouths is bliss.
Who are the arbiters of this grand farce?
Why art critics, of course, for they know best,
And we, the unwashed masses, must all yield,
Our sense to what their wisdom will reveal.
Filtered through their ego art is revealed,
Through platitudes delivered with great zeal.
Redemption
Even in lost souls,
Embers of goodness remain,
waiting to be stoked.
With a gentle nudge,
Our better natures can rise,
Purified, renewed.
We can save ourselves,
Make amends for our mistakes,
Choose a wiser path.
The two poems above are inspired by two short stories from my Echoes of the Mind's Eye collection.
Apr 2, 2022
Apr 2, 2022 at 3:59 PM UTC