Best Soiling Poems

Imagine if our poop was a pretty pink
Or smelled like a dozen red roses
Beautiful music was heard when we tooted
There'd be no need for holding noses

We'd relish the thought of soiling our whites
To show off a new shade of pink
And proud to fart Ludwig's Fifth...

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Last flickers of a dying flame still burn 
I strain to see every bitter remembrance     
lain before my feet     
pain stained mendacious propaganda       
blackened and singed upon my soul     
      
words have risen and...

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Original version:

Phone for the fish knives, Norman
As cook is a little unnerved;
You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes
And I must have things daintily served.

Are the requisites all in the toilet?
The frills round the cutlets can wait
Till the girl has replenished the cruets
And switched on the logs...

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We have so much color all around us
so much beauty to fill our senses
everything we see and touch and taste
in the songs we hear
in the scent of lovers mingled
in everything we've been given
there is a rainbow around us.
A multitude of shades and hues
from the bright...

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The Tender Weight of Her Sighs
by Michael R. Burch

The tender weight of her sighs
lies heavily upon my heart;
apart from her, full of doubt,
without her presence to revolve around,
found wanting direction or course,
cursed with the thought of her grief,
believing true love is a myth,
with hope as...

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Unblemished pages without soiling mark
stretch out ahead of these expectant eyes;
trembling I wait dark midnight to embark
upon my journey, promising and new;
what delights, what sorrows await, disguised,
before I bid this infant year adieu?

Tolling clocks engrave with new year's song
first lines where timid steps engage the...

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His words stung me, as the cries from the maelstrom seem to retort
Their scattered, foreign words and wails retching their say
I listened, almost mesmerized,
Pulverized

“Come,” Said he,
With threatening authority

Upwards, higher than the balcony from which we stood,
A strumming low, harp-like instrument shook the pit,
As gigantic fingers...

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Oh how I hate thy haughty hours oh Halloween!
Your thorns and thistles are these terrifying teens
who wear worried looks, walking, wobbling…woeful;
daring doors and deeds that are dreadful.

Cruising for candy: the core of thy course oh Halloween!
kind kids from keen kindred knock their kith and kins,
playful...

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The mirtangist may never willingly hear
may not want to hear
the multaiyam announcing his cue
nor the melodist aware of the flautist's right
to the change in the raga
the plucking of the yal strings
to the goatskin drummed bleats
and pleas of mindless fingers
for out there
on the receding promontary's rising...

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The Ancient mutiny of the Twain

In the beginning were both made
To dwell in unison and not to trade
You abode with each other in Eden
And never was anyone a burden.

The Author made one with the soiling sand
Molding him beautifully like he had been caned
So there he...

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It is around the third or fourth pint
From reality you disconnect
And after about the fifth or sixth
Those beer goggles do take effect

While looking through beer goggles
The glass is always half full
Every chick looks a stunner
And easy for the pull

When wearing those beer goggles
You’ve got all...

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...In my country children die... 
not of war...for soiling, their pants 

...here, they're beaten, until 
they stop breathing... 

...spiritual distance... 

...the forgotten on a file... 
the authorities in denial... 

...under the rug, is full... 

no one can save the tiny 
mites... 

...not a shiny knight......

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Ben Sana Mecburum
by Attila Ilhan
translation by Nurgul Yayman and Michael R. Burch

You are indispensable; how can you not know
that you’re like nails riveting my brain?
I see your eyes as ever-expanding dimensions.
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that I burn within, at the thought of...

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Remorseless sweaty palms

despite being prescribed glycopyrrolate.

Though the angst riddled psyche of mine crafted youth, long since receded, ebbed in the past, infringement, impingement, and indecent wracking wrath of mental illness, that even as a middle aged mwm of lxiv bold faced roam min times, I...

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The grass is trying to squeeze back through cement cracks. 
Dying to breath. 
Though we're dying for it. 

Black sheets on top of dirt comforters. 
Soiling the soil. 
Beneath water boils. 
We need the weeds oxygin. 
But slay said weeds like sin.

A little river of...

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