Long Fecal Poems
Long Fecal Poems. Below are the most popular long Fecal by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fecal poems by poem length and keyword.
And thus began their heroic journey through the fantastical labyrinth of the escape room, where every twist and turn carried the promise of freedom, laughter, and the unforeseen—the perfect remedy for chaos and an unexpected road trip back to normalcy. After all, in a place where even a bunny could be a hero, and a Man is a Woman, anything was possible. Even a Media run Presidential Campaign supported by Big Tech, Google and the FBI !
As Penney and Gus entered the vibrant escape room, the door clicked shut behind them, "Penney parted from the impending loom, weaving her curiosity in a gape driven plume; punctuating the chaotic symphony of the mall with a sense of immediate sanctuary. The room was a kaleidoscope of interesting colors, smells—walls adorned with whimsical murals of enchanted forests, floating bubbles, and scattered stars. Even some Left Wing styled fecal graffiti, as if plastered from the hand to Trump sign out of TDS. It felt like stepping into another world, far removed from the madness outside. A home away from home !
“Okay, what’s the first clue?” Gus asked, glancing around at the eclectic decorations, which ranged from giant inflatable mushrooms to shimmering disco balls. They needed to think fast, and the first challenge awaited like a Mother given the news that the police would be escorting her child home after a bonus round of shoplifting at Castle Megastore had landed her in the "Stoney Loaf".
“Over there!” Penney exclaimed, pointing to a large, comically oversized egg perched precariously atop a pedestal. “There’s bound to be something inside!”
They approached cautiously, the soft thump of their footsteps muffled by the plush carpet that crunched as they stroke on, I mean strode on, apparently-designed to match the room's carnival theme or was it Carnivaal, Carnibaal? No matter, with a gentle push, Gus nudged the egg, and it wobbled dangerously before them. A creaky voice echoed from within, making them jump.
“Beware the wrath of the bouncing bunny, and tell Nanceycat to invest in BlackRock!”, it croaked, before the egg split open, revealing a tangle of colorful ribbons and a single, glittering key.
“Perfect!” Penney cheered, plucking the key from the chaos. “Let’s see what it unlocks.” She scanned the walls for a keyhole, eyeing an intricate door covered in glowing glyphs.
It has become painfully obvious that the only way to be heard
is to pay through the nose to be a lifetime nerd,
the way to be read in on this sight
is to pay through the nose with disdain-unslight
the drivel/dribble practicum that is profound in it's reading
is a joke, sickening jest this side of profane with often open ended
vocab blur bleeding from a finger up my butt countenance, hey I can be a pooret
yet as in all ways money that talks/squalks/walk the bills
up/on cuming and its resolute intercourse interims the slash good words for the sentient freefall to the ills of my **** really mean/matters/ ratiorationale reticient/demeanor/demonstrative/destructive co cliff effervicient
sentient fecal savored poetic prickprofundity perversing on pisspoor gobetweens
prepostured with sitesucking positiveprevelance performance preludes of lifetime member promises. GoThe usual suspects figure.
As GMarx once reveled in his Libra coutenance, "I would not want to belong to a any club that would have me as a member"! So be it as u quali/quasi/qualify your
intermiserable inputs from lowly wantobe"poets"? Really, where do you get this chum encrusted fecal crap?? Love, beholding, misery, misertudes of life and sequesters of social misfitted miserdoms as to your innane, irrelevant, idiotic, interpretation of the serial social merits of human america and its poetic sense, and the globe as it is. I haplessly hope that in the humo state of written wrongs that u hate my stuff sur-plenty of desolution row and the good of for what it's worth in my non sequential birthday of sixty something nothings per social senses.
my money nevertalks, even on this lice level. D--aaamn.
Never let it me be told that for me
to be hold in an equal fake frequence with all of the hard-on Dr. Filth viagra statue status that I can speak from my borrowed loaned loins and be heard to a pro poem status dollar of signoff significance.
I know I am being obtuse and indifferent as I don't want to play the $$$ poe whore game that would catapult me to the upper stratosphere of a poetic Zeus, Oden and the like in your eyes, as talent not matters. WTFE. But alas
keep me in your prostratic/pussitic poetic poison prism, Dave. "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers". Otherwise, FU. Keep the faith.
