Long Intestines Poems
Long Intestines Poems. Below are the most popular long Intestines by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Intestines poems by poem length and keyword.
a life
sized to daily care
which does not occur
regularly nor properly
they don't care
It's just a mere fulfillment of
inflicted patterns
pushing you
to die through those papers
(don't sign them)
they've inserted your heart
in a metal cage
and corrosion imprinted soul
making words reek like rust
through the flesh
desiccated branches ramify
bones have become autumn
but eyes somehow assured the summer to stay
so captured light can cut approaching clouds like laser
and darkness won't shade your resting
while you're painting that dream
of a house settled by the dalmatian coast
your sea is calling for you
I saw you leaving
wanting to scream
kept my mouth shut
didn't know how to hand you over that life jacket
as deluded sentences were decomposing your chest cavity
so you kept navigating that river of perverted past
throwing paper boats filled with fury and indictments
you were that autoimmune one
there is a green color groveling across your face
and it doesn't bring the spring
muscles are winter
drained and dormant
tried to wake them up
by rubbing that oil
through your suffocated pores
no one came to see you
so they clogged
and you kept calling for mother
while your intestines were set on fire
she didn't came
couldn't cry with you
as I despise the rain
(forgive me)
At blurred edges of lucidity
cognition about your existence is written
tried to rip you out of my intestines
you asked me what's wrong with the roots
nothing
except, they're retaining you in one place only
I'm depersonalizing reverie like runaway eyelashes
dawn fractured in front of my eyes
by intertwined limbs
we stretched out an imaginary trajectory towards perishing moon
I'm laughing
he couldn't comprehend why
there is no future
only left out asteroids from the past
bombarding us selectively and daily
I told him how everything is surreal
and raindrops will momently
rinse the laugh.
I told him - I am the wall
the rough one
the one that gives you a back pain
when leaning against it
he answered that the trick must be in the way you're leaning
I couldn't be your umbrella
now we are both soaked
This dirty little diner is the soul of the community.
Serving brackish coffee and dirty honey buns.
To moon-dusted customers on their morning run.
Location, location, location always trumps quality.
The place is packed with twitchy blue-collar rats.
The sniffling cook swaggers in with a greasy bandana.
Pops an egg's yellow cap with his long, dirty finger.
I know some of the patrons saw it, yet they linger.
As far as I can see,
the intestines of the ancient coffee machine
seem impossible to scrub and thoroughly clean.
The blue mooners don't seem to mind the grime or sweaty eggs.
All night and day they keep gurgling up from gutter and grate.
To slurp cuisine that may not wear an expiration date.
My turn, I place what I perceive to be the cleanest order.
A small glass of O.J. a humble bagel with cream cheese.
I slide coyly off to the side like an undercover spy.
With visions of dirty over-easy greasing my queasy mind.
I've seen more than enough horror and get cold feet.
Like a yellow-lipped roach, I scurry for the door.
Fleeing the blue moon with little guilt, without grime or grease.
Lost in gravity’s pull, unleashing are iniquitous racing rot,
obscure entities rush through, connecting the dots
pilfering, extracting inventory, my intestines in knots
distant incense fumes a conscious canopy, petals wafting open-air,
I sense an antediluvian forest, aflame, circling there
Gazebo’s trapezoid holds captive, naked, probed and jarred
A sceptic- doubting Thomas vanishing, broken in shards
fragments of glass banishing, misfit mosaic alters as prey
Trembling colors my core stripping to bone greys,
stumbling over intercranial eddies, whispering “This is not an SOS fortess”
I lift my listless body from off the whitened Kalli bench rest,
mustering up brawn to leave this camouflaged spaceship
gaining is the exotic and final trip
escaping shades of jade and eschewing a repetitive rot
at last, rejoining the existing world’s ongoing ellipsis—living dot dot dot
Let me share with you a shrilling moment, one I dreaded most. 'Twas another beautiful summer day, and a visiting day, at the beach steps away, the Lake Shrine. The layout an inexplicable charm, monks in saffron and garnet tinted robes draping each body, had welcomed me. I must have been aligned with the stratospheric, a nefarious nebula inside the meditation gazebo, I thought inviting and safe. Past mistakes had laid heavy in this dome, this world a jungle, pent up nerves generated, nerves stretched taut. The line inked about intercranial eddies who seemed to have spoken to me, was most difficult to pen. As a child hungry for the opaque curtains of mystery to be drawn, in which 'lamplights strange to these eyes', within my late-night shadowy bedroom, appeared. As an adult I seek answers, therefore removing the line. I’ve always been entertained by mind's photograph, I reflect upon.
