Long Biodegradable Poems
Long Biodegradable Poems. Below are the most popular long Biodegradable by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Biodegradable poems by poem length and keyword.
His incendiary comments
Ignited a conflagration
Concerning the dangers
Of “smokeless” tobacco
It’s the same look
Like the one the dogs get
When they hear the leash rattle
The eyes focus and scan
The attitude
Takes on an urgency.
That tree awaits.
Who might have been there
Who may still linger
Did we bring the ball
I hate it when he forgets
As I am not too fond of
Other dog’s saliva-soaked offerings.
“Biodegradable” poop bags
Holy Scat, what next
What is my carbon pawprint
A vegetarian diet
Little rain coats and hats
What, wait, no way, don’t even think
About putting me
In that “puppy pull toy”
You’ll pay for this
I know where you hide
Your golf shoes.
With an unprecedented shortage of basic supplies
People worldwide are learning to be wise.
Loo rolls, medicine and the safety mask.
Making do with what we already have is the new task.
I’ve seen diapers and bras used as new safety covers.
Drugs for malaria and stool softeners as miracle cures, are just a few among others.
Even the orange headed one is coming up with new treatment ideas.
The new scene for loo rolls is now our expired tortillas.
Slowly thawed or quickly nuked with the microwave oven
Soft and abundant and recently discovered is the new lovin.
It might not be charmin, but equally as soft on the tush.
Biodegradable and able to flush, no longer needed is the backyard bush.
A mother moans and bleeds
as tiny perfect feet
are swept downstream
motherless, unseen.
Plastic bag trashed with Life,
Placenta, - water borne
Small death-barge beached,
shipwreck complete.
And yes, it makes nonsense
to roll and tip wastage
bowled cold in sea
awash with bags -
unchecked, they won't decay.
Bottom heavy hidden
hoards face upwards...
broad surface breech
straight into heaven's sight.
No shift from 'No' to 'Yes' -
Angels hear those cries,
due date cut short
by ritualistic
ungodly rights.
Not entitled
to death certificates.
Undeck the family tree,
untie the bows.
the baubles were so pretty!
"The Way, the Truth, the Life"
Born to give life
for all who died-
gave breath to hope,
so resurrection
of tiny ones, deprived,
will give them back
their right to live.
Precious blood election,
no child degradable.
What would you think
If all washed up
on your shore, in your berth
Non-biodegradable?
The please think twice...
At least once more...
God's heart bleeds for baby.
He or she lives
safe in His mind.
Let's heed the need
to walk the talk divine.
Aqua Marine.
Written: 27/12/2019
Posted:Saturday, 16th November, 2024
Minus adverse side effects
courtesy Ropinirole HCL
couple nights I did try,
albeit yours truly wanted to die,
plus also yearned tubby
among grrrrrreat full dead, no lie,
yes absent asthenia, fatigue,
and/or malaise oh my
nausea, vomiting, somnolence, dizziness,
and asthenic condition,
I woefully did decry
unconsciously kicking,
thrashing, twitching, wife kvetching
downing aforementioned medication
found me awry
beseeching psalm body
e'en the Sultan of Brunei
or sovereign from Abu Dhabi
to administer euthanasia,
I would willingly rectify
to bid good riddance and goodbye
experiencing said unpleasant reactions
listed above, hence death wish
of mine to comply
expressed modus operandi doth underlie
trawling the net whereby, to crucify
rigging (leg giddy met) i.e. legitimate
gofundme site could justify
assisted suicide recycling, reimbursing
repurposing... biodegradable cross -
guaranteeing faithful ethics to fortify
upon me rising masses will deify
an imperfectly square profane guy
skeptic at heart, unsure soul will go skyhigh,
or descend into Dante's inferno,
hmm... methinks hot meal my
olfactory organ doth nasally espy
summat good cooking, therefore aye
got hearty appetite unbearable symptoms
amazingly relieved, that scare did mortify,
now get secular humanist off doggone †
lest he gets cross and promises to nullify
future aery missions...
sidelining death, viz abort... fail... retry
else fans ye will need to pacify,
and posthumous rock star status
martyr on your stained hands
leaving widow whose syrup prize
zing tears unceasingly cry
without spouse to henpeck,
she cannot deny
cuz, body (mine), saintly
nicked peep pulled, tattooed
with apostolic marks
sharp nib she did apply.