I believe that poetry is and of is was were have has been of as one pretenses a
poetic practical pompous, pro (p) ransomedramatical postenses
pretending to prose promise a
predictive premise primatory practicum politicallty
polishing practcoriam process of primary
preliminary postures pragmatic promulgates
telling the ta ta tumultuous tillo tales of tawdry
banal blog lists calling me to quali-quantify the reso-resolutes
resounding in resilient quo quotients that bear a
breach bridgeborn badge billed
barometer bearing broad billboard
catatonic catashrospies creating caustic crill
coffinistic coiffures canonizing
socio unsettling leo linguistic lies in a somewhat
lovevoid livid liquiditoria regal
ransom based regalia resonating
rawbone residual retinal real time
tombosoties transitioning with
toying transient trio tide tooth
crass cavity craino creep mandibulo master mildew
mold molecular mamsy-pamsy sillopsuedo master of
ever me present I , me , mine, maestro
sitting back and looking at the world as a place to be
not to be, hope to be, wish to be, be to be, in the
proper primer of humino yesnomenclatureculture of that which is u
me us our belief sem radical of our prim-ordeal sociodiscontentselfevident
irrelevant mean fullness, to countercure our quick/quack quotient
umbrella upbringing to say do write feel text tank athink
all that is emo exit everpresent to keep the fecal faces free of
founding father status inquo man although time is time in place.
Mindfulness is a mute place ill unattended by sociocrap everlasting.
Treasure travel inviting innate needs netherly nodding to the primo positive
practitudes of acoustic ancillary annotated awareness, allowing all annuities
ancient archaic to willfully wind wind waveringly wish away intrinsic id-ideas.
It it is what u want it it to be, say, scroll, live, plural, self to self. Use it, lose it,
share it, beware it, con-cure it, it. Know it it's criminal capitol is wary for before
u know it it, life it before it its u, and will its it and
ego ale all eek out the precious profit of its itdom idiocracy illusionary in its
illogical inness so mad made as not to gravely gravitate ungracious griefs
upon your its it.
scary huh. Karma it, Big Daddy.
Hurriedly enroute to her royal majesty
porcelain goddess throne
whereupon earlier today
March 28th, 2022,
after incomplete defecation
sitting pretty on pissoir,
I jiggled and wiggled posterior
(analogous to performing
the bum bared hustle)
until gasping for breath
though unable to shake loose
dangling dingleberry yours truly
nevertheless synchronously praise zing
a mostly functioning sphincter muscle.
Gross and smelly
as human excrement considered
expelling fecal matter comprises
important function, whereby any unspent
ingested material shunted
thru alimentary canal
then spewed courtesy sphincter vent.
**** lies zing constipation
and/or stubborn stuck drek
nothing to poo poo about,
cuz when bedeviled by
colorectal obstruction,
no matter emetics
applied with bonafide clout
without wasted doubt,
that malodorous, maleficent
malevolent malady
body electric doth flout
analogous to uranus
clogged with grout,
whereat no heroic
efforts break loose,
the severely obstructed bowel,
thus spurring determined,
desperate derriere plea
for proctologist sought
to relieve constipation
equipped with a special
"J" shaped, hooked,
and designed dowel
in an effort
to pry stoppage
if/when yours truly constipated
jamming up human cloaca,
where rock solid stubborn
immovable turd emits foul
gaseous emanations accompanied
with a$$ a nine growl
followed by red hot,
fiery excruciating spasms
shooting jagged pain
inducing yours truly to access,
the werewolf within howl,
where a preference for sciatica,
in place, but my ill luck
regarding aforementioned plight
merely naming said nerve pain
accursed affliction arises
analogous to parasite malefactor thieve
ving would be
equally unpleasant and offer
absolutely zero reprieve
along heinie kin cheeky jowl,
thence finding me
resorting to peeve
hush scream therapy,
which wrought nothing,
no pain did re: leave
me bummed out bum,
but veins snapping,
popping, and crackling,
utmost effort I forcefully heave
oye how aye did grieve
plus a bajillion
gallons of perspiration,
while lower gastrointestinal
agonizing torture didst cleave
entire abdominal
area please believe
without aforementioned crisis,
and feeble poem,
I could not achieve.
At first he was pitied for being enchanted by the necromancer. For it was obvious that he was lonely and misunderstood. His followers still wanted so deeply to believe he had some goodness inside of him - despite his emerging inability to demonstrate attributes of the "human condition." But as he sailed deeper and deeper into the abyss of her chasm, he became more and more unrecognizable as the Son of his Mother and Father, or dare say, a Brother to any other living soul.
It became clear that he was destined to be with this humanity-eater. He was drawn to the grafting with such force that no showing of love or faith could retain him; and they became united as devourers of souls.
While he believed himself to be the provider, the malignant parasite gorged the remnants of humanity from his flesh. She consumed his life-force with gluttony then reciprocated with exorcised fecal remains - because even her own vile carcass could not tolerate the waste product of this symbiosis… He became a scavenger worshiping at her deadly fins. And as he foraged from the scraps of false affections tossed at him with cloaked antipathy, what he refused to know was that he cannibalistically fed on himself.
This is why he now gleams reason from madness. And why he believes there is light from shadows. For when you become as empty as this, even your reflection disappears… and the blackened silhouette of a once human form is all that remains.