The Gazebo
I Am Anaya
2/22/26
Go direct to your astral being;
you may need a ruler or a compass.
Don’t drift off, center yourself,
this is not going to be a long poem.
Breathe as necessary.
Know that your hands will probably
always be available for high fives
and fist bumps.
You are not a minnow inside a whale
though some days it feels like it.
Your intestines are not gummy-worms
though some days it feels like it.
Some body parts
have long Latin names,
just name them all, ‘my soft bits.’
Doctors may occasionally ask you
‘where it hurts’
always point vaguely to your Zen Body,
after all you’re not a Doctor.
Travel serenely out into the world
secure in the knowledge
that you will not fall apart
for several hours.
The wife plays nurse Nightingale while her husband...
convalescences in sickbay
from irritable bowel syndrome,
the Flip (Wilson) side of constipation,
a disorder of the lower gastrointestinal (GI) tract,
which includes the small intestine
and large intestine (colon)
essentially a problem
with how the intestines function,
causing symptoms like abdominal cramping,
bloating, and changes in bowel habits
Any room in our
one bedroom apartment accessed
as my place of bedrest
which might find me seated
upon the commode
or lying supine on the Lazy boy
E-Z chair fully dressed
defies mine surly sour grapes
physical state where diarrhea doth erode
as if I swallowed Liquid Plumber
and complete rectal purging finessed
prior to the wife going to sleep,
she prepared me soup to goad
to withhold urge
to defecate impossible mission
I feel hard-pressed
to impose restraint
against the trademark symptom
of gaseousness finding me shell shocked
and ready to implode
laughter the best medicine,
thus yours truly doth jest
cause almost forty years shigella
contracted at July fourth Rainbow
family gathering he knowed
quite well, cuz no sooner
did sphincter muscles spasmodically
contract and expand in tandem
with anus expelled lest
I attempt to stand up
from hole in the ground
which grass grew hardy
and warrants being mowed
quite frequently hopefully
not disrupting any wild animal nest
and to think that some areas
within the webbed wide world
still lack proper sanitation,
where modern plumbing outmode
did courtesy primitive privy,
a breeding ground for
more than one disease causing pest,
now not deceived courtesy
paved yellow brick road
criss crossed with military tanks
heavily armored, tracked combat vehicles
designed for front-line warfare,
equipped with powerful guns
for direct fire
and machine guns manned
by a small number of soldiers
squabble over a spit
of land for defense cannot rest
in peace until no fighter left standing.
Tim Roth gets shot, and what emerges? Blood.
His innards act like wrecked intestines should.
Those fifties-movies injuns really suck,
with tactics redolent of Donald Duck!
“The whiteys circle wagons, as we feared:
so let’s just ride around them – get mown down!”
You’d see more bloodshed watching Charlie Brown.
And why does Tarzan never grow a beard?
Tim Robbins plans a prison break. Oh well,
they’ll catch him quickly when they search his cell.
It’s never searched, or posters changed, in fact.
And why was Thomas Hagan never whacked?
And Cage’s “Wicker Man” was just plain weird,
and not remotely scary. I’m at ease
with oddball cops with masks on: “Not the bees!”
But why does Tarzan never grow a beard?
“Commando” – Arnie’s shooting-up a storm:
a hundred dead a minute is the norm.
The baddies take ten thousand shots at him,
to no avail. They’re not from Arnie’s gym!
You want to know why Rin Tin Tin’s revered?
The dog’s so smart, he counts: he knows when you’ve
exhausted all six slugs – then makes his move.
Yet why does Tarzan never grow a beard?
You see it in the old movies,
when Indians come into play,
somebody calls them,”savages,”
and it seems to fry people’s brains.
They flip out, demand censorship,
know nothing of real history,
can’t empathize with either side,
to see how that all came to be.