It happens over there,
a suburb, a state or half a world
or more away from where I live
in a quiet street with roses and hedges
hanging over front fences
with newly planted trees spaced
along a footpath the council truck
waters once a week.
For anything to get past
and make it to here must be filtered,
sanitised and packed in biodegradable
pouches and come with conditions
clearly stated in print bold enough
to see at arms length and most
important of all, have an off switch
that can be activated by an app
on a phone or a remote control.
What's more, it must be kept short
not taking too much time for it to clash
with commitments I previously made
over a coffee at the gym or make
me feel bad by its content or tax
my nerves by taking me to a place
which I have no desire to go.
So, I would be pleased if you kept it
over there, housed within the confines
of a television screen and sandwiched
between ads and promos for the latest
"Reality" show. And to keep
my conscience pristine, provide
an address I can send
a small donation to on my credit card
with a receipt so I can claim
the expense on my next
income tax return. Thank you.
Under the dark sky of 2025, where the Genetic Basin pulses
like an overloaded server beneath the shadows of a Sulimi,
my thoughts flow like a faulty algorithm through 6G networks,
whistling beneath faces lit by screens, with AirPods in ears,
running through Amazon Go, crushing biodegradable packaging,
in a digital chaos colder than the melted ice of the Arctic.
Faces of extinguished moons, scrolling TikTok under artificial neon,
with quantum phones vibrating in pockets, lost AI messages,
in the metaverses of a world forgetting to breathe under the gray sky.
Baneasa Mall, now an NFT hub, with free tokens fluttering,
like false stars, bots from online marketplaces invading,
shouting "IT'S FREE!", grabbing synthetic meat, solar energy by the box.
The autonomous bus rattles like a faulty drone, shaken,
where the Suleni virtually trample each other to be the first to board in AR,
to be the first to descend, to sit, crawling slowly through VR, but dashing,
like panthers at the "drop" of a rare NFT—a grotesque dance under the sky,
gray with climate change, under lost AI rhythms.
The Church of the "Holy Sepulchre", a 4K live stream, with digital bags,
sprinting at bayonet, ready to overturn a sanctified NFT, shouting,
"Sirrr, we're in line too!"—a knowing but blind mob,
under pixelated vaults of forgetfulness, under the heavy sky of 2025.
On graphene slabs, between cleaning robots and 3D printers,
I ask: those who built Opera, Roman baths, divine statues,
would they have crawled on nanotube floors for virtual energy?
The master whispers: "These were brought, heating with biofuel,
on trodden floors, with straw under the gray sky!" Today, assistance,
robotic parking, digital muddle, quantum discord, discipline,
under AI sanctions, like Pavlov's algorithm—a metaverse of oblivion.
Under the dim light of a holographic screen, I see the Sulimea as a shadow,
hybrid, with neural implants, unsporty digital fauns, lost.
In quantified globalization, wings broken by AI, stars melted in carbon clouds,
a drained Genetic Basin under the rhythms of an AI mimicking
Inna's voice—my melancholy is a lost code, an eternal bug, a dream,
magic under silent slabs, where Chess Pieces no longer see, and I remain, blind,
under the sky of 2025, an echo of a millennium shattered into ashes.
I am a land called, “America”.
I am called, “Educated”;
a “Super Power”,
but, I don’t feel “Super” or “Powerful”…
I am drained.
I wear the scars of human nature;
ignorance and greed.
I wear the scarlet blemishes of my own children;
Chinese, Irish, Native American, Jewish, Indian;
of everyone who ever crossed my soil or
were birthed in my womb.
I was built on the backs of slaves and the poor,
with materials dug from mines by immigrants.