And even on this day, although his disdain is common truth, hearts still bleed deeply with remorse. To be clear, however, there is no mourning for him. Rather, tears are wept from the loss of hope once felt for him – and they flourish the sea which now casts him apart from humanity.
Does hope really float? When things are at their darkest and heaviest on our heart – is hope what gives us light, and keeps us light so that even during the most desperate of journeys it guides us through and keeps us from sinking into darkness?
Or does hope simply shine truth that darkness is an inevitable counterbalance?
He has always been only an apparition of a man by mankind’s standards; with a soul tethered to darkness. And his shadow is now only seen through reflections in the puddles of hopeful eyes.
Poetry Soup, The foundation where I’m planting my roots,
Lassoed by a rope that’s never loose,
Always bringing me back,
I’m here, ready with no fear, high jacking minds causing post traumatic panic attacks,
Ya no match for Quincy Mac! Always attacking while on track,
Was once a street rat, intellectually faster and now your poetic master!
The Rhyme Advancer with the answers,
With deadly sexy stances of grammar,
Aggressive techniques you don’t seek, seen as dangerous, so you lag and stagger,
Dancing with words bringing this banger,
Too advanced, for the ignorant class, who lack comprehensive swagger,
Picking up my spanners, I assemble transcendental concepts making you tremble,
Majority blessed by their synthetic environment, so minds are simple, worthless like a pimple,
Needing popped, shocked into trauma, so you wake to the storm of the west,
Always assuming ignorance is an asset,
A threat to ya well-being, intelligence tells us we should want to know about everything,
So learn to THINK, in sync with observations that interlink with the missing link,
Quick, question your sick social rank, thoughts go blank? No one to thank for wise principals,
I perceive myself as a human individual, home is earth, but cursed with feeble people influenced by evil,
Been told I’m on a different level, NO! Believing this will take hold of my ego,
Instead I write with flow and send out these writings to your brains radio, So turn it up!
Yesterday, today, and tomorrow I pickup bombs of ammo,
As I undergo experiences growing my vocab to blow minds,
The Knowledge Mastermind, of good and the upheaval of fallen thoughts of evils,
Painting life right now, in this domain claiming a divine easel, that equals more than worldly rules,
Prepare ya tools, Reassemble your sanity from all the insanity and ball,
**** in the air, frequencies of fecal matter disrupting what you think, to you its nonexistent and nothing,
Writings encoded deeply, not for the sleepy, hard to put together like a double sided puzzle,
All or nothing, no trouble, with balance keeping an eye on my surroundings, while under my angels wings.
Quincy Mac
Date written: 11.6.2016
Defecation clogged toilet bowl courtesy metamucil..
and found (me) zee papa pooped out
**** eyes zing thee
nightly dump for yesterday
July 8th, 2020 - whereby
plunger helped obstruction give way
I nearly lost me life and limb oy vey
oh my dog, the same asinine outcome
which spurred poet to get underway
matter of fact, a replay
of excretion almost occurred today
and thus an attempt to describe
a tragicomic scenario
regarding bowel movement size of subway
overflowing potty nearly
found yours truly quay
king, yet impossible mission
arises to portray
unsightly situation, the
juvenile elements of style
I hate to overplay
odoriferous subject matter
nsync with constipation
since laxative delineates,
expedites, facilitates,... née
posits heavy load emanating out rectum
quite amazing what smelly waste
exits out me
necessitating captain my captain
to signal mayday
posterior end, a dime size orifice,
which malfunctioning sphincter muscles
one moost never be lackaday
'though kids and adults
laughed back in the day,
if and/or when Danny Kaye
tactfully poked fun
at such critical bodily phenomenon
equally important as a jackstay
to keep afloat body electric
'curse with auxiliary
linkedin kickstarting jazzmatazz interplay
analogously precise as
Swiss made timepiece
said system responsible
to expel bodily toxins
upon which sitting on porcelain throne
one can softly utter hooray
thankful to experience relative pleasure
until one becomes feeble minded,
whereat fifty plus shades of gray
matter allows, enables, and
provides enjoyably foray
into the bathroom, which entranceway
hoop fully not barred nor off limits
cuz that primitive urge one best not delay
lest one requires lower
gastrointestinal intervention
especially if blocked up
fecal matter turns to clay
unless of course one doth
cause damage and betray
respect toward well
oiled human machine
exercising and eating healthy
avoiding backside skeleton musculature issues
yes... I reckon during twilight years
control over bowels doth slip away.
With John Wayne snarling at me
from the television screen,
I quickly glance at my watch;
five minutes to the end
of a year’s journey through
what the Psalmist would describe
as the Valley of Death,
and what Dante would describe
as a descent through hell.
The little small ball of white fur
whines at my feet,
his almond dark eyes
begging for the last bit of cheese
I have in my hand.
Take him out now
for his nocturnal constitutional,
Or wait until three in the morning?