It’s obvious that most regret
how things happened in these past times,
and they’re not wrong to regret that,
it isn’t that hard to go find
broken treaties and agreements,
politicians playing their games,
most wish that things had gone better,
but history never can change.
Yet this does not change stubborn fact,
and looking back it is well seen
that some things the Indians did
were barbarous to the extreme.
Ritual torture was practiced
on captives by most of the tribes,
and done long before Columbus
ever had the new world in sight.
Like burning people at the stake,
or things that were much more foul,
like tying intestines to trees,
forcing souls to self-disembowel.
Making people run the gauntlet,
to be beaten by hard-swung staffs,
make it through and you might be safe,
if you didn’t…well, that was that.
Now by any modern standards
this is savage, that much is fact,
but honestly, were they alone
when you take the time to look back?
Europe had its iron maidens,
and the rack in medieval days,
and the Turks once were infamous
for leaving many captives flayed.
The Japanese in World War II
treated captives like they were trash,
Britain used to ‘blow out the guns,’
for your sake, please, don’t look up that.
Islamists rape and mutilate
in ways that would leave you disturbed,
and savage Chinese socialists
do awful things to the Uighurs.
But somehow, in this PC age,
we give the Indians a pass,
try to forget what they once did,
this really does strike me as bad.
No people should be above sin,
we see our mistakes from our scars,
to stay at peace none can forget,
must understand all that we are.
It’s important the we know this,
noble savage myths do no good,
especially since we’d forget
if there was a way that we could.
This evil lurks in all mankind,
and it should leave us all non-plussed,
Were the Indians savages? Yes…
but no more than the rest of us.
"Fart Proudly!" Benjamin Franklin Once Wrote
A troublesome guest is best not to tote
For happy intestines
It was Ben's suggestion
A good fart is worthy of a good gloat!
Could it be that we're farting obsessed?
Each aspect of farting addressed
From loud and heady
To silent but deadly
All preferences being confessed
They say one should die for their art
But it's others who suffer the fart
I think that it's time
To pursue a new line
Stop the horse and empty the cart
A horse is a horse me thinks 'tis true
Of course it's the back end that stinks of poo
While wielding shovel and pail
I did not watch the tail
He let loose and blew and up I threw!
One sign points east, and the horror arises.
I thrash and cry out.
As the rupture in the wall of my cerebral cortex grows bulkier and broader
Not a soul comes to salvage me
And no one comes to pull the plug on the feeling of my intestines spilling out of my body
Not one soul kills the gruesome vermin
That's facilitating the tower of sickening, horrific thoughts
Growing in the kingdom that is the film in front of my retinas, and the things that I see.
One sign points west, but there’s nowhere to look
God, the things that I apprehend as I scream a long, loud, piercing frequency
And I perceive the horrid voice pounding on my pulse points as it screams with me
I’m incredibly aware I'm going directly into a head-on collision, but I don't shift my calves
Then…I hear them faintly, the torn and jailed uplifting thoughts saying I can do anything
Although, as I imagine what I can do, it's a dark, empty void that gives me a sense of fatigue and dread for what's to come
As I wave my bloodied, bleached white, and tampered-with flag
I succumb to the misery that is my darkest understanding of the word “Hate.”
One sign points north, and I already despise it.
I see the road leading down to the dusty, dark, pothole of my depths and despair
I ask myself if I knew this would happen
If I saw the palpable signs and if I knew how to keep them under control now
I see a structure in the distance, a building I used to spend countless hours in
I see a broken, worn-down, rotten, abused palace of emotion
It may be a house, but this was never once a home
As I insufflate the fibers of this disintegrated life I call my own
The air feels like snow, like I'll freeze at any given moment
I permit myself a millisecond to imagine the tranquil blizzard on my bare forearms
The scars on those arms and hands, a remembrance of what I was before my vestigial wings seized, the ones that used to hoist me into places where oxygen is sparse
Before everything went south.
And I respire in the stench of forgiveness
It feels uncomfortably serene, but I don't dare bother letting it into my heart
Letting it graze my organ of skin
Letting it patch up my wrongdoings
Letting it make me see something of my past that I could never truly disengage from
At no point will I ever let it in.