People have traveled far to create me;
to imprint their blood and sweat on my body.
I was stolen from my first children
and forced upon others.
To some I am given, but, I wear the scars
of all species suffering and
abuses too numerously hideous to count.
My scars are not biodegradable;
they will not go away or be dissolved;
shredded or pulverized, but,
they can change, be transformed.
Humans created them,
only humans can heal them
but, will they?
Special offer for forbidden fruit two for the price of one
Discounted pleasure until ultimate stock clearance lasts
Adam’s apples included
Unisex versions available
Sustainable and organic
Nails and planks for the eye flat-packed easy to assemble
Build your own bloody cross instructions included for free
Whips for self-flagellation
Strictly for over 18’s only
Change water into whine
Serpent skin negligees and rings for nipples and manhood
See-through loin cloths for aspiring Buddhas handmade in hell
Mount pleasant meets fig tree
Biodegradable Lotus blossoms
Kamasutra deflowering guaranteed
Eider ducks in a row and Noah’s Arc for foaming bath tubs
Pull the plug on solitude and play Eros full steam ahead
Rubber dolls with vacuum function
Touch Mahal at the press of a button
Mandala and kind Karma on the spot
Meanwhile Hey Judas blasts sounds through supermarket isles
As encouragement for a little temptation at the bread counter
Self-rising yeast and sugar watchtowers
Lick away your sins until kingdom comes
With crispy pretzels from Salt Lake City
Nihilist colouring books on display no glossy crayons needed
Agnostic wet dreams wrapped in silk brassieres and braces
The end is nearer than the cashier
A reaper tills luscious fields of plenty
Until blinders fall under a heavy load
30th December 2019
There was a time
When my faith was unshakeable
The Lord proved
That I was remakeable
His love for me
Was simply not mistakeable
The Holy Spirit’s strength
Was totally unbreakable
For forsaking me
He was incapable
His call on my life
Was just so inescapable
But I went rogue
And became insatiable
I thought His love
Would just be replaceable
In the world I could hide
And then become untraceable
Write my own ticket
My desires now obtainable
But such a life
Is so unsustainable
Bent and broken
I’m biodegradable
I’ll never get home
The chasm unscalable
Would He take me back
That seemed so debatable
My life got so twisted
My actions so hateable
I didn’t deserve it
My soul was unrateable
Consumed with despair
My steps were retraceable
At His gate I cried
My debt is unpayable
He opened the gates
How is this explainable
You are my son
That is not erasable
Such love as this
Simply unrestrainable
We cured death on a Tuesday,
launched the trial on a Thursday,
by Friday, 14% of the test group
was gnawing on the janitorial staff.
Still, the press was kind.
“Remarkable resilience,” they wrote,
as Unit 42A chewed through its restraints,
and tried to bite a cameraman.
We called them SoulSavers™,
engineered for eternal youth,
a proprietary blend of nanites, CRISPR,
and just a dash of hubris.
ReVive™ hit the market with glowing ads:
"Because Forever is a Family Value."
But the legal fine print… oh, the fine print:
May cause mild memory loss, spontaneous moaning, and cannibalistic cravings.
They rose in boardrooms first,
CEOs with perfect teeth
tearing into interns
like gourmet hors d'oeuvres.
By Q3, the infection was global,
but stocks soared--
because someone monetized the mayhem,
packaged brains in biodegradable boxes.
The living now hide in Costco bunkers,
bartering soup for silence,
while ReVive™’s jingle
plays softly from every abandoned screen:
“You can’t spell ‘afterlife’ without 'life'--
Sign here, and live again!”
So yes, we cured death.
We also cured peace.
And now we walk among the ruins,
clawing for comfort,
with half a heart and half a face,
still under warranty.
Author's Note:
This poem is what happens when you read Tom Woody’s contest prompt and accidentally engage the undead half of your brain. It’s a free verse romp through biotech gone wrong, corporate chaos, and a sprinkle of satire. No contest entry--just undead fun.