Stand up,
Won’t lay down 'til I stack up.
Fed up with the brokenness
A liq just gonna tease me
Focus,
Pull up in a Lotus.
Fly on essential,
Throw up like bulimic
With you she a padlock,
With me she a secret.
Convenient,
Don’t take life too serious.
Articulate,
Went and took one
She missed on her period.
For my dogs, I’m ruthless,
Like John Wick, I leave you toothless.
Perseverance in the darkness,
Soon as the lights turn on
You ain't flawless.
Stock market lookin' exotic,
Potential in motion, perpetual.
In her walls like a schedule,
Might see you later
If this sh*t don’t get raided.
I'm faded.
Night follows day in bitter hungry monotony,
as wane laughter dies upon parched lips,
and ignorant innocence is trampled underfoot
at every corner of the decadent deserted plain.
Homeless bulimic children unsmiling, subdued, thirsty
seek dilapidated dug-in shelters devoid of nourishing food.
Employment inexistent, as the rich grow richer,
the poor poorer. Death is not far away. Famine reigns.
This is today's nightmare as vultures fly above
ready to prey on dead children’s carcasses below.
But I am headstrong and will not give up.
For I'm sure someday there will be
a reckoning, a purge, where judgment triumphs.
Then as years roll by, we will return to till the land,
our laughter will increase, our food becomes abundant,
our minds will return to sanity.
And all my wishes will come true.
Love grows with humility and respect.
But that's another story, another age.
Cryptic follicles of alphabetical equations
poised together making sentences paragraphs letters of evasion
in my problem to get attitude for I disagree with your resolution
but I find it odd that you have devotion for someone with so much emotion
I straticize I fantasize I apologize for my bulimic vision coerced at heart
replicated starts my malice is flush down the toilet
not forgiving envisions I've come up to par
Look At me Now Grace given far
Hollar
Hallelujah
11/5/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2020
Trump People Mimic Horn Haiku
trump people mimic
and had become bulimic
caused epidemic
Jim Horn
Seaweed tastes like a storm of six months
A bulimic cloud of bile and doubt
Fainting in the brisket line
Curled on the chest of a false lover
Pregnancy scare relieved by a loss of one fifth
A predator child disguised as sensibility
Reports the angel to cover himself
Teeth forcibly removed
Jaw and soul bruised
Out of work and left with myself
Do I seek self-destruction?
I ignore the real questions and tear the seal
I love the taste of seaweed.
Medics once diagnosed girls
who'd pick at their food as anemic
Advances in medicine conclusively show
that all along they were anorexic-bulimic
Patient Hope is on a stoic decline
The celluloid tread mill
is crybaby set
on an aorta sob incline —
A cardio faithless, vertical whine
Shouldering the weight of personal decisions,
is seen nowadays
as an irresponsible, bulimic activity
Cares of the world
will surely take an unkind toll
on the body and soul
Lust obesity trick imagery
is a mirror mirage
of illusory, measured wait loss
But how much wasted time
in your slouch sofa life did it cost?
For a slimmer waistline,
Vanity became your sin slave boss
Phat pocket dreams
binge bought on a lottery coin toss
Puffed up pride made you take a wait loss
Virtuous self-denial sacrifices
is a lost art —
an unpracticed part
of flabby moral muscle shedding
Taut bellies of bloated importance
(attained through artificial,
sweaty palm wait loss)
is a self-absorbed sin of indulgence
Rash prayers desiring rushed results,
be a twig spandex figure
uncertainty marred by obese doubt
And discarding of the necessary,
healthy heft of navel faith
is a wait loss ...
Unnatural mental womb aerobics,
that an anorexic spirit
chose to exercise
at a flatline metabolic rate
WHOSE THE HATERS
Where have all those haters gone
Those ones on social media
Where have all the haters gone
Those who criticize my religion
Who are all those haters
Who hate me for the color of my skin
And where are those haters
That did associate with me
And whose reality do I believe
Where are the haters
Who kills me with their words
Who shoves my heart, throws it on the floor
Who talks badly bout' the new school girl
Who makes fun of the small boy
Whose not so good in sports
Who is the girl whose bulimic
Your never chosen by the boys your to skinny
Who are all those haters, you laugh at my name
I've forgiven you once now your ashamed, whose the hater now?
1/4/18
Hypochondrial Delusion
A mind corrupted canker
Of cystic self failure
Even gastric anorexia
And fluttery throb to alight the fear
An adrenaline generated tachycardia
That matches respiration
And causes hyperventilation
With invasive pacy rhythm
And palpitating violation
To anxious infarction
In schizoid arrest
A hepatic paranoia
of dermal yellow
And lily liver assault
That feeds a life non start
Of malignant low self esteem
A delusional malaise
Of apoplectic panic
And stressful apoplexy
A localized dorsal twinge
To further worry
Lumbar or thoracic or
Renal calculi or a case of
Bulimic nausea and peptic ulcer
To stoke the festering psyche
Of somatic obsession
Embolic anguish that leads to
A hypertensive strain
With muscular tremor and distorted vision
And a full blown occulogyric crisis
Ensued by catatonia
Comatosed by
Psychotic breakdown and
Inactive body systems
A perusal of the medical book
Confirms the diagnosis of
Life threatening
Hypochondria
Weight Watchers Paradise
Lemon pies, with feathered wings,
Floating in the sky, as the sun sits and glistens.