It is not a difficult choice.
The puppy and I head for the door.
The puppy runs hither and yon
around the yard,
sniffing and searching
the frozen ground
for the perfect spot
to make his nocturnal emissions.
I reflect upon the arrival
of another year In Anno Domini,
with dread, or is it anticipation?
Another year of grace
is what they always say about
the turning of a new year.
Like the puppy running from
one frozen turd to another
in the yard, I, sniff and search
among the heap of promised
“grace-filled moments?”
from my past year.
The church bells begin
to peal out the old year
as the puppy stops and
stands poised upon a
strategically chosen location
to unleash the grace
contained within himself
upon the frozen ground.
I appreciate my puppy’s
brilliant metaphor of
crapping out the old year
to make room for the new year.
There are some years indeed,
in which grace is bestowed
in abundant quantity.
And, there are some years indeed,
in which one must sniff
and scratch to find the grace
hidden within the dung heap.
The church bells cease their tolling,
as the puppy, in a triumphal display
Of accomplishment,
kicks with his hind feet,
bits of ice, snow, and fecal matter
high into the air.
The puppy, head held high,
small tail wagging, and I,
retreat from the frozen yard
toward our house.
Warmth and a hope for new grace
greet us as we enter the house.
And, as I close the door,
I glance once more at the frozen yard.
I leave the old year
and its promise of grace,
lying in a heap
upon the frozen ground.
Oh, damn, I get it, nowhowbrownsowcow-----that it's to be accepted on this site you need to be
the FATTED cow. Low of intellect, yet high on countenance, high on payment
and low on quality! Please forgive my lowly louse langiuse as I plead my
pleb pirrah poetic case in cause $$$$ celeb. RFR? do u take up the capitalistic
crotch clause that payment is prose promised to a clueless culture climaxing in
its own caustic circumsized circus?
Such fecal findings from finger felonies, that use wish words for regal for the future rangling rights to the right rear-renderings, renditions,
thusly l navel nauseous neverthelesses negatings, awkard thimble thoughts.
Try and
get a regal rectal, sorry, reckoning of an inter-rational corporeal capacitical concept of a before u igno/after gnoi and a post graduated spiroscape initiate yours after our
psuedo poetic prowess, upon this site-------swells free of charge if u have half brain
and your wallet in awash in ego endless endeavors that u unengage in urine
intrepid word worn passages of I think I can, when u really can't sorry u suck,
and retry your gloomy gumption as to the positve **** retention given cause u r a
paid prosti soup sister,broth brother, no talent intended. Dreams given an expired
expertise that end clauses into a missed used muse of integral ignorant id
intentions. Sorry for our/your word worn wishful wisdom and not my fault that I can
crea command anall allowance of alphalbet antiques, amiable and accountable in all
annotomical acquired acquatinaces' as you try and make memorable in and of you
sorry, silly, shallow, socialized self, again
no pun intended. Ridicule not want not with not why not get not not. Prelude
your relative innane imagary and sequester your inability to that which is stiffled
well within and garb your you grievance by the gonads, look interpresent and fail
follow yourcreep mismatched mirror of what u compel that works. Call me, I'll tell u
what's what that's that, it's it, nots not and snot is snot. Go blow.
“Nobody likes a clown at midnight.” Stephen King
CLOWN AT THE ABYSS
Darkroom abscessed
with neon blush and black-blood —
sunken eyes look surprised
to find oneself in a dank dungeon.
Fecal stench, not humorous,
screams on each bold painted-on face.
“Are we dead?”
“When did I die?”
“I didn’t want to take along this honking nose! It never quits!”
“These humongous shoes, like flippers, so cold they grip!”
The clowns, their smiles and frowns,
continue to gripe in the big tent abyss.
The epic fail of their lives an applause
from the demons who have them in grip.
Like fools, they suppose, they can feel their way out.
They march in one straight line with clanging chains,
chortling, “Heigh Ho! Heigh Ho! It’s off to work I go!”*
You see, they can’t help being funny - never could.
So on they march clinging to claustrophobic walls.
Yet they, one by one, begin to notice no floor exists.
Squalid birds, their chains rattle and roll,
with cheap jokes that never cease.
“Take my wife…please.”
Rings through the air. The demons cackle and boo
their despair, occasionally deflating the roof of the tent
on their heads - it sticks to their gooey faces, causing
them to run out of hot air, go limp, confine their space
even more - no audience to exploit. When the roof rises
each one finds water caterwauled at their faces, then
strapped to a chair as sufferable makeup - acidophil -
leaks behind their eyes, into their pores, maliciously.
Clown at the abyss digs his nails into the soil, climbing
a mountain of ill will, always failing...falling, and then
the jokes hammer again...over and over, head over heels.
...head over heels,
with no end…
2/27/2020
Clown at the Abyss Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
*Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs