Best Disgust Poems
Humans never fail to shock or surprise me
When l think l have them sussed
Human behaviour at its best or worst
Fills me with both joy and disgust
There is so much goodness in this world
Kindness toward our fellow man
Yet ,incredible selfishness and hate
Impossible to comprehend
I do not view life through rose coloured glasses
I just try to focus on the positives and kind
Not always easy to achieve
If not …..l would simply lose my mind!
Boiling shells crack down hard upon raining rooftops
None doth any apparitional material cover upon her arrogant gift
She hast not laid down upon her last upstanding
Glass convails images of the inconceivable
Throwing away the Sun in blackened sickness
No guilt, no shame,
Unfeeling the inevitable eternal despisement
Swarms choking the insides with a blanket
They whisper in your ear "I love you"
They grant you no delegable antidote
Pig-wrapped in a wasteful pursuit of carnal futility
Living out the rest of days hollow
Old and carolled she slips on the filth of plastic suit
No, she won't live that long
(Originally Written 3/20/2019)
A stoma and a scar
like the Grand Canyon
form a conspiracy
against my body.
The stoma--raw and
fleshy--looks like a red
and beefy barnacle on
my side that constantly
oozes and drains feces
and waste like an
overflowing, backyard
cesspool. It sickens me.
Near the red and moist
stoma lies a huge,
crooked scar on my
stomach and abdomen.
It is like the Grand
Canyon of Arizona--an
immense displacement
of the local landscape,
only instead of earth
and rock and soil it is
my skin and muscle
and tissue that has been
gouged away. Like my
stoma, it sickens me as
well. Because of them
both, my body now
seems to me like the
raw anatomy of
disgust.
I can churn stomachs, with a stench of truth
An abscess filled with maggots, pus profuse
As I feed off gunk, new nerve ends take root
Raw language in my words, not gross abuse
Yes! I am disgust, old wounds fear my fruit
To late for contest
(WARNING: very edgy)
(and also a little bit NSFW)
This TV show is a really good show
It's such a good show that it had me commence the rituals again
The rituals of torment, the rituals of sin
The rituals of no sleep, the rituals of self-death
I am disgusted in myself
But more so I am disgusted in the rest of you
How can you live with yourselves after what you've done?
Probably the same way I live with myself
I hate you all
I want her to slit my throat then suck me off
as I bleed to death
Once again I descend into depravity
And thus Death.
How loathsome the murmurs seething around
Amid the lies I pitch into a city's mind,
That malicious whispers know my sound
By ruining your name...am I unkind
When friends become bashers, when real truth gets drowned?
Emotion of Disgust -
by Bob Atkinson
softly settled to my
ears
those words I wished
to hear
brought me to a
higher level
when written well,
so treasured
waiting patiently
among
the throng of
citizens, no guns
a gentle lot of
doers well
those who praise art
and tales
standing up to do
their best
to settle for all
the rest of us
a trumpet sound of
sculpted tones
ones with meaning
held upon
a field of life,
pages open
emotional tags,
sometimes spoken
carry me to advanced
nirvana
please read good
words, not trivia
when they speak
these honored verses
so well received and
prizes awarded
my hand reaches for
the door
so I might escape
these awful chords
no, they don't speak
for me
blank faces in the
audience
form so simply
irrelevant
purpose one's only
good intent
when sung accolades
flow quickly
a million sold six
months a pittance
poetry had come of
age
yet nobody knew or
accepted change
Chandos lamented
openly
no quotes from us,
our poetry
were made outside
our borders
were not champions
of language order
thought about this
for a while
remembered friends
in distant lands
who spoke Germanic
languages different
no English were they
aware of meanings
yet sung our tunes
with impassioned
voices
wildly swinging arms
to chorus
the words meant
nothing to their
minds
but beat with
rythyms to their
hearts timed
Slum
Where hard looks and thin soup oppose,
the spider, cockroach, rat, and mouse dispute
in patient litigation or in border raids
our title to this world.
There is no mystery, it boils down to food.
Our ruined lunches providing theirs
as Roman baths provided stones
for abbeys of a different creed.
They too win converts. With earbite and cold fear,
patient, persistent, numerous,
their inquisitors huddle together in dim light
to study our disgust.
Greyly, brownly, blackly surpliced
they muse on our improbable millennium.
Things of disgust.
Terror in my eyes.
Behold your power.
Your smartass replies.
I'm beneath you.
Look down on me.
I know it free's you.
The power you hold over me.
I'm beneath you.
Talk down to me.
I don't believe this.
The power you had over me.
Things of disgust.
The fear above my head.
Behold your character.
The bringer of dread.
I had blood on my face. Dirty. Gracious. And… disgusting. Blood dripping on my face. Didn’t know it. It just smelled bad.
When I looked at my face in the mirror, I thought… that the mirror had the blood.
I kept cleaning it. Cleaning it. Rubbing it. With my arms. With my palms. With my fingertips.
At the fatigue, I could get in my fingertips until that blood dripped from my face onto the mirror.
And now I understand that I had a problem. Who caused problems on both me and the mirror.
Now I can clean the blood on my face. But what about the mirror?
I suggest, no, implore, spare me your disgust
When I am being my self … my imperfect self,
For even the finest iron has been known to rust
When exposed to the elements it must adjust
Like the perturbed perfectionist beside himself
I suggest, no, implore, spare me your disgust.
For some elements, unlike iron, will combust,
Perhaps when aggravated, not left on a shelf
For even the finest iron has been known to rust.
Your disgust signifies to me your utter distrust
Like some oft-abused, imaginary, holiday elf
I suggest, no, implore, spare me your disgust.
Is it that you covet some talent? If you must,
I have none … not even a meagre stash of pelf
For even the finest iron has been known to rust.
I feel the anguishing pangs of unrequited lust
While seeking metaphors alone by myself;
I suggest, no, implore, spare me your disgust
For even the finest iron has been known to rust.
written February 8, 2022
No way to explain it
No need to analyze
No rationale, so incredible
And no meaningful prize
No possible motive
Except maximum self
The conscious world ceases
Brains put on the shelf
Bad habits are just that
Unhealthy routines
Crossing borders, explosive
Loaded, meaningless fiends
And, yes, if G-d let's you
You'll endure this storm too
And the loathing, disgust
Will fade into view
Until the next time
When the devil drops by
Maybe wish him well
As you bid him goodbye.
(7/30/18)
I can't live without this
I have found life in death
Healing through sickness
Creation through destruction
Light in darkness
I can't live without this
That which holds me down gives me flight
That which enslaves me, frees me
That which sickens me, heals me
I've found purity in filth
and Filth in purity
Nothing held sacred is sacred
Sickness overcomes me
It lets me soar
(Originally written 11-24-19)
We've seen unknown faces of friends,
Find it hard to trust innocence...
Try not to think of where we've been,
Though we can't escape our skin...
Disgust wearing disguises...
We all got puke up to our knees
Soon though hunger will settle in
Cuts that can wait on bleeding
Blood stream
Main stream
Blood clot binge
Disgust for Trump
Trump had to do what he must
Which is no one ever trust
Does poor when he gambles
Whole business is in shambles
With him do have much disgust.
James Horn
I am beginning to believe it.
What next will he select to do?