Against their skin, yes the beautiful people,
The ones who say, all that food is pure evil.
The bright morning sun, kills off the dark blue night
And shows us the way, to a weight watchers paradise.
With cream filled donuts and chocolate gold bars,
With the sponge cake motorways, full of jelly made motor cars.
So super-size me, put me on the Elvis diet,
I can’t talk right now, for I have to eat.
Oh and don’t forget, to cut the bacon off my fat,
I have no wish, to look anorexic.
Big, fat and beautiful, look at me,
All you jealous skinny girls, are only jealous of these.
My two lethal weapons, that get me all I want,
So take me to a Heaven, named McDonald's.
With Burger Kings, feeding on Kentucky Fried Chickens,
This tasty goodness, is so darn finger licking.
Rabbit food? Don’t make me puke!
I have no desire, to become bulimic.
I’m not Princess Di, I have no wish to die,
No I don’t love to watch, my cholesterol level rise;
But I do love my sexy body and I do love my super-size.
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Inundating, binging,
the muddy, bulimic river
gorged the flood plain, consuming
everything that wasn’t nailed down:
tree limbs, leaves, bleating sheep, chicken coups,
plastic grocery bags, inner tubes,
cesspit contents, only to vomit
it back up to its torrential torrent surface.
Helpless victims stand the high ground
with a wing and prayer their homes
be spared the wrath of God
knowing only too well that the laws
of nature…
have no favorites.
Micro-Feasting
by Odin Roark
To propagate the dung heap of ignorance,
Is to place on low simmer
A main course of illiteracy.
How festive the chefs of mental starvation
Make the tables of 140-character-feasting,
Luring the gullible
Along with the lazy,
The doltish
And the lost,
To gorge, then purge,
Then ignore the noxious vapor
Of sentience becoming residue waste.
So stirs this caldron of abbreviated ingredients,
Stifling taste buds for savoring delectable elocution,
Reducing vocabulary to bulimic shorthand
And expecting all to join this achromatic work-around.
Hopefully, the language of full syllabic enunciation
Will return with a vengeance,
Sending expression’s drive-by expediency
Into its all too deserving exile.
Consideration pauses in the distance.
One can hear the echoes of dismay,
“Does this mean we’re expected to read…
AGAIN?
To purge the self out
of myself--
split freckles and spit teeth,
pluck away at envy colored irises
in submission, permitting ink to pour from
their shallow sockets
like Aquarius
in a star-fufilling stigmata glorified
by sooth sayers:
to string up my forever
and never ever words
in the gallows between ribcage
and leathery scar tissue to-be--
would be to become, in an anti-phoenix manner, brutally
alive, connivingly able
to stretch my reach over so much more
than the narrow spaces allotted by
chapped and parting lips, and what
they exhale; a sigh of monotony unnoticed
again. And I wonder:
Knowing the space-time coordinates when prison-poisoned needles
will perforate the body and whisper in
promises of escape
must be a comfort.
Here is my own recipe for Diet Fruit Pie.
Perhaps you’d like to give it a try.
It will be a success I trust,
if pounds need be shed
as I assume they must.
Peel five large bananas and discard the insides.
Get out the chopper and blend those hides.
When it turns to paste, flour up a pan
and squish it in there by hand.
That will be the crust
of which every pie must.
You may even lick your fingers
If you’re one of those bingers.
Now to this diet pie plan of yours,
Add four cups of apple cores.
For filler, chop up the cardboard box without the ritz
and fold it in with a cup of blended cherry pits.
Now cover up this mess with the rest of the banana peel batter
Bet you’re already feeling a lot less fatter….
(stop drooling)
You may finish up with a garnish topping as follows:
Take old grapefruit peelings and chop them up fine,
mix in, to suite, bits of watermelon rind.
Sprinkle this topping generously all around
And burn this dietary delight until brown.
Warning: this recipe is not for the anemic
As it tends to make one bulimic.
(for more tempting recipes go to : uuuheadforthejohn.com )
Chef Robairte'
Size double zero need not apply
I'll take courage with a side of cheesefries
Though the articles make me puke
Saying no marriage if your not a size two
Images that have been edited before my eyes
The imperfections of society is what make little girls cry
And little boys are never as tough
To walk a path even when your not straight is rough
Behold us, the ones who matter
Thin is in, so get no fatter
Put down the doughnuts and the chips
And before you bulimic over the toilet, here's a tip;
Catch yourself by the hand
Be very thankful you were born with the right of man
To live, laugh, love, cry and to die
I think I will still have those cheesefries!